The road was wide open and Jackson put the pedal to the metal. He had his favorite band blasting his favorite song. Superman's Dead by Our Lady Peace. In spite of the strange incident back at the station he felt hopeful and something told him everything would work itself out.

He kept his eye on the rear view mirror and made sure there wasn't anyone following him. He hadn't told anyone (not even Macy) where he was going. Staying on HWY 15, he would drive straight through Vegas, stop for something to eat, and then drive throughout the night right into Salt Lake City, his home town. He had questions. He needed answers. There was what felt like a physical pull, drawing him home. He had a feeling those answers would be there.

He had hardly blinked when he reached Las Vegas. It was the shorter part of the trip, but it was growing dark and he was hungry. He pulled the truck into the parking lot of an inconspicuous looking diner and hopped out. He looked around the small lot for anything suspicious. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he went inside.

A cute little brunette came to his table to take his order. After telling her what he wanted, he scooped up a newspaper that someone had left on the table next to his booth. The small restaurant was quiet. There were only two or three other patrons and the one waitress. He didn't look up again until she brought him his coffee.

When he set the paper down to smile at her, he scanned the other tables again and froze. His eyes landed on some new customers. Two men dressed much like the men he'd seen at the station. They must have come in quietly while he had been reading the paper. He knew they hadn't been there when he walked in.

They had yet to notice him, so he pulled the paper up in front of his face, but moved it into a position where he could keep an eye on the two men.

Just in case, he pulled a $20 from his wallet and placed it on the table. He didn't like the idea of fleeing without at least paying for the food he had ordered. 

The pretty waitress came over with his plate and he asked if she could bring him a to-go box, telling her he had just received a message and needed leave. She smiled and nodded before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Jackson peered out from around the newspaper. The men were looking around the diner casually. Suddenly one of them looked in his direction and stopped. Jackson knew he couldn't have seen all of his face, but he was sure he saw a flash of recognition in the man's eyes as though he'd found what he was looking for. He watched as the guy said something quietly to his partner.

They began to scoot out of their booth to stand up and Jackson shot from his seat. He made for the door. They were blocking his way and he could see they were planning to round him off and corner him.

With a sudden change in direction, he jumped over another booth and headed toward the kitchen. There had to be a back door. He nearly ran the waitress over and looked back at her apologetically.

"Sorry. Money's on the table," he called back at her. She just stood there with her mouth open. The cook let loose a barrage of Spanish insults at him as he navigated his way through the kitchen and finally out the back door.

He sprinted across the parking lot and reached his truck just as one of the men in suits burst through the front entry door. The other one must have followed him through the kitchen. 

Not waiting around to find out, Jackson jumped into the truck and started the engine. The man was running toward him. He could see anger and determination on his face. He threw the truck into reverse and floored it. The guy nearly got flattened, but jumped out of the way. Jackson jammed the truck into first gear and peeled away. The suited man lunged for the truck as he passed him and got a grip on the roll bar. 

Jackson gunned it. The man held on and was attempting to pull himself up, but it became too much for him and his fingers loosened. Finally he slipped away. Jackson glanced in his rear view mirror to see the guy sprawled out on his hands and knees, trying to rise to his feet. He saw his friend catching up to him. He had a gun pulled and was aiming it at Jackson. 

Jackson heard a shot and ducked instinctively, but the bullet didn't even hit his truck. Before another could come at him, he had rounded the corner, leaving the parking lot and the two angry men behind.

He let out a "woot" of victory as he floored it and sped toward the highway.

The thrill of victory didn't last very long as it began to sink in just how badly these people wanted him. What was going on? What did they want him for? Worry sunk into his mind and the fleeting victory faded into the recesses. He needed to get to Salt Lake City.

........

Chief Munson sat at his receptionist Kimmie's computer. He let out a few curses as he tried to navigate the internet. He didn't like computers. They didn't seem to like him either. Usually he let Kimmie do all of his computer-related tasks so he wouldn't have to deal with the cursed machines. Not this time. This had to do with his best detective. Jackson Wolfe hadn't been on his force for very long, but the kid was good and the Chief liked him.

Kimmie had set him up and got him started, but even with her help in advance, the old Chief was struggling. He wanted to dig up as much history on Jackson Wolfe as he could find. Of course when he had transferred from Salt Lake City the cursory background check was done and Jackson's credentials had been sent. He was already a well reputed detective. He came highly recommended by the Utah guys.

There had to be more information. Chief Munson hoped that there wasn't any more, but if Wolfe was in the kind of trouble that those "suits" had suggested he was, there would certainly be more on him somewhere.

Kimmie had taken him into the Salt Lake City police network and she had also opened another window that allowed access to some unclassified F.B.I. information. They didn't have full access to everything, but Chief Munson knew his clearance should at least give him access to his own officer's history and records. At the very least.

He cursed again, this time a bit louder, as he once again double clicked something he only needed to click once. Computers were exasperating. He had hardly been struggling with it for half an hour and he already wanted to put his fist through the monitor.

Kimmie must have heard his distress, because she came rushing over to him.

"What's the matter, George?" she asked, quietly. She was the only person he worked with who called him by his first name and that was only when there was no one else listening.

"I just... why can't things just go back to the way they used to be? The old fashioned telephone and paper file system?" he complained, pinching the bridge of his nose. "These damned machines are too complicated. They make it difficult to accomplish what should be the easiest thing in the world to do!"

She patted his shoulder and chuckled. "Actually, computers make things much easier and the internet... why that opened many doors that were closed to us before it came into existence. Everything is right at your fingertips.... see?"

She had nudged him over a bit and her fingers flew over the keyboard and with a few clicks of the mouse, she had him staring at Jackson's files inside the window that contained the Salt Lake City network. Then she clicked over to the other window and, before he could say "boo", there was another file in front of him that was named "J.W.S.L.C.U." which stood for "Jackson Wolfe Salt Lake City Utah". That file was in the F.B.I. database.

The Chief looked up at his receptionist with a mixture of pride and gratitude as she stepped back and gave him another pat on the back. "Think you got it from here?" She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the top of his balding head, then turned and went back to the reports she'd been filing.

What on Earth would I do without that woman? He asked himself before turning back to the monitor. Just as he had hoped not to see, there it was. A file on his favorite cop. In the F.B.I. database. This meant Jackson was mixed up in something more than just routine police work and investigations.

He stared at the folder for a minute before shrugging and clicking on it. Nothing happened. He, quietly so that Kimmie wouldn't hear him, let out another few curses and then double clicked the wretched folder. It opened up and there were files inside. He double clicked the first one. It opened and he scanned over the form. It appeared to be just a regular form containing Jackson's private information such as address, birth date, driver's license number, social security, etc.

The Chief clicked on another file named "med". It opened and contained several pages of medical history. He scanned the information carefully. There were a few random things, like when Wolfe had been in the hospital because he was shot in the arm. It was a flesh wound. The file contained every doctor visit he'd had since becoming a cop.

The last pages were filled with medical information regarding an accident Jackson had been in and recovered from just before he had transferred to L.A. It had taken him a year to get back on his feet and be ready for work.

The Chief read through the reports very carefully. A few things stood out, but he wasn't sure what they meant. They weren't in regular medical terms. Not ones he was used to, anyways. He thought there were some inconsistencies.

When he tried to click on the next file a window popped up with a message that was plain and clear. "Classified. You do not have clearance to open this file."

Chief Munson narrowed his eyes at the screen. Is that so? He thought to himself. He sat back for a moment. The file was named "F.T.O." He had no idea what to make of it but he wasn't going to just give up. Jackson Wolfe was a cop on his force and he had every right to know everything about him that the feds knew.

He leaned forward and clicked back on the medical document.

"Kimmie!" he called.

She was at his side in a flash.

"Can you print the last 8 pages of this document for me? I'd like to take it to a friend of mine to look over. Bring it into my office when it's ready. I need to make a few calls."

He stood up and strode into his office, shutting the door behind him. He went around and sat down. He could hear the muted sound of the printer printing out the pages he had asked for. He looked at his phone for a moment before snatching it up and punching in a few numbers. He waited. When he heard the voice on the other end he said, "Director Jeffrey Dahms, please. It's Chief Munson of the L.A. Police Department. Tell him it's urgent."

Edited. 

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