"What? You mean you aren't coming back here? No, no, you can't do that, Elias," Bert said. "The guys. . ."

"Screw the guys and the party they planned. Look, son, I'm no hypocrite. I know they can't wait to see me go. I remember the mutiny that almost happened when I replaced Mitch Riley. And, I don't need another gold watch. I'm walking out of here just the way I walked in, with half my dignity intact. Goddamn ninjas! You guys are never going to be able to live that down. Well, maybe you will." He grinned.

Bert's eyes burned. "Okay, okay, I can live with all that, but what I can't live with is you not wanting me to be your best man. How's that going to look when it hits the papers, you and Judge Easter being married in an Elvis chapel with Elvis look-alikes standing up for you?"

"Like we're two old fools having a hell of a good time. Give me twenty bucks, and I'll play one of those progressive slots for you."

Bert dug a twenty out of his wallet and handed it over. His eyes continued to burn as the director smothered him in a bear hug. He could feel the big man trembling.

Cummings was almost to the door, when Bert said, "What should I do about the ninja crap?"

Cummings turned around. "See that box of donuts the next president of the United States sent me this morning? Pick some guy you really hate and have him hand-deliver it to Harry Wong and make sure you put Jack Emery's name on the box, too."

It was the perfect exit line, and Bert burst out laughing as the director waved nonchalantly and walked through the door like he was going to lunch.

When Bert finally calmed down enough to speak coherently, he walked out to the corridor and bellowed at the top of his lungs the way Cummings did when he was pissed to the teeth. "Listen up! The party has been canceled, and Elvis has left the building. Jackson! Front and center."

A tall, handsome agent who believed he was the Second Coming of George Clooney, a belief no one else shared, literally saluted, then waited. Bert hated his guts because he was a glory hound.

"The director's last order was for you, Jackson. He said you were personally to hand-deliver this box," he said, holding out the beribboned jelly donut box, "to Harry Wong's dojo and you are to get a receipt. He also said if Wong wants you to kiss his ass, you are to do it, and, know this, Jackson, the eyes and ears of the FBI are upon you, so don't screw this up."

John Jackson didn't look like George Clooney at that moment, he looked like a wet cat that had gotten tangled up in an electrical wire.