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"Ah, Dad?" Sophia, 9, said looking out the window of the suburban house.
Her father, still in his suit and tie from the office, sat in his recliner, his face obscured by a newspaper. Thick smoke rose from behind the headline: RFK MAKES WHITE HOUSE BID.
Martin puffed on a pipe, pulled down the newspaper. "What is it, Sophia?" he asked with a smile.
"There's a whole bunch of black cars outside..." the girl said.
"Maybe a funeral," he said, as he started to raise the newspaper again.
"... and the guys who were in them, they all have guns," she finished.
He jumped up, ran to her at the window.
"Chloe!" Martin shouted.
The small, beautiful woman ran into the room. On her hips were two holsters. In her hands were two shotguns. She tossed one to him.
"We've annoyed someone," she said, moving Sophia behind her.
"Any ideas?" Martin asked.
"Didn't write any nasty editorials, did you?"
"Not recently," he said. "Those aren't cops. FBI? CIA? KGB?"
"Doesn't really matter, does it?" Chloe asked.
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