Americana flew down through the closed ball park to the upper concourse.

"Mr. Santora? The police chief said you wanted to see me?"

Ken Santora, owner of the Washington Senators, forced a smile.

"Americana. Thanks for coming."

He nodded to her. "Let's walk. If that's okay with you."

"Uh, sure."

"You... may have heard that we have a rather big game coming up Saturday."

Americana grinned. "The biggest. Larry Ponds is probably going to hit his 755th home run, amybe his 756th too, the way Jose's pitching.

"Uhh, not anything against Jose. Hurt his arm last month, versus the Astros."

"Well, yes," Santora sighed. "I decided we'd use Kenny against Pittsburgh, and Fabrerra we need hold for Chicago... "

"Game you can win, right?"

He nodded. "San Francisco's got too many good hitters... you follow the game pretty closely, eh?"

"As much as I'm able."

"Well, then, you know how much trouble this Larry Ponds thing is causing. Tank Storck won't attend to see his record broken - claims Ponds was on steroids for a good part of his run. The Commissioner's even begging off, for the same reason.

"And someone's threatening to kill him."

"Um, not to be, crass or anything, but haven't people been threatening his life for a year now?"

Santora paused, and nodded.

"Yes. But this time it's in my town.

"If it's going to happen, if he really is going to be killed, he's going to be shot in Washington. In my ball park."

He shrugged. "That's the way the schedule runs."

"But... surely you can search the patrons a little more carefully, maybe put in metal detectors temporarily, like they did in Detroit?"

Santora looked at her.

"Detroit. Is that really the image of this city? Detroit?

"Look," he sighed. "We got all that. I think we have the normal stuff all covered. It's just that, in the past year, well - things are now at a whole 'nother level.

"It's the Kirbies that I'm worried about. The game will be televised, there's media here from around the world... and you're right, given the way that Jose is pitching he'll probably belt a couple out of the park.

"I just... look, what I think of Ponds doesn't matter. He's going to be playing Saturday and I want to make sure he leaves this town alive.

"Look, I'll pay you, big time. I want you to be here. Just in case one of these note-writing weirdos really has the stones to try something."

Americana stopped walking. She ran a finger behind her ear.

The man seemed genuinely worried.

"Mr. Santora... I'm... assuming you'll have security and team personnel, television crews, all walking around the field... at least some of whom have all access, right?"

"Yes... "

She thought for a moment more.

"Okay.

"I'm going to need three tickets - a pair and a single. Anywhere will do, preferably as far out of the limelight as possible. I'm also going to need a jacket and pants, something to cover up my uniform, and a cover story that will let me be practically anywhere without raising suspicion."

"Sure. We can handle that. And the money?"

Americana looked at him and blinked.

"Oh. Oh, no. That's not neccessary."

"Wait a minute - you are providing me security. A service - "

"Mr. Santora - no offense - but money has a way of twisting one's priorities. Thanks for the offer, but... no."

Too often she had heard her father and sister talking about officers whose integrity was compromised by cash - a little here, a little there, and before they knew it...

She couldn't let that happen to her.

Ken Santora looked at her for a moment, then nodded.

"All right.

"All right, I won't pay you. But I will make a generous contribution in your name... say, to Children's Hospital?"

Americana considered this...

"Sure," she said. "That would be all right, I guess."

"Good."

He sighed.

"Let me tell you, I'll be very happy when they're back in San Francisco."

"Knock knock."

"Hey. Americana. Come on in. Just gettin' my shoes on."

Norman Roswell sat on the edge of his hospital bed, one shoe in his hand, the other already laced on his feet.

"Americana!"

"Hi, Robert. How you doing?"

"Great! Uncle Norm's coming to our house for dinner tonight!"

"Sarah's down getting the car," Roswell offered, putting on his other shoe.

"Glad I caught you before you left."

Roswell paused. "Trouble?"

"No-o-o. Just wanted to check up on you."

"Thanks."

"Big game coming up Saturday," she commented.

"Yeah, what I'd give to see that," Roswell smiled, tying one of his ubiquitous wild neckties.

Americana held out two tickets. "You two want to go?"

The FBI agent stared.

"What?" he asked quietly.

"I think they're opposite first base," she said, casually placing them in his hand. "You guys have fun."

"Uncle Norm!" Robert practically shouted. "Can I go can I go can I go?!"

"S-sure, kiddo," Norman said. "We gotta ask your mom first..."

He stared at the tickets, then at Americana.

"You sure? I mean, this... Ponds could hit 755, maybe 756... "

"I know," Americana shrugged happily.

"Aren't you going to the ballgame, Americana?"

"Sure I am, Robert," she said with a smile. "I'll just be in another part of the stadium."

She bent her knees and squatted down. "But I'm going in secret, okay? I'm not going as Americana, just as another baseball fan. You can't tell anyone I'm going to be there, all right?"

"Okay! I won't," Robert said. "Woo-hoo, I'm goin' to the ball game!"

"Woo-hoo! We're goin' to the ball game!"

Jason danced around the tiny apartment.

"Uh, wait... there's only one ticket here..."

"You are going to the ball game," Astrea Starr said, hugging his neck from behind. "Americana is going in disguise."

"Say what?"

"Mr. Santora thinks there's a credible threat to Larry Ponds' life. Someone doesn't want him tying Tank Storck's record, and there's a good chance that come Saturday, he will."

"Yeah, with the way Jose Valentine's been pitching lately..."

"Please don't be mad, honey. I asked for a ticket for you 'cause I thought you'd like to go."

"I'm not mad... I just... wish that we could go to this together, you know?"

"I know, honey," she held him tight, close to her. "I know."

She glanced up at his face. "But I couldn't just go and enjoy myself, not when something could happen."

"Maybe Ponds shouldn't play, then."

"Maybe that's just what the assailant wants."

"Heh."

"What's so funny?"

"'Assailant'. Daughter of a cop."

"Oh, ha ha."

"Look, hon - I am grateful you got me the ticket. I mean, I get to go an' maybe see history. I just want you to know it's... gonna be a little less without you."

"I'll make it up to you," Astrea drew her hand slowly down his chest. "After the game."

"Whoa," Jason breathed.

Saturday dawned warm and muggy - typical, for Washington near Labor Day.

Americana hoped that she wouldn't stand out so much, wearing a jacket and long pants (a little too long, the better to conceal her boots). She wore a ball cap to match the windbreaker, with a Sportsweek Magazine logo prominently displayed. That, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes hidden by dark glasses, was all that she wore as a disguise.

And the camera. Wouldn't be a sports photographer without the camera.

Sometimes the simplest disguises are the best ones, she thought as she climbed the stairs from the Metro station. She concentrated on taking smaller steps, rather than striding as she did normally, and constantly fiddled with her camera.

She could do this.

She entered the park at the employee gate, and after a quick check of her credentials was let inside.

Americana smiled slightly. So far, so good.

She walked down onto the field, confidently, like she belonged. No one challenged her.

She walked fairly straight, moving around the edges of the field, but her eyes were constantly shifting, looking around for places that a shooter would hide himself. She had already taken a tour of the stadium the previous night, but it never hurt to look twice.

Washington's height requirements, plus the stadium's locale and orientation, made a shot from outside the ball park a virtual impossibility.

That left inside the park itself.

Which was not all that reassuring. Ball parks were built specifically so that every seat in the house had at least a decent view of the action - and in the better-designed parks the view was actually pretty darn good no matter where you sat.

So, theoretically, any one of the 39,000 or so patrons could pull out a gun and shoot the man at home plate.

Assuming they could smuggle in the gun, of course, and assuming that they didn't really care if they were caught or not.

Think of that, Astie - the world was full of sickos who wanted to become famous. You can't assume that the assailant actually wants to get away - just so long as he kills Ponds first.

She looked back at the bleachers. That would be a long way to shoot someone - not for a man patiently standing out there with a rifle, but that wasn't likely going to happen. It would be someone with a pistol, if they could even smuggle it in.

Astrea knew that would be extraordinarily difficult. But then, not impossible, by any means.

There were places where a person with a rifle might stand, but the security detail was present in those places. Pistol, then.

Even with a high-powered handgun, the assailant was going to have to hit his target the first time. He had to know he might not get a second shot.

So, he was close.

Hmmm.

The crowd stood for the National Anthem. Americana removed her hat.

This, she thought, would be interesting.

And, it would come soon.

Surely the alleged assailant was not going to let Larry Ponds tie Tank Storck's record, then kill him. What would be the point?

Their first player hit a short single, and the crowd's excitement grew. Ponds, batting fourth, would be up in the first inning.

Jose Valentine calmed down a bit, forcing the next batter to swing at a rapidly-dropping fastball and strike out.

The crowd cheered!

Americana looked hard for anyone who wasn't cheering.

Oh, heavens, this was a madhouse! She'd never be able to find one person with a gun! Chances are she wouldn't even hear the gunshot over the crowd noise!

The third player hit a sacrifice single, and the first batter eased into second. Why risk trying to take third with the great hitter on deck?

Oh-h-h, Lord help me, Americana looked around in desperation. If there is a killer help me to find him.

Larry Ponds strode to home plate, the crowd was on its feet, roaring louder than ever...

Americana kept scanning the crowd. She looked up on the roof. She glanced from tunnel to tunnel. Come on, Astie!

Ponds looked down his bat, and evidently didn't like what he saw. He pointed to a small crack and signalled the batboy to bring him another.

Americana turned when the crowd's excitement died a bit, to see what was wrong. Oh. Well, the bat he would use would be in the Hall of Fame tomorrow, so she -

Did she just see - ?

She hesitated - then began to run.

Her feet lifted off of the ground and she spread her arms - if she had just unneccessarily blown her cover, well, she'd deal with that later!

She covered the forty yards to Ponds' side, dropping to her feet next to him just as the gun fired!

And the batboy, holding a pistol under the bat... stared.

What was - ? He fired again!

And again! Why didn't she fall?!

Americana's fist struck home; she was careful to pull her punch, but ended up knocking him fifteen feet through the air, anyway.

Ponds, as well as most of the crowd, stood flabbergasted for a moment.

"Mr. Ponds? You okay?"

"W-who - are you?"

Americana smiled and pulled open her jacket; the crowd exploded.

"Leroy? Leroy tried to kill me?"

Now the security force ran onto the field.

"D-dammit, Ponds! You couldn't a... just retired or somethin'," the ballboy sputtered, flat on his back. "You drugged up... you're a... disgrace to baseball!"

"I'd hate to think of what that makes you," Americana said, lifting him to his feet.

"Th-thank... you..."

"You're quite welcome," Americana smiled, then she turned and looked up into the stands near first base. Roswell and Robert were standing and cheering.

She resisted the urge to look anywhere near Jason, but was certain he was cheering too.

A visibly shaken Larry Ponds watched the security teams march Leroy Jones away.

His hands shook as he reached for the bat Leroy had dropped... then slowly he lowered his hands, and his head, and walked back to the dugout.

Three days later, on his home field, Larry Ponds retired from baseball...

At 754 home runs.