My connection to AOL has been down for an hour and I am frantic as I now search for a partner. I must have been kicked offline because of the lightning from the wild storm. The rain pelts the window and the thunder echoes through the night as I click through the Chat Rooms in my Bookmarks. I enter, sit silently, watching the conversations. No one new, no one of interest, but I continue looking, watching, hoping.

"Yes!", I shout through the empty room as I read the monitor.

"Missy ... I'm a young girl looking for my Sugar Daddy."

"I'm here, Missy." I type as my eyes focus on the screen. This could be him. It is his style.

"Are you a Sugar Daddy?"

"Yes I am. I'm the sweetest daddy on the Internet."

"But, how can I tell? I met a guy last week who turned out to be a fag."

"I'm not gay! I'm a real, live, loving guy who likes little girls." I wait for the response, thinking that Missy is contemplating my statement. I can see them, all of them, sitting in their little room, hammering out messages, and trying to intercept some unwary cruiser searching for kids. God Damn cops imitating kids. "I'm afraid of Homo's."

"I told you that I like little girls. How old are you?"

"I'm twelve, but I will be thirteen in a month."

"I'm thirty-six and I'm looking for you!" Nice touch, I whisper, watching our messages scroll among the other people in chat, waiting for their response. Twelve, I think, they're playing a little young. Fifteen would be more believable.

"I need someone. My father raped me last night and I'm running away from home. I don't know where to go or how to live. What should I do?"

"Poor little girl."

"He's my step-dad and my mom let's him do what he wants with me. I got pregnant last year but had an abortion. I'm so sad right now."

"I could help you, Missy." I type, waiting for their answer. They want me, I think. Damn cops, sitting in the cave-like depths of the police information center. I know how they are and where they are. They aren't kidding me with this little twelve-year-old kid shit.

"Would you help me?"

"Yes! Where are you?"

"Got the pedophile son-of-a-bitch!" Bill yells as he reads the monitor. "Got a live one! Where is he? Trace this guy!" he says as his buddy clicks through the access accounts.

"AOL ... Dallas ... no ... London ... no ... Moscow ... no ..."

"Stop that shit ... where the fuck is he?"

"He's spoofing his IP. Can't trace him. Think he's somewhere in the USA."

"Come on ... trace him.".

"Can't ... he's jumping ... too sharp."

"Then drag him out!" Bill yells. "Let's drag his ass where we want him."

"I'm in California..." Bill types, waiting for any response.

"Come on Bill, drag him out!" comes from the back of the room.

"It's nice here but my dad's terrible. He'll come home drunk in a little while and he'll ..." Bill stops typing, waiting as the screen is motionless."

"POOR BABY !", he reads, raising his hands in triumph.

"He's here now, my step-dad. How can I contact you?"

"Meet me tomorrow night at six. I'll be here, waiting",

"I'll be here, Sir. Will you help me, Sugar Daddy?"

"Yes, Missy! Bye now."

"Sugar Daddy has left the room" the monitor reads as Bill points to the guys, lifting his thumb as a sign of success.

"Trace that fucker!"

"We'll get this guy."

Bill has been in the Internet Posse for over three years and has arrested twenty pedophiles, convicted three. Not a great percentage but he feels that getting one off the Internet is worth the effort. "This guy is the best", he says, speaking to none of the group in particular. "I wonder if he's the cop killer?"

With that comment Bill leaves the Internet Command Center and goes to Dano's, a local cop hangout. It's crowded and most of the people are in law enforcement. There are only a few unfamiliar faces are in the room. Bill looks at each, trying to picture what the molester might look like, but no one fits the profile and they wouldn't be here anyway.

He orders a Jack Daniel's straight up with a beer chaser, settles his heavy frame into a barstool and gulps the shot, asking for another. Several drinks and a couple of beers later Bill is talking to a detective about the disappearance of police involved in Internet crime, especially the pursuit of pedophiles.

Six agents are dead. One from Phoenix, one from San Francisco, one from Mexico City, another from Toronto, one from Memphis and another from New York. All agents were shot in the head with a single bullet.

Ballistics on the six bullets is identical. They are a 7.62mm NATO issue fired from a Springfield Armory M21 sniper rifle. The barrel is a Krieger stainless steel with right hand rifling, one turn in ten. The assailant probably uses a flash arrested and a high powered scope, can shoot at a range of up to 1500 meters with a front bi-pod support.

After each hit an identical e-mail is sent to the FBI:

The emails do not come from the city where the hit takes place. They originate in Tokyo, a day after the killing.

"Some sick bastard", Bill tells his friend, putting down another shot with his gulp of beer.

"Yeah ... are you OK to drive? I have to get out of here. I'll drop you off."

"I'm fine", Bill answers as his friend leaves. Only a few people remain in the bar and Bill can't help but notice the blonde three stools down. "Jerry, get the lady a drink", he says asking the woman if he can join her.

"I'm waiting for my husband", she answers, crossing her legs, which accentuate her slim calves and nice thighs. Bill pauses but tips the bartender, grabs his coat and stumbles to his car. The drive home is short. As he enters his flat he kicks off his shoes and falls into bed, fully clothed. He lies thinking about the bastard hustling the kid on the Internet. He hopes that tomorrow will be a successful session. He wants a score.