The desert sun beat down brutally on the hot sand like a smith’s hammer upon an anvil from hell. It was at its peak, straight up in the sky. A lanner falcon circled lazily overhead and wondered what to make of the five people that had the audacity to intrude upon its domain.

They were of varying sizes and shapes and ages. All wore the same desert camo uniform from head to toe. They had helmets, and canteens, and assorted other gear strung about their persons. They also had guns, big black M16s and Colt Desert Eagle pistols at their hips.

Samuel was in the chair, and then he wasn't. 

But he knew where he was, and that knowledge struck him like a blow to the solar plexus. He saw the brown leather sofa and his dad's recliner. The big screen tv that had been the focus of many a Saturday game party, and Sunday review session. His mom's cat was staring at him from atop a well used cat tree, the carpet the covered the various posts and beams of it snarled and frayed. He could smell the Murphy's oil soap his mom used on the hardwood floors. The cinnamon from the every-Christmas cinnamon broom that was no doubt leaning against the side of the fireplace. 

He could smell coffee. 

From behind him, in the kitchen, he hard a plate shatter. 

"Where do you want to meet?" He asked her. He wondered at the significance of the vacated apartments.

"Back at the scene of the crime.  We'll exchange some information and decide where to go from there."  Agent Showalter seemed a little terse in her comments.  Just before she abruptly hung up, Brice could hear Jahck in the background saying that what he saw was amazing, almost real.  Brice could probably guess at what he was feeling.  She had used her power on him and he probably witnessed the crime or beforehand.

The pine shaped air freshener swung around as Brice navigated the streets on his way back to the apartments.

Richard was sitting at the table. And then he wasn't.

His computer screen glowed at him, an Excel file showing last weeks projections that needed updating waited with an almost accusing air. He'd fudged the numbers a bit over the course of this project, and he'd need to fudge them a bit more. The little numbers in the toolbar clock read 11:35. His windows were dark, his little lamp with the beat up wine colored shade cast a soft yellow wash of light over the controlled chaos of papers, folders, pens and notes that was his desk. 

He could hear the cleaning crew conversing loudly in spanish as they moved from cube to cube outside his door, emptying bins and running their little manual sweepers over the tightly woven carpet. Someone laughed.