Stories of Tie Up Games

LunaDog wrote: 2 weeks ago WOW! I'm momentary speechless, this being so good and so REAL! John Dance shows his true colours here, he IS a true friend. And the fact that, just for a moment he appeared NOT to be, caught the enemy unawares. And so, with Erica's help, he was able to exorcise a 'ghost' from HIS past.

I could not agree more. Dance played this very cleverly, deceiving his Opponent. That was a breathtaking Chapter, dear @Jenny_S !

Dear @Caesar73, Dance deceived everybody, I guess. Even Erica.

I'm happy that you enjoyed this episode.

Dear @LunaDog, I'm not giving anything away when I tell you that we will find out if the CIA knows about Erica's private operation in Africa or not.
Stay tuned, most faithful reader.

Jenny_S wrote: 2 weeks ago Dear @LunaDog, I'm not giving anything away when I tell you that we will find out if the CIA knows about Erica's private operation in Africa or not.
Stay tuned, most faithful reader.

I am very very curious!

Hi @Jenny_S
I've read about 3 parts (up to landing in Africa).

The story hits one quite emotionally. But it feels like a story from Stephen King is starting.

ST

Dear @StringTheorist, thank you so much for you comment. In this story, even an accomplished lawyer like Erica learns a lot about the realities of life, her father and about herself.
I'm happy that you can dig it.
Stay tuned, this is far from over.

They walk on in silence.

The trail narrows behind them, swallowed by jungle vines and memory.
Ahead, it widens - first into a broad footpath, then a packed dirt road, winding like a scar through tall, swaying grass.

The wind shifts.
It’s drier here - hotter.
It carries red dust that clings to their skin, their clothes, their hair.
The kind of dust that never washes out completely.
Not from your boots.
Not from your bones.

Erica walks beside Dance, her steps heavy but steady.
She reaches out, places a hand on his shoulder.
He glances sideways.
Their eyes meet.
He nods.
No words are exchanged - none are needed.

Maybe they will talk later.
Maybe never.

Up ahead, a single wooden pole, carved with swirling tribal symbols, rises crookedly from the ground.
Weathered.
Ancient.
It marks the border - Ngabo behind them, Mbeke ahead.
No fence.
No barbed wire.
No soldiers.

Just a line in the dirt that meant everything, once.

After another mile, they descend into a small valley.
And there - nestled among sun-scorched fields - is a village.
Red-brick buildings stand low and proud. Some with tin roofs, others with faded thatch replaced by sheet metal.
A network of power lines stretches across wooden poles, feeding rusty air conditioner units that hum atop cement walls.

Children chase a worn soccer ball across a packed courtyard, laughing, yelling.
Tractors crawl through nearby fields, pulling plows patched together with wire and resolve.
This is a place built from hardship, but humming with life.

Mama M’batha raises her hand, and the others follow her down the dusty track.
As they near the first house, a bell begins to ring - clear and rhythmic.

Obviously a signal.
A welcome.
Or a warning.
Maybe both.

Women and children spill from doorways, gathering in a semicircle.
Some clap their hands.
Others drop to one knee, heads bowed before Mama M’batha.

They whisper to one another, eyes darting to the two white strangers caked in red dust.
A young boy, barefoot and beaming, weaves through the crowd and offers bottled water to Erica and Dance.
They take it with thanks, cracking the seals.
The water is cold, clean, and glorious - a balm for scorched throats and aching limbs.

Erica smiles and waves at a little girl who half hides behind her mother.
She knows that exhausted and caked in dried red mud she does not cut much of a fine figure at the moment.

Then, the crowd parts.

Papa Niyoyo emerges.
Tall.
Weathered.
Eyes dark as river stone beneath a broad forehead.
He wears a black robe, simple but elegant, its sleeves embroidered with Mekedde symbols.

Stepping forward, he takes Mama M’batha’s hands in his own.
They speak in low, rapid Mbeke.
His voice is slow thunder; hers, soft wind.

She shows him the printed photos of Erica and her father.
Studying the faces in the photo, his eyes linger on the man beside the girl.
For a moment, he doesn't speak.
Then, softly, he nods.

Turning toward Erica and Dance the wise old woman says “This is Papa Niyoyo. Our other spiritual leader.”

Erica and Dance bow slightly. The old man takes Erica’s hand, gently pressing his lips to her knuckles.

Then, in crisp English:
“Please. Come with me.”

She walks with him to the center of the village where the community center is located, a building made of solid red brick, possibly doubling as a church and a school as well.
The place feels clean and is cooled by a humming generator out back.

Erica looks around, takes in the children’s drawings line the walls - sketches of rivers, animals, people holding hands. There’s a chalkboard with lessons half-erased and a ceiling fan turning in lazy circles.

At the center of the room, set behind a pane of glass and framed in dark wood, stands a shrine.
Papa Niyoyo unlocks it with a small brass key and opens it slowly, reverently.

Inside are nine sets of military dog tags. Cleaned. Polished. Suspended like relics on hooks beneath a carved wooden plaque that reads, in both English and Mbeke:
“THEY DIED SO WE COULD LIVE.”

Erica stares at them.
Each pair, a man.
A life.
A story.
A piece of her father’s soul.

A single tear falls.

She reaches out, touches the dog tags. Silently she reads the names stamped into the thin steel: Martin, Luz, Wolfe, Cleveland, Barnes, Niemoller, Windrow, Dimatteo.
She touches the last name – Kessler - and her breath catches.
He was the one her father used to call “the lucky bastard”, though his luck clearly ran out on that ridge in the jungle.
Each name sounds like a closing argument in court, each one a line of evidence in her father’s defense.

Having seen these men’s graves, she now feels their ID tags. Taken from their dead bodies, cleaned and preserved to celebrate their sacrifice and bravery.

She gathers herself, speaks, voice quiet but steady, telling Papa Niyoyo everything: Arlington, the letter, the threats.
Her father’s honor now hanging by a bureaucratic thread.
Her search for truth, for witnesses, for proof that he was – indeed - the man she always believed he was.
“My father can’t fight anymore, but I will fight for him.”

Papa Niyoyo listens, eyes closed at times, nodding slowly.
When she finishes, he places a hand over his heart.
“He protected our people. The Mekedde live on because of that.”
He steps back and gestures toward the door. “You will meet our people who were there. They will tell you everything you need to know and sign affidavits.”

Then a flicker of humor touches his face. He gestures at her mud-splattered clothes and wild hair.
“But first… a shower. You look like you’ve been on the Trek of Tears.”

Erica’s lips form a smile, then she laughs - hoarse, but real.


~~~


Dance waits outside, standing under the shade of a jacaranda tree, burner phone in his hand.
He looks up as Erica approaches and lifts the phone with a half-smile.
“Didi’s on his way,” he says. “Best fixer in all of Africa.”


~~~

Wonderful that Picture of Dance at Erica at the End. One sees they walked the Trek of Tears. So Erica and Dance make it to the Village of the Mekedde. I have the feeling there will be more Revelations for Erica in Store.

Dear @Caesar73, I think I can guarantee that. More will be revealed tomorrow.

Look's like Erica is beginning to establish some proof of her father's activities at last. Some bureaucrats in Washington who believed that they could throw his name under the bus, for whatever motive, may have to think again.

Dear @LunaDog, let's see if Erica finds what she is looking for, shall we?

The competition is quiet but palpable.
A dozen households vie for the honor of hosting the white woman and her guardian.
Voices rise, hands gesture, neighbors argue in warm, good-natured tones while Mama M’batha chuckles and makes her decision.
Hospitality here is more than duty - it is pride, memory, legacy.

The chosen home is modest but sturdy, its brick walls painted with earth-toned murals of animals and ancestors.
Inside, the air is cool, filtered by time and thick adobe.
A shower hums behind a woven curtain, fed by a well and blessedly equipped with warm water through a solar heater.

Erica stands beneath the stream, both hands pressed against the tiled wall.
Her shoulders sag.
Dirt traces rivulets down her legs, swirls into the drain - mud of the jungle, sweat of the march, blood from the fall.

It hasn’t been more than three days since she stepped off that Air France flight, but it feels like she’s aged a year.
She rinses the Rolex under the water.
The face gleams again, though faint scratches from jungle branches and rocks remain.
She turns it over, thumbs the engraving with slow reverence: Stand for something or fall for anything.

The words sting tonight.
She’s walked the path.
She’s seen the graves.
Touched the names.
But the future remains unwritten.

Yet she is determined to fight this battle tooth and nail.
This, she is clear about, she owes her father, his men and the Mekedde.
It is not just about him or her – it’s about them as well.

Outside, the sky burns low and red.
Smoke from cooking fires curls through the village air, mingling with the scent of grilled meat and fresh maize. The breeze carries children’s laughter and the soft clink of metal tools winding down for the day.

Erica catches her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The image of the toned, athletic woman looking back at her doesn’t show a soldier nor does it show a diplomat.
All she can see is a daughter, doing what daughters do - fighting for the ones they love.

She steps out wearing an off-white tunic, cinched with a woven belt. Her host has even left her a pair of well-worn leather sandals that fit like they’ve been waiting for her.
For a moment, she feels almost weightless.
But only for a moment.


~~~


By sundown, she’s changed into her own Western clothes again - fresh khaki slacks, a crisp blue shirt.
Her hair is tied back, damp still from the shower and the humidity, and her face, while no longer streaked with sweat and grit, carries the shadows of the days behind her.

The community center glows gently from within. Its brick walls absorb the heat of the day, holding it close like a memory. Electric lamps flicker to life one by one, illuminating the wide room where the shrine still stands, silent and waiting.

Mama M’batha sits to Erica’s left. Papa Niyoyo to her right.
Before her, a half-circle of villagers, old and young. A silence lingers - warm, expectant, respectful.

Dance is there, near the back, operating a simple handheld camera. Beside him stands a man with a wide grin and a toothpick in his mouth.
Didi, their fixer.
His eyes behind the mirrored shades never stop moving, scanning the scene like a man always half-thinking of the next play.
But tonight, Didi stays quiet.
Even he knows this is something almost sacred.

One by one, the Mekedde step forward.
They don’t ask for Erica’s story.
They already know it.
Mama M’batha and Papa Niyoyo have spoken for her.

So now they speak for themselves.

A woman with a deep scar across her collarbone tells how the Americans came when the jungle burned. How they pushed back the Simbas, how they left behind food, medicine, and hope.

A man limps forward, supported by a cane. He lifts his tunic to reveal the old bullet wound in his thigh.
“A clean pass.” he says, his voice gravel but proud. “Simba round. I was bleeding badly. Your father - Kintu Moyo, lion among men - he didn’t even stop. Just threw me over his shoulder and carried me. Till we reached the border. He saved my life.”
He turns, lets Dance catch the wound on camera. Then bows his head.

Erica’s fists curl in her lap. She presses her nails into her palms until the pain steadies her.
Her eyes shimmer, but she refuses to let the tears fall.
Not here.
Not yet.
Each story is a thread. Woven together, they become a tapestry.

When the last villager has spoken, Papa Niyoyo rises.
He walks to the shrine, his robe sweeping gently behind him. With slow, deliberate hands, he unlocks the case and lifts the dog tags, one by one.
Nine in total.
Their chains glint in the golden lamplight.

He returns to Erica and holds them out, cradled in both palms.
“Take these home.” he says. His voice is low, reverent. “So the spirits of those brave men will be with you in your fight for your father.”
While a spiritual leader, he also is an educated man.
What he means is: “This is evidence. You will need it.”

Erica raises her hands.
They tremble.
The dog tags are warm from his touch.
Although light in physical weight, they are heavy.
Alive with memory.
She looks up at him, and for a moment, she cannot speak.
But her silence is an answer.
And it is enough.

She came here searching for a report.
What she found was legacy - etched not in paper, but in flesh, earth, and memory.


~~~

Legacy, an often overused word. But not here. Here it's used completely correctly.

Four days later, Erica and John Dance are on American soil again.

The doors at JFK Airport slide open with a hiss and a rush of sterilized air. Erica steps into the terminal with Dance a few paces behind, her hand clenched tightly around the handle of her luggage. Inside it: hours of footage with statements from survivors of the Trek of Tears, signed testimonies from Mama M’batha and Papa Niyoyo, nine dog tags - and a reckoning.

Not only has Africa left her sunburnt and sore in the joints, but it has also stripped her to the core and left her cleaner somehow.
The heat hasn’t just touched her skin; it has hardened her, clarified her, and burned away the edges of doubt.

Behind her lie the jungle trails of Ngabo, the voices of survivors, and the breathless silence of graves tucked beneath jungle trees.
Ahead is the too-bright sterility of home smelling of detergent and hand sanitizer.

There was nothing left to say when they’d parted from the Mekedde.
Erica had said thank you - how grateful she was, how much their support meant to her.
But the words never seemed big enough.
When she shook Mama M’batha’s hand for the last time, the little carved lioness she had unearthed in the ruins of the Catholic mission, had felt like a rock in her pocket.
She gave it to the old woman because it was the right thing to do.
Some things need to stay where they were found.

Now here, everything around them hums.
Air-conditioning whispers from vents overhead.
The lighting is harsh and bright, casting pale reflections on polished floors. The noise is constant but distant - public announcements, suitcase wheels, the soft scuff of tired shoes, voices everywhere.

And then she sees them.
The flags.

Not one.
Not two.
Dozens.
Hanging from the ceiling, fluttering behind security booths, stitched onto the shoulders of Homeland Security agents standing in practiced stances.
Stars and stripes everywhere - loud, proud, inescapable.

It’s the same flag her father saluted.
The same one he fought and bled for.
The same one draped over coffins, folded, and handed to widows like it made up for what was lost.
Erica swallows hard.
Her stomach tightens.

This is the country Owen Sinclair believed in, the country she grew up revering.

The one whose leaders decided to deny that nine brave men died on foreign soil to protect 300 innocent civilians.

The one that let her father take the fall so someone could cut a deal and call it politics.

She doesn’t realize she’s gripping the handle of her trolley until her knuckles ache.
The nausea creeps up slow, sour in the back of her throat.
Not just jet lag.
Not exhaustion.
A kind of grief, folded and folded again into rage.


~~~


They clear customs without issue.
Then Dance’s burner phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen, scrolls through the message, and pauses.

A whistle, soft and sharp through his teeth. “Check this out,” he murmurs. “You’ll want to see this.”

She follows him off to the side, near a column. He angles the phone toward her. The message is encrypted, sent from one of his contacts - someone he pinged during their layover in Paris.

“All nine men listed as killed in training incidents or traffic accidents. Bodies unrecognizable. Cremated. Ashes returned to families. No further detail. Records sealed in 1994.”

The truth had been buried to avoid any embarrassment for the US government.

Erica stares at the message, reading it twice and then a third time.
This doesn’t surprise her anymore: Burned. Buried. Forgotten.

They didn’t just decide to erase her father’s honor. Back in the day, they already erased the men who had stood beside him.

She closes her eyes and nods, more to herself than to Dance.
When she opens them again, they’re colder.
Calmer.
Like a storm has passed through and drained everything but purpose.

Erica swallows hard, exhales through her nose and pushes on toward the exit.

They were treated as expendable assets without so much as a thank you, their deaths veiled under a shroud of lies.
But she knows that this is going to change.
She will fight back and if necessary she’s ready to make the Bay of Pigs fiasco look like a clerical error.

As they reach the line of available cabs, Erica and Dance part ways. “Thank you,” she whispers. She couldn’t have done this without him.

“Give me a call, okay?” Dance says, his voice gruff as usual.

She nods. “Will do.” The least thing she can do one of these next days is to treat this man to a three star dinner.
Without him…


~~~

I must say the Testimony Chapter of the People Erica´s Father saved is one of very best in this Tale. I know it is a bit unfair to single out one Chapter. And that the Trip to Africa´s Dark Heart left its Traces on Erica is not surprising. This Quest to Africa was a Quest to safe her Father´s Reputation but in other Ways a Journey to the very Core of her own being,

Unfortunately this utterly brilliant story, although fiction, has the 'ring of truth' to it. How far are, 'so called,' democratic governments prepared to go to protect financial interests? This being the, self-proclaimed, 'Land of the Free.' And i'm sure the U.K. authorities can and have also acted in such an appalling manner before, this isn't just a 'dig' at America. Money truly DOES rule this world.

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, I'm happy that this story speaks to you. It is, like all my stories in the Ericaverse, fiction based more or less loosely on reality, and I'm afraid, our Western governments are not above doing what is described in "Trek of Tears".

Now that Erica has returned from Africa with the evidence of what really happened in 1994 in her luggage, she needs to make use of that, and we will see, if it works or if she will end up looking for another cemetery for her father's remains.
This battle, I can promise, is far from over.
Stay tuned.

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago This battle, I can promise, is far from over.
Stay tuned.

I have no doubt at all that it's not, by a long chalk.

Don't you worry about that, by the way, i fully intend to.

LunaDog wrote: 1 week ago

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago This battle, I can promise, is far from over.
Stay tuned.

I have no doubt at all that it's not, by a long chalk.

Don't you worry about that, by the way, i fully intend to.

Me too!

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for being such faithful readers. I love you guys!

The door opens. The apartment smells faintly of lavender, leather and wood. It’s the smell of her sanctuary.
It is good to be home.

She steps inside and locks the door behind her. And then - soft padding on hardwood. A rustle. A meow. And then another.
Spot and Tiger barrel toward her in a blur of fluff and joy, tails high, eyes wide. They pounce, climb, meow louder. Tiny paws on her chest. Warm fur under her chin. A rough little tongue on her face.
She drops to her knees, and the dam breaks.

Tears come fast. Not violent, not loud - just sudden.
Steady.
She’s home.
She’s whole.
Her kittens don’t ask questions.
They just know that mommy is back and they welcome her with all the unconditional love in their small bodies.

Claire is standing near the kitchen door, coat folded over her arm. She promised to take care of the kittens and she did.
Of course.

She watches the wild, loving welcome for a moment, then walks down the hallway and touches Erica’s shoulder lightly.
“It’s good to have you back,” she says, smiling. “I’ll see you at the office.”

Erica nods, still half-wrapped in fur and saltwater.
The door clicks softly shut.


~~~


Erica sits curled on the edge of the black leather couch, now clad in her grey cat mom sweat suit, a soft throw draped over her like a second skin. Spot and Tiger have settled into either side of her, purring deep into the hush of the apartment.

On the coffee table sits the shoebox.

She leans forward, lifts the lid, and lets her fingers brush across the contents one by one.
The envelope with the photos of her forebears reaching back to the days of the Civil War, her father’s green beret. His medals.

Then she touches her university class ring which she usually wears with casual pride, but which, before travelling to Ngabo, she left in this box like a farewell letter.
She’d placed it there, half a will, half a prayer.

In case she didn’t come back.

Erica slips it back onto her finger, noticing that it fits more loosely now.
She hasn’t just lost weight.
She’s shed something.
Something soft.
Something unsure.
The Erica Sinclair who came back home is different: Stripped. Hardened.
Changed in a lot of ways.

A soft purring nudge at her ribs brings her back.
Tiger, ever the sentinel. She runs a hand down his spine, rises slowly, and pads barefoot into the kitchen.

The hardwood floor is cool beneath her feet.
Her hand reaches, almost automatically, for the wine rack.
She pulls out a bottle of Nero d’Avola, the one she keeps for nights like this - nights that need weight, not sparkle.

A smooth cork pull and the red wine pours flows into a glass. She takes it into the living room, stands by the cabinet, looks at the photo showing her and her parents.

She sips once. Lets the velvet bitterness ground her.

Her eyes flick between the photo and the Rolex dive watch on her wrist which suddenly seems to weigh a ton, but it is not the steel of its case and bracelet.
It’s the responsibility the creed engraved on the back carries.
Stand for something or fall for anything.

Erica raises her glass in a silent toast to her parents, her heart beating strongly.
Tomorrow she will take the fight to the Army.


~~~


That night, Erica falls asleep on the couch.
Not because she plans to, but because her body - still humming with adrenaline, still echoing with jungle sounds and voices of the dead - finally claims her.
She’s curled on her side, still in her “cat mom” sweats, the throw blanket pulled loosely around her shoulders. Spot purrs softly against her thigh. Tiger snoozes with his head resting on her ankle like a warm, breathing weight.
The quiet hum of the city that supposedly never sleeps, just beyond her windows, barely touches her.

At some point during the night, maybe chasing a ghost through the haze of slumber, she sleepwalks to the bedroom. The memories are hazy, non-linear - a flash of moonlight across the floor, the whisper of her name in the silence.
Her weight drops onto the bed with the gentle thud of someone half-asleep, wholly spent.

She doesn’t wake until light pries its way past the blinds and a rough, sandpapery tongue drags across the bridge of her nose.

She flinches at first, eyes fluttering open to meet two pairs of sharp feline eyes staring down at her from the pillow - Spot and Tiger, perched like guardians, making sure she is okay while telling her that they are hungry.

They blink.
She blinks.

Then the realization hits her. Sun’s out.

She shoots a glance at the watch on her wrist. Ten past eight.
A low, disbelieving breath escapes her.
In years - years - this is the first time she hasn’t risen at five AM.

“Guys,” she murmurs, rubbing a hand down her face. “mommy’s jetlagged.”

Spot answers by nuzzling her cheek. Tiger purrs louder, kneading the pillow like it’s in need of a massage.

Erica smiles, weary and soft.
She sits up slowly, sweeping a hand through their fur. “Alright. Breakfast. Let’s go.”

Her bare feet meet the hardwood floor with a solid, grounding thump. Her Rolex reads 8:12 now.

Time's already slipping, but she moves with purpose, goes through the routine. Into the kitchen. Rinsing the kittens’ bowls. Fresh water, softened kibble.

She sets them down on the mat and watches as the two little carnivores dive in, heads bumping, tails high.

As they eat, she heads for the bedroom, slipping into her sleek black running gear. She ties her trainers tight and slips her phone and keys into the zippered pocket of her running top.

The streets greet her with cool wind and morning sun.
She runs like something is chasing her - or maybe like she’s chasing something.

Answers.
Justice.
Peace.

The city pulses around her, but she doesn’t register it.
Her feet slap the pavement, each step like a hammer to the drumbeat in her chest.
The world blurs past.
She doesn’t care.
She needs this.
By the time she slows, lungs burning and thighs aching, five miles are behind her, and she’s set a new personal best.

Her hands brace her hips, head bowed.
Not bad, she thinks between gasps.
Not bad at all.
But it’s not just a routine.
Today it is part of a purge – body and soul.

Back home, she strips down and steps into the shower. She doesn’t just wash - she lets the water erase. Sweat, fatigue, the lingering weight of jungle heat and blood memory.
Gone.
Down the drain.
The lavender and mint from her gel blooms in the steam.
Sharp.
Clean.
Focused.

She blow-dries her hair - mechanical, meditative - then pads barefoot into the kitchen, still wrapped in a towel, the scent of warmth and mint following her.

Coffee. Two Sweet’n Low. A splash of almond milk. Oatmeal. Cinnamon. Honey.
The ritual of normalcy grounds her in this space, her sanctuary. After what she’s seen in Africa, it feels even decadent. But it also feels earned and she knows that she has won a new appreciation for the little things that make life easier and more comfortable.

Twenty minutes later, Erica stands in front of the bedroom mirror.
Her reflection meets her with sharp lines and sharper eyes.
Pencil skirt, silk blouse, blazer - all crisp, tailored, precise.
Like her.
Like she has to be.

She slings her handbag over her shoulder and starts toward the door - but pauses.
The shoebox waits on the coffee table like an altar.
With calm finality, she pulls the passport – made out to Elena Frederick - from her purse and places it inside.
She doesn’t just drop the passport.
She buries the version of herself who needs to stay off the records.

Looking around, she takes in her apartment: silent, clean, elegant, subtle scents coming from the air freshener in the hallway: a mixture of leather, wood and lavender.

Luggage, unpacking, laundry - that can wait.
She’ll take care of it tonight.

Because now, it’s time.
Time to take the fight to the people who buried her father’s name and turned nine heroes into footnotes.
She locks the door behind her, the deadbolt snapping in place. Time to crack the lie wide open.


~~~

You know dear @Jenny_S I am great Fan of Scenes which show Erica at home. It is wonderful again:

She steps inside and locks the door behind her. And then - soft padding on hardwood. A rustle. A meow. And then another.
Spot and Tiger barrel toward her in a blur of fluff and joy, tails high, eyes wide. They pounce, climb, meow louder. Tiny paws on her chest. Warm fur under her chin. A rough little tongue on her face.
She drops to her knees, and the dam breaks.

These four Lines capture the Essence of this Chapter. Erica is home. In her personal private Space. That Erica is overwhelmed is no wonder. Back from Africa´s black Heart to New York. From the Trek of Tears to the Big Apple.

I have no doubts she is ready to fight the upcoming Battle. Before her Jouney to Africa this was an uphill Battle. A steep one. Now the Odds are much more in her Favour, but I have the Feeling it will be a hard Fight still.

Yet again those two kittens have shown the caring side of Miss Sinclair, have demonstrated the loving, maternal instincts within her.

But now it is time for the battle-hardened side to come through. As, no doubt, some bureaucratic 'jobsworth,' like that Major from beforehand, is about to find out! When they insulted her dad, they insulted HER!

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, you know how much I enjoy writing these "slice of life" scenes for Erica. Since you have followed her through many stories, you have seen how important the kittens have become for her. In the past, Erica indulged in selfbondage rituals to cope with emotional stress, this changed when Spot and Tiger walked into her life and claimed her heart.

However, when Erica gets to the office, she will show Major Kendall how heartless Owen Sinclair's daughter can be - and I guarantee that the fight won't stop with Kendall.
Stay tuned, dear readers.

[quote=Jenny_S post_id=210938 time=1760036018 user_id=95471
However, when Erica gets to the office, she will show Major Kendall how heartless Owen Sinclair's daughter can be - and I guarantee that the fight won't stop with Kendall.
Stay tuned, dear readers.
[/quote]

I am so looking forward to that phone call!!