Alien Diplomacy

look around. The boys were running after us, guns out. Malcolm Buchanan was on the scene, also running toward us, but from Sheridan Circle Park. Unsurprisingly, he also had a gun out. It wasn’t a sniper rifle, however.
    As the taxi flung itself into the Circle, I could just see Chuckie in the distance, coming out of the Romanian Embassy at a dead run. I assumed he’d had to physically restrain Jeff, for which I was thankful. Jamie was going to be a lot safer on Romanian soil right now, as opposed to out in the street where bullets were flying.
    Bullets were still being sent toward us, confirming White and I were the targets, not Vance. Said bullets weren’t coming from my guys or Buchanan, which meant whoever was trying to kill us was somewhere above ground level.
    “Get down!” the driver shoved at us, as he flung the car into a jerky serpentine pattern. White grabbed me and pulled me back down to the floor. The dog that I’d landed on flattened on the rear seat. “Are either of you hit?” the driver asked.
    “Hi Moe, how’s it going? Curly and Larry along for this ride?” I hadn’t seen the other taxis during my short perusal of the chaos.
    “I believe our driver said his name was Ishmael,” White said. “And I wasn’t hit with bullets. Missus Martini?”
    “Not leaking either. Thanks for the save, Mister White.” I felt something cold and wet shove against the back of my neck. “Dude, call your Cujo off, will you?”
    “Prince isn’t going to hurt you.”
    I shifted so I could look Prince in his furry face. I was rewarded with a slobbery face wash. Happily, he wasn’t holding a grudge for our impromptu MMA match. “Thanks for that, Prince.” I petted his head while I searched through my purse for an acceptable dog treat.
    Found a pack of teething biscuits. Jamie wasn’t really ready for them yet, but I’d been advised to have some around just in case. I gave one to Prince, who apparently felt it was a taste sensation. He finished quickly, gave me another doggy kiss, and rolled over so I could rub his tummy. I so rubbed. Make friends with the big dogs, that was my motto. “So, Ishmoe, what the hell’s going on?”
    “Ishmoe? What the hell?”
    “Why do you care what I call you? You haven’t told me your real name, so any name’s as good as another. I ask again, where are the rest of the Three Stooges?”
    He actually laughed. “I get it now. They’re trying to find the person or persons shooting at you.” We were still driving fast, but the zigzagging had stopped. “So, what’s going on?”
    “I asked you first.”
    “Look, someone’s trying to kill you. Again. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”
    “Tell us your real name first. And who you work for.” We slowed down and came to a stop. I got back up on my knees. We were at a stoplight, and no bullets seemed headed toward us. Prince rolled onto his paws and shoved his head at me. I made with the pets, then shoved Prince over and sat my butt down on the backseat, helping White up and onto the seat next to me.
    “I work for people trying to protect you. And my name isn’t important.” The light changed, and we drove forward, at a normal rate of speed.
    “I know your name isn’t important. I also know it’s not Ishmaelor, as much as you all resemble the Three Stooges, Moe. I want to know your damn name. Or should I be talking to Prince here instead?”
    Prince hopped onto the floor, the better to get right in between us. He shoved his head at White, who wisely gave him vigorous pets.
    While we were doing this, I heard what I was pretty sure was a police band radio. There was a discussion of shots being fired in the Sheridan Circle area, along with voiced concerns that the limited police force available wasn’t able to get there in time.
    There was something bothering me about all of this, and it was a different bother than everything else. Ishmael didn’t seem dangerous. Prince was, clearly, a big softie, if him crawling up so he was now lying on both my and White’s lap to better get petting was any indication.
    Olga somehow felt they were K-9 cops. But even if Turner and Hooch or all the K-9 movies were accurate representations of working with police dogs—which I highly doubted—what was truly missing from this experience was a police badge. Prince had nothing on him to identify him as part of a K-9 unit. And by now, if Ishmael were really a cop, a badge should have been flashed, if only to set our