The cicadas had returned, their high-pitched, whining drone swelling from the nearby trees to an almost deafening buzz, only to fade and be picked up by other cicadas blocks away. Without the human sounds of leaf-blowers and roaring cars to disrupt it, the interminable rise and fall was hypnotic, intoxicating in its own right. It was the jungle’s wheezing breath.Woozy with breakfast beer and propane-grilled sausages snatched from my fridge, Marci and I lazed on a pair of chaise lounges I had dragged from my backyard to the front porch. We took in our debris covered street, fanned ourselves, sipped more beer, moved as little as possible.Neither of us had so much as hinted at the interrupted sex act that had so nearly taken place in the city’s busiest intersection. I was hesitant to bring it up. After all, this woman had a husband and a child. It could’ve been a lapse, a momentary indiscretion that she had no intention of repeating.So I contented myself with staring side-long at her. Looking up I could see three men arrayed in front of us, all in overcoats and all looking very serious and self assured.I pushed my girls behind me and slowly unbuttoned my double breasted suit jacket with my left hand. I could see from the corner of my eye that Mr. Jones and Anya were facing off opposite one of the three men before us.I quickly linked with the three men and began sending them rapid pulses of fear.Their veneer of self assurance quickly faded away."You gentlemen are blocking our limousine." Mr. Jones rasped at the three.One man, the one in the center, stepped forward. His right hand moved as if to reach under his overcoat."If that hand comes out holding a weapon, all three of you are dead." I snarled at him.His face went white and I could feel their own fear growing, in addition to what I was sending. His shaky hand came back out and held up a wallet which he opened with a practiced flip, exposing a shiny badge and photo ID card. Mr. Jones stepped forward and examined.
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