A black Porsche sped up the driveway which led to the Bayou Country Club. The long white lines of the columns fronting the club were almost imperceptible through the lush vegetation. As the Porsche neared the parking lot, the grounds broke into an explosion of color. Clumps of azaleas bordered the parking lot as well as the walkways leading to and from the club.

Kenneth "Catch" Callahan climbed out of the Porsche and stretched his six foot, two-inch frame. He blinked his eyes against the onslaught of the harsh Texas sun. He reached inside the pocket of his safari jacket and put on a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. Suddenly there was a nearby explosion and the ground shook beneath his feet. The windows of the country club rattled and several magnolia blossoms fell from the trees to the ground.

"Sonofabitch!"

He turned to his left and looked across the golf course to the hills beyond. The sides of the hills were already eroded from the explosives and the giant teeth of the bulldozers. The site just beyond the boundaries of the Bayou Country Club had been sold to the Land Development Corporation and was being turned into a housing development for middle to upper middle class residents.

"It's going to ruin the view," Catch muttered, and shook his head. "Just imagine golf balls crashing through the windows, bopping blue-haired matrons on the head."

Catch Callahan was a striking looking man, tall, muscularly built with steel-gray hair and an infectious smile. He looked more like Paul Newman's younger brother than a corporation "troubleshooter." His eyes, blue-gray and startling, seemed cold and calculating. His great hands, with their long tapered fingers seemed incapable of a caress. His full lips set in an eternal conventioneer's smile seemed incapable of true laughter.