There is no hiding from Sir John Fitz Osborne, The Lion, my Liege Lord. He arrived yesterday from the Knight Riding School with his closest knights, Sir Raven, and my former knight master Sir Bear Two Feathers. He repeatedly tells us we did an excellent job handling the “situations,” but his face isn’t happy.

I’m rooming with Losau in a decent hotel on the FBI’s tab while we wait to give testimony before the House Select Subcommittee on Terrorism. Unfortunately, it’s a closed committee, and I was forbidden to talk about it. The school’s lawyer, Mr. Rosencrantz, will be at my side, but I doubt he can be of much help; I’m not on trial.

Lady Sara, much recovered from the stabbing she received on the midnight attack on the Wolf Street School, has already testified along with Detectives Byrd and Lloyd. I shudder to think of what they all said to the committee.

Special Agent Bill Brannon of the FBI drives us to the Congressional Office Building in a black SUV with blackened windows. It doesn’t fool the tight crowd of reporters on the sidewalk and steps of the building, vultures all of them.

Exiting the SUV, we plow our way through the mass. Someone shouts, “Are you a Maori?” He is referring to my chin tattoo. I don’t answer. I let them think that. The truth is stranger.

We are searched by Capitol police before entering the committee room. Of course, we have no weapons – I’m not that stupid – but Wolf may be. The FBI has my medicine staff nearby to prevent me from suffering nauseating pain. Wolf doesn’t have that problem with his staff. Grrr.

I sit at the witness table along with Wolf and our lawyer Mr. Rosencrantz in front of a semicircular dais of twelve congressmen who have no affection in their stares. An aid swears us to tell the truth and all that other stuff about secrecy before Rep. North, the Chairman, asks us to state our names for the record.

Wolf introduces himself, “My name is Sir Wolf Sureblade.”

Rep. North stops him to ask, “Are you saying you are a British knight? You don’t have a British accent.”

“Sir, I did not say I was a British knight. I was born and raised in California; I am American.”

“Mr. Sureblade, American citizens don’t have titles.”

“Yes, Sir, I understand that. However, I was knighted at The Knight Riding School in Virginia by my British Liege Lord, Sir John Fitz Osbourne. Does that automatically remove my citizenship, Sir?”

The audience chuckles at the double reference. Then, flushed, the Chairman turns to me and says, “And you, Miss, please state your full name for the record.”

“Sir, I am Lady Knight, Sir Grace Wachinga, Order of the Hatchet.” This prompts laughter from the audience, and Chairman North’s face turns to stone. He’s beyond angry. I, however, remain cool; I’m used to it.

After rapping the gavel for quiet, the Chairman asks, “Do you expect me to also believe you’re a knight?”

“Sir, I have no expectations for your beliefs. I have met all the qualifications and was duly knighted by Sir John Fitz Osbourn K.B.E. I am a knight of the reinstated Order of the Hatchet for Women*. I am entitled to Sir.”

“Miss Wachinga, are you being cheeky with me?”

“Sir, in the past few weeks, I have been beaten, drugged, stabbed, placed in a sniper’s crosshairs, and forced to watch as my best friend was shot. I am in no mood to be cheeky. I came here to testify to the truth. If you have a serious question, ask it.”

The Chairman glares. “Miss, I give the orders here. Now tell us your story.”

With a lump in my throat, I relay what happened when I arrived in New York City until I figured out that Spike is Wayne Harrel: a bully who taunted Wolf and was kicked out of school years earlier. Rep. Irving interrupts to inquire about where I first met the cult leader. He questions me about the school and my chin tattoo. Grrrrrrr. I haven’t even finished my opening statement.

It’s always the tattoo; people can’t stop commenting about it, looking at it, or trying to feel it. I’ll let young children feel it, but when adults reach for it, I knock their arms away and politely inform them of how rude they are. I’m extra polite with Rep. Irving.

“Sir, my tattoo is my receipt for becoming a member of the Mojave Nation. We take on this mark so that the Great Spirit will distinguish humans from animals on our judgment day. So why do you not have anything to mark yourself as human?”

“I understand you are a graduate of The Knight Riding School, and you attended on scholarship, although you could easily have afforded to pay your way.”

“Is there a question there?” I ask. Rep. Irving clears his throat and nods to the man on his right side.

Rep. Mothman asks, “Miss Wachinga, when did you learn what was in the truck?

“When I held a sword to Special Agent Brannon’s chest and started guessing. He didn’t give it up. But you can elicit information by asking the right questions and applying a little stress. A simple matter of three questions often does it.

“Ahem. To the point.” Rep. Mothman insisted.

“He believed it to be an atomic bomb, and I had orders to stop whatever it was, at all costs.

“A lot of people were inconvenienced by this scare, and no bomb has been produced. What is your comment on that?”

“My original mission was to find Detective Anna Byrd of the New York Police Department and return her to safety. But unfortunately, Wayne got away, which led to us being brought to Washington to follow his trail. This is what I understand is called mission creep.”

“Tell us about this mission creep.”

“I was not told about the North Korean connection until after the search for the Detective headed for Washington when I was ordered by Agent Hensley of Homeland Security to stop the device, even if I may die. Why I was drawn into the search when you have so many FBI agents on the ground, I don’t know. Perhaps The FBI wanted to keep their hands clean. Our hands are certainly dirty now. I feel used, but then again, I am a woman; I should be used to that.”

Rep. Hawthorn leans into his antenna-like microphone and returns me to reality, “We just need the facts. Now, Miss Wachinga, do you know what you are being called by the press? How do you feel about that and what it will do for your so-called knights in America?”

He shows a video taken from a bystander’s cell phone. I watch as my arrow rips through Yoon Ji’s chest, in slow motion, only piercing a lung, a certain slow death. A half-second later, my sword misses its aim of decapitating the falling man, merely scalping him. The spray of blood from sniper bullets ripping his chest open makes it look like I did cut him down. Would he have died by my hand were it not for the sniper’s volley? Yes, if not for the sniper’s bullets, I would have done him in.

The aftermath of the death of Yoon Ji in the streets of Washington D. C. had been immediate; the heroes of Inwood Hill were suddenly seen as bloodthirsty killers. There was no mistaking the uniforms we wore or the tattoo on my chin. The press demonized us. There were plenty of pictures and videos of the hand being severed and the man’s chest impaled by a large arrow. It didn’t matter that the FBI and the DC police fired the fatal shots. It was just two knights carrying medieval weapons and a lot of blood in the pictures.

I look back at Sir John, the Lion, but he is gazing at his feet; he can’t help me.

“Sir, I’m aware that we are called The Executioners by the press. Homeland Security and the FBI hired us, no; they demanded that we do their work for them. Perhaps they didn’t want to get their hands dirty; mine certainly are. I feel used, but then again, I’m a woman; I should be accustomed to that.”

Rep. North interrupts, “That will be all for now.”

~

A recess is called, and we go to the nearest street vendor for coffee and to compare notes. . Mr. Rosencrantz asks me, “What do you think about the questions that were asked?”

“They already knew everything we would be saying. Rep. North showed no expression when I said I was a knight,” I answer.

“Good, very observant. A lawyer in court never asks a question for which he doesn’t know the answer. Remember, they may try to trick you,” the sharp lawyer says.

I like Mr. Rosencrantz, He has always looked out for me, and I take his lessons to heart.

~

Rep. North reconvenes in the committee and reminds us of our oaths. Then, Wolf is called to be questioned.

Rep. Chapman starts, “Mr. Surblade, you say that you and Detective. Byrd actually saw this device. Explain.”

“Yes, Sir, well actually no. Sir, it was in a container which I couldn’t open, approximately six feet long and three feet in diameter.”

“How did you know it was North Korean?”

“It wasn’t hard. It had a Korean script written over it. The other objects in the trailer, toys mostly, were of poor quality and had Korean printing.”

Rep. Chapman presses, “What is it about this eye-torture?”

Wolf continues, “I experienced first-hand that Yoon Ji secures loyalty from his agents by burning out an eye with a hot poker and threatening to take the other eye for any failure. He tried to burn out Det. Byrd’s eye to force me to work for him, but Mr. Ryker saved us. It is only by the intervention of Upatu and Bill Ryker that we are alive, and a lot of people are alive who will sleep peacefully tonight, with little care, except to wake up in time for work.”

Rep. Heldenfield asks, “back out on the street; why didn’t you wait for the police to act?”

“He had his finger set to trigger the device. Should I have waited on the sidewalk?”

“Perhaps you are right.”

I now see how Wayne Harrow fell under Yoon Ji’s influence. The truth be damned; May he burn forever.

“Would you have suffered blindness to not help this man?”

“Yes, I would have sacrificed myself.”

Chapman, sneering, pushes on. “Would you have let Detective Byrd be blinded if it meant stopping this plot?”

Wolf pauses, “Sir, some questions are best not asked or answered.”

“I am asking now. But, first, I remind you that you are under oath, to tell the truth.”

Wolf bristles. “It was not in my power to blind her or to stop it from happening. I wouldn’t have cooperated with the Korean bastard.” There is a gasp from Det. Byrd. “It was in his power alone to do it.

Look! By law, the penalty for traitors to the United States is death. Therefore, my life would have been forfeited, and by definition, her life would have been forfeited.”

Rep. Coldwitz leans in and challenges Wolf, “We have only yours and Detective Byrd’s testimony that Mr. Ryker exists.”

“Sir, I have proof.” Wolf places a thumb drive on the table. “He gave me this before we parted company.”

“Do you know what it contains?”

“Yes, Sir, it has his military records. Do you know he has a silver star? He was a sergeant in Special Forces. He retired for medical reasons, I think PTSD. It contains his employment history and finances and a record of his travels as a truck driver, including his last run from New York City to Washington D. C. It contains his will. He was a very methodical man. He planned everything he did.”

“You have spent a lot of time with that memory stick,” Rep. Coldwitz asks

“I was bored, being cooped up in a hotel room for a week,” Wolf answers.

“Is that the only copy, son?”

“So, now it’s, son. Sir, I haven’t had a father since I was a year old, not until I was adopted by a Kaniwa Shaman. Yes, it is the only copy that I know of. Do you admit there is a Sergeant William Ryker?”

The Chairman consulted with the aid sitting behind him, who stood and quickly left the room. “Mr. Sureblade, we will examine the man named Upatu and return to you later. Turn that memory stick over to the FBI.”

Wolf returns to his seat. Upatu, with Sir Amara, his translator, starts his testimony. The congressman seemed entertained by the Kaniwa hunter’s adventures since coming to the United States but made him quickly come to the disappearance of the two lady detectives. He verified the presence of Mr. Ryker, describing in precise, animated detail what the trucker did. The only thing he could not testify to was the presence of the bomb.

After Upatu finishes his testimony, Losau is called to give hers. Head lowered, she tells about the battle at the Wolf Street School. Lousau lifts her head, and her face lights up when she mentions that she had married Wolf in the Kaniwa tribe and would soon be married to him in the white man’s tribe. So I finally know, Losau, not Lady Sara, who will marry Wolf!

~

During the lunch recess and after ditching the media, Sir Raven, Wolf, and I bump into Bill Ryker, who is patched up and partially burned. He is escorted by two FBI types. Despite his injuries, he is happy-looking. Wolf also seems happy to see him, giving him a big man-hug. I don’t fail to notice the heroic truck driver pass something small to Wolf, and he repasses it to Sir Raven.

~

When we arrive at the hotel, Wolf tells me in Kaniwa of the tiny memory card he received from Ryker. I call Bear Two Feathers and in Mojave, tell him what we need now. After supper in the hotel restaurant, we take Upatu and Losau out to an ice cream parlor for their first-ever taste of frozen yogurt.

I spot the non-descript man tailing us right away. He stays across the street and glances at us occasionally, not trying to be secretive. Perhaps he is just interested in our uniforms. Nah.

Wolf makes a trip to the bathroom before heading back to the hotel. Halfway there, our tail, an angry FBI agent, confronts me, demanding to know where Wolf is. Pointing to my companion, I feign surprise at the stranger now wearing Wolf’s uniform. The agent curses at me, calls his boss and marches us back to the hotel.

Near midnight, Wolf, wearing civilian clothes, reappears, escorted by Special Agent Brannon. After the agent leaves, Wolf, suspecting a listening bug, tells me in Kaniwa of a video on the thumb drive, which he decrypted and gave to the agent. Then, with a fist placed in my palm, he signals that I should be prepared for action in the morning.

~

Unlike yesterday, this morning’s session opens with the small room packed with political types; Agent Hensley from Homeland Security sits in the audience, ready to testify. The little weasel smiles and waves at me. I also see a man in a formal suit sporting a large eyepatch sitting in the back. So that’s why Wolf said there would be trouble. He doesn’t look like Spike, but still, he could be.

An uncomfortable commotion occurs when Ryker walks into the room and is escorted by two FBI agents to the witness table.

He gives his first testimony and denies knowing anything about an atomic device, only that the North Korean did not pay him, so he took the cargo and left.

He’s lying, sort of; his face is hard to read because of his beard. In the Maryland wetlands to the east of Washington, his truck was destroyed by a Maverick air-to-ground missile. He had bailed out just in time.

The newspapers had said nothing about the truck or its contents; no mention of anything like an explosion, so Wolf and I had concluded the device had been disarmed, and Mr. Ryker had probably been detained, just like we were.

“Did you know what was in that container?” Rep. North asks.

“No, Sir.”

“I remind you that you are under oath,” Rep. North warns.

Rep. Queensman says, “Last night Mr. Sureblade without permission, decrypted a video file that you gave him. Apparently, he didn’t trust us, and I now believe he was right.” He takes the laptop computer sitting before him and starts a video file. “Think of it as a nanny cam. It looks like you deliberately filmed yourself.”

Ryker grins.

He turns his laptop around so everyone can see the video, which is also projected on the back wall. Ryker cleans the hidden camera lens on the screen and then starts placing bundles of dynamite into a cylindrical container big enough to hold a missile. Placing objects into a container that looks about one meter wide and two meters long. He replaces the lid, bolts it down, and spray paints Korean lettering on the container using stencils. The only reason I’m not yelling is that Wolf had warned me.

I look over at Ryker in the witness chair, and he winks at me, strange man.

Then a muffled voice says, “I’ll bet the North Koreans will be angry. All their planning and only a hotel blows up.”

“I’m glad I’m not one of Yoon Ji’s agents. What are you going to do with the real thing?” Ryker asks. He starts a forklift and drives the container into a sea van,

“Maybe Pyongyang will get a nasty surprise in return.”

The voice is familiar. Agent Hensley walks into view next to the dynamite bomb. Damn the truth.

Chaos ensues as the Committee room erupts. The doors are locked as Agent Hensley is strong-armed by two large FBI agents, slammed against the wall, and handcuffed. Two other Homeland Security agents are arrested, and a CIA agent invited to attend the meeting, including Mr. Eyepatch. All of them were involved in the plot to steal the North Korean nuclear weapon that had been intended for Washington D. C. What they intended to do with it, I suspect we will never find out.

The word traitor is yelled about, but somehow, I don’t think it’s good enough. I didn’t like Hensley anyway.

~

Agent Brannon whisks us out to a small side room where Chairman North tells us, “Thank you for your invaluable service to our nation; A terrible war has been averted. Needless to say, if either of you ever breathes a word about this, you will both spend a long time in a quiet room.” As we start to leave, he says to me, “You have been, ah, interesting education, Sir Grace Wachinga, Order of the Hatchet.”

~

The morning newspapers announce our bravery in saving a South Korean trade delegation from a bomb planted in their hotel. Then, with glowing words, they make Homeland Security’s executioners out to be heroes.

It’s a damned lie.