Gangsters Inc.

Intro:

Back when I was living in PA, an old buddy of mine and I came up with an idea for a comic that we named "Gangsters Ink". "Ink" was a play on words for several reasons. One was the fact that it was, indeed, a comic. I was going to do the drawings and inks, Joe was going to do the coloring, and we were going to collaborate on the writing. We had managed to get as far as drawing the first issue's front and back covers, as well as coming up with a general outline of how the first 15 or so issues were going to go, story-wise, before I ended up moving down here.

Another reason for the play on words is it referred to the job "his character" had before becoming a mob boss...read the story to find out what.

It also is a sound-alike for "Inc.", short for "Incorporated", another reference to an event later on in the story.

Now, I've decided to pull the stories we'd come up with out from semi-retirement and do an online novel with it. If I ever get lucky and find the old covers, I'll post them up, but it likely won't happen since I have NO clue where they're at (hell, Joe's prolly got 'em for all I know). I may get around to redrawing it, if I can get into the mood for drawing. In the meantime, I hope y'all enjoy this story. And, Joe, if you read this, and wanna get in on the writing or if I get something wrong, give me a holler. Full credit for the story goes to our collaborative efforts all those years ago. A few names'll prolly change, since I can't remember them off the top of my head, but they'll be close enough.

For now, I'll be posting as my Admin name on this story, as there are way too many characters involved to try and post as separate names.



Chapter One: Questions, Questions, So Many Questions...

As she walked into the manor, the woman looked around in anxiety and fear. So many things were said about the "family" that lived here, half of which would be enough to drive anyone to tears from the telling. The man walking with her, by contrast, seemed cool and confident, almost arrogant in his manner. The sight of his steady stride reinforced the reporter's resolve to get this story and set straight the facts about the "Penfinici Family".

Ahead of the pair, at the end of the hall they were traversing, two men dressed in identical black Armani suits and wearing mirrored sunglasses opened a set of double doors that led into a well-appointed dining area. Dim though the lights were, the reporter could make out the seated form of a white-suited man on a chair that looked to be upholstered in real white leather and embroidered with what seemed to be actual golden thread, perhaps costing more than her entire year's salary. And, to boot, there were dozens of similar chairs surrounding the main table and the several smaller "satellite" tables that finished out the furnishings of the dining room.

The setting sun cast its light across the lower portion of the man's body, shadowing out his head and upper shoulders. He was leaning back in the chair slightly, the back of the chair reclining to keep all four feet on the floor. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair, his fingertips steepled against each other. With a wave of his hand, the man invited them to sit, his voice saying with a thick northeastern accent, "Welcome to my home. I had not expected the DA to make a personal appearance for this interview, but the cooks are competent enough to see to it that he does not have to go hungry while you and I eat, my dear."

"Can it," the lawyer said. "I came along to make sure you honored your end of the deal. I went through hell to set this up, and by God, I won't let you weasel out of it, Joseph."

Joseph Penfinici laughed softly, saying, "Of course, of course...One interview in exchange for one favor in the courts...to be named later. But, come now. Are we not civilized beings, here? The rest of the world may have gone to hell these last few years, but this is a bastion of culture and refinement. Pleasure before business." With that, he snapped his fingers, causing a flurry of activity that saw three places set before the seated trio. Plates mounded with exotic foods that the reporter, Diane, was hard-pressed to identify.

As she ate, Diane looked around the room while the lawyer and Joseph made small talk, her eyes adjusting to the dimness somewhat, though she could not yet make out Joseph's face. What she saw caused her to several times pause in mid-bite from surprise. The decor of the dining room was, to say the least, rich. She could easily enough identify several works of art that came from the brush of the likes of Leonardo da Vinci, even some that were reported stolen, like the Mona Lisa that sat proudly behind the seat Joseph took at the head of the table. Ever since America had pulled out of the Middle East without warning back in the beginning of the financial crisis the country was facing at the time, private collections such as this were unheard of; even the White House had very little left in the way of artwork for decoration. This spoke volumes as to the power and riches that Joseph Penfinici commanded.

As if the lengths she'd had to go to in order to even get this far into the house weren't indication enough of Joseph's influence. The "deal" that the DA had mentioned, the extremely thorough frisking...and comments as to how her breasts felt, a leer on their lips as they continued to probe their hands against her most personal body parts...by the burly guards at the door, the sheer number of blatantly carried weapons (in violation of numerous gun-control laws that had been enacted to prevent any sort of anarchical uprising by the populace while the President and the rest of Capital Hill hammered out a temporary solution to their financial woes). All of these things caused Diane to rethink her position and helped her nervousness to become downright paranoia. She jumped every time Joseph's fork scraped slightly across his plate. The raising of his wine glass to his still-unseen lips was watched like a frightened rabbit observing a hawk on the hunt. Any minute now... she thought. Any minute, he's going to change his mind and order someone to start shooting.

Once the meal was done and the dishes cleared away, Joseph lit up a cigar, proffering a box filled with the same to the DA, saying, "They're Cuban." The DA shook his head silently; he, too, recognized the power that Joseph had, and was also silently reconsidering, despite his earlier bravado. Joseph puffed away silently on the cigar for a few moments, then said from the haze of smoke, "All right, now to business. I believe you have some questions to ask, Miss Diane. Please, ask away."

Clearing her throat to regain control of the quiver that threatened to escape into her voice. "Yes, of course," she said, pulling out a digital recorder and setting it on the table. "I hope you don't mind this, but I take terrible notes, so this will help me get the story right later," she said as she activated the device. Joseph, seemingly amused, waved a hand as though to say that it didn't matter.

Once she was set, Diane, using her "reporter voice", said, "Mr. Penfinici...While most of the country, indeed the world, has heard many stories of you and your...."organization", there is one story that has not been told. That is, of how you and your partner got started in your..."business".”

Joseph, for his part, silently sat there, smoking his cigar for a few moments. Then, holding it out between two fingers and his thumb, he regarded the glowing end and said, "And you would like for me to divulge that information, I take it. Well, after such a fine meal, I'm feeling like telling a story, so I shall indulge your curiosity. It all began....

"...back when you were likely still in diapers, sucking at your mother's tit. The early 1990's, during the war in the Persian Gulf. "Operation Desert Storm", they called it. Though, my partner, Mirage, would likely tell you that it was simply a pain in the ass.

Mirage is the only name he ever gives to those he doesn't trust. Indeed, I do believe I am perhaps the only person that knows his real name, as a matter of fact. Truth be told, I am under the impression that he killed all the rest, himself. He and I go way back, even before the Gulf War began. We were teenagers, going to school in...well, let's just say that it was a high school right here in Pennsylvania...when he and I met. We became great friends, outcast as we were by the more..."popular" groups of other students. I suppose one might say that such treatment by our peers was the catalyst that led to our "dissatisfaction with society". I would say that it was such treatment that opened our eyes to just how blind and closed-minded people really were.

Oh, I see the look on your face there. No, he and I weren't gay lovers or anything like that. Come now, my dear, be adult about this. No, he and I were outcast because our own outlook on things ran against the grain, as it were. Some called me obsessed with a life that was outside of reality, others called him psychotic and strange.

So, where to begin? Well, I shall relay my own story first.

Growing up, I had an obsession for comic books. I collected literally thousands of them. Not long after meeting Mirage, I discovered a character in one particular title that would affect me in profound ways. He began his own career much like your own, Mr. DA. "Clean up the streets!" was his motto, even as a corrupting influence crept through his mind, creating an alternate personality, one that caused him to flip a two-headed coin all the time. A very promising career was in the cards for this character, if it were not for the disfiguring accident that caused his personalities to merge into a single, double-minded entity.

But, enough of that. Suffice to say that it led to me getting a job with the company that printed those comic books. I was home, it seemed to me. Drawing, inking, and coloring my beloved comic book characters was like achieving Nirvana. I would work for hours at a time, forgetting sleep, forgetting to eat, sometimes days would pass before I realized it. My employers, while concerned about the stress I was putting myself through, were ecstatic to find someone so devoted to the art.

They, and I, were unaware of the danger of such a compulsive need to work on the comics that I had.

One evening, nearing midnight, I had just completed my latest project when I noticed a coloring error that my tired eyes had missed. Normally, I would have left it for the next day, but by then the obsessive desires of perfection had taken hold and I knew that I had to fix the error. Reaching up to the shelf over my head, I fumbled around in search of the paint thinner so that I could erase the mistake and fix it. Little did I know that I had left open a vial of a special paper treatment of my own devising, and it was sitting right on the edge of the shelf. It was a mixture of toner, acetone, other chemicals, and, most damaging, various acids. It fell from the shelf, falling onto my upturned face.

After I left the hospital, I found myself jobless, as the comic company could ill-afford an association with such an accident-prone and mentally ill artist such as myself. They recommended that I check into a mental hospital, then see about coming back to work part-time. I could only laugh when they said that. They fired me, but want me to check into an expensive program at a mental hospital, one that I couldn't afford without a good-paying job. The very definition of irony.

My money woes only got worse as time went on. The scars on my face were, while not as disfiguring as they were on the face of my comic book idol, prevented me from getting anything other than menial-labor jobs. Even they were intolerable, as everyone that I worked with treated me like I had some sort of mental retardation.

Eventually, desperation set in, and I decided to rob a bank. Destiny had a hand in that, I feel.

And now, it is time to switch over to Mirage's side of the story, for it was that fated day that our organization got its start...

From what I understand, Mirage's immediate family had been in one of the branches of the military. It was this, plus his background in martial arts, that allowed him to join the Marines soon after graduating high school. There, his talents were put to good use in their version of Special Forces, where he was given the code name of "Mirage", the name he still goes by today. He received training as a commando, and was soon shipped off to fight in the Gulf War, an experience that he doesn't speak of with even myself. He came back...changed.

The Corps took care of him the best way they knew how: they covered up everything bad that happened, and assigned him a half-trained shrink to deal with the mental issues that resulted. Heh, equivalent to slapping a band-aid on a gunshot wound. He did, however, manage to suppress the mental anguish he was going through and managed to make a life for himself outside of the military, once he was discharged.

Mirage opened up a dojo here in this very city, teaching numerous forms of martial arts, both armed and unarmed. He was relatively successful at his venture, and could likely have retired happily from the proceeds.

However, greed is ever in the hearts of man. One of his students, the best in the class, and was counted as second only to the Master Mirage, found himself looking covetously upon the mantle of "Master". Having little money to begin his own dojo, he desired to take from Mirage what was his. It was during an exhibition that the student's plot unfolded. Master versus student, the Master unarmed and the student using a pair of short blades that were strapped to the back of each of his hands, claw-fashion. During what was supposed to be a staged attack where the student was to halt his strike before stabbing the Master in the face with the weapons, a pause to allow Mirage to point out a few things to the younger students, the student betrayed his Master. Mirage, for his part, sensing danger in the young man's manner, managed to flinch back just enough to avoid the full effects of the lethal blow....at the unfortunate cost of his eyes and a bit of brain damage.

Blinded, he lay in the hospital, languishing in the thoughts that this was his karma for the things he'd done during the war. So deep was he in his depression, he gave little thought before agreeing to an experimental implantation of electronic eyes to replace those that he'd lost. In fact, he was barely cognizant of the fact that it was the military that arranged and paid for the operation, as well as providing the experimental eyes.

When he awoke from the anesthesia, the first thing he realized was intense stabbing pain in his eyes, far more than what he'd felt from the original injury. He ripped off the wrappings from around his head, shoving aside the doctor and nurses that begged him to return to his bed. What he saw in the mirror in his room horrified him.

I'm sure you remember, my dear Miss Diane, and Mr. District Attorney, the hospital that had exploded, apparently from a gas leak that had gone undetected? All the patients, as well as the attending physicians and other employees, were given up for dead once it was apparent that no survivors would be found. They couldn't even find enough whole bodies to account for a fifth of those that were in the building that night. They merely assumed that the rest were either blown into pieces so small and so far away that they'd never be found, or were simply obliterated in the conflagration. Well, that was the hospital that Mirage had been in. Obviously, not all of the patients died, heh....

The brain damage caused by first the injury, then the optical implants being put in, coupled with his already-present psychological damage tipped Mirage over into derangement. He began a life of crime, a few years before my own. Robbery, beatings, murders...It didn't matter to him. All would die at his hands.

His first victim was the man responsible for putting him in the position in the first place: his erstwhile student. The student became the de facto Master of the dojo after the police investigation was wrapped up with the title of "accident", due to the dangerous manner of teaching Mirage had in the first place. It was chalked up to being Mirage's own fault for standing there while a mere student, though highly trained himself, stabbed toward his face with a pair of deadly fist-blades. I won't bore you, Mr. DA...or disgust you, Miss Diane...with the details. Let us just say that the last thing that that student saw was the set of new eyes glowing in the face of the man he'd maimed.

Hmm? I see a question behind your eyes, Miss Diane. Wait, let me guess, "glowing"? Well, yes, Mirage's eyes have a slight glow to them. It's because of their ability to see into many spectra of light and energy that you and I are unable to perceive, as well as visible light, guaranteeing him to be able to see in absolute darkness without the use of night vision goggles or any other accoutrements. You see, the military had been thinking of using these implants with all of their soldiers, giving them an edge in combat over their adversaries. One of the negative points to this plan, however, was the neurological damage that would be done while placing the implants. There was also the psychological damage that would be done to the soldier when he or she realized that they were, effectively, cyborgs. A fact they would be reminded of every time they looked into the mirror and saw that their eyes were, indeed, inhuman. Black sclerae, yellow iris', and red pupils....Tell me, what sort of person could see that staring out from their own face, day after day after day, and retain their sanity?

In any case, Mirage's life of crime led him and the small group of men he'd managed to form into a gang to rob a bank one day. However, unknown to them, another gang had designs of their own on the establishment: my own. Our two gangs converged on the bank, by some miraculous coincidence, at the same time from different directions. His entered through the front, while mine entered through the rooftop fire exit. As would be expected in such a situation, our two gangs clashed in a drawn-out gun battle that resulted in all of my men being wiped out, and Mirage losing half of his. I, myself, had been injured during the fighting and was taking shelter behind the tellers' desks, along with the dead bodies of the bank's employees. Shot in the leg like I was, it was pointless to try and run away, so I vowed to go down fighting.

I reloaded my gun and rose up, taking aim at the man that seemed to be in charge of the rest, screaming out a challenge to him. If I were to die, I was going to take him with me! But, surprise kept me from firing when I took dead aim for his head, because, even with sunglasses on to hide his cybernetic eyes, I recognized my old high school buddy, Mirage! Dumbfounded, it was all I could do to shout out my own name before his men took me out. In fact, one of them was ready to blow my face off with a shotgun before Mirage took the weapon away from him and used it as a baseball bat to nearly (quite literally!) take my assailant's head off.

After we'd managed to sort things out, we decided that splitting the haul between him, myself, and his remaining men was for the best, and we, all together, retreated from the building before the police managed to show up in force. We had to shoot our way free, of course, losing a handful more men in the process, but Mirage, myself, and a few others managed to escape.

"...And, that, my dear, is the story of our beginnings," Joseph finished, lighting a new cigar. "Impressive, no?"

Diane reached over and turned off the recorder, muttering just loud enough for the others to hear, "No...revolting and disturbing would be the words I'd use..." The DA looked shocked that the woman had had the gall to say something like that aloud, but said nothing.

Joseph, rather than being insulted, laughed long and loud. When he finished, he leaned forward in his chair, letting the last rays of the sun strike him full-on in the face. His scars were revealed to the woman, who recoiled in disgust. Like his comic hero, he was indeed scarred. Though, unlike the said hero, his scars were spread all across his face instead of just half, and were nowhere near as disfiguring. Still, it was enough to turn the woman's stomach, a reaction that Joseph had grown quite used to by now. "Tell me something, Miss Diane," he said. "Just what do you intend to do with the information I just imparted to you, hmmm?"

Diane, swallowing the bile that welled up in her throat, replied, "I...I was going to either print it in the newspaper or sell it as a book. I don't know...Maybe even have it played on one of the major television news agencies." Cold sweat poured over her ebony skin and her hand shook as she flicked the recorder back on again, praying that it would be enough insurance to save her life.

Settling back in his chair, Joseph said, "I see. Well, there were a few details that I neglected to tell you. One was that, while I am the public head of the family, Mirage and I are full partners, each of us sharing the role of leader. Another is another facet of that first fact: publicly, I am the head of the family, and Mirage is my most trusted member. Indeed, while we are partners, he is my bodyguard. My own self-defense skills pale in comparison to his own. And, thirdly, the reason Mirage is called that is...."

Those were the last words Diane heard before a length of sharp steel was run through the back of her head, out through her face, skewering the recorder in her hand and destroying it, along with the information it had recorded. Only the DA heard the softly spoken words of, "...is because no one knows exactly where I shall strike from, should I choose you as my target."

With that, Mirage's katana was slid free from the dead woman's skull, allowing her head to fall forward onto the table, the blood and gray matter of her brain oozing out onto the white table cloth. He wiped his sword's blade off on her blouse, then returned it to the sheath under his black duster. He remained where he was, standing across the table from the DA, his hands thrust deep in his pockets as Joseph's laughter died away, his "little joke" having played out satisfactorily. The look on the attorney's face was priceless, in Joseph's opinion, and made the entire charade worthwhile.

Livid, the DA stood up from his chair, screaming down the table at Joseph, "You can forget about our deal, Penfinici! In fact, I'll be back with the goddamned Army and take you down so hard, you'll be wishing for the grave! But no...we won't kill you. The rest of your fucked up little organization will die, but you!...you!...I will personally see to it that you're brought before every court in the country...no, the goddamned world!...and I will try you, and then I will fucking hang you!" Spittle flew from the DA's lips as he shouted, spewing every bit of hatred he could muster toward the crime boss.

Joseph, for his part, simply sat there, listening to the tirade. Then, as the DA began to wind down, he looked slightly past the other man and said, "Mirage?"

The DA paled as he heard a deep, southern-accented voice saying, "Joe...." as a sudden flash of white-hot agony wrapped itself around his neck.

When the DA's convulsive attempts to breathe finally ceased, Mirage waited another minute before releasing the thin cord he'd wrapped around the man's throat and had used to throttle the man to death. Quietly, he walked over to the double doors and knocked quickly three times, then slowly four more times, before walking toward the head of the table, standing just behind Joseph's chair and enjoying the view through the skylight as the stars began to come out high above. Silently, several men came in and collected the two bodies, disappearing with them through the closing doors in order to dispose of them. Both men had faith in their men enough to know that the bodies would never be found, and that the rest of the evidence...the bloody table cloth, for instance, and the DNA that would be found on the dishes from the earlier meal...would be disposed of in a similar fashion. Indeed, a man came in through the kitchen door behind them and collected the table cloth, tossing it into the fireplace, before casting a professional eye on the remaining bloodstains on the chairs and table. He spoke quietly into the earpiece he wore that connected him to his cell phone, and within minutes the table, the bloody chair, as well as the seat the DA had taken, had all been taken away for burning in a much larger fire. A woman came in with a strong chemical compound that she used to remove all traces of blood on the floor, then left again after spraying a wax-like substance where she'd cleaned.

Mirage and Joe, while all this activity was going on, simply remained where they were, gazing up at the stars. Satisfied that the job was complete and they were alone, Joe looked over his shoulder at Mirage, saying, "Well, I'm glad I already arranged for the judge in question to be removed from the trial on a more or less "permanent" basis. Still, I enjoyed the look on their faces when they realized that they wouldn't be allowed to leave. I thought the DA was going to shit himself when you spoke from behind him! Hell, even I didn't know you were there until the last second, when I saw the light glinting off your sunglasses. I gotta admit, Mirage, you're one scary motherfucker, you know that?"

Mirage looked down at Joe, a smirk on his lips. Then, the two friends began to laugh, clapping each other on the shoulders....



Chapter Two: On The Job

Mirage focused his attention to the range finder on the scope, then entered the information displayed into the laptop computer set up on the ledge of the roof he was standing on. Then, he glanced at the wind gauge set up next to the computer, also entering the information displayed there. Once the computer finished its calculations and displayed what he required of it, he lowered the monocular and placed the butt of the .50 caliber sniper rifle against his shoulder, looking through the scope mounted atop it. Flicking his attention between the computer and the scope, he made adjustments to the knobs on the top and the side of the scope.

Once ready, he began the wait. Through the scope, he had a clear view of the embassy belonging to the ambassador that was his target, situated a mile and a half away. Parked in front of the building was a stretched limo. Mirage knew that he had only a few seconds to sight his target, once he appeared, and pull the trigger before the ambassador reached the safety of the limo. With its bulletproof windows and reinforced steel armor exterior, the limo was more like a tank than a car, and would defeat his best efforts at sniping the target cleanly.

A sniper's best characteristic was his or her patience. There was no telling how long a sniper would have to wait until their shooting skills would be put to use. Mirage knew that fact, just as he was aware that inattention due to boredom was a sniper's second-worst enemy. Therefore, even though he knew that the ambassador was due to make an appearance at a conference at some point today, he had no idea when the target would be leaving, and would have to stay focused and sharp. With the distance involved, timing would be everything. Even though the bullets loaded in the gun were the highest grain-load possible, and would have little difficulty in traversing the distance, they still would take some time to get to the target. Traveling faster than the speed of sound, the bullet would more than reach the target before the report of the sound of the shot would, but it was still possible that the target could be warned by instinct, or could even just simply stumble as he walked, his head moving out of the path of the bullet. Therefore, the family's best sniper was called on to accomplish this mission.

His eyes, bionic in nature, allowed him to see through various wavelengths, and even allowed him to see at distances that even the monocular range finder could not. He still needed the monocular, as well as the rifle's scope, for sniping missions since the mechanical eyes lacked the particular functions the two pieces of equipment allowed him to use. Sifting through what he was able to see through the scope, particularly the infrared wavelength, he determined that no one was yet approaching the door from the other side. He had some time.

Good thing, because the door to the rooftop behind him opened, a security guard coming through it to make his rounds. When he saw the man standing there, looking through a gun's scope, he dropped a hand to his radio. Pausing, he thought about what might happen while he was waiting for his backup to arrive, then firmly grasped the revolver with his other hand. As quietly as he could, he snuck up behind the trench-coated stranger, then, once he was right behind the other man, he shouted, "Freeze! Slowly raise your hands!"

Mirage, for his part, had already noticed the other man's approach, having heard the door's handle jiggle. Without taking his eye from the rifle's scope, he unholstered his own sidearm, a Desert Eagle, and pointed it up over his shoulder. Without giving the guard a chance to react, he pulled the trigger, the bullet hitting the guard in the face.

As the guard fell, Mirage returned the gun to the holster just in time to grasp the rifle as the front door to the embassy opened. The ambassador, surrounded by his own guards, began to walk out of the building as Mirage settled the cross hairs on his target's forehead. Every other second, a guard passed in front of the target, each of the guards shifting their positions constantly, but predictably; obviously they were trained to do this in order to prevent this very scenario. He waited for half of a heartbeat, then pulled the trigger, the rifle kicking back against his shoulder as the bullet roared out from the barrel of the gun.

Cursing softly as the bullet struck a guard, who had accidentally shuffled his feet instead of walking, slowing him down for a fraction of a second, Mirage watched as the other guards pulled the ambassador into ducking down, pressing their own bodies around him to prevent any further shots from hitting him. They herded him into the limo, then craned their necks around, looking for the assassin as the door was shut. Mirage centered the cross hairs onto the driver's side window, pulling the trigger again. An indention in the bulletproof glass showed where the bullet had struck. With that signal given, he moved the rifle to target the rear window of the vehicle just as it was lowered by the driver, whom Mirage had bribed earlier as a fail-safe measure in case this situation developed. The ambassador peered out of the window, wondering why it was lowered, only to catch the third bullet in the head, his brains splattering against the interior.

Raising from his firing position, Mirage fished a box from his pocket, pushing a button in its center. Down at the limo, the driver's compartment, less-protected with armor than the rear passenger's, exploded from the strategically placed C4 charges, killing the driver. He could have blown up the entire vehicle, but the client had required that the target's body be left behind as proof that the assassination had taken place. The guards unwittingly aided in fulfilling this requirement by pulling the ambassador's body from the flaming limo.

Closing the computer, then folding the rifle's tripod against the gun, he collected his equipment and placed it all into a duffel bag set next to his feet. Closing the bag, he shouldered it and stepped over the dead security guard's body and headed for the door leading into the building. The local news media would cover the story, ensuring that the family's client would be notified of his success, and would authorize the electronic transfer of the appropriate funds to their bank. If he didn't, it wouldn't matter. They would come for him next, and he knew it. So, Mirage was confident enough that his mission was accomplished that he didn't even bother calling it in to Joseph that he was finished.

After riding the elevator down to the ground level, Mirage merged into the crowd of people walking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the events that'd taken place on the rooftop and over a mile away. There was one thing about people that Mirage fully understood: if it didn't immediately effect them, people had a tendency to ignore even the most out-of-place of events, even the sound of gunfire. That's why he was able to disappear into the crowd so effectively, heading back home...



Chapter Three: Is It Worth This Headache?

Joseph sat at the dining room table, enjoying his evening meal while watching the news being broadcast live from the foreign target's embassy. He picked up the remote and switched off the large-screened television with satisfaction. Mirage had succeeded in his mission, and they would soon receive the payment that had been promised.

The cordless phone beside his plate began to ring, almost as though his thoughts had given it a cue. He picked it up, coiling the small piece of plastic around the upper part of his ear, inserting the speaker into his ear canal at the same time, then pressed the small button near the back of the voice pick-up. "Hello, my friend," he said softly, the voice pick-up carrying the sound clearly despite the near-whisper he used. Phones like this one gained popularity back when they were known as "Blue Tooth", a way of hands-free use of cellular phones and the like. Since then, the phone industry had condensed even house phone lines into similar products, eliminating the need for even a wireless phone's handset. Corded phones were still in use, particularly when the power failed. Even Joseph didn't think they'd ever go away. The selective sensitivity of the truly hands-free home phone allowed him utter privacy for his phone calls. The ear-bud insert allowed him and only him to hear what was being said on the other end, and if he didn't wish for anyone to hear his replies, all he had to do was whisper, the voice pick-up transferring even that while muting out background noise. As further insurance, he had the phone lines regularly swept for taps, then feeding any such intrusions with false information, one time even playing loud rock music across the tap at eardrum-splitting volume as a joke. Technology was indeed wonderful.

"I trust you were satisfied by today's performance?" Joseph asked. He listened for a few seconds, then let loose with a string of expletives, tearing the phone from his ear and throwing it into the flames dancing in the fireplace, shattering the piece of equipment against the stones. Still muttering, he tapped a certain sequence onto the table's top, a small section receding to reveal a small inset keyboard, a section not much bigger than the keyboard above it levering upward at a 45-degree angle and opaqued itself, revealing it to be a small screen.

He punched in a string of numbers and letters, the commands establishing a highly secure wireless link between himself and the wrist-mounted computer Mirage wore. This allowed the two of them to communicate with even more privacy than even the phone had allowed.

"Mirage here" appeared on the polarized screen. With a sort of vindictiveness, Joseph began hitting more keys, explaining the situation.

A couple of hundred miles to the southwest, Mirage had stopped in the entrance to an alleyway, leaning against the wall as though seeking the solace of the shade. These past few years had seen the increase of temperatures that scientists had been predicting for decades: it was a sweltering 105 degrees, even here in the capital, in the middle of May. In reality, he'd suffered through even worse heat during his tour during the war, so this was merely a cover while he communicated with his partner.

The difference between the darkness of the alley and the brightness of the sidewalk ensured that he wouldn't be noticed by the casual passer-by, and even a determined searcher would find it difficult to discern his black trench coat from his surroundings. He raised his wrist, tapping out the appropriate receiving code on the small keyboard mounted on a strap around the extremity in response to the electrical tingling he'd felt coming from the device, establishing the requested connection. The computer was directly connected to his bionic eyes, eliminating the need for a screen. The information was simply superimposed over his vision, much like a heads-up display, assuring utter privacy on his end. "Mirage here" he typed.

His brow raised over the upper rim of his sunglasses in surprise to see the words, "Our sponsor has reneged on our deal." This meant that their client had refused to pay for the hit he'd just made. Even with all the security features of their communications, a system of loaded words were used as a code between the two. He punched in the response, "Understood. New deal in progress, then," meaning that he would "deal with" the client in person. Further, he sent, "Any explanation?"

The reply was short in coming. "He said that the driver was to win the race, as he was valuable to the team. He did not understand our firing of said driver." Of course, this meant that the client was displeased by the fact that the driver was killed in the process of the hit. Apparently, the client had had further plans for him. Ah, well, no matter. Soon enough, the client's more valuable holdings would belong to the family now that he'd reneged....at least, they soon would be once Mirage had taken care of the "misunderstanding". The rest would be liquidated to the client's partners, shareholders, and rivals. The family would receive their payment regardless.

After a perfunctory signing off, Mirage disconnected the computer from the network and stepped further into the alley, pulling a cell phone from his pocket and dialing the number to a travel agency the family sponsored. This particular mission required he travel overseas, and there were a few items he would need readied on arrival...



Chapter Four: Airborne Dreams...

Once the small jet had achieved its cruising altitude, Mirage unfastened his seat belt, leaning back in the chair and relaxing. Ten more hours before landing, he thought to himself. Ten more hours, then this job really begins.

Closing his bio-mechanical eyes, he let his tension leech away, finding solace against the irritation that had been building inside of him ever since he'd found out that he would have to take this little side-mission. His investigations into several possible leaks within the family were incomplete, and nobody else knew of them or of what he'd learned thus far. Situations like this usually would cost several hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not into the millions, though the monetary cost could be recouped in short order, usually ending up bringing a profit, albeit smaller than desired. Distractions like this, however, at this time, could wind up costing the family in a much more dire manner than in a financial way.

Ah, well, enough of dwelling on matters he could not change. Finishing his job and returning as quickly as possible was all he could do about it. He allowed himself to drift off to sleep...

"Demo! Clear that building!" shouted the Sergeant. Mirage hit the wall next to the doorway indicated by his superior's pointed thumb, wincing slightly at the effect that the impact had on his recently acquired blood stripes; after being promoted to Corporal, the other NCOs stationed in this part of the country had gathered together and "hazed" him. Still, he managed to yank out a small IED of his own design from his ILBE, shouted, "Fire in the hole!" and tossed the bomb into the building. Five seconds later, a dull thud, followed by a louder boom reverberated through the building, showering him and the other members of the squad with dust and small debris.

Based on the old "Bouncing Betty" bombs, his explosive consisted of a very small shaped charge that would land downward due to the specific weight and shape of the bomb, exploding and causing the main part of the bomb to fly upwards, which would explode less than a second afterward, at approximately waist height, sending shrapnel flying about and flaying any flesh it contacted.

Once the dust began to settle, he followed his point man into the building, slapping C4 charges against the walls as he went while the other Marine covered him, being rather indiscriminate as to their location, intending only to bring down the two-story building by brute force. As he planted the bombs, he also flipped a switch on them, activating and linking them to the same detonation sequence. Exiting out of the rear of the building, he raised the radio to his mouth, repeating the “fire in the hole” warning, then continuing to follow the other man into the doorway of another building. After counting to five, he pushed the button on the detonator, the charges exploding simultaneously, blowing the walls out and causing the building to collapse.

Mirage and his cover man met back up with the rest of the squad, a slap on his shoulders coming from the Sergeant to congratulate him on a job well done. The building, according to Recon/Intel, was being used as a snipers' nest, and had been making life extremely short for the US forces in this town. Unable to requisition the use of any large-scale weaponry to be able to take down the nest safely, it fell on Mirage's squad to take out the enemy.

As the Sergeant began giving orders to move out, his words were cut off by blood spraying from the back of his head just under his Kevlar helmet and the bottom of his jaw. "Scatter outta this clusterfuck!" screamed Mirage. The rest of the squad immediately sought cover, hitting the deck and rolling behind vehicles, or diving through doorways or windows, putting anything they could between themselves and the unseen shooter.

Mirage, cursing the SNAFU that Re/In had laid in his and his squad's laps, let his eyes scan upwards to where he'd figured the bullet had come from. In the window of a building near to the one he'd just demolished, a flash of light betrayed the presence of a sniper rifle's scope. Unslinging the thump gun from where it was strapped to his back, he sighted in the distance between himself and the building. Pulling the trigger, he sent a grenade flying with the distinctive "thump" that gave the weapon its name. In through the window it went, bouncing off of the sniper's face and landing at the man's feet before exploding.

"Cover fire!" Mirage shouted as he ran toward the building, trusting in his squad's shooting abilities to prevent any further fire from the nest. He ran around the outside of the building, setting the remainder of his C4 charges against the walls. There was a substantial amount of plastic explosives being set, but he was unwilling to try and charge into the building as he had the one before, not alone anyways.

Once finished, he ran back to where he'd originally taken cover, diving behind the half-wall, then pushed the button on the detonator again. With a roar louder than before, the C4 blew, the shock wave knocking over what Marines were still standing and firing to cover Mirage's retreat, the others having ducked down where they were as soon as they saw him coming back.

When the dust from his latest wreckage had begun to settle, Mirage got up and surveyed his handiwork over the top of the wall. The building that the nest had been in, as well as several surrounding it, were entirely scrapped, several more showing signs of severe damage. Chuckling at his own destructive tendencies, Mirage sat back down in the sand, reaching under the edge of his helmet and wiping at the sweat and grime left on his forehead by the desert's heat and conditions.

"Nice job, Demo," said one of his squad-mates. Commo, the squad's communications man, squatted down beside Mirage, cradling his M16 in his arms. "Tell me something, how could Intel have managed to bunk-hump this badly?"

Each of the members of the squad referred to themselves and others by their respective responsibilities within the squad. Demo was Mirage, short for Demolitions. Commo, for Communications. Guns, for their heavy weapons' specialist. And so on it went. Even the squad's leader had had a more-or-less official call-sign, "Sarge", even though Sergeants generally hated being called that.

"Damned if I know," Mirage said. "Get on the horn and call for evac," he ordered, the position of squad leader defaulting to him because of his rank. Then, he began to chuckle, then let loose a belly laugh that caused Commo to look at him strangely. Calming, Mirage explained, "Remember Sarge's favorite phrase?" Lowering his voice to do an impersonation of their dead Sergeant's voice, Mirage bellowed, "I need this goddamned squad like a goddamned hole in the head!" Commo joined in as Mirage began to once more laugh at the ironic statement.

Commo then fell silent suddenly as blood burst from the front of his throat, further bullets either lodging in his Kevlar vest or spanging off of his helmet as he fell. Machine gun fire stuttered close to Mirage's location, a sound he added to with his own firing and yelling as he shot back at the group of men swarming toward him. A grenade went off in front of the wall that he crouched behind. His life was saved by the intervening stone and brick, but the concussion knocked him onto his back.

As he struggled to regain his footing, a brown face appeared over the wall, followed by the barrel of an AK-47. The brown-faced man began to shout at him incomprehensibly. Just as well. Even if Mirage could have understood the man's native tongue, he wouldn't have heard him through the ringing in his ears from the grenade's explosion. Mirage fought to bring his gun to bear, but the other man pulled the trigger before he could.

Luckily for the Marine, the other man's aim was deplorable. The bullet ripped through Mirage's upper right arm, tearing through his bicep and tricep muscles, leaving it hanging, useless. However, luck was further on his side as the very next bullet in the clip jammed, leaving the other man's machine gun useless. With an inarticulate roar of pain, fear, and rage, Mirage lurched up from the ground, head-butting his enemy in the chest and knocking him down. He drew his sidearm, awkward with his injured limb, passing it to his left hand and taking aim over the wall at his attacker's head. "Learn to shoot, with your monkey ass!" he said, firing the gun and ending the other man's life.

Just then, another AK barrel was shoved into his face from around the corner. Another man had been hiding there. "Ah, fuck..." Mirage said....

Just as he was opening his eyes and seeing the terror filling the eyes of the attendant that had been trying to wake him up in order to tell him that the jet was about to land. His left hand was clenched around the butt of his .50 caliber handgun, the barrel shoved against the poor woman's temple. An acrid smell of urine testified to the amount of fear he'd instilled in the attendant.

Putting the gun back into the holster strapped to his thigh, he muttered an apology as the woman, relief suddenly taking the place of her terror, fainted to the floor. He buckled his seat belt, then pushed the button on the armrest that signaled for the other attendant to come. Succinctly, he told the other woman what had happened, who then took the first attendant forward and strapped her into a seat in their section of the jet just in time for the pilot to begin his descent.

Mirage wasn't worried about any repercussions over what had happened. The flight crew was well-paid for their silence concerning anything that occurred on the flights, and knew what would happen should they break said silence. He turned his mind toward the preparations he would need to make once ground-side....


Chapter Five: To Fill His Shoes

Just about the time that Mirage's jet was landing, Joseph was speaking to a man wearing a gray suit. "Chris," he said. "Let me be honest here. I find myself in a position where I need someone with your particular skill set. My business partner and head of security has taken a, shall we say, extended leave of absence, one that I do not know when, or even if, he will return from." At the man Joseph had called Chris's nod, he continued, "I called you here from our activities in California to offer you the position of temporary head of security, a position recallable once Mirage returns."

At the mention of Mirage's name, Chris's eyebrow shot up. "Did you just say, "Mirage"?" he asked.

"Indeed. Why, do you know him?" inquired Joseph.

"Only by reputation," Chris said, settling back in his chair and seeming to relax. "I've not had the fortune to meet him in person, though I hear his skills are on par with my own."

"Exactly why I called you here," Joseph said, taking a similarly relaxed pose. So far, he was impressed with the man's steadfastness; even after having seen Joseph's scars, Chris seemed to be at his ease, though watchful. In fact, when Joseph had allowed the light to fully illuminate his features, Chris appeared to have taken little notice of the disfigurement on the family's leader's face, where most other people would have been visibly repulsed. "I've personally made sure that Mirage never knew anything about you or your activities on the West Coast, even though he is my partner, and you are a part of our family tree that has "branched out" there. I saw no need to foster any enmity or a sense of competition in him that would only cause more harm than good."

Chris nodded in understanding, then asked, "So what's changed now? Surely you know that, if and when he gets back, what you hoped to avoid will come forward full-force."

"I know that," Joseph said, waving a hand in the air. "With everything that's going on now, Mirage will have little time to worry about a little competition. To smooth things over, I had intended on offering you a more permanent posting as his nominal subordinate...his "second in command", if you will. It will placate his ego, while leaving you in a position of authority, not to mention in a position where I could call on you at need. How does that grab you?"

Chris sat in his chair, thinking for a few moments. Then, rising and crossing the space between himself and Joseph, he extended his hand and said, "Sir, I accept."

Joseph stood, accepting the proffered handshake with a grin that stretched his scarred countenance painfully...



Chapter Six: Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Mirage braked the four wheel drive to a stop on the shoulder of the road, shifting the transmission into neutral and applying the parking brake before climbing out of the jeep and pulling his duffel bag out from the back seat. He set the bag down, then removed his coat and folded it, stuffing it into a zippered side-pocket, knowing that the coat would be more hindrance than help, even if he was losing the ability to conceal his weapons. Still, this was an out-and-out hit, and it was to be made obvious that it was such to discourage any future clients from pulling the same stunt this one had.

Picking the duffel bag up again and shouldering it, he turned toward the trees that stretched alongside the road, heading toward them without hesitation. He didn't worry too much about what might happen to the jeep or anything in it: he'd left no clues as to who he was or what his intentions were. Even if the vehicle was to be dusted for fingerprints, should it be found before he could get back to it after the hit, the police would find only the prints belonging to previous drivers. He'd made sure to wear a pair of gloves the entire time he'd been in contact with the vehicle. The only possible way for anyone to find any connection between himself and the vehicle would be hair or skin samples. A possibility that was remote, at best, considering the low-tech investigation abilities of this part of Scotland's police force. They would have to take the time to call in specialists, to bring in the appropriate materials...more than enough time for him to be able to either destroy or recover the vehicle.

It took him about an hour to traverse through the woods, as he was taking his time to allow for the sun to fully set and complete night to set in. The darkness didn't matter much to him; with his eyes, he could see just as clearly as he could during the day, even while still wearing his sunglasses.

At the edge of the woods, he stopped, still in the cover of the trees. He looked at the large building in front of him and muttered, "Ah, shit. A medieval castle in Scotland, it would be. Fuckin' typical."

Indeed, it was a castle, complete with moat and drawbridge. From the appearance, Mirage guessed it to have been remodeled and repaired, modernized. From what he could remember from his history classes, the architectural style of the castle signified that it had been built sometime around 1000 AD. Though it was incredibly cliched to find someone of the client's stature to be based out of a castle, Mirage was still impressed as to how well preserved the building was, even if it had been remodeled. Off in the distance, he could discern the ribbon of road that would have led him to a village, if he had continued to drive down it. While he'd been waiting for his rented vehicle to be prepared, he'd done a bit of research online about the area the client lived in. If the information he accessed was correct, he was currently looking at a village that had not seen murder done since approximately the 1100's, when several citizens of the town, as well as the town's mayor, his daughter, and the entire household's serving staff, had been slaughtered in what was reported as "a grotesque and heinous manner".

Turning his mind to the matter at hand, and his attention to the castle before him, he watched as several dozen armed guards made circuits around the complex, on patrol. Though they had the advantage of numbers, they were definitely sloppy. He identified the necessary holes in their defenses that he would be able to exploit and gain entry to the castle unnoticed, let alone be able to kill the entire compliment. It made sense, to Mirage's thinking...He can afford to hire this much muscle, but obviously doesn't pay enough to maintain a level of professionalism to effectively protect himself. I should have suspected as much when he refused to pay us for the job we did for him...

Fighting back the irritation he felt at the lack of mention of the fact that the client was based out of a castle in the information they'd gathered on him, Mirage continued to study the patterns the patrols followed for another hour, making sure that there'd be no surprise "around the corner" appearance by any of the guards. Though, with the infiltration method he'd worked out, he didn't have much of that sort of surprise to worry about.

There wasn't much cover between himself and the castle, so he dropped the duffel bag onto the ground and opened the top, withdrawing from it his favored close quarters weapon: his katana. After wrapping the sheath's strap diagonally across his chest, securing the sword behind his back over his right shoulder, he then removed a sawn-off shotgun from the bag. He strapped it in such a way that its barrel was behind his left shoulder, the grip just behind his right hip. Snugging down the straps as tightly as comfortably possible, while still leaving enough slack in the firearm's strap to allow quick access to it, he dropped into a crouch and began to sneak across the clearing between the woods and the castle, a distance of several hundred yards.

It took about twenty minutes of a combination of running in a crouch and crawling across the grass, but he managed to succeed in avoiding the patrols without raising any suspicions. Once he made it to the moat, he allowed his eyes to shift through several wavelengths of light, in the process confirming that there were no intruder detection devices in the water, nor any hazardous animals aside from a few pike swimming around. Cinching the shotgun's strap down tighter, he silently thanked his luck that he'd thought to bring a firearm that was modified to fire even when wet after total immersion, a protection his electronic gear also shared.

With barely a sound, he slowly slid down the embankment and into the water. With only the top of his head, eyes, and nose above the water, he stealthily dog-paddled across the moat. Once on the other side, he waited until all of the guards were well out of earshot, then pulled himself up the embankment, taking pains to minimize the splashing such an action caused. Once clear of the water, he took a moment to use one hand to loosen the strap of his shotgun and reposition it to let the water drain from the barrel, hanging on to an exposed root with the other hand. After the water was drained from the gun, he re-strapped it to his back, then climbed up the slope and out of the moat, keeping low to the ground and in the shadows.

Taking a glance around, he saw that none of the guards had taken notice of his penetration of their defenses. Silently, he made his way around to the darkest side of the castle. Once there, he ensured that none of the guards were near before he began to climb up the wall, using the gaps in the stone as hand- and footholds.

After attaining sufficient height that he felt sure that he should be able to avoid being seen by the casual...and bored...seeming guards, he began to work his way sideways along the wall toward a window. Again shifting his vision through various spectra, he determined that there were no trip wires or infrared beams that would activate any sort of alarm or trap when he climbed in, as well as there being nobody in the room either. "This is just too damned easy," Mirage said under his breath as he opened the unlocked window and pulled himself through.

Once inside, he stayed in the room for a few minutes, shaking and wiping water from his body and clothing to avoid giving himself away due to it dripping off of him while he searched for the client-turned-target. After he was satisfied, he moved to the door, focusing his bionic eyesight in his right eye into the infrared, which allowed him to see the heat patterns of a couple of guards passing by the door, seeming to be casually chatting. His left eye, he kept focused on the "normal" visual range to allow him a clarity of sight that infrared would deny him whenever nearing a lit area. A single light bulb could potentially blind him to any threats, let alone wash out any possible detail of a room.

When the guards had passed, he gave them enough time to get out of sight, then opened the door, peering both ways up and down the hall before slipping out into it. It took him over an hour to clear the entirety of the castle's lower floors of his target's location, due to the sheer size of the complex and having to duck into cover every so often to hide from the guards that were patrolling the halls. The only place left to search was the topmost levels of the castle, access to which was restricted by simple locked doors. Not even keypad locks,or fingerprint or retinal scanners, standard to most modern security systems, were in evidence, even though several rooms contained computers that were state-of-the-art. Those, he left alone, knowing that a wrong keystroke or password would send alarms throughout the network. Mirage thought the lack of modern security features on the doors to be rather odd until he considered some of the information about the target that indicated his desire to remain low profile and his respect for nostalgic atmosphere. Modern security would ruin that atmosphere. Apparently, the target felt that modern doorknobs and locks would be secure enough.

He approached one of the locked doors that led to the upper floors and took a sturdy-bladed knife from a sheath strapped to his lower leg. Knowing that there were no guards nearby, at least while he'd been sneaking up the hallway to the door, he slid the blade into the space between the doorjamb and the door, then wrenched it, popping the latch and breaking the lock. Slipping through the door, he pulled it shut behind him, securing it with a piece of string that was tied with one end around the doorknob, the other around a jagged rock, giving it the appearance of not having been opened, though an attempt by anyone to go through the door would instantly dispel that illusion.

Quickly, he climbed the steps and made his way to the topmost floor of the complex. Strangely, there were no guards to be found up there. Every sense screamed at him that he was heading into a trap, but felt confident that he could handle any and everything that could be thrown at him, short of a full-blown army.

One of the rooms he searched through contained several instruments that could only be described as "sadistic", speaking volumes about the tortures that had occurred there at some point in time. One object, a stone chair, caught his attention, if only because of the phallic-shaped object that jutted upward from the seat. Upon examination, he discovered that the object had spikes that were designed to spring out from it, though a trigger device wasn't evident. He also noted the blackened appearance of the chair, indicating that whomever this instrument had been used on had also been burned, possibly alive. The thick layer of dust on the chair, as well as the rest of the devices in the room, indicated that nothing here had been used in several centuries. Something about this room spoke to him, however...he would like to come back some day and explore further, once the job at hand was completed.

He left the room and entered another. This one was different from the rest: a modern large-screen television and video player were placed in the very center of the room, though there seemed to be nothing else to be found there. As soon as he got close to it, the television turned itself on, activated by a motion sensor placed next to the video player, which also powered itself on and began to play. On the screen, a smug-looking fat man appeared, smirking at the camera. "So," the fat man's image said with a thick French accent, "you managed to get past my guards and make it this far into my castle. I'm impressed, to say the least. I don't know who you are, nor do I care, but I do know that you had to have been sent by Mr. Penfinici to kill me. Well, I wish him luck in that venture. I would wish you the same, but you see...when you entered the room, you activated a pressure sensitive sensor in the floor..."

Immediately after hearing that, Mirage did not wait to hear the rest and began to run toward the window across the room, cursing himself for a fool for not monitoring for any electronic signals, which would have indicated the presence of the plate that the target was talking about on the television, believing that it would be useless in the rustic castle and would only show the power lines that ran through the stone walls. As he ran, the fat man continued, "...which, in turn, activated a bomb set to go off when this video ends. The entire floor will be vaporized. Au revoir, vous le bâtard." Just as the French word for "bastard" was leaving the target's lips, Mirage jumped, smashing through the window.

As he began to fall past the shattered glass toward the water of the moat, far below, the bomb went off behind him...



Chapter Seven: Bonjour, Asshole...

Mirage broke the surface of the water, drawing in a deep draught of air. The concussive force of the explosion had spun his body end over end, but hadn't provided enough forward momentum to carry him out far enough that he would have landed on the hard ground far below, instead of the moat. If he hadn't been wearing the same sort of boots that paratroopers wore, the concussion from the blast hitting him directly in the ankles would have shattered them. As it was, he couldn't be too sure that at least one of them wasn't broken, from the pain he was feeling.

He didn't have time to stop and check, however. While none of the guards had made it outside yet, he could hear them shouting and rushing around inside the castle's walls. From what he could hear, it seemed that several guards had been seriously injured, if not killed outright, by the bomb's explosion.

As quietly as he could, Mirage began swimming across the rest of the moat, moving slowly as to not jostle his own injuries. Even if he had been lucky enough to escape without anything broken, he still had a UFC fighter's worth of bruises, not to mention several serious burns where the flames had gotten through his clothing before he hit the water and doused them.

As he climbed up the other side, he heard the click-chack of a sub-machine gun's bolt being drawn back and slammed into place. Cursing under his breath at himself for being so careless as to assume that all of the guards would be too busy with the catastrophe inside to bother checking outside. He looked up to see the suppressor aperture at the end of the barrel of an MP 7 pointed directly at his face, along with the unshaven face of one of the guards. "Ugly motherfucker, ain't you?" Mirage said defiantly. The guard, for his part, only laughed and motioned for Mirage to continue climbing up the side of the moat.

Keeping the gun pointed at Mirage as he slowly rose to his feet, the guard said, "Aye, but I was sure that someone had survived." Mirage rolled his eyes, hearing the man's thick Scot's burr. "Tha' were a hell o'a blast, it were, but sure'n anyone coul' sneak around all o' us an' make it to the top, he must'a been smart and capable enough to get outta there. Keep them hands where I can see 'em, an' head inside nice and quiet now."

Mirage muttered under his breath, "Local muscle...Not long on brains, short on temper." Then, louder, he added, "All right, dumb shit. But, tell me something: how the hell are you going to convince me to go inside with a gun that's still got the safety on?"

"Fuck me if'n the safety's still on!" the guard snorted. "Now, are ye goin' inside, or am I goin' to have to clean up yer brains from the wall behind ye?"

"Well, bend over and lube up, dumbass," Mirage replied. "I can see it from here: the selector's on "S"...that means "Safety", moron." He kept up the continuing insults to the man's intelligence, seeing how it was making the guard bristle with anger.

"Wha' the fuck...?" the guard said as he turned the gun slightly and looked down at the selector switch. "It's on "Auto"..."

He was interrupted when Mirage grabbed the gun's stock, shoving it upward and pointing the barrel toward the guard's own face, in the same movement ramming the gun into the man's eyeball, rupturing it. Reflexively, the man's trigger finger tightened, firing the gun directly into his own head. Nearly silent, the bullets ripped through the guard's skull, spraying blood and brain matter out behind them. Mirage's hand slid down the gun and tightened around the other man's own hand, keeping the pressure on the trigger until the gun's 40-round magazine emptied, taking only just under three seconds.

Shoving the guard's body away with a snarl, Mirage began double-timing it back to where he'd left his duffel bag as best he could; still a respectable clip considering the potential damage to his ankles. Once he'd collected his bag, he threaded his way back through the trees, pulling out his jacket from the pocket, pausing just long enough to put it on. From one of the jacket's pockets, he produced his cell phone's earpiece and placed it on his ear, muttering a name and waiting for the call to connect. It wasn't nearly as secure as the direct connection between his wearable computer and the one back at the mansion, but was enough for his purposes.

Once the call was answered, he said, "Listen carefully, I don't have very much time. I need a list of every flight out of the country in the last three days, destinations included. Exclude commercial flights, and I don't care if the private ones are protected by confidentiality policies or are encrypted. Get me that list by sunrise." With his directives given out to his local contact, he pushed the button on the side of the earpiece to disconnect the call.

He walked up to the Jeep when it came into view, sniffing the air around it. He circled the vehicle a few times, still sniffing. He was smelling for explosives, having learned long ago how to identify many bombs by their smell. He got as close to the Jeep as he could without touching it, lowered himself to look under the 4-wheel drive's chassis, carefully scanning for anything unusual. Finding nothing, he rose to his feet, stiffly, then reached through the open driver's window to pop the hood, then went to the front, letting his eyes scan through several wavelengths to see if the latches had been tampered with. Satisfied, he opened the hood a few inches, leaning in to look for any wires connecting the hood with...well, anything inside the motor's housing. Again, nothing.

Opening the hood fully, he looked around the motor, seeing nothing. With his hand, he felt around inside the motor housing, then touched something that seemed out of place behind the steering column. Putting his head inside the housing, then whistled softly, immediately spotting the Semtex attached to the firewall, several wires leading to the Jeep's ignition. The moment he would have turned the key, he would have completed the circuit and caused the bomb to explode. As it was, it was relatively harmless. He began to reach for the wires, intending to pull them out. Without the electrical charge from the battery reaching the bomb after the key had been turned, it would hurt nothing to just rip the bomb out from the motor housing. He paused, however, his mind working overtime. Whoever had set this up obviously knew what they were doing and had the resources to access the materials needed for a deceptively simple explosive. He doubted that there was any sort of backup device or a separate trigger mechanism. Still, something just wasn't right about this.

Someone had set his rented Jeep to explode. Someone expected it to. That someone knew that the Jeep belonged to him. Perhaps not to him, specifically, but to whoever went to try and kill the Frenchman. That someone also suspected that he might have survived the explosion at the castle and set this bomb up as a back-up plan. Most times, whenever a person goes looking for a bomb, they expect it to be under the vehicle, near the gas tank. Very seldom would someone think to check behind the steering column for anything.

He switched his vision over into infrared and scanned his surroundings, finding that no one had stayed close enough to directly watch the Jeep. The only other place that was suitable for surveillance would have been the upper floors back at the castle, which were on fire right now and unlikely to have anyone looking through a scope at him or anything. If they were, they would be roasted by now. He still used the telescopic function of his eyes to scan back toward the castle, having learned his lesson about making assumptions earlier. His thought was proven correct: the fire was still burning quite merrily, and nobody was concerned with watching the vehicle.

Frowning, he slammed the hood shut, then stood there for a few moments, thinking. After a short time, he nodded, then reached into the top of the duffel bag, pulling out a Semtex bomb of his own. With a long strip of duct tape, he attached it to the underside of the dashboard, then set the timer for twenty minutes, giving himself plenty of time to get far enough away that he would be safe from any flying debris. Then, he began to walk away from the vehicle, heading into the woods, staying away from the road....

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was nearly dawn by the time he reached a town. This one was different from the one he'd originally used as his base of operations when he'd arrived. He was leaving behind a few items at his hotel, but none of any importance, and certainly nothing incriminating. The receptionist at the new hotel had looked askance at his sunglasses and coat, but said nothing, assuming him to be a vacationing American, backpacking across Scotland. Many did so, it was rather common for this time of the year. She gave him his key as he slid several large denomination pound notes across the counter.

After going to his room and locking the door behind him, he quickly showered the grime and sweat away, then sat down with his wearable computer and cell phone. He called his contact, having him send the list to the computer. He looked through the various flights on the list, paying particular attention to the departures nearest to the castle. There were two: one heading to Russia, the other direct to Paris. He checked the passenger listing, noting that there were no names, but the one to Paris, the one he expected to be bearing the client, was reported to be carrying eight passengers and enough luggage to supply a wealthy family for an extended stay. He raised a brow when he saw that the other flight, the one to Moscow, listed only a single passenger, with two bags as cargo. "That's the one," Mirage said to himself. He saw that the flight had left only the day before, while the other had left three days ago, confirming his thought.

Quickly, he made arrangements to reserve a seat on the next flight to Moscow from the nearest commercial airline, as well as for transportation to the airport.

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Two days later, he was walking through Neskuchniy Garden, his ankles feeling much improved due to the rest they'd gotten during his stay at the hotel back in Scotland and during the flight to Russia...not to mention the painkillers he had taken. They weren't broken, but were seriously sprained. The exercise he'd gotten by walking the distance from the castle to the hotel had also helped, keeping the tendons, muscles, and cartilage stretched out even though they tried to cramp up and swell.

After strolling through the Garden for the better part of an hour, he sat down on inside the Green Theater, seeming to be no more than a tourist taking in the sight of one of the largest amphitheaters in Europe and Russia. A few minutes later, a man approached and said, "Получил свет?" Mirage pulled out a gold-plated Zippo and handed it over, the man using it to light his cigarette. He looked at it, then said in heavily accented English, "Nice." Then, "Спасибо," as he handed the lighter back. Mirage nodded, putting the lighter back into his pocket, and the man walked away. After a few more minutes, he pulled his hand back out, holding a piece of paper that had been surreptitiously wrapped around the lighter by the other man, an informant that worked for the family on occasion. He opened the paper and read it, a smirk crossing his lips. His target was still here in the city, as of three hours ago. The name of the hotel that the Frenchman was staying at was also on the paper.

Twenty-four hours later, the Frenchman's phone rang. He answered it, only to hear on the other end of the line, in English, "Good morning, sir. This is your personal concierge calling to remind you of your appointment this morning."

"What the hell?" the Frenchman said in the same language. "I don't have a damned concierge, and I don't have any appointments this morning!"

“Oh, but I beg to differ, sir," said the man on the other end. "Your appointment this morning is with a man who calls himself "Death". Au revoir, vous le bâtard."

Just then, the entire hotel blew sky high, having been wired with enough plastic explosive and napalm to bring down the Empire State Building, let alone one ten story hotel. Mirage dropped the detonator and stomped on it, shattering it under his booted heel with satisfaction written clear across his face. Pulling the sleeve back from his arm, he connected his wearable to the mansion, sending the message: "Meeting in Moscow successful. Begin consolidation of all possible assets."

On the other end, back at the mansion, Joseph was smiling as the words appeared on his screen. With a few keystrokes, he first disconnected from the secure line, then distributed the directives to the appropriate lawyers and finance men, setting up the acquisition of their former client's most lucrative businesses. "See, Chris?" he said to his temporary head of security. "Mirage got the job done, and should be home from Moscow in a few days. Nothing to worry about."

Chris nodded, "It will be good to see him come home, then, sir....Now, about the order for the new weapons. I think that one hundred should be enough...."


Chapter Eight: Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch...

While Mirage was beginning his trek toward the castle in Scotland, back across the Atlantic, Chris was taking full advantage of his new position. He’d procured an experimental weapon that had only recently been approved for military applications. Which meant, in real-world terms, they were allowable on the battlefield, and thus were also available through black market channels for anyone with enough money and the right connections to get their hands on them. Chris had just explained to Joseph, with relish, how he’d managed to get an exclusive line on the new weapons, while also managing to ensure that their competition would have to leap through enough hoops that they would be well-aware of the attempt long before anyone else got their hands on one of these marvelous new toys.

“They’re officially designated the “MPRG”,” Chris was saying. “Which stands for “Man-Portable Rail Gun”. It seems the military has had several contractors working on ways to shrink down the electromagnetic rail gun down to a manageable size for one man to carry without losing the power that makes them so dangerous on the decks of several Naval battleships.”

He reached to the floor beside him, hidden by the table where he and Joseph were sitting, and lifted up what looked to be nothing more than a four foot long rectangular-shaped block of black fiberglass with a gun’s grip mounted on the bottom, an electronic scope attached to the side. As he wrapped his fingers around the grip, however, the weapon seemed to come to life, an electronic hum filling the air as what appeared to be two pairs of metal prongs extended from the front end, outlining a box shape that surrounded the 3-inch wide hole that irised open as the four protrusions were moving outward. Even when the thing finally stopped moving, the hum intensified until it seemed to reach an idling point, ready to release its energy.

“The rail gun,” Chris explained to Joseph, who was looking over the weapon with interest, “uses electromagnetism to propel a projectile through the air at nearly the speed of light. It uses the same principle as the maglev train in Japan does. It allows for incredible speed without losing any of its momentum due to friction. Of course, once the projectile leaves the influence of the rails...” here he pointed to the four prongs at the front of the weapon with his free hand, using his finger to describe the trajectory of an imaginary bullet “...it will eventually lose that momentum due to air resistance and the like. But, the amount of momentum imparted to the projectile ensures that it would travel for a distance of several miles before it even begins the traditional “dip” in trajectory that most conventional bullets are subject to after only a hundred yards, at best. Of course, bullets used by snipers have been known to travel for a mile or better, that’s true, but even then they have to adjust for that sort of parabolic course.”

Smiling, seeing that he’d already impressed Joseph with the capabilities of the weapon, and he’d not even gotten to the best parts yet, Chris placed the rail gun on the table, leaning forward to clasp his hands together in front of him. “This beauty,” he said, “can shoot the tits off an alien on the moon eatin’ that green cheese up there if it’s dialed in right and if the scope were powerful enough to see that far out. Of course, there’s next to no need to fire it that far away, but it’s a nice feature to have, I’m sure.”

He tapped the base of the grip with his extended forefingers, his hands still otherwise clasped, “The clip holds three different types of ammunition: 20 normal bullets, 5 explosive rounds, and 5 EMP rounds. Well, the bullets aren’t exactly "normal", since they don’t use any propellant, such as gunpowder, and they’re quite a bit larger than conventional projectiles. The only conventional bullet that even comes close in size is the one used in the .50 caliber sniper rifle, and it’s only half as large as what this beast uses. The projectiles this thing throws out are traveling fast enough that they actually ignite all the oxygen in the air behind them from the friction of their passing. So, even if you don’t manage to actually hit a person you’re aiming at, getting close enough to their head with the shot would either cause them to spontaneously combust, or suffocate them for a second or two, giving the shooter plenty of time for a better aimed second shot. And, even if the projectile itself doesn’t kill them, the shock wave from being hit by that much force would be more than enough to do the job. One shot from this thing, and not even the Popemobile would survive.”

Both he and Joseph had a laugh at that mental picture. Joseph then said, “Okay, so it hits like the Hulk pumped full of enough steroids to kill him. What’s this "EMP round" you mentioned?”

“Ah, for that I’ll have to give you the full demonstration,” Chris replied, rising. “If you’ll come with me to a field where we’ve set up a few targets, I’ll be happy to show this baby off...”

A few hours later, just after the sun had begun to set, and Mirage was limping his way toward the town he’d chosen as his new base of operations, two black SUVs were pulling up to a large field, nearly empty save for three similar vehicles spaced widely apart from each other, passenger-less, and a memorial marker that had “In Memory Of The Passengers And Crew Of Flight 93” engraved on all four sides of it some few hundred yards away from where the first two vehicles had parked. From the rearmost of the two SUVs, Joseph and Chris stepped out of the back seat, Chris moving around to the back of the vehicle and opening the rear hatch, then pulling the rail gun out and resting it on his shoulder.

“As you can see,” Chris said to Joseph as one of the men that had been driving set off across the field toward the other three vehicles. “We’ve stopped a pretty good distance from those other cars, our targets for this demonstration. While it’s effective at any range, the rail gun is best used at a distance of a football field or more in length. Here, we’re about the same distance as three football fields.” Chuckling, he added, “Safety first, hmm?”

While they waited, the man that had ran across the field, reached into the driver’s side window of each empty SUV and started them up before running back, clearing the line of fire.

Once the other man returned, Chris said, “All right, let’s get this show started.” With that, he flicked the switch on the back of the gun’s grip that activated the electromagnetic field generator as he brought the weapon up to aim it toward the closest of the three vehicles, all of them parked with their passenger side doors facing the group. It took only a few moments for the charge to reach it’s firing level, then he pulled the trigger. To the men watching, the impact of the round seemed to be instantaneous, happening even before they heard the small sonic boom created by the “bullet”, though they had the distinct impression that they’d actually managed to see the flash as the round ignited the air it passed through before the flames were extinguished in an eye blink, as advertised earlier when Chris explained the gun’s properties to his boss.

When the round impacted with the target‘s door, the SUV seemed to crumple inward on itself, folding almost completely in half around the large hole that was created when it passed through. The shock wave and momentum that had been transferred to the vehicle caused it to flip sideways through the air ten times before slamming back into the ground and flipping another twenty across the field. The tires, literally, were blasted free from the axles and were sent sailing even further than the rest of the vehicle had gone, bouncing across the hard ground until they disappeared from sight.

Once the impressed applause died down, Chris smirked to himself, saying to himself, “If you liked that, wait until you see this...” He lowered the weapon toward the ground long enough to flick the selector switch over to the explosive rounds, then raised the gun once more, aiming for the middle SUV. Again, it only took a second or two before the weapon was ready, then Chris fired it once more.

The explosive shell traversed the distance just as quickly as the first had, friction again causing the round to seem to be on fire as it flew. This time, however, instead of simply smashing into the SUV, it exploded on impact, with enough force to send molten and splintered shards of metal scattering out from where the vehicle had been parked in a fan-like shape across the field, the grass and soil both scorching. Though Chris had not mentioned it before, the explosive rounds contained a volatile mixture of white phosphorus and C4. The outer shell of the round's tip was comprised of a very strong plastic-like compound that both prevented oxygen from mixing with and igniting the WP, as well as resisted the effects of the friction-caused flames. Inside the tip, along with the WP, there was a cap that detonated the C4 a split second after impact. Thus, the white phosphorus burned through any armor plating, while the C4 unleashed its explosive shock wave inside whatever it was that it hit.

Though they were a good distance away, the explosion still caused their ears to ring and made conversation difficult for a few minutes without yelling. Still, their applause was even greater than it had been before, their expressions more impressed than they had been after the first demonstration.

After giving the others time to recover their hearing, Chris said, “Now, for the last demonstration, I will need you all to turn off any electrical devices...cell phones, PDAs, watches...even the batteries in our transports will have to be disconnected. We should be far enough out of range, but it‘s better to be on the safe side.” While everyone followed his instructions, he flicked the selector lever one more time, this time switching over to the EMP rounds.

Once everyone was ready, and the weapon charged, Chris took aim at the last SUV, the furthest of the three. He pulled the trigger, but this time the firing of the round seemed to take longer than before. Joseph thought for a moment about questioning this, but held his tongue when he realized that the electronic hum within the gun was building to a higher pitch than it had yet. That was when he remembered that, during the drive to the field, Chris explained to him that the electromagnetic pulse rounds were a small metal core surrounded by a capacitance gel that stored the EM energy produced by the weapon and were completely encased by the same heat-resistant shell that made up the tip of the explosive rounds. Normally, plastic resists the passage of electrical energy, but the rounds had numerous threads of metal that ran from a micron outside of the shell down into the metal core, allowing for not only the charging of the gel, but also to actually be fired. The extra firing time was the gun charging up the round’s capacitance gel, and could be extended to allow for larger targets or for a wider area of effect.

When the round was ready, it shot out from the end of the barrel, its muzzle velocity somewhat slower than the first two rounds, though still significantly faster than that of a normal bullet. When it impacted against its target, the shell broke apart, releasing the gel inside. The gel splattered on the car’s body, releasing its charge of electromagnetism in such a way that it effected not only the target vehicle, but also in a wide area some three hundred yards in radius around the SUV. Though the round failed to penetrate the vehicle’s outer metal body, it still rocked the SUV hard enough that it very nearly tipped over sideways. The car’s motor, as well as all the rest of its electrical equipment, even the grounded and shielded ones, were fried instantly, shutting down. This was discovered when Chris led the group of men over to the targets to allow them to examine the various effects and remains of the vehicles.

“Very impressive,” Joseph said, once they’d returned to where they’d parked. As he began to get into the SUV that he and Chris had been riding in together, he added, “Make arrangements to order, say, 100 of these weapons. I’m sure that we could put them all to good use. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chris said as Joseph closed the door, the driver connecting the battery again and then driving the vehicle away, leaving him with the rest of the men and the other car. “See to it that this mess gets cleaned up,” he instructed one of the guards as he walked to the back of the remaining SUV and opened the hatch. He started to put the rail gun into the back, then paused as though thinking to himself. Then, with a smirk that could only be termed as “sadistic”, he stepped away from the vehicle, flicked the round selector over to the explosive ammo, then took aim at one last target and fired.

Watching with satisfaction as the monument’s flaming debris scattered all across the field, much like the plane that the statue memorialized had done way back on that infamous September day in 2001, Chris murmured to himself, “I just hope that she can handle a weapon like this...”



Chapter Nine: I’m Leaving, On A…Oh, Shit!

Mirage walked across the tarmac toward the small jet sitting there. Through the windows, he noticed that there were other passengers already aboard: sharing the flight with others was the price he had to pay to fly home aboard a charter plane instead of a private or commercial flight. Still, it afforded him some anonymity, something he felt necessary at this point of the mission...especially after having blown up a hotel full of people in order to eliminate just one man.

Still, he sighed as he began to walk up the stairs. He disliked people, as a general rule, and flying trans-nationally with this group of mouth-breathers weighed heavily on his mind.

He sat down in the last set of seats at the back of the plane, choosing to sit next to the window, the others having taken their places more toward the front. He set his duffel bag in the empty aisle seat beside himself, then proceeded to strap the seat belt across his lap, making himself as comfortable as was possible, even though he was fighting the urge to provide himself with a bit of privacy at the cost of the other passengers’ lives.

A portly man approached Mirage’s row, a smile plastered on his sweaty face. “Care for company?” the man said with a heavy Russian accent. “You are only one with seat available, and I do not like to fly alone.”

Mirage’s brow rose over his sunglasses, which the man apparently mistook as an invitation and proceeded to move Mirage’s duffel over to the seat across the aisle and replace it with his own bulk. Mirage, for his part, had to restrain himself from ripping the man’s beady eyes from their greasy sockets and shoving them into a rather uncomfortable orifice. He glared at the fat bastard through his sunglasses as the other man stretched the seat belt as far as he could around his paunch, straining the fabric substantially.

“I hate to fly because of all the reports of crashes. Honestly, I am terrified,” the man managed to get out through heaping lungfuls of air he was gasping after the exertion he’d put himself through just to get seated. “I do not want to die that way, comrade. I want to die in my sleep, or at least beside beautiful woman.” At that last, he laughed heartily...at least, as heartily as a fat man could while trying catch his breath.

Mirage simply took as deep a breath as he could, then pointedly turned his head toward the window, staring out at the airport crew as they completed their preflight checks and fueling of the aircraft, silently willing them to hurry. Wherever this smelly, fat son-of-a-bitch was going, Mirage hoped that it would be somewhere relatively close.

“That is why I take charter flight instead of commercial,” the fat man said, breaking into Mirage’s thoughts, oblivious to his seatmate’s distaste. “Commercial planes crash much more than charters. Statistics prove that.”

“Statistics also prove that heavier people are more likely to die from talking too much. Usually from heart attacks, but sometimes from mysterious circumstances,” Mirage said in reply, finally unable to control himself any longer. “Of course, you also have to factor in the murders, but they usually leave that out of their reports.”

The fat man gulped at Mirage’s words, spoken as coldly as they were. Though the threat was as much implied as anything else, he’d heard it quite plainly. Unfortunately for him, it was too late for him to change seats, as he could hear the jet’s engines starting up, and it would take far too long for him to get up, find another seat, and wedge himself into it before takeoff. He was stuck there for the duration...or, at least until they’d achieved cruising altitude and were allowed to roam about the jet freely.

Mirage, finally given some quiet, sank into his thoughts of what he hoped to accomplish once arriving home again. Their mole still required rooting out and made an example of. He also needed to attend to an arms deal that he’d been made aware of not too long ago, something about a new weapon that he and Joseph would find very interesting, according to his sources in the military R&D departments.

While he thought, the jet taxied out from the tarmac out to the runway, pausing for a moment while the pilot went through the proper procedural exchanges with the tower, then the plane hurtled itself down the pavement until it gathered enough speed to become airborne.

Lost in thought as the jet began its southeastward flight toward China, its next scheduled stop for refueling and passenger off- and on-loading, Mirage barely noticed when the fat man began to doze off and snore, let alone the scenery as it flashed beneath them, becoming nearly a blur as the jet continued to gain altitude.

However, a flash from the green mass that marked the trees that lined a large frozen lake drew his attention fast upon it. His training instantly taking the fore of his mind as he identified it as light being reflected from a scope’s lens: a sniper was hiding in the woods.

He zoomed in his bionic vision onto the location, spotting the person wearing the typical sniper’s camouflage: a mixture of natural and artificial grasses, twigs, and leaves hanging from the person’s body from head to toe. But, he noticed something highly unexpected in this sniper...the weapon they were holding was aimed not at a distant target on the ground...it was pointed directly at the jet.

He had no time to identify the unusual-looking weapon before an electric arc flashed from what appeared to be the gun’s muzzle, and a dull thump could be felt and heard through the aluminum skin of the jet’s body. Even worse, at least to Mirage’s thinking, an electromagnetic pulse rampaged through the plane’s electronic devices, shorting them out, shutting down the jet engines...and his eyes.

Fortunately for him, the bionic eyes were powered by his own bio-electricity, and the connections were shielded well enough that he only experienced a short bout of blindness. It was enough, though, for his survival instincts to kick in on high. Knowing that he didn’t have any time to waste, he pulled a knife from his boot and cut the seat belt from across his waist, freeing himself even before his vision had fully recovered. His seatmate, however, had snorted himself back to consciousness, awakened by the shrill screaming from several of the other passengers after the lights had gone out and the engines had stalled. The light coming in from the windows was enough for them to see the others panicking, which only enhanced their own panic, each one’s fear feeding from the others until madness seemed to grip them totally.

Mirage, however, kept his cool, fighting his way past the fat man’s arms to cut the seat belt from around the other man’s waist, the blade cutting deeply into the Russian’s flesh and blubber, the obese one’s screams cutting shrilly into the others’ own shouting. Nobody seemed to take any notice, however, concerned only with his or her own impending doom. He shoved the fat man out of the seat, hauling him into as much of a standing position as he could. Grabbing his duffel bag, he slung it over his shoulder, then muscled the Russian to the exit door, using the fat man’s bulk as a bulldozer to push aside the others crowding in the aisle. He knew that the greasy pig, as disgusting as he was, happened to be his only chance for survival.

Once he got to the door, he pulled the man to the side enough to allow him to reach into his pocket and pull out a small bundle, then slapped it against where the door joined with the rest of the jet’s body. He then reached into his pocket again as he pulled the fat man backward from the door, putting the other man’s bulk between himself and the door. He made a twisting motion with his other hand, the detonator setting off the small shaped charge that he’d attached to the door. The explosion, while small, was enough to blow open the door and send shrapnel ricocheting back through the cabin. Several of the passengers went down, injured, but the fat Russian’s body absorbed most of the punishment from the fragments and the shock wave, allowing Mirage to stand as close as he was to the exploding bomb unscathed.

He shoved the mortally wounded man through the door, clinging to him as he fell...

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The sniper watched through the scope as the jet crashed into the lake...it was more of a small sea rather than a large lake, actually. The shooter was unaware as to what the name of the body of water was, nor did they care whether or not it even had a name. The sniper had simply picked this spot as cover since it was close enough to the airport to catch the jet as it took off, but far enough away that the crash wouldn’t be noticed right away. From the vantage point the sniper had, it was difficult to tell while the jet fell if there were any survivors or not. But, the sniper had not noticed any parachutes, gliders, rubber boats, or anything else that would allow anyone to live through the crash, and the impact of the jet into the frozen surface of the water was violent enough that anyone inside would have pancaked against the front of the cabin. Survivors, however unlikely, would be injured severely enough that they would very quickly freeze to death in the water.

The sniper watched for another half-hour, waiting for someone, anyone, to appear from the wreckage. Once comfortable with assuming that there were no survivors, the sniper removed the camouflage from their head, revealing a short-haired woman’s face. She was rather plain, just shy of being unattractive, as though not caring what anyone thought of her looks. From a pants pocket, she pulled out an older-style cell phone, dialed in a number, then said, “The package was delivered successfully, sir. Is the line secure?” She listened for a moment, then said, “No, sir. There are no survivors. Couldn’t be. Not after a dunking in a sub-zero temperature lake for over a half an hour. I watched long enough for anyone left alive to have tried to escape the jet before it sank.” Falling silent for a few moments, she then smiled and said, “Thank you, sir. I just hope that you remember me when you come into your own. I would be happy to provide further services in the future.” Still smiling, she listened for a few seconds more, then closed the phone.

A twig snapped behind her just then, rather close. She froze at the unexpected sound. An animal? Or...?



Chapter Ten: Don’t Kill The Messenger

A few days after the order had been made for the delivery of the rail guns, Joseph looked up from his computer to see Chris entering his office, a grim expression on his face. Raising a brow, Joseph said, “Is there a problem, Chris? Don’t tell me that there’s something wrong with the delivery, I’m very much looking forward to how the new guns work out for us.”

Silent for the moment, Chris shook his head. Then, moving toward the wall-mounted television, he said, “Have you seen the news today?” When Joseph shook his head, Chris pulled out a small SD card and inserted it into the side of the TV. “The DVR picked this up today,” he said, turning the unit on and activating the card reader. On the screen, the image of a jet floating in a large, partially frozen lake was shown behind a reporter spouting off how many were presumed killed in the crash. “This is the flight Mirage was to be taking,” Chris explained when Joseph stood up behind the desk and gave him a curious look, an expression that instantly turned to trepidation. “Watch,” he said simply.

After a few moments more of the reporter’s monotonous voice droning on about the fact that the plane was presumed shot down, the confirmed deaths, the missing bodies, and the like, the camera zoomed in on one of the few visible corpses. Floating face-down, the body was wearing a dark trench coat and had short black hair. It was impossible to tell, because of the poor quality of the recording device, as well as the interfering chunks of ice floating about, anything more about the body before the camera panned away from it. Joseph, though, clenched the desk top in his hands until their knuckles turned as white as his face, whispering, “No, it can’t be...Mirage...” It seemed as though the muscles were ripped from his legs, so quickly did he sit back down, when the camera’s pan showed a pair of sunglasses, unmistakably those belonging to Mirage, floating in the icy water.

Chris shut the television off after that point, removing the chip from the reader. “What do we do now?” he asked, turning back to face Joseph. When he did, he found himself staring into a mixture of rage, shock, denial, and vengeance that was playing across Joseph’s features.

“”What do we do now?”” Joseph repeated. “”What do we do now?!” I’ll tell you what we do now! You are going to find out who did this! I don’t care why, or how, just who! I want you to painfully annihilate whoever is responsible for Mirage’s death!” The paleness faded from his face as his anger rose, his scars white against the flushed red skin. “Do you hear me?!” he shouted. “I want this asshole dead! No excuses, no failure. I want blood!” He slammed his fist on the desk, causing everything standing on it to fall over or off of it as he screamed, “And I want you to personally ensure that this motherfucker pays for his crime!”

Chris made placating motions with his hands, saying, “Of course, of course. Whoever did this is well-connected...”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about how well-connected they are!” Joseph shouted, rising to his feet. “I don’t give a flying fuck if it’s the goddamned president, you will kill him! Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Chris said, making a hasty, and prudent, exit from the room. He smiled to himself after the door had closed, then pulled out his cell phone, ostensibly to start the wheels of his investigation turning. While the phone on the other end of the line was ringing, he looked around, making sure he was alone. When the voice on the other end answered, he said, “One week from today, the docks, pier 37, midnight. Joseph Penfinici will be there, personally watching over the delivery of an illegal shipment...Right...Yes, he’ll be guarded, but I’ll do what I can to make sure they’re my own men...Yes...Thank you.”

His smile turning to a smirk, he closed the cell phone and walked away, satisfaction evident in his eyes as he walked through the house as though he already owned the place...


Chapter Eleven: Coup d'état

"Aren't you coming?" Joseph asked Chris as he finished strapping on the paired shoulder holsters that kept his favorite .45 caliber pistols slung under his suit jacket.

Chris, seated at his desk, formerly Mirage's, shook his head. "No, sir," he replied. "There's a few things that need looking after here. The investigation you ordered, a few other details. Besides, you've done all this before. Show up, confirm the delivery, authorize the payment, take possession. Simple."

Chuckling, Joseph said, "True, true. But, still...What needs done here that can't wait? Mirage..." At the mention of his dead friend's name, Joseph sobered, one eye misting over slightly, then he cleared his throat and finished, "Mirage normally would have put the other work on hold for the few hours this should take in order to make sure things went smoothly, no matter the unlikelihood of anything going wrong."

"With all due respect," Chris said, his jaw slightly clenched in irritation at being compared to his predecessor. "Mirage isn't running security anymore. I am. All ten of the men going with you were handpicked by me, personally. I trust them implicitly, and any one of them would die to ensure your safety." Cracking a smirk, he said, "Relax, sir...You're in good hands. I guarantee it."

Joseph thought about it for a few moments, then smiled wanly. "All right," he said. "If you're that sure of them, I guess I can trust them. I'm just not used to the new way, I guess." With a little wave, he put his jacket on and headed out of the office, the group Chris had mentioned surrounding him almost immediately, a well-oiled machine at work.

The group headed out through the front door, half of them getting into the front limo of the pair parked in front of the mansion, the other half getting into the other with Joseph. Smoothly, the cars pulled out, heading down the driveway where the gates opened automatically once they got within range of the sensors that picked up the signals sent by special transmitters that sent out a highly complex code that instructed them to open on approach and close once they'd passed.

The drive to the docks was only an hour and a half long, plenty of time for the security men to check their weaponry ten times over, ensuring that there would be no equipment malfunctions at a critical moment. Once the cars came to a stop, Joseph started to get out of his limo but was stopped by one of the security men's upraised hand. Silently, the security group exited the cars and took up their predetermined positions, two of them staying beside the still-open limo door.

"All right, sir," one of them said, motioning Joseph out of the car. "All clear." Joseph, a slightly amused look on his face, stepped out. Mirage had never been this paranoid, and would have perhaps been more efficient at ensuring the security of the meeting anyways. He would have made a few phone calls, made a few bribes, set up a sniper or two, and then gone with Joseph just to be on the safe side. Joseph, for his part, would have felt far safer with just his one friend than these ten hired guns.

"Ah, my friend, Joseph," said the freighter captain with a thick New York-Italian accent. "Where is our other friend, Mirage?" he asked, looking at the security men with distaste as he reached out to offer a handshake to Joseph.

Joseph cleared his throat uncomfortably as he accepted the other man's hand in his own, "He's...not available, Captain Burego," he said simply. While he trusted the captain even more than he trusted Chris' security, he was still reluctant to part with what he considered private matters to the man.

"Ah, I see," said Burego, picking up on the nonverbal cues that he'd strayed into a sensitive area, privately agreeing with the unspoken condition of not mixing personal matters with business. "Come, then. We've already unloaded the cargo, and the truck is waiting to pick up the container."

He led the group to a large modular container, designed to be set on a wheeled frame for transport by a semitrailer truck, unlocking the doors once they got to the front of it. Opening the doors wide, he said with a smile, "Inspect your cargo, Joseph. I hope you will be pleased. I have other cargo to attend to, but will be near." With that, he handed the key to Joseph and walked down the length of the container, disappearing behind it.

"Well, shall we?" Joseph said as he entered the container, flanked by his guards. Inside,numerous waist-high metal boxes were stacked two-high down the length of the container, strapped down securely. Pointing at one at random, he said to two of the guards, "Open it." The guards complied with the order, unstrapping the box and bringing it down, opening it. Inside, several factory-new rail guns gleamed, stacked side-by-side and upright, themselves secure inside the box thanks to being bolted down to a frame-like inner structure. Nodding, he gestured for the guards to re-secure the box, then headed out of the container, a smile brightening his eyes as he thought about how things were going right for once.

"Burego!" he shouted. After waiting for a few moments without any reply, he asked one of the guards, "Where did he go?" as he began walking in the direction he thought the ship captain had went.

"Sir!" the guard said as he hurried to keep up with Joseph, putting a hand on the crime-lord's shoulder to stop him. "I think he went back to the ship. That way," he said, pointing in the opposite direction.

Joseph shrugged off the guard's restraining hand, a brow raising as he said, "No, I'm sure he went this way." He rounded the corner to the back of the container, adding, "Obviously, Chris needs to pick out men with a sense of....direction." His voice trailed off on the last word as he came upon the body of the ship captain, his throat slashed, laid out on the asphalt. Immediately, the guards drew their sub-machine guns into a ready position from where they were hanging behind them on shoulder slings, aiming them all about as though looking for a target.

Joseph, for his part, flicked his eyes around calmly, seeing nothing for them to shoot at. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked as he stepped forward, separating himself from the two guards by a few steps. "Who the hell...?" he said, turning around, only to find himself squarely in the sights of his own guards' guns. Knowing that to make any move toward his pistols would only invite a hail of bullets that were unlikely to miss at this range, he raised his hands to shoulder level, an ironic smirk crossing his lips. ""I'm in good hands", indeed," he said. "Since Chris assured me that he picked the group out himself, I would assume that the solution to the mystery of who killed Mirage to be rather obvious. So, what is it you want? Money? Women? Positions of power? Just how can I buy my way out of this, hmm? I'm giving you a blank check, here. Whatever it is you want, it's yours. All you have to do is side against your boss."

The guards looked at each other and smirked. "Well, now that you mention it, how about..." one of them said "...shutting the fuck up!" The other, laughing, spoke into a radio, saying, "All right, send them in." A few seconds later, the containers around them burst open, spilling out agents from the DTF, ATF, Homeland Security. There was even a smattering of FBI and CIA agents in the mix. Joseph even spotted one or two Secret Service agents in the crowd. They swarmed over his shipping container, in and out of it, shouting.

Flicking his eyes from the busy group of agents to the guards, he said, "Now, what do you think they're going to do when they see your guns, hmm?"

His words soon proved to be prophetic, as his voice was nearly drowned out by shouts of, "Drop your weapons! Hit the ground!" from the agents approaching the trio, guns aimed at them. Joseph wisely used one hand to slowly open his jacket before placing both hands on his head, pulling the coat open wide to expose his guns to the agents. The guards, not following his example, kept their weapons trained on him, shouting back, "Hey! We called you guys! He's the...."

They were interrupted, though, by the order of, "Take 'em down!" followed by rapid gunfire from the various weapons aimed their way. Bullets ripping through their bodies, they were dead before they even began to fall, the entire left side of one guard's face and head completely blown apart by two rounds from a .45 magnum. The rest of the group of men that had accompanied Joseph threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Rough hands grabbed Joseph's arms, forcing them down and behind him, cold steel encircling his wrists as he was handcuffed. His guns were jerked from their holsters and tossed aside, far out of his reach. Forced to his knees, he waited for an interminable amount of time while an agent held a gun to his head, expecting that the last thing he would hear would be the gun's report, fully aware that it was entirely likely that Chris would have paid at least one of the agents off. However, his expected death never did appear. Instead, what seemed to be the agent in charge did appear, approaching him from the container.

"We found Ecstasy in there," he said, Joseph's brow raising in surprise, but he kept his mouth shut. "Along with all those military weapons. That combination of charges, by themselves, is enough to lock you up for the rest of your natural life," the agent continued. "Then, we found that dead captain back there. Murder one. Those charges, plus the laundry list back at the assistant D.A.'s office, pretty much guarantees you the chair. So, I assume you're aware of your Mirandas?"

Joseph said, mockingly, "Let's see, I've heard it before..."You have the right to tell me to shut the fuck up. Anything I say will give you an excuse to kick my teeth down my throat. I can suck my attorney's cock. If I can't afford one, a male hooker will be hired for me by the court of 'I-don't-give-a-fuck'." Save it, agent. I've heard every goddamned version of it. Rest assured, your charges have as much chance of sticking to me as, as the saying goes, "water on a duck's back". My lawyers will have me out in time to have breakfast at my favorite restaurant tomorrow."

Leaning down to smirk in Joseph's face, the agent pulled out a paper that was sealed inside a plastic bag marked as "evidence" and showed it to Joseph as he said, "You don't get it, do you? This is the manifest. Guess what? There's your name on the paper, showing that you were to take personal possession of that specific container's contents. You've been sold to us, son. Whatever your crack team of lawyers can throw at us, we can take it and more. We already have enough testimony to keep you in jail without bond indefinitely. You, boy....don't scare me. Take him away."

With that, the agent behind Joseph holstered his weapon and jerked him to his feet, then pulled him along to an unmarked car, nearly shoving him into the back seat, settling in after him and shutting the door securely.

Joseph could only look through the glass helplessly as he was taken to face jail, trial, prison, and perhaps the death penalty...




Chapter Twelve: Wasted Months

Joseph stared morosely out of his cell window, his thoughts a downward spiral of self-pity. In the six months since Mirage’s death, he’d been arrested, charged with multiple counts of murder, drug trafficking, evidence tampering, fraud, embezzlement, blackmail, extortion, witness intimidation, conspiracy...the list went on and on. He was guilty of nearly all of it, of course, but he wasn’t about to plead so. Not when his punishment was nearly literally a coin flip between life in prison and the death penalty. His problem was that there wasn’t a lawyer in town willing to defend him against the case that the federal government had amassed against him.

Which brought him to his current problem. The object he was staring at was the burnt-out remains of a car that had exploded a mere hour before right in front of the jail. It had belonged to the most recent lawyer he’d hired out of his dwindling funds. Of course he was worth billions, but it was spread out across accounts that had been in control of the family. His own personal account had only held a few hundred thousand dollars, held there for emergencies, should he find himself unable to access the rest of his funds for whatever reason. In fact, if it were not for the fact that the account held so little money, and was being used to finance his defense, it would have been seized and frozen. Several other accounts had also been frozen, those that had obvious links to the family; it was a paltry figure compared to what could truly be said to belong to him. A drop in the ocean, as it were.

When the emergency crews pulled the charred husk of a corpse out from behind the steering wheel, he turned away, disgusted. Every lawyer he’d hired had met a similar and gruesome (and public) end. He’d even, at one point, hired an entire law firm, hoping that, with so many targets and potential witnesses, the assassin would be balked. It didn’t matter. Whoever Chris had hired merely took the most direct route and released enough anthrax and a (a rather nasty and particularly virulent - not to mention lethal) strain of E-Bola through the firm’s building to kill everyone inside of it in a matter of hours. He or she had only to make sure that all of the relevant lawyers were in a meeting, lock or otherwise block access to the doors from the outside, and let the poisonous mix go to work.

The deaths had been very effective at holding up his trial. The court, against his Miranda rights, had withdrawn the usual offer of a public defender, even though Joseph would not have accepted such aid in any case. Even the federal government, while efficient enough at catching him, found itself helpless against the onslaught of deaths so obviously targeted at keeping him in a legal limbo, afraid of asking even an appointed defense lawyer to risk their life for little to no monetary recompense. It seemed that Chris was leaving him with no choices other than to try and defend himself, or to plead guilty.

By now, it was beyond obvious that Chris had been the one to set him up. The comments that his guards at the docks had made aside, Joseph had heard through his few remaining contacts that Chris had taken over the family as head. One of the charges, that of drug trafficking, had indeed been trumped up and false, the only one Joseph was actually innocent of. He, and formerly Mirage, had had no truck with such things, feeling that real businessmen had no need for such a base and vulgar means of making money. Besides, there were more effective ways of ruining one’s life, or controlling it. The only exception had been that of marijuana shipping, though it had been legalized not long before they’d begun that aspect of their business. It was one of the few legitimate business interests the family had a hand in, and it was one that both he and Mirage had agreed on, both of them being users of the drug after all. He’d heard that since his arrest, Chris had expanded that to include Ecstasy, cocaine, and crystal methamphetamine, among others. All still illegal. All included in the list of charges against Joseph.

Joseph glanced at the crude calendar that he’d made out of scrap pieces of paper, hanging on the cell wall. He had an appearance before the federal court in less than a week, the judge and prosecutor expecting to hear from him as to who would be his legal counsel. Unfortunately, he would have to report, yet again, that he had none. This time, however, he knew that they would accept no excuses, and would demand an immediate plea to his charges. He would be allowed no further extensions or delays.

He was running out of time.



Chapter Thirteen: Fly, Little Jailbird

Joseph stared up into the darkness toward his cell's ceiling. In less than eight hours, he would be expected to enter a plea, without the aid of a lawyer. At eight o'clock in the morning, he would have to tell a federal judge that he had no legal counsel, and would have to decide to either plead guilty, hoping for a lenient sentence that would see him behind bars until he died, or plead not guilty, try to defend himself, and potentially end up facing the death penalty.

Understandably, he was less than enthused. In fact, he was laying there, sleepless, after midnight, in his isolated cell, considering the use of the noose he'd made from his blanket, hanging from where it was tied to the thick metal bars that crossed his window.

He had actually sat up on his bed when the intercom rang with the guard's voice, "Wake up, Penfinici. Pack up your shit, moving time."

As the bank of florescent bulbs on the wall near the ceiling flickered on, Joseph squinted against the intrusion of the bright lights and asked, "Since when do inmates get moved in the middle of the night? Where the hell are you moving me to, anyways?"

"For all you know," the guard replied, "we're moving you to gen-pop. The likes of you don't need more info than that. Cart's outside your cell, hit the button to let us know when you're ready to load up and head out." The click at the end of the sentence told Joseph that the 'com had been turned off, thus the string of curses that threatened to burst out of him would do no good since the object of his irritation wasn't even listening.

Muttering to himself, he gathered what belongings he had in the cell, mainly legal paperwork, a pen, several sheets of paper, some with notes to himself concerning his case, others with bits of sketches on them, his calendar, assorted toiletry items, and a few odds and ends ordered through the jailhouse commissary. He placed all of it on his mattress, then gazed at the sheet-noose hanging from the window. Sighing, he untied it from the window, then undid the noose, shaking out the wrinkles and then tossing it on top of the small pile of stuff on the bed.

He pushed the button, then waited by the cell door. Hearing the click as the latch was disengaged from the control center's panel, he pushed it open and pulled the cart inside enough to keep the door from shutting again, then put the mattress into the cart's bin, folded in half around the objects from his cell. Shoving it out, he let the door close behind him and waited by the automated mod door until it slid open, again by the guard's control panel.

Circling around the con center, he saw another guard waiting for him, who said, "Come with me, Penfinici," as he headed down the hall. With a sigh, Joseph followed the guard, knowing what was to come. If he really were being moved into general population, he could look forward to a much-shortened life filled with beatings, rapings, perhaps even worse. He wasn't afraid of dying - after all, he'd just been contemplating ending his own life less than fifteen minutes before. It was what the other inmates would do to him as soon as the guards' backs were turned that left him with a feeling of trepidation. And, he also knew, that the guards would make sure that their backs would be turned as often as possible.

When they reached the main hallway, Joseph began to turn the cart to the right, expecting to be led in that direction to the general population mods, but the guard turned to the left. Surprised, he stopped and asked, "Where are you taking me? Isn't booking down that way?"

"Yeah," the guard answered. "So? Come on, get moving."

Mystified, Joseph continued to follow the guard, who stopped down the hallway beside the door leading into the laundry area. "Drop your shit here, grab what's yours out." With his brows raised so far that they disappeared under his bangs, Joseph took out his personal items from where they were inside the folded-up mattress, then followed the guard into the booking area.

"Got Penfinici here," the guard said, then left Joseph standing in front of the desk, looking puzzled at the night shift supervisor.

The supervisor finished signing a few papers, then locked eyes with the prisoner in front of him. "You seem to have some friends left, you shit-eating faggot," he said, shoving some papers across the desk toward Joseph. "Sign these while I get your stuff."

Realization of his impending freedom dawning on his face, Joseph began to sign the release papers. When the supervisor came back, however, he paused, looked up at the man and said, "This had better not be some kind of fucking joke, otherwise you won't be able to get a job cleaning the spit from a dentist's basin by the time I get done suing you and everyone else associated with this piss-stain of a jail."

The supervisor, to his credit, managed to restrain the fury that showed on his face, though the desire to ram his tazer up this richy-bitch bastard's ass and unload 50,000 volts straight into his colon was plain from the tension in his voice as he replied, "No, pig-fucker. No joke. Your ride's right outside. Now, either sign those papers, or we'll toss your ass into the drunk tank until the next shift comes in tomorrow. Or next week. Your choice, cock-pouch."

Smiling at the supervisor's obvious aggravation, Joseph finished signing the paperwork, then shoved it all and the pen back across the desk, grabbing the bin that contained his clothing and went into the small officers' head. A few minutes later, dressed and looking like he felt as though a ton of sandbags had suddenly fallen from his shoulders, he came back out and tossed the orange jumpsuit onto the floor in front of the desk. The rest of his belongings were in his pockets, though his guns, of course, were still in the evidence room. He thought for a moment about insisting that they be returned, waving his registration and concealed weapons' permit under the supervisor's nose, but decided that doing so would be pushing things a little too far. Besides, it wasn't like they weren't replicable.

"Done? Good," said the supervisor, then hit the button behind the desk that opened the sliding doors into the sally-port area. "Get the fuck outta here, asshole. Next time I see your ugly face, I just might forget to lock the doors between gen-pop and here."

Joseph went out through the doors, listening with satisfaction as they shut behind him. He waited by the door to the outside, looking through the glass at a limo that was outside, ostensibly waiting for him, a chauffeur standing beside the back door. A sudden shiver of fear went through him as the thought that this was nothing more than an elaborate setup occurred to him. It was entirely possible that Chris had managed to pull some strings to get him released, only for an assassin to set upon him. Joseph stepped out through the door once it clicked to the unlocked position, however, figuring that Chris wouldn't need to stoop to such a level if he wanted Joseph dead. He could have just let the other inmates do the job for him, if not the U.S. Government.

The chauffeur opened the door, saying, "Welcome back to freedom, Mr. Penfinici."

Joseph smiled thinly at the strange chauffeur, one that he'd not seen before. He got into the dark limo, though, deciding that to confront the mystery head-on was better than facing the judge tomorrow. He sank back in the seat, enjoying the feel of the luxuriant feel of the baby-soft leather underneath him. When the door closed, his eyes did too, his fatigue catching up to him as his head leaned back.

His eyes snapped back open, however, and his head came up when a familiar voice said, "Yes, welcome back, my friend."

The interior light flicked on, revealing a man sitting in the rear-facing seat across from Joseph. "Holy shit," Joseph said, a mixture of disbelief and surprise on his face.

"How the hell are you here, not to mention even fucking alive, Mirage?"


Chapter Fourteen: Survivor Tale...

Mirage smirked at his friend, sitting across from him, as the limo pulled away from the jail. "Well," he said, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. He puffed on it for a few moments, inhaled, held it for a few moments, then exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke that Joseph identified as coming from high-grade marijuana. "That's a hell of a hello," Mirage said as he passed over the blunt.

Joseph laughed softly as he took it, taking a hit of his own. While he was holding the smoke in, Mirage lit up a fresh one, indicating that his friend should enjoy the first, knowing that Joseph needed the stress relief offered by the green herb. "Yeah, yeah...You know, you scared the hell out of me, you bastard," Joseph said with a smile. "When I saw that body floating in that frozen lake, wearing your coat, I thought that my liver would fall out of my ass. So, yeah, anyways, what the hell happened? How come you didn't get hold of me to let me know you were still alive? I was ready to kill myself back there; hearing from you would've done a lot to keep my depression from getting that bad."

Mirage rolled the blunt between his thumb and fingers, watching the glowing end as it rotated. A slow stream of smoke escaped from his lips as he sighed, then shrugged as he tapped the ashes into the ashtray beside him. "Well, it wasn't much fun, I can tell you that. As soon as I realized that the plane had been hit and was going down..."

Mirage twisted and turned as he and the fat man fell, keeping himself atop the the lard-ass as he fell earthward. He had shoved as hard as hard as he could to put some distance between the plane and himself and his human shield. As they fell, Mirage coiled his legs under himself, pressing his knees into the man's back, gripping his shirt collar to try and retain some control over who would hit the water first.

The breath blasted out of him as the fat-ass hit the ice and broke through, sending up a small geyser that was dwarfed by the wave sent up by the jet as it hit a few dozen feet away. Fortunately, it didn't explode on impact; with its electronics fried, there were no sparks to ignite the ruptured fuel tanks. The fat man, however, made enough of an explosion when his intestines and other organs burst out from his skin, the flesh splitting open from the force of hitting and breaking through the three-inch thick ice, spattering Mirage with blood and gore an instant before it was washed away by the freezing water..

Shoving away from the fat man as he sank, Mirage swam up toward the light filtering down through the water's surface. His muscles protested the movements; even though he'd had some protection from hitting the water at high speed, several muscles were torn, and he was certain that his already injured leg and ankle had both broken, perhaps in several places. His wrists, also, had that strange disconnected feeling that indicated their own fractures. His adrenalin level and survival instincts, however, refused to allow him to feel any pain from the barely functioning extremities. The freezing temperature of the water further numbed his body, but he didn't count it as any sort of blessing. That, alone, was deadly, not to mention that sniper up there.

He broke the surface of the water, breath exploding from his mouth and nose, accompanied by a stream of water from his aching lungs. He tread water for a few seconds, catching his breath, keeping his eyes open for any sight of the sniper. However, he had managed to keep the plane between himself and whoever had shot it down, keeping enough out of sight that they shouldn't have any clue that he'd survived. He ducked back under the water and swam for the shore, slipping unseen from the large lake and into the forest.

He kept moving once concealed in the trees, knowing that he had to keep his body temperature and adrenaline level up if he expected to survive. Moving as quietly as he could, it wasn't very long before he found where the shot had come from. Pausing just long enough to pull his katana out, dropping the duffel bag beside the tree, he stalked the woman that had tried to kill him.

She spoke into a cell phone, Mirage keeping out of sight long enough to overhear the entire conversation, confirming that it was himself that had been targeted. Once she put the phone away, Mirage continued to stalk toward her. When he stepped on a stick, he did so intentionally, giving her at least some warning as to what was coming. Even though she had tried to take him out without giving him any chance of defending himself, he still desired to let her see her own death approaching.

As she turned and faced him, she stuttered out, "But...but...How?" Mirage didn't answer as his sword passed through her as he thrust it upward into her belly, the point stabbing up into her heart from below. The only expression on his face was a snarl as he twisted the blade and ripped it back out again.

After she'd fallen, he stabbed the sword into the ground, cleaning the blood from the blade, and knelt next to her. It was obvious from her conversation that it was a sanctioned hit, that fact by itself perhaps indicating that it might be from a rival. However, from the rail gun she used, he was able to surmise that it was someone from within the family. He recognized its configuration as that being the same as the military-grade guns he had been in negotiations to acquire for the family. Likely, it had been one of the two guns he'd managed to get hold of for demonstration purposes. That meant that it was an inside job. That also meant that if it was not sanctioned by some rival family, it was a personal attack.

It also meant that he needed to be dead. If he was to find out who was responsible, he didn't need the added complication of continued attempts on his life. Quickly, he stripped off the sniper's parka and his own coat, putting the sodden garment on the strange woman. Her hair was, of course, longer than his, but it at least matched his own in color and general style. After donning her parka, Mirage took out his knife and began to hack and saw at the woman's tresses, shortening her hair until it roughly matched his own. Picking her up and putting her over his shoulder, he headed back toward the water. He figured that one of the first groups to reach the crash site would be the press, knowing that emergency services in Russia were, at best, half-assed. So, he pretty much knew that images of the crash would be beamed out on televisions across the world before any sort of collection of the corpses would begin. Already, several bodies could be seen floating across the water, which would help his attempt at deception.

It would be a rather simple trick, but being halfway across the world had its advantages. Whoever wanted him dead would have a difficult, if not impossible, time of trying to confirm whether or not he was actually among the victims. Placing the woman face-down in the water, he shoved her away from the shore with his booted foot. He didn't even wait around for her to float away, however, turning around and heading back to where he'd left his sword, then his other weapons. Keeping a low profile wouldn't be very difficult, but getting back to the States would be perhaps the most difficult part.

Limping slightly as the pain of his broken ankle and leg bones was beginning to creep into his awareness, he headed back into the forest...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He spent the next few months recovering from his injuries, using his contacts outside of the family to investigate who wanted him dead, finding out through them what had happened with Joseph, and Chris taking over the family. He hid out in a town in Louisiana, staying with two of the very few outside of the family he could name "friends", Will and Ethan. He'd managed to access some of the funds that he'd accrued through the years, hidden in various accounts that were not associated with the family, utilizing the money to not only pay his way back to the US, but to also get himself fixed up without questions being asked by the authorities or any records being made. He had also given Will and Ethan a couple of thousand dollars to pay them for letting him stay at their home. They had originally refused to take the payment, citing their friendship with him as being enough, but he'd insisted. After all, they really needed the money and the strain his staying with them hadn't helped.

With judicious and liberal use of the remaining funds, he'd managed to bribe enough highly-placed officials and legal authorities to get the charges against Joseph dropped long enough for him to be released, primarily through the "loss" of just about all of the damning evidence against him....

"Which brings us up to date," Mirage finished. "Now, the only question remaining is why...Why did Chris pull this stunt? What is it he's got against me? I haven't yet found out what his beef is, but I intend to before I kill him, myself."

Joseph stubbed out what remained of his blunt next to the butt of Mirage's own. "I don't know," he said, slurring his words slightly as the relaxing effects of the pot began to kick in, long-denied sleep starting to claim him. "But, after I get some rest, we're gonna kick some ass, right?"

"Goddamned right," Mirage said. "I've managed to get hold of enough men still loyal to you to retake the mansion. They're waiting at the warehouse we're going to. I'd prefer to keep any firefights to a minimum, but we might need to shoot our way in if we can't sneak in."

Joseph nodded slowly, smiling, his head then leaning back into the seat. "Good..." he mumbled as his eyes closed. "We'll give 'em hell...."

Quietly enough that he didn't disturb his slumbering friend, Mirage added, "Whoever believes the saying, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" has never seen me get pissed..."



Chapter Fifteen: Return To Power

After a long rest, a shower, and a hot meal, Joseph was feeling better than he had for months. Things weren't yet fully back to normal, but that was only a matter of time to his way of thinking. His friend and partner, Mirage, had returned from the prematurely reported death set up by the same man responsible for his own incarceration and recent bout with suicidal depression. That same man was also the one that had taken over Joseph's financial empire, both criminal and legitimate. That man was Chris Forland.

Joseph looked at himself in the mirror as he finished dressing: he adjusted his cuff links, straightened the button line of his shirt and jacket so that they matched, making his white suit as presentable as possible. Should he die in today's attempt at retaking the family's mansion, this was to be his burial suit, after all.

Nodding to his reflection, he smirked, the expression grotesque even to his own eyes as it stretched the scar tissue on his face. Even so, nothing could get his spirits down, not today. Not even the thought that he might be killed could sober him as he contemplated the resumption of his position. He picked up a handgun and a clip from the table beside him. Slapping the clip into place, he cocked the pistol, then gently let the hammer down and engaged the safety before putting the weapon into the holster under his jacket. Nodding again, he headed out of the office that had been converted into a small bedroom for his comfort and down the stairs into the warehouse proper, where Mirage was busy laying out the battle plan to the rest of their men.

Standing beside a map of the mansion's grounds that was laid out on a table, Mirage was saying, "...and, if things go well inside, casualties from the fight should be kept to a minimum. Once we succeed, the rest should stop fighting and you'll be able to start rounding up prisoners. Of course, once all of those who fought against us have been captured, we can't allow them to survive. Once a traitor, always a traitor. Execute them." His words were met with a bit of surprise from the newer members of their small battalion, but the long-term members, ones that had been with the family for several months, long enough to have gotten used to Mirage's ruthless way of thinking, didn't even blink an eye.

“He's right,” Joseph said to those surprised rookies. "If they were loyal to us any at all, they would be here with us, planning this little raid." Turning to Mirage, he asked, "Have you given any thought as to how we're going to take Chris out? I missed most of your plans, but I'm assuming you're going with the tried-and-true method of "cutting the serpent's head off" to deal with our betrayers."

Mirage smirked and nodded in response. "Back when the mansion was being built, I had a hidden entrance put in, one that even you were kept out of the loop about, just in case this sort of situation came up, though I had more of a "secret exit" thing in mind. If we needed to get away in a hurry, that would have been our route. Going in would be as easy and unobtrusive as going out, I'd say. It has two ways to get into it, each of them leading into our respective offices."

Joseph looked at Mirage with a bit of surprise of his own on his face, "Yeah, but you kept it secret even from me? How could I have made use of it if I didn't know about it?"

Chuckling, Mirage shrugged and said, "Well, in the case of a sudden need to evacuate there would be only two scenarios. One, someone would have managed to succeed with a frontal assault, much like we're doing as a diversion, using an overwhelming amount of force. An amount that even I can't withstand. In that sort of situation, I would have told you about the exit on your cell phone with plenty enough time for you to get to your office and get out, while I held off our adversaries as best I could with whatever forces we had left, then made my way to my own office to join up with you later."

"And the second scenario?" Joseph asked.

Mirage looked at his friend dispassionately, "Scenario number two would have been if you'd ever betrayed me, in which case I would have simply disappeared utilizing the tunnels, then collapsed them behind me with the Semtex wired all along the route, likely bringing the mansion down with them. Always have to be prepared, even with those you trust. Especially with those you trust."

The surprise quickly wore off, understanding taking its place. Joseph, for his own part, knew that danger from without was nowhere as deadly as danger from within. Chris was proof enough of that. Anyone could be a traitor, even a childhood friend, if they stood to benefit enough. It showed that Mirage had faith, however, in their trust and friendship, since he didn't act any further on his suspicions aside from preparing a bolt hole.

"Anyways," he said. "What about the alarms? The perimeter defenses? The turrets and such? Did you manage to hack into the systems to deactivate the auto-guns or what?"

"No need to worry about that," Mirage said. "There are enough of our loyal men still inside that have already been instructed to take out the defensive system control room and when to do so. Even should they fail, or worse, betray us, the men that've joined us have managed to bring enough rail guns with them to take out the turrets. Five rail guns against the ten turrets should be good enough. Chris hasn't managed to upgrade the security systems any further beyond that which you've already done. The motion detecting devices that the systems use as their aiming mechanisms may be state-of-the-art, but I figure that if we get enough men moving around at a fast enough pace and changing direction enough times, it'll confuse the computer long enough for a sniper to take out the guns with one shot each. Of course, Chris' men have rail guns as well, so it's going to be a tough fight."

Joseph nodded, as satisfied as he could be. Then, turning to the rest of the group, he raised his voice to be heard by all of them, saying, "Make no mistakes, men. There's a very good chance that we won't survive this. We're only 50 against the hundred and fifty or so that are still loyal to Chris. He's likely already found out that you've all left the mansion, not to mention that I'm free, so we're all committed to this course. If we fail to retake the mansion, even those that survive the fight won't live much longer. Succeed or die, that is the choice of fates that we have to face in the next few hours. I, for one, intend to succeed."

He turned away from the group and walked toward the waiting military-grade Humvee Mirage had procured. A light murmur behind him swiftly built up into a roar of approval and support from his men. Smiling confidently, he got into the passenger side, giving the group a thumbs-up through the bulletproof glass window as Mirage got into the driver's seat, followed by two other men that got into the back, one standing up through the gunner's hole cut into the roof with a rail gun in hand, the other holding a SAW gun and taking up a position to fire at their rear. Still roaring their support and determination, the rest of the group loaded up into either similar vehicles or armored SUVs, then followed their leaders as they drove off toward the city's outskirts.


After dropping off the two men that had rode with them a few kilometers down the road from the mansion, Mirage drove the Hummer in a wide circle around the mansion,stopping next to what looked like the grated opening into a large drainage ditch located in the midst of the wooded area nearest to their home.

"We're here," he said as he got out of the vehicle. "We're still about a mile away from the mansion, but the rest of the way we go by foot." Reaching into the back seat, he retrieved his trusty duffel bag, pulling from it his katana, which he strapped across his back after removing his jacket. He was already armed with his favored handguns, two .50 caliber Desert Eagles, as well as a number of throwing knives as well as other bladed weapons. He also took from the back seat an M4 carbine.

Joseph was impressed by his companion's choice of weapon. With a flick of a switch, Mirage could set it between full-auto or three-shot burst for quick-and-dirty fighting, or to single shot semi-auto for sniping shots. It wouldn't have the range of any actual sniper rifle, but since they were going to be inside of the mansion it would be good enough. There was also a suppressor installed on the barrel's end, so being heard firing it would be little enough of a risk. And, knowing Mirage like Joseph did, everything on the weapon was tighter than a good little virgin Christian girl could squeeze her legs together on her first date. All the better should it come to using CQB, Close Quarters Battle, using the gun as a blunt-force weapon or for leverage against enemies.

From what Joseph could remember about what Mirage said about his days as a Marine, there were a few shortcomings with the weapon, mostly due to problems with the magazine feeder. But, should things go well for them, Mirage should only need to fire the gun once or twice, if not at all. There was also an issue about its weight, but with further improvements on the model, such as lighter but stronger materials that went into the guns manufacture, not to mention Mirage's own strength, this was a problem that was not a problem at all.

"Let's go," Mirage said, taking a remote from the front pouch on the Diamondback Tactical FAPC, Fast Attack Plate Carrier, he was wearing over his shirt. Vest-like in appearance, it could hold armor plating as well as a goodly amount of equipment for a single person. However, the variant that Mirage was wearing had no armor plating inserted. Mirage felt that armor was a sign of weakness, and would also slow him down and restrict his movements. Pressing a button on the remote caused the grating in front of the drain to swing outward in front of them, through which he led Joseph.

Chuckling as they made their way through the mud, Mirage said, "Could you have picked a worse suit to wear, old friend? Getting that white thing cleaned would either be impossible, or cost enough that you might as well buy a brand new one."

Joseph paused and laughed quietly, though they were surely far enough away from the mansion that his voice wouldn't carry. "Well, if you had told me that we were going to be slogging through muck up to our ankles," he replied, "I would have asked if I could borrow an outfit of yours."

Laughing along with his friend, Mirage continued to lead the way down the dimly lit tunnel...

Sometime later, they came to a split to their path, Mirage indicating the right-hand tunnel by pointing at it. "That leads to my office," he said in a low tone. "We'll go left, to your office, in a minute or two," he continued, checking his watch. "The attack begins in ten minutes, and we also want to give them time to get enough of Chris' guards outside the mansion that we won't have much trouble getting to him if he's not on the other side of the door out of here."

"That reminds me," Joseph said. "Just where does the tunnel let out at in my office?"

Smirking, Mirage said, "Know that really big mirror you had put up in there?" At Joseph's nod, then slow-spreading smile of understanding, Mirage returned a nod and smile of his own, saying, "Yeah, that's not it. Heh, I just wanted to fuck with you a bit. It opens up along the right-hand wall, behind that hideous fern you insist on keeping in there."

"Asshole," Joseph muttered with a grin. "Okay, so, we wait, what, fifteen minutes and then go?"

Nodding, Mirage said, "That sounds about right. Normally, I'd probably have gone directly to my office and took out whoever was running the defensive aspect of things first, but from what you've said about him, Chris seems to be arrogant enough to do that part himself. By the way, that's just enough time for you to tell me where you found him, anyways."

Joseph shrugged and said, "Well, Jason, the one in charge of our West Coast branch, recommended him to me, since Chris had been his lieutenant for some time, and had kept their security almost as tight as you do for me. I needed a temporary replacement while you were gone, and there was no telling when you'd get back. I've kept tabs on him for quite a while before, actually, so the recommendation came as no surprise to me. I had, in fact, cultivated it from Jason, letting him think it was his idea. I had actually wanted to try and eventually promote him to the permanent position of being head of our security, letting you have a more solid and public position as my partner and second-in-command. I'm only sorry now that I didn't check more into his background. Foolish of me to assume that Jason had done a more thorough job of it, himself."

Mirage grunted, nodding. "I can see your point, and why you didn't mention anything about him before. Still, in the future, I have to insist that you let me in on everything you do along those same lines, as well as you allowing me to do the background checks on every new member of the family, here or with some other branch. Understood?"

Joseph nodded his agreement, saying, "On one condition: you let me in on any alterations you make to the mansion in the future. Agreed?"

Mirage also nodded. "Agreed," he said.

"Speaking of which," Joseph said. "How secure is the knowledge of this tunnel's existence? It's not in the architectural plans, is it?"

Shaking his head in the negative, Mirage answered, "No. I purged the computers that were used to design the mansion of any mention or plans of the tunnel system, as well as executed the workers that built or knew about it, personally. I'm the only one that knows about this place. Well, now you and a few of our most loyal family members do, but that's alright now. The exposure of the tunnel was necessary, anyways, to ensure that the men had confidence in our plan's success."

"I see," Joseph said. "Well, any other alterations to the mansion that you neglected to tell me about, old friend?"

Mirage chuckled and shook his head. "Nope, that was all," he answered. "I wasn't expecting to need much else."


A few more minutes of silence ensued, then an explosion could be heard faintly ringing through the ground as one of the turret guns was blown up. "That's it, the party's started," Mirage said. "We'll give 'em about five or ten more minutes, then we head into the office. Let's get in position."

With that, they made their way down the tunnel, proceeding down the gloomy hundred or so yards to where a ladder led upwards into darkness. "We go up," Mirage said simply as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and began to climb. At the top, they waited beside where Mirage indicated the door was, listening to the repeated dull thuds as each of the defensive gun positions were blown to hell. To Mirage's thinking, it was a small price to pay to give their perimeter defenses a proper combat test, as they'd not been used to their full potential until now. Besides, from what he could tell, they were going to need to be replaced, anyways, with either manned or remote-controlled models, since their automatic targeting and firing functions were too slow to cope with the speed at which the men were moving. Tearing them out and putting in new ones, or even retrofitting them, would have actually cost more, so what was happening outside was actually saving the family some money.

After waiting for a few more minutes, Mirage got into position, tapping Joseph on the shoulder, then guiding him into place behind him. "One...two..." he breathed. "Three!"

Bursting through the door, he brought his M4 up into position, firing it immediately into the face of the surprised guard that had the misfortune to be standing a few feet away from the secret entrance. Sweeping the gun around, he fired again, this time taking out another guard that stood next to the main door to the office. Completing the arc, he settled the gun on the figure sitting behind the desk, Chris.

"I'll be damned," Chris said. "You know, I knew somebody had managed to spring Joseph from the clutches of law and order, but I didn't expect you. So, I can only assume that you're the one responsible for my assassin's silence. I guess I should have counted on you being more resourceful. No matter, it only gives me the pleasure of finishing you myself."

"Don't be so sure," Joseph said. "What's to stop Mirage...or me, for that matter...from putting a bullet in your head and ending this entire charade here and now?"

"Come now," Chris replied. "Surely you want to know just why I've done all of this. Trying to kill Mirage, taking the family away from you both, putting you in jail? Yes, I've planned all of it from the start, ever since joining the family in California. Hell, even before that I wanted to cause Mirage more pain than humanly possible. I wanted to take everything away from him, just as he did to me and mine. So, Mirage...Put down the gun and face me in one on one combat, and I'll tell you everything. Refuse, and I hit this switch that you and Joseph so nicely put here under the desk that will bring guards swarming in with guns blazing."

"Don't do it," Joseph warned. "He's up to something, it's obvious."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mirage replied. "Of course he is. But, then again, it's what I want, anyways."

Shrugging, Joseph took the carbine as Mirage held it out to him, then moved to the door to cover it in case anyone tried to come in. Chris, smirking, rose to his feet and took off the jacket he was wearing, one of Joseph's own to add insult to injury, then took down the long sword that was displayed on the wall behind the desk, an addition of his own. Mirage, for his part, unsheathed his katana and held it low and to his side, pointing down at the floor, his muscles and grip loose.

"I've been waiting for this for a very long time, Mirage," Chris said as he approached Mirage. "Tell me something, did it feel good when you destroyed my brother's life?"

Mirage raised a brow over one glowing bionic eye. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I've killed hundreds, possibly thousands by now, so you'll have to be a little more specific."

Launching a lazy swipe with his sword at Mirage's head, which was parried almost as lazily by the former Marine, Chris said, "Oh, no...you didn't kill him. At least, not as directly as with a bullet or by your own hand. Remember that court martial you testified in just as the Gulf War was ending? Something about "crimes against humanity" and "murder of unarmed enemy soldiers after they'd indicated surrender"? Remember that?!" With that, he launched a vicious strike toward the side of Mirage's knee with the flat of his foot, which Mirage avoided simply by stepping backward.

"Yes, I do remember now, Chris Rolbard," Mirage said after a moment of thought, emphasizing the last name. "Changing your name was a good idea, kept me from putting two and two together. Your brother, Mark Rolbard, was guilty of those crimes. There was no need for him to blow up that ville that we housed the POWs in. But, nooooo....He decided that it would be far easier to just kill them all instead of the US spending money on their incarceration. He defied the very laws he had sworn to uphold, betrayed the very essence of "Semper Fi" and the Corps. He deserved what he got, and I'm only sorry that he killed himself before anyone else got hold of him once he was sentenced to life in prison for what he'd done. If we all operated that way, I would have killed him myself instead of allowing the expense of the trial to be paid for by the US taxpayer."

Barely restraining his anger, Chris scoffed and said, ""Taxpayer"? Since when was the last time you, yourself, paid any taxes, Mirage? You don't fucking exist to the government. You're a goddamned ghost, a forgotten relic of the Gulf War era, and a dirty little secret that got out of control while they experimented on you. Now, I'll make you a real ghost, you son of a bitch. Die!"

With that, Chris committed himself fully to the combat, launching a surprisingly swift stab at Mirage's chest, but was foiled when Mirage crossed his katana in front of himself, parrying the blow. As he fought, Mirage's expression went strangely placid, his voice ringing out with a quote from Shakespeare, ""A peace is of the nature of conquest; for both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loses"."

"What the fuck are you saying?!" Chris said, his composure somewhat lost between wrath and confusion. ""A peace"? The hell do you mean?"

Mirage kicked upward, burying his foot into Chris' belly, saying, ""Ambition should be made of sterner stuff"."

Coughing, Chris backed off, then snarled, figuring that Mirage was merely toying with him, trying to distract him with his inane babbling. He waded back in, flashing his sword left, right, then left again, swiping at Mirage's sides.

Blocking each blow with ease, Mirage said, ""Better a witty fool than a foolish wit"." He struck out with the point of his sword, taking advantage of the opening Chris had given him, poking the blade into Chris' belly, but leaving only the smallest injury as Chris jumped backward. In response, Chris leapt forward again, sweeping Mirage's sword aside, and driving the point of his own sword deep into Mirage's left shoulder. Joseph gasped as he saw the blade emerge from his friend's back, thinking that the end would soon come. Mirage, however, shoved Chris back, the sword coming out of the wound. He inspected the bleeding injury, flexed his muscles a bit, then nodded, accepting the limitation to his mobility as being less than important at the moment. Surprised at Mirage's move, Chris hesitated for a moment, long enough that Mirage was able to say, ""False face must hide what the false heart doth know"."

"What?" Chris said, his sword dipping slightly, then gasped as Mirage's own blade bit deep into his upper left thigh and was savagely twisted and ripped out again. He dropped sideways as the ruined leg no longer supported him, but he managed to keep himself upright by kneeling. As hard and fast as he could, he swiped out with the sword toward Mirage's own left knee, but felt the jarring impact as Mirage flicked his sword into position to block the attack. Despair filled him when Mirage, with a flick of his arm, sent the sword out wide, as did the knowledge that he'd severely underestimated his foe's swordsmanship, and had been ill-prepared for this. He should have simply called in the guards and had them shoot his enemy dead instead of making the same mistake so many had made before: allowing his desire for vengeance dictate his actions rather than common sense.

A shriek escaped his lips as Mirage's katana sliced through his forearm, severing his wrist and hand from the rest of his appendage. ""Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once"," he said as Chris pressed the bleeding stump under his other arm, hunched over.

Stepping to his enemy's side, Mirage held the katana next to the kneeling man, then centered it over the back of Chris' neck, taking aim. Raising it up, he said, "And then..."

Joseph looked through the door, seeing the running approach of three guards. Apparently, they noticed that there had been no contact with their leader. He flicked the gun's selector lever over to “auto”, aimed, then pulled the carbine's trigger, filling the hallway with a lethal spray of bullets, dropping the men in their tracks. Behind him, he heard Mirage say, "...my friend...." just as the sword reached the apex of its upward sweep. With all of his strength, he brought the sword down, slicing through the feeble resistance that was offered by Chris' flesh, bone, muscle, and sinew, severing the traitor's head with the single blow.

"...You die," Mirage said as Chris' headless body tumbled over, a spray of blood splattering across the office.

"Nice," Joseph said, rapidly going over to where Mirage stood. "You all right?" he asked, indicating his friend's wound.

"It'll be okay, it'll heal soon enough," Mirage replied. "Now what?" he asked.

"Simple," Joseph said. He picked up Chris' decapitated head and went over to the window, opened it, and stepped out onto the terrace. From there, he tossed the head out to where the guards that supported the now-dead man were fighting against his loyal soldiers, enjoying the sight as the horrified guards jumped away from the morbid projectile. They looked up to where it had been thrown from, then threw their weapons down, screaming into their radios. Joseph, however, was too far up to hear clearly what they were saying, but he surmised that they were relaying what had happened to the rest of their side of the conflict. He went back inside, confident that everything would soon enough be put back into order.

Settling comfortably into the chair behind his desk, he smiled as he watched Mirage clean the blood from his sword's blade on the dead man's clothing, the grin widening as Mirage then tossed the body onto the flaming wood set in the fireplace.

Turning around, Mirage smiled at Joseph and said, "Welcome home, old friend."



Chapter Sixteen: After-Effects

Mirage and Joseph were relaxing at one of the clubs the family owned, lounging around in the office that was situated above the bar area. The floor was made of a strong plexiglass-like material, mirrored on the bottom, allowing them to watch as the patrons below danced and drank and smoked, but were unobservable from below. Half-drank glasses of alcohol sat on the table between the two couches they sat on, forgotten, as the friends talked and discussed strategy. Though Chris had been killed, the mansion was retaken, and his network of spies and allies had been disbanded, there were a few holdouts against the Penfinici family taking things over again. In fact, the manager of the very club they were sitting in, a man they'd made very rich to maintain their favorite (and most "clean") club, tried to have them thrown out by several bouncers that dwarfed even Mirage's build. Repressing their understandable murderous rage, Mirage and Joseph went to the police instead, showing them the documents that proved that they owned the club, and having the manager and his thugs escorted from the premises. They refrained from having them arrested...after all, that would be as bad as snitching on them...but, of course, Mirage's operatives would see to it that they would be of no further trouble to the family before the sun finished setting.

Some few of Chris' dealers were also in the club, selling to the clientele pills such as Ecstasy, Demerol, and other illegal and/or controlled drugs. Taking exception to this, Mirage personally saw to it that the dealers partook of their own product, having had the dealers brought to the office one at a time by a group of the family's enforcers, and then shoving their entire supply into their mouths and down their throats as they were held in place by the bodyguards. Once the effects of the drugs began to kick in...or, rather, the effects of the overdose of the drugs kicked in...Mirage had them taken out and literally thrown into the street to suffer their fate. A few might be saved by some passing good Samaritans, but it was likely that they would wander about in their drug-induced haze until they either succumbed to the death that that amount of pills would undoubtedly cause, or perhaps they might stumble out into the street to be hit by a passing motorist. Either way, Mirage and Joseph were confident that the word would begin to be spread that they were back in business, and such activity in their clubs would be harshly dealt with. After all, they still didn't approve of the taking of man-made drugs.

"...and the rest of Chris' men either surrendered right after the fighting, and were shot as traitors, or were killed outright during the fight. So, the mansion's clean," Mirage was saying. "It's only been five days, but we've already got 75% of the perimeter guns back up and running to full capacity, and the repairs to the other defenses are coming along just as quickly. By the end of the month, we should have everything back to the way it was before this nightmare began. As for our losses in manpower, they were minimal, and we've already recruited enough to replace them all and then some."

Joseph nodded, pleased with the report. "Where do we stand with the investigation about how Chris got past our security in the first place?" he asked.

Mirage paused and thought a moment, then replied, "That's supposed to be being taken care of as we speak. I have a few operatives in California right now that are carrying out my orders to investigate both Chris' background and Jason's. I expect a call by morning."

"Good, good," Joseph said. "It seems, then, that we could consider ourselves to be fully back to normal. A pity that we couldn't extract more information from Chris, but I would have killed him in any case. Still..."

He was interrupted by a faint ringing from the earpiece Mirage wore. "Excuse me," Mirage said, then pushed the button on the side of the phone to answer it. "Yes?" he said, then rose to his feet. "Are you fucking serious?...Yes, I would have wanted you to....Fuck me....How many died?....Goddamn it...Hey...HEY!.......shit." He pushed the button again, then threw the miniature phone against the wall in frustration.

"Problems?" Joseph said calmly.

"Goddamned right," Mirage growled, glaring at the shattered remains of the phone. "Our operatives in California were just wiped out. That was the last one, reporting what they'd found and what happened after they'd found it. Seems that Chris wasn't the only one with an alias." Turning his angry stare toward his friend, but softening it with a faint smirk so as to keep Joseph from thinking it was he who Mirage was mad at, he said, "We really need to upgrade our security out there. "Jason" isn't "Jason" at all. He's taken over our West Coast branch totally and broken off from the family...rather violently I would say, considering that the last thing I heard from the other end was a gunshot at close range. Probably an execution shot. I'd guess they wanted us to know what had happened, snuck up on our spy, then shot him in the head, if he wasn't already captured, the dumbass."

Rising to his own feet, Joseph asked, "We'll, don't keep me waiting in suspense...Who the fuck is "Jason"?"

Mirage turned away and stared down at the dancers below, his eyes fixed on the bare breasts of one of the strippers, but seeming to be staring right through her, lost in his own thoughts. A heavy sigh escaped him, then he answered in a soft tone, ""Jason" is actually Chris' brother, the one I thought had committed suicide. It seems that Chris lied even to the very end of his life. "Jason" is really one "Mark Rolbard", a man who is, amazingly, more psychotic than even myself. Moreover, he is every bit my equal in combat, if not my better."

At Mirage's admission to someone actually being better than himself at fighting, Joseph's eyebrows shot up in surprise, looking like a pair of butterfly wings taking flight. Even though they had been friends for years, he'd never heard Mirage make such a statement. He'd assumed that Mirage's ego wouldn't allow it to pass his lips. "You almost sound afraid of him," he said quietly, not wishing to rouse Mirage's wrath against him.

Mirage turned back and looked at his friend silently for a few moments, then said, "I am..."


Chapter Seventeen: The Past Comes Alive...

Mirage sat down heavily on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. Though he seemed to be staring directly at the wildly gyrating dancers in the club below, his eyes were instead focused on the images in his mind.

"What I'm about to tell you," he said to Joe, "was classified beyond virtually everything else in military record. Might still be, for all I know. Toward the end of the short war in the Gulf, we had been given orders to withdraw from the little town, not much bigger than a village really, and to release our prisoners to make their way back home on their own. However..."

...the prisoners taken by the Americans stared hopelessly at one another. They knew that once they were released to return home, it would be a very short time before men loyal to Saddam would hunt them down and slaughter them and their whole families. Yet, surrender had been a far preferable fate to the suicide that fighting the Americans would have been. Jihad or not, dying this way would bring little to no glory to Iraq or to Hussein, let alone themselves or their families. "Damn the virgins!" the leader of their small skirmish force had said as he threw down his AK and ordered the others to surrender. In fact, the group of ten that were being temporarily held in the small house had been that very force. Thoughts of escape didn't even enter their minds. They knew the Americans would eventually let them go once the war was over. It was a certainty.

What wasn't was what they were going to tell their leaders back at their headquarters, what they would report to Saddam, when asked, "How were you captured?", a question they feared. If they were honest, they would be immediately executed. If they lied, Allah would punish them upon their death. A death that would come all the swifter should the lie be found out before "natural causes" claimed them. There was always not reporting in, simply going home, but being AWOL from Iraq's army carried worse consequences than many other countries' armed forces. At least, if they were honest when they reported in, their families had a chance of being spared.

No matter what they did, they would face death closing in from all around. Thus, the despair that filled their eyes as they stared at each other. Men already dead staring at men already dead.

A small fear fluttered in their stomachs when the door opened a bit. They had been told many stories about how Americans tortured their prisoners, propaganda told them in order to reduce the chances of their betraying their oaths to Saddam and their homeland. Yet, even in the face of those stories, they had chosen to take their chances with surviving a bit longer compared to certain doom. The pain that the Americans could inflict on them would pale in comparison to what the Republican Guard could.

Thus, it was with expressions of non-comprehension that they watched as the American man tossed a can, one of several that were sitting outside the one-room hut, into the building. A liquid that smelled like gasoline splattered from the pail as it hit the floor, showering over the men and the walls. With a sharp snick the door was quickly shut and locked once more, the man outside spilling another can so that the liquid would trail into the room and join with another larger puddle several feet away. Economically, he repeated the process with each hut, then spread a gray, putty-like substance on each door, jamming a bit of metal and wire into each one, the wires leading to small metal boxes that had antennas attached to them. Then, stepping onto a path that led from the village, the well-built man first ignited a flare, then tossed the flaming stick into the gas-puddle he'd made.

Screams erupted from dozens of throats as the flames licked their way into the buildings, the men inside realizing what was happening. The cries became agonized after a few moments, and the burning doors began to shudder and strain as the men began to try and escape. With that, the man wearing the Marines' desert camo continued down the path until he was safely away from the buildings, then pulled out another metal box, this one with a button on it. He then pressed the button, the C4 he'd placed on each door exploding in the men's faces. "Enjoy the sneak preview, boys," the man said, smirking. "It'll get a lot hotter where you're going...What?!"

The last exclamation was wrung out of him as he was wrenched around by a hand and arm that were nearly as strong as his. "What the flying FUCK do you think you're DOING, Marine?!" shouted the man that the hand belonged to. "My god..." he uttered softly as he stared in shock at the rising flames and black smoke that roiled out from the village, nostrils constricting as the acrid scent of the burning buildings and human flesh wafted out from the village. Softly, dangerously, he growled, "You'd better hope that somebody survived, or you've got a goddamned GOOD reason for this, Rolbard, or else you're gonna fry for murdering those un-fucking-armed POWs! I'll PERSONALLY see to it!"

"Fuck you, Corporal," was all Mark Rolbard said as he shot a right cross at the Marine's head. The Marine, for his part, anticipated the reaction and ducked. Gripping his sidearm tightly in his fist, he brought it up in a straight uppercut that rocked Rolbard's head back. Grabbing the other man by the hair, he brought the gun's grip down, once, twice, on Rolbard's temple until the asshole's eyes rolled back and he sagged with a moan. Dropping him, the Marine holstered his gun, flipped Rolbard over onto his stomach, then took out a set of plastic restraints, tightening them on Mark's wrists enough to cut off circulation to his fingers and causing them to swell almost immediately. He snarled at the despicable act that the man had committed as he raised his radio to his lips and began to call in the report. The Marine refused to think of Rolbard as a fellow Marine...Rolbard did not have the right to even consider himself a Marine anymore.

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Back at the U.S. Army base in Mannheim, Germany, the Marine was decked out in his dress uniform, waiting outside of the courtroom to be called as a witness for Mark Rolbard's court martial. As the Marine first on the scene, his testimony would be crucial to the prosecution, and he intended to give as much damning evidence as he could. Desert Storm was over, had been for almost six months, and the military war crimes tribunal was finally convening to decide Rolbard's fate. Due to the uncomfortable parallels being drawn between the Storm and Vietnam back in the States by some media outlets, it was decided to hold the court martial here in Germany, away from American eyes, ears, and news cameras. In fact, it was also decided to lock the entire thing down under the highest secrecy possible. "Top Secret" didn't even begin to scratch the surface of this fiasco. To keep anti-American sentiment down to minimum, protecting the lives and safety of civilians abroad, only the JAG judge, defense lawyer, prosecuting attorney, Rolbard himself, a couple of MPs, and what few witnesses would be called were permitted to even enter the building, including the Marine sitting on the bench outside the courtroom.

Suddenly, the door opened, the defense attorney exiting first, followed by a young woman in a black uniform dress. The Marine looked her over, recognizing her as the prosecutor. Very young she was, almost too young for the job she was doing. Maybe 19, 20 years old, this was obviously her first major case. She was rather good-looking, though. A bit on the short side, a little round-of-face, still a bit of baby-fat on her body. Still, all told, cute enough. The Marine, though, disregarded all of this as superfluous, an unnecessary distraction. Perhaps intentional, as it would "throw off" a witness or accused person on the stand.

"Hello," she said, patting the sides of her regulation-cropped brown/blonde hair into place. "I take it you're Corporal H..."

"Mirage," the Marine replied. "I prefer to go by my handle whenever possible. Makes it easier to reply to it on the radio."

"Mirage, then," the girl allowed. "Though, you will have to answer to your real name when you're on the stand, Corporal."

Mirage nodded acquiescence. There's steel under those curves, he thought to himself. Pity she's "too cute"...like, "little girl cute" rather than "attractive-cute". She still fills that uniform out nicely, though...

"We're taking an hour's recess, then you'll be the first called in on the stand," she said, interrupting Mirage's thoughts. "I will, of course, have to be absolutely thorough with my questions, enough to seem rude or even bitchy. I hope you won't take offense. We don't want to give the defense any chance to pounce on any mistakes."

Mirage smiled tightly, then replied, "I'll be more than happy to answer your questions, however bitchy they may be. But, don't I get to at least know the name of the lil' cutie that'll be giving me the third degree?" Riposte, he thought. You're not the only one that knows mind games, girlie. He'd already decided that his first impression, that she would use her looks to her advantage to distract whomever she was questioning and possibly cause them to make a mistake, was correct. Very shrewd.

The uniformed girl, for her part, covered the fact that she was flustered by being called "cutie" rather well. Only a slight flush that faintly tinged her cheeks and a glimmer of anger in her eyes gave anything away. "Amber Donner, Lieutenant Donner to you," she replied coolly as she strode down the hallway...

The questioning was as advertised: direct, straightforward, almost brutal. His answers gave little reason for the defense lawyer to ask him anything, so Mirage's testimony lasted little more than the afternoon. Two days later, Rolbard was dishonorably discharged, sentenced to life in the United States Disciplinary Barracks in Fort Leavenworth, the defense successfully arguing against the death penalty to Mirage's disappointment and anger. In fact, it was this incident that began his downward spiral of disgust, scorn, and contempt for the military, culminating in Mirage's later "criminal turn".

A few years later, Mirage heard that Rolbard had committed suicide in his cell, though his source wasn't forthcoming with many details. However, because the source had proven trustworthy enough with their information in the past, Mirage had little doubt as to the veracity of what he was told. Years later, however....

"...It seems that my source was either in error, or had deliberately lied. Which begs the question of "why"," Mirage finished. Joseph was sitting across from his friend, adopting a posture that exuded honest sympathy for what Mirage had gone through. Killing a target, even an unarmed one, even a bit of collateral damage...in other words, bystanders that were simply too close to the target, wasn't unusual in their line of work, even expected. However, the deliberate killing - murdering - of unarmed and unresisting prisoners of war was heinous in the extreme, even to men like Joseph and Mirage.

"I don't know why or how," Joseph said. "But, I know that you intend to find out before this is all over with. The family's resources, of course, are yours. We need to bring the West Coast back under our control, after all, and I also have lost face..." an ironic statement coming from him "....because of Mark's betrayal. Not to mention I wouldn't mind seeing him get a little taste of, shall we say, vengeful justice for what he did during that last bit of Desert Storm." When Mirage looked up at that, Joseph smirked darkly.

"Let him burn....



Chapter Eighteen: A Ghost From The Past...

Mirage and Joseph continued to watch the dancers below, their conversation drifting toward the more mundane matters of the day-to-day running of the family. When Mirage fell silent and fixed his gaze upon a pair that had just walked in, Joseph took immediate notice. Far too clean-cut to be among those that typically frequented the club, these two muscle-bound men stood out like a sore thumb. They'd made some effort to wear clothing that would have helped them to blend in....if it weren't for the ill-fit and the obvious discomfort on the men's faces that would have given them away just as much as their close-cropped hair and clean-shaven faces did. As it was, it gave them the air of comedic impracticality that putting a suit on a hobo would be like.

"What do you think?" asked Joseph. "Assassins or government-types?"

"Obviously government," answered Mirage. "These two are so inept, if they were assassins sent by Mark, our security cordon would have picked them up a long time ago. Wait....unless..." Mirage trailed off, scanning the crowd, his eyes shifting through various wavelengths of light before he settled on a blend of X-ray and electromagnetic fields. Most everyone in the crowd went armed with one weapon or another, but what the two men were packing were far heavier than the .38 specials or 9mm that most carried.

".45 caliber Glocks," he mused. "Bored out to take magnums, it looks like. They also have some pretty sophisticated communications packages. Let's see..." A few more seconds later, he settled his gaze on one person in particular, then shifted his eyes back to the normal wavelengths of vision, more a relaxing of his visual acuity than a concentrated "tuning in" that looking into other forms of vision required. The shock of recognition wrote itself across his face as he stood up, muttering, "I'll be damned. Speak of the devil and she'll appear."

"What?" Joseph asked, then peered at the woman Mirage was looking at. She fit more into the crowd than the other two men did, he'd give her that. It took him a few seconds, but he finally managed to make the same connection that his friend had. A wry smile crossed his grotesque features as he said, "Ah, well...Why don't you go down..." He glanced up, realizing that he was speaking to empty air, shook his head, then finished, "...and see what she has to say."

Mirage strode through the door marked "Management only" and past two men that were standing guard there and were, if nothing else, even more muscular than the two military-types that had managed to infiltrate the club. It was plain to him that those two were likely either a diversion or there just to provide the woman with back-up if she needed it. It was just as likely that they were also meant to run interference for her, as they began to head in Mirage's direction as he none-too-gently pushed his way through the throng, obviously recognizing him from his remaining Marine records. One reached for him, saying, "Hold on, Corporal. We've got orders....arrrgh!" He choked off a scream as Mirage's fingers dove for his throat, held stiff and straight as boards, their tips causing the cartilage in the man's windpipe to crunch beneath them. He crumpled to the floor as the patrons of the club scattered, giving a wide berth to the fight that was happening, not wanting any part of it. Most recognized Mirage as the owner of the club, the rest simply following the others with the sheep-like mentality that seemed to pervade most of America. For the most part, though, nobody seemed to care about the apparent murder that had just occurred in front of them.

Mirage had held off from using lethal force, though, leaving the military-type curled up on the floor, twitching, gasping, trying to draw in enough air just to keep from passing out. He stopped the other man with a glare as he reached for the gun hidden under his leather jacket. "First rule," he said, "don't touch me. Second rule, you pull that gun, you'll be dead before it clears holster. Now, slowly, and with your finger nowhere near the trigger, pull that piece out and hand it over."

The man, either brave beyond his ken, or foolish beyond all belief, dared to ask, "If I don't? I don't think you're that fast."

Mirage, fed up with the posturing, slid over and grabbed the man's arm as it withdrew, hand wrapped tightly around the pistol, finger on the trigger, hammer pulled back, and continued with the motion, bringing the man's own gun arm behind him. A sharp twist to the wrist caused him to drop the weapon into Mirage's free hand. With a slight, sadistic grin, he first let go of the man's arm, then ripped the other's pants down to his knees. Then, stepping to the man's side, he viciously kicked the man in the gut, causing him to drop to his knees, doubled over with his face on the floor.

Stepping squarely behind the man, he said, "I think I am. And this is what I'll do." With that, he rammed the barrel of the gun directly into the man's anus, drawing a scream from him as his rectum was violated in a manner both agonizing and humiliating. Those few patrons still paying any attention hooted with laughter and catcalls, these pulling the attention of the others who also laughed and jeered at the men's expense. Well, all of the others save one. The woman sitting at the corner table merely watched dispassionately as one of her associates crawled over to the other, still gasping for oxygen, and weakly...and ineffectually...attempted to pull the sidearm from his partner's profusely bleeding ass.

That bit of dirty business finished, Mirage walked over to the woman's table, glancing up at the mirrored ceiling to where he knew Joseph was likely laughing just as hard as the rest of the club's customers were, then stopped and looked down at her in expectant silence.

"It's a very good thing for you that your training hasn't slipped, Corporal," she said, her voice having changed little, save having gotten slightly huskier with maturity, in the intervening years since the court martial Mirage had just told Joseph about. The rest of her, however, had slimmed out to a somewhat attractive figure even under the civilian clothing she currently wore. "It's also a very good thing for you that this happened on your own private property, otherwise you'd be facing charges right now. As it is, it's going to be very difficult to explain to their...and my...superiors what happened here in satisfactory enough detail that their injuries would be classified as "in the line of duty" and their medical coverage would see to their bills."

"Just explain it as "clinical stupidity endemic to the military"," said Mirage. "I'm sure the brass would understand that, at least. What do you want, Lieutenant?"

"Actually, it's "Major" now," Major Amber Donner replied. "Besides, isn't this a bit public of a place to talk about a...former mutual acquaintance, let alone commit assault and battery?"

Mirage scoffed, but held his hand out in invitation toward the door he'd originally came in through, saying, "Your men were foolish enough to try and put their hands on me. Plus, they were armed. I think that would be sufficient cause for self-defense to be a valid reason for doing what I did." He led her through the door and up the spiral staircase that led up to the door to the owners' office. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and said, "Fair warning, my friend, Joseph, isn't as easy on the eyes as you are, Major Cutie."

"Cut the crap, Mirage," Maj. Donner said crossly. "It was annoying when you first pulled that shit years ago, now it's just old and pathetic."

Mirage snorted once with laughter, then shrugged and said, continuing the teasing, "Only speaking the obvious. Just try not to stare....At Joseph's scars, that is. I don't care if you stare at me, though."

"Only in your dreams and my nightmares," Amber said, pushing her way past Mirage as he opened the door. She came up short, however, when she came face-to-face with the very ugly caricature Mirage had been referring to. "Oh, my..." she whispered before her professionalism and training to deal with the unexpected came to the fore and shut her up.

"Warned ya, dumbass," Mirage muttered, shutting the door and dropping the bantering facade, becoming one hundred percent serious once again. "Now, what's this about a "mutual acquaintance" you mentioned?"

Sitting down on the couch, Maj. Donner pulled a picture from her leg-pocket of the cargo pants she wore. "Look familiar?" she asked, handing the photo over.

Mirage glanced at it, showed it to Joseph, who nodded, then said, "Sure. It's the man we now know as Mark Rolbard. Until recently, he went by the pseudonym of "Jason". He looks nothing like Mark; obviously, he's had some plastic surgery done."

As Mirage handed the picture back, Maj. Donner nodded in agreement, saying, "Our sources have confirmed that to be true. What our sources were not able to uncover, though, was how he was connected to you two, though it was easy enough to trace that there even was a connection."

As Mirage muttered, "Not too surprising, only being half-assed competent enough to figure out a drop in the bucket, but missing the entire fucking ocean behind it."

Maj. Donner cut him off with an upraised hand and said, "I don't care what the specifics of the connection is, that's not my job. During his escape from Leavenworth, Rolbard left several guards and inmates dead, a fact that was very swiftly covered up by the top brass. So, in essence, since he's already dead to official records...at least, as dead as you are, Mirage...I've been given free reign to deal with him as I see fit."

"We already have plans in that direction," Joseph said. "The question remains, what is it that you want from us, Mrs. Donner?"

A hard look entered Amber's eyes as she answered, "Major Donner...What I want from you is to make the official untrue record, true. Mirage, your government is asking you to kill for it once again. Do you accept this mission or not? I don't have time for you to think, we have other assets that we can put into play, albeit not so sophisticated or with your same credentials, but still effective enough."

Mirage stared at Maj. Donner for a long moment, then said, "I swore I'd have nothing to do with the government years ago, Major." As Amber stood up, Mirage placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to sit once again. "However, since our goals coincide with yours for the time being, and I'm sure the United States military would pay rather handsomely to keep their little embarrassment from becoming public knowledge, both in money and in goods, I think we can work together...."

He took in her gaze with his own bionic one, finishing, "For now."



Chapter Nineteen: ....Bringing A Haunting Memory To The Present

"All right, cutie," Mirage said. "We're agreed...We'll take the job, for a consideration to be determined. I do have a question, though. Actually, a couple of them."

Major Donner raised a brow and guardedly said, "Yes?"

Mirage crossed his arms and stood squarely in front of her, his demeanor that of a man that would brook no dissembling or refusal to answer. "One, who or what are these "sources" you mentioned earlier. And, two, who exactly is it you're working for? The JAG offices, nor the Corps, would have the resources available to be able to track down any info about Mark...or even about us for that matter...otherwise, you would have already dealt with him. So, logically, you're working with or for some other agency. That's information I'd like to know."

Maj. Donner sighed, then looked away from Mirage's glowing gaze, refusing to meet the accusatory look he was casting on her. Knowing that he wouldn't like what she would have to say, she answered softly, "The C.I.A."

A cold expression crawled across Mirage's face, one that Joseph had seen before. It was the emotionlessness that came before Mirage killed a target. So, it was a complete surprise when Mirage turned away from the woman, before Joseph even managed to get to his own feet, and headed out of the office without a word. Maj. Donner, for her part, flinched and looked down at her hands, clenched together so tightly on her lap that her knuckles were white. Obviously, she had expected an explosive outburst. She knows something about Mirage's past, Joseph thought.

He looked down into the club below through the glass floor as Mirage slammed the stairway door open, then as his friend silently motioned for the guards to clear out the crowd. Complaining, the assorted twenty-somethings were herded out like cattle and the doors were locked. After waiting for the crowd to leave, he then strode up to the pair of military-types that had come with Major Donner, still writhing on the floor. Still without a word, Mirage walked up to the one that he'd violated with the gun, hauled back with a steel-toed boot, and kicked the side-arm even further up into the unfortunate man's rear orifice, wringing out a fresh round of screams.

Obviously unsatisfied with the new levels of agony he'd inflicted, Mirage reached down to the gun's grip, which was still exposed out of the other man's anus. Using his other hand to hold the man down, Mirage's finger wrapped around the trigger and pulled it twice. Joseph could see the man's body jerk as each bullet ripped through it from it's lower intestinal tract, but couldn't hear the gun's report due to the barrel being enclosed and muffled as it was. He glanced over at Maj. Donner to see her reaction, but she didn't seem to see what was going on. Either that, or just didn't care. He looked down just in time to see Mirage strike at the other military type, stiffened fingers diving into the other man's throat again, this time hitting with enough force to cause blood to spurt from his lips as his trachea was crushed. Death, for the second man, was nowhere near as quick as it was for the first. It took nearly a minute before he stopped squirming and trying to draw breath through the blood-filled, crushed windpipe.

Without more than a quirked eyebrow at the murders being committed below, Joseph looked up at Major Donner and said, "Okay, it's apparent that Mirage doesn't like the C.I.A., but he's never told me why. Maybe you'll be more accommodating?"

Maj. Donner looked up quickly from her hands, almost seeming to be startled by the fact that he was even still in the room. She, in her emotional state, had forgotten all about Joseph. She stared at him blankly for a long moment, he taking no offense to it. He knew that she was looking through him, rather than at his scars. Finally, after several seconds of silence, her eyes snapped back into focus and she sighed. "I suppose I do owe you an explanation, since I'm the one that practically invaded your club."

She sank back into the couch's cushions and began to speak...



Chapter Twenty: Mirage's Beef

It was approximately two years after the Gulf War had ended. Major, then still a Lieutenant, Donner had just begun working as military liaison officer between the JAG offices and the C.I.A.'s acquisitions department. Mirage, disgusted with the outcome of Mark's trial (life imprisonment as opposed to the death sentence he felt the corrupt Marine deserved), had allowed his term of service to expire. Intending to disappear, he had moved to Philadelphia. During the months following his discharge, Mirage struggled to acclimate to civilian life by working as a bouncer at a strip club in the section of the city that was primarily Italian in heritage. He was hoping to save enough money to open his own dojo in Little Rock, Arkansas, closer to his hometown. He had chosen the "City of Brotherly Love" to live and work due to its multi-ethnic background, enabling him to more easily lose himself in the bustling populace, not to mention the lack of jobs in Arkansas that paid the numbers he was needing. At least, none that fit with his particular skill-set.

Still, it was a struggle sometimes to make it from one paycheck to the next. Somehow, he managed to keep his head above the water and saved a few thousand, though it wasn't enough to realize his dream. It was during this difficult time that he was sought out by Lt. Donner, who had remembered his name and training background from the court martial. She was in need of someone with his skills for a special mission, set up by the C.I.A. She contacted him via telephone, having gotten his number through the military psychologist that had been treating his mental issues, conveying a wish to remain impersonal and faceless (at least, to the public). Initially, he had refused, standing behind his decision to abandon the military, but she had appealed to his financial needs, assuring him that he would need not worry about scrimping and saving for the money needed to open his martial arts school.

She had, in response to his questioning, revealed to him that it was the Agency that was behind the planning stages of the mission, incidentally clearing her of his suspicions later on, claiming that the only portion of the mission she had any control over was assembling the team. The mission was one of (at best) dubious legality: to return to Iraq and assassinate Saddam Hussein, his family, and all of his top generals. Mirage was none too pleased about the family, themselves technically civilians, being targeted, but he kept his mouth shut apart from lodging a single verbal protest when the team had been gathered together and the mission specifics were given.

A month later, and all of the bombs were in place, set up to explode simultaneously with a single detonator button-press. Mirage and one of his teammates were hidden in a building as close to the presidential palace as they could get. The others were ostensibly scattered across the city, working toward setting into motion events that would ensure that each individual target would be within lethal range of each blast.

Though Mirage was not aware of it, a video camera had been hidden in the room, recording everything that was going on during the execution of the mission's coup de grace. Audio recording devices had also been in place, each member of the team carrying their own recorder.

Mirage paused, his finger hovering over the button, when he heard the soft susurration of metal sliding against leather, the sound of a gun being drawn, from behind him. His teammate was supposed to be there, watching through a telescope, waiting to give the signal once Saddam got into the car. Turning his head slightly, Mirage glanced over his shoulder in time to see his "partner" raising the gun toward his head. Spinning to his left, Mirage swung the hand that gripped the detonator in an arc, smashing the gun out of the other man's hand. His right hand drove out, clenched fist slamming into the other's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. As the other man doubled over, Mirage dived for the gun, scooping it up and pointed it at his assailant's face as he recovered.

Between the video and audio logs recovered by the Agency, it was made clear that their assassin had spilled the beans, under torture and threat of death, about the full details of his orders. Just as the mission was completed, the button pushed, he was to kill Mirage. Mirage, due to his training and psychological profile, had been determined to be among the most dangerous men alive, at least to American interests, if he should decide to side against his own country. There was also the added bonus of leaving behind the body of a "renegade former Marine that had decided to take justice into his own hands, conveniently killed by American forces in attempt to rescue Iraq's president and military leaders, though tragically too late". That was why synchronized bombing was the ordered method of executing the mission's objectives. It was also why Mirage was the one designated to set up the bombs, their triggers, and the detonator.

Mirage, having been told about the video recorder, dragged the bloody, agonized form of his assailant into view of the lens, then shoved the barrel of the silenced .45 down the other man's throat, pulling the trigger. Raising the audio recorder to his lips as the dead body fell, he let loose a string of expletives, then warned that, in no uncertain terms, each and every person sent after him would meet the same fate as the corpse at his feet. He then tossed the recorder onto the body, then crushed the detonator under his boot heel before leaving the building.

He managed to make his way back to the States, having killed only one other member of the team, aside from the intended assassin; the agent that was in place at the airport tried to tail Mirage, only to be killed in one of the bathroom stalls. Once back in America, Mirage telephoned Lt. Donner and demanded to know everything she knew about the mission. She was able to convince him of her own (truthful) innocence, and he told her what had happened and the abortion of the mission. She lived up to her promise, his financial needs being met, even a bonus of half of a million dollars being added because of the inconvenience he had suffered because of the attempted assassination.

In less than a year after that, Mirage had opened his dojo, though deciding to remain in Philadelphia and was well on his way to making it a success. Then, a few years later, his eyes were destroyed by one of his students...an agent that had been sent undercover, though Mirage was under the false impression that it was greed that was the motivating factor in his student's assault. The Agency, realizing the futility of trying to kill Mirage, set into motion the replacing of his eyes with bionic implants, intending to use his recovery time as an opportunity to indoctrinate him into their service. However, his break from reality had not been anticipated, nor his subsequent actions.

Joseph shook his head and blew out a breath through scarred and twisted lips. "Wow," he said. "So, that explains his intense dislike for the Agency and his reaction just now. Anyways, now what?"

"It all depends on him," Maj. Donner said, tilting her head down to the glass-like floor, indicating Mirage, who was standing there staring up directly at her, obviously viewing her through one of the spectra that allowed him to bypass the mirror-effect on the club's ceiling. Arms crossed over his powerful chest, Mirage gave no clues as to what was going on behind his impassive expression...


Chapter Twenty-One: Setting Plans Into Motion...

Mirage shifted forward out of his angry stance, then headed up the stairs quickly. Determination writ clearly on his face, he shoved open the door and stopped, facing his friend and Maj. Donner. He stood there, glaring at the woman for a few minutes. She obviously must have told Joseph about his feelings about the Agency, as well as the reasons behind them. He had read that much on her lips as she spoke while he was downstairs, staring up through the one-way transparent floor of the office. One-way, at least, to any other eyes except for his.

Barely giving a nod to Joseph, Mirage then said to Maj. Donner, "We will work with you, on one condition: all of the planning will be done by myself, and you and the Agency will only be informed of what those plans are after they're enacted. Understood?"

Major Donner nodded, then started to say, "Mirage, I understand, but...", but she was interrupted by the door slamming shut behind Mirage as he turned and stalked away, heading back downstairs and out of the club. "Well, that was pleasant," she said dryly. "I suppose that it's better than nothing, which is what I expected to be my answer, quite honestly. I knew that I was going to have to reveal my connection to the Agency sooner or later, so I opted to be up-front about it," she continued on, more to herself than to Joseph. Then, turning to the criminal mastermind, she added, "I take it you've not been completely honest with him, yourself, either. He didn't make any mention about your own connection with Mr. Rolbard, nor about you having contacted us asking for information on his brother about a year ago, which is what led us to our lovely encounter this evening."

Joseph sighed, then shook his head a bit. "No," he replied. "I never told him about any of that. My connection with Mr. Rolbard is a very distant one. Not long after we branched out to there, I approved some funding that had been requisitioned by our West Coast branch for some facial reconstruction surgery, ostensibly for one of our agents there. I didn't know it at the time, but the recipient of that surgery was one "Jason Lomari", the head of that branch, though I didn't find out about it being for him until a few weeks after the fact. By then, it didn't matter any more, and I didn't connect it to being a potential threat to us. I had thought that perhaps he'd been injured in some way and didn't want to be confused for me."

When his chuckling at his own joke subsided, Joseph continued, "I contacted the Agency to find out what information could be had on Chris Forland, aka: Chris Rolbard, though we didn't know his real name until recently, because I was in the process of trying to cultivate him for a position in the family: head of security. I figured that whatever information I could glean from a C.I.A. background check would fill whatever holes were left from what I learned from "Jason" about him. I didn't want to let Mirage know about it in case he thought that perhaps I might do the same with him, if not have done so already. His trust is a finicky thing, one minute there and the next somewhere off in left field...in a different stadium, you know what I mean?"

Chuckling, Major Donner nodded. "I do, indeed. He was like that even before he broke away from what most of society considers "reality". Then again, his training and experiences did tend to make him that way, after all," she said.

A smile flickered across Joseph's lips when he heard Major Donner's laughter, honest for the first time since meeting her. Upon reflection, it was as lovely as the very sight of her. After she spoke, he waved a hand toward the fully-stocked mini-bar across the room, saying, "Enough of business, Mrs. Donner. I have been remiss in my duties as host, and I realize you are perhaps "on duty", but would you care for a drink?"

Smiling wryly, Maj. Donner shook her head, suspecting that she knew what Joseph was up to. "No, but thanks all the same," she said. "I had better be getting back. Reports to file and all that, you know." Joseph, returning her smile, nodded his agreement and escorted her to the building's exit. After watching her shapely backside sway down the street out of sight, he turned back into the club, only to stop short with a start at seeing Mirage, who had come back into the building via a back door.

"Jesus, Mirage," Joseph said, clutching his chest. "Don't fuckin' do that! Show-off..."

"What all did she have to say after I left?" Mirage asked.

Joseph shrugged and dissembled, "Nothing much. Just wanted to know a few more details about Chris and Mark and their connections to us." A half-truth is better than a whole lie, he thought. "I then offered her a drink, as a good host should, but she refused and said she had to leave."

Mirage, so attuned to his friend's vocal mannerisms, as well as watching through his bionic eyes the other physiological changes Joseph's body went through as he told his half-a-lie, said nothing about it. Whatever it was, Joseph would come to it in time, he figured. Though Joseph didn't know it, Mirage's trust in him was greater than ever before, greater than his trust in any other. "Hmmmph," he grunted. "Well, I can tell by how you were staring after her that you're interested. I tell you now, and only as your friend, forget about her. She's an Agency woman, through and through. Even I lost track of what was truth and what was lie while she was talking to us."

Joseph didn't comment on Mirage's last words, though he knew it to be a veiled hint that his friend knew he wasn't being completely honest about what he and Maj. Donner spoke of. Instead, he simply said, "Well, I can certainly see why you call her "Cutie", though. It certainly fits, that's for sure..."

Rolling his eyes, Mirage said to his smitten friend, "Can you reign in your hormones long enough so that we can get back to trying to regain full control of our assets over on the West Coast? You know, the branch of the family that Mark stole from us, remember?"

Chuckling, Joseph nodded. "What did you have in mind?"

Mirage glanced around the deserted club, letting his eyes cycle through every wavelength of light, making sure that there were no listening devices, nor anyone hiding within earshot. The corpses of the two muscle-bound military types that Maj. Donner had brought with her had already been disposed of by Mirage's guards, dumped out into an alley a few streets over.

"Well," Mirage began, after his sweep was finished. "I figured on heading out to L.A. by the end of the week. It seems to be a good place to base our operations from: it's far enough away from the Seattle family mansion that Mark's spies would be hard-pressed to find me and my own spies.

Joseph raised a brow and asked, "Are you sure that's a good idea; you going out to the West Coast is like that one guy from the Bible going into the lions' den, you know?"

Mirage waved a dismissive hand, replying, "Mark knows that I hate L.A....all the yuppies, hippies, and yokels tend to make me physically ill. He won't be looking for me there, so that gives us an advantage."

"And what will you do while you're there?" Joseph asked. "Provided that all of those things don't keep you hugging the porcelain god's idol the entire time."

Mirage chuckled at his friend's joke, then said, "Nothing beyond getting information and passing it on back to you. First rule of recon: we can't plan for much without knowing at least as much as our enemy does." At Joseph's comprehending nod, Mirage continued, "Once I have the information we need, I'll get into contact with you one way or another, then we can see what steps to take next."

"How will you be getting there?" Joseph wanted to know.

"Our own private jets are out of the question, I can't trust that none of our pilots or crews aren't on the payroll of either Mark or the Agency," Mirage answered, his natural tendency toward paranoia once more taking over. "We'll get there on a series of flights on commercial airlines. I'll be using an alias, as will all of the men going with me. We'll take separate flights, to different destinations, but will eventually all reach L.A. at about the same time, with a little careful manipulating of take-off and landing times. We'll meet up in L.A.X., then scatter throughout the city and meet up later at a safe house I'll be setting up once we get there."

"Sounds good," Joseph said. "Make sure you use brand-new aliases, we don't know if Major Cutie or Mark and his spies have found out the ones you currently have or not."

Smirking, Mirage answered, "Do I look like a goddamn amateur to you?"



Chapter Twenty-Two: City By The Bay

Mirage looked out of the open window, frowning. Somewhere, amongst the city spread out around him, Mark had to be there. Mirage felt it in his gut. Either that, or it was a reaction to the Chinese take-out box of tasteless grease he'd eaten earlier. The window was on the top floor of a hotel in San Francisco's Chinatown. Though, calling it a "hotel" was elevating it substantially above the level of "dive", which would have been an extremely polite manner of referring to this place. Yet, it served his and his team's needs for a base of operations. They had all arrived in California, initially separate, and soon discovered that Mark and his own crew had abandoned their operations in Los Angeles about two months prior. Given that Mirage's team had left only the week before, and he'd only told them where they were going and when a few hours before that, it meant that Mark's spies, whoever they were, had possibly only reported his brother's death. The visit from Maj. Donner had only been a month and a half ago, so it was likely that Mark did not yet know that the C.I.A. was working with the family to try and bring him down.

Still, it was damned inconvenient to Mirage that Mark didn't wait for him back in L.A. L.A. was bad enough for turning Mirage's stomach, but being in 'Frisco positively sucked.

Mirage scanned the streets below, but their agents with the local Triads had not yet returned. The only person stirring in the vicinity of the hotel was one of his own men, disguised as a transient, poking through the garbage cans that lined the block, set up there as a contact for the gang members. Mirage sighed; the contact man was going through the can in front of the hotel for the sixth time, so if Mark or someone even half-competent was watching, it would have been obvious to them long before now that the man was a plant. Their contact was late. The check-in was supposed to have been a half-hour ago, and Mirage was getting impatient.

After letting off a soft growl, Mirage then gave a soft whistle in a preset pattern, one that indicated that the "homeless" man should slump against the side of the building and pretend to fall asleep, waiting for one more hour before coming inside. Stepping away from the dirty window and turned around to face the room full of men and equipment. Each of the five others were armed with enough weaponry to make even the Army nervous, and there were more guns in the crates and bags scattered across the floor, particularly a half-dozen of the rail guns. Having taken commercial flights, they had been unable to bring the weapons along with them, so Joseph had arranged for them to be delivered by a private shipping company. The five men were checking each of the guns for damage, cleaning and loading them in preparation for...well, anything. Even Mirage wasn't sure what would happen once they found Mark or his operations in this city, but he wanted to be damned good and ready for it.

A series of peculiar knocks caused Mirage to head over to the door, checking through the wood with his bionic eyes to see his contact man from the street below standing on the other side of it, supporting another man with his shoulder. He opened it to let them through, sweeping his gaze up and down the hallway before shutting the door again. He turned and quirked a brow at the sight of his teammate setting a bleeding Chinese man into a chair. He recognized the Chinese as being one of their Triad spies, only this man seemed to have been run through a meat grinder. Barely conscious, the spy simply rambled in both Cantonese and broken, heavily-accented English through lips the consistency of mush, only a few slurred words of which was Mirage able to identify. He managed to piece together that the group of Triad spies had been ambushed at the recycling center. Though questioned, the spy was unable to identify their attackers, though the obvious concussion brought about by the half-melon-sized lump on top of the man's head could have contributed to that. Mirage then began to issue instructions to his group to gather their gear, himself going armed with his signature .50 caliber Eagles and an assortment of bladed weapons. The homeless-disguised man was to take the Triad one to the closest hospital while the others made their raid...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, just as the sun was beginning to wash out the first stars in the east, the team breached one of the recycling center's garage doors, one man cutting it down with an oxyacetylene torch while the rest stormed in, guns drawn. The place seemed empty, save for piles of sorted recyclable garbage scattered throughout the loading/unloading area. Mirage and the four that rushed in looked around, spotting several blood stains scattered on the concrete floor, yet no bodies. Everything else seemed to be undisturbed. The fifth man entered then, having shut off the torch. They lowered their weapons, disgusted. Apparently, whoever had ambushed the Triads had cleaned house and was long gone. Great.

Suddenly, the piles of garbage exploded up and outward, revealing about two dozen armed men, all of them with automatic weapons aimed at Mirage's group, who were caught off-guard. Mirage signaled that his team should not react, only to stand fast. Perhaps he could negotiate their way out of this and...

His last thought was interrupted by a deafening burst of gunfire from the men surrounding him. His adrenaline level shot up, expecting to feel the burning impact of bullets tearing through his body, determined to ignore any pain and take a few of these bastards with him. By the time he'd raised his gun, however, he realized that he wasn't the target, only his men were. He held his fire in check, knowing that to shoot back would be suicide, obviously these guys had a plan in mind; he wouldn't find out what if he was dead.

The firing stopped after a few seconds, Mirage's men twitching as they lay where they dropped, their blood pooling around them to join with the stains left by the Triad group. Slowly, Mirage raised his hands, anger roiling across his features. He may be captured for the time being, but he was trained for this. He felt confident that he could get free once again, and when he did, he would call down a such a shit-storm on this city that would make the gang wars around here look like schoolyard tussles.

"So nice to see you again, Mirage," said a voice from behind Mirage, appropriate as it was a voice from his past. Mirage turned slowly to face the cut-open door and the man standing framed by it. "I knew you were coming," Mark said, sliding his hands deep into the pockets of his green trench coat, one that was cut in the same lines as Mirage's own black duster. "My spies in the Agency told me that Mrs. Donner had been trying to find you, and you standing here now indicates she succeeded." His tone turned mocking as he added, "My compliments on tracking us down here, though you really should have realized it was a trap. Seems you've gotten careless, my old comrade. Or, maybe your thirst for vengeance against me is what made you miss the obvious set-up. Ah, well, no matter. You're here in my city now, so let's get caught up, shall we?"

With a mock-friendly smile on his lips, Mark glanced over Mirage's shoulder and nodded. The man that had taken advantage of Mirage's surprise and been able to sneak up on him slammed his HK into Mirage's skull, setting off a brilliant flash of fireworks behind Mirage's eyes as he slid into darkness.

The last thing he heard was Mark's mocking laughter as he said, "Pleasant dreams, old friend."



Chapter Twenty-Three: Throw Out The Geneva Convention...

When Maj. Donner entered the mansion's office, she saw Joseph sitting behind the desk with an SD memory card in his hand. "Sit down," he directed in a tight tone, indicating a chair on the other side of the desk, angled to allow a view of the large television hung on the opposite wall. As she did so, he inserted the card into a reader inset to his desk; a powerful computer had been built into it to his specifications, the television acting as a screen. He viciously thrust the remote at the television as though he held a knife instead, hitting the power button as he did so. "I thought you might be interested in this," he said as the screen came on. Anger suffused his voice and face, tightly suppressed. "I've already seen it. I felt that you should be made aware of the situation as well, seeing as how you played a part in getting our mutual friend into his predicament."

Maj. Donner turned toward the television as the video began to play, seeing a figure sitting in a chair, bound, duct tape wrapped around his head and eyes. Little of his surroundings could be made out, as the rest of the room was darkened, save for the bright floodlight that washed over the man's slumped form. The drool making its way down the man's chin and his slumped posture indicated a drugged state, keeping him on the edge of awareness. "Oh, no..." she whispered. "Mirage? How?" she asked, turning toward Joseph in alarm.

"Just watch," he replied.

She turned back to see Mark stepping into the light, a smug grin on his face. "So," Mark said. "Here we are, you sitting there safe in your office, Joseph, hundreds of miles away from any real danger. Me, here in my own city, and with your friend, Mirage, the man responsible for so much of my misery, in my power. Don't worry, what you're about to see won't kill Mirage. At least, I hope it doesn't. For, you see, I owe him so much more than just a death. I mean to take everything from him, just as he did me, and that includes you and your "family", Joseph. Mirage has no brother for me to kill, this is true. Still he has you, the closest thing to it. So, enjoy this show while it lasts. Because, the next performance with have yourself as the main feature, while Mirage watches."

With that, Mark turned away from the camera, reaching into his pockets with both hands and fumbling for a moment before removing clenched fists...wearing two sets of brass knuckles. Savagely, and without a word, he began to mercilessly punch the semi-conscious Mirage, eliciting grunts and groans. Though drugged, Mirage refused to cry out, even when blood appeared on his face and shirt, pouring from a broken nose and smashed lips. Even after spitting out a tooth, he simply took the beating in stoic silence. Not even when Mark began working on his chest, obviously breaking several ribs in the process, did Mirage utter more than impact grunts.

On and on the beating went, until it was plain that Mirage couldn't offer even token resistance to a mouse nibbling on his toes, let alone raise his head to defy Mark further. When Mark roughly jerked Mirage's head upward, Maj. Donner and Joseph could see that the tape had torn loose from his swollen eyes, the bionic implants darkened, indicating a non-functioning state. A faint moan escaped Mirage's tattered, mushy lips, showing that he still lived, and was barely conscious, despite the beat-down. Apparently, Mark had been careful to avoid allowing Mirage to sink into that slight reprieve, changing his punches' targets to bring about the maximum amount of pain, without knocking him out.

"That was just a taste," Mark said harshly to Mirage, breathing heavily with exertion and repressed hatred. "A taste of the shit I've had to put up with while I was locked up. Imagine a beating like that being given to you every single day, and worse. Oh, much worse..." With that, he produced a knife from a sheath hanging at his belt and cut the ropes tying Mirage to the chair, then slung the stuporous man onto the floor, the camera following the movement and panning out to allow a wider view. Then, staring into the camera's lens the entire time, Mark proceeded to cut Mirage's pants off, then pulled him into position and began to...

"I don't think you should see more," Joseph said,turning the television off. Though initially angry with Maj. Donner for her part in getting Mirage to rush into the situation, he did have a grudging respect for her, bolstered by watching her facial expressions react to the acts on the screen: revulsion chased by horror pursued by outrage, then coming full circle when Mark proceeded to his extremely despicable act.

"Mirage is alive, that much I can tell. What kind of shape he's in, if Mark made good on his implied threat to continue with the torture each day, I don't know. I do know that the video was made three days after Mirage was captured and his team wiped out, as well as it has been five days since the taping. What I want to know is: what do we do about it?"

Maj. Donner prided herself on having all the answers, on being able to work out solutions to problems before they existed. So, it would be understandable to those that knew her to hear the despair in her voice as she answered, "I don't know..."



Chapter Twenty-Four: The Tormented...

Mark glared through the glass ceiling of the cell below. Laying on the floor in a crumpled heap was the man he hated most in the world: Mirage. Of course, having served together during Desert Storm, he knew Mirage's real name, but thinking of him by his codename served to further dehumanize him in Mark's mind. This...thing in the cell had been responsible for the most torturous time of his life, and he meant to visit upon him every demeaning facet of existence he was forced to endure while in prison. Including the urine and feces mixed into his food, which was sitting, untouched, in a corner where Mirage had half-stuporously shoved it when he smelled the foul concoction a few days ago. Even though maggots were squirming around inside of the tray, Mark had no intention of replacing the food until Mirage had eaten the first batch. He would eat or starve, Mark cared little for which.

Mirage's current state was thanks to a combination of malnutrition and the beating Mark had given him earlier. Mark did not wish for his revenge to be denied because his target died on him, so he had sent one of his men, one with medical training, to fetch a bag of saline, minimal liquid nutrients, and I.V. equipment. He watched as the door to the cell opened and the medic entered, pulling the I.V. pole beside him. The medic knelt next to Mirage and rolled him over, then took up his left arm, preparing to jab the needle into the vein in the bend of his elbow. With a sigh, Mark started to turn away, disgusted at how Mirage was just giving up any pretense of resistance. His attention was grabbed, however, when a sudden movement below caught the corner of his eye.

He turned back in time to see Mirage wrapping his arms around the medic's head and give a sharp twist. Even through the thick glass, Mark could hear the hollow snapping of neck bones and the thump of the dropped body. Mirage lay there, gasping, apparently having used up what energy he had managed to gather during his rest. Between the broken bones and that burst of activity, however, he was unable to make good his opportunity to escape through the door the medic had left open. Mark pushed a button on the wall that caused the door to shut on a mechanized hinge. Then, he spoke into an intercom speaker, smirking, "Nice try, Mirage. Now, you're stuck in there with rotten food and a rotting corpse. I can only imagine the smell in there. If you want, I can arrange for you to get cleaner clothing and surroundings, but you'll have to prove that you'll behave. Keep that up, and you can rot in there, yourself. You are in my power, you have to play by my rules. Deal with it."

Through the speaker grill, an animalistic growling could be heard, interspersed with gasping. Mirage's answer, apparently. Pressing the "talk" button again, Mark replied, "So be it. Let's see how a week or so with the smell of your own waste and the rest of the shit in there will change your opinion." With a click, he turned off the intercom and walked away, waving over one of the guards standing at the door. "Set a 24-hour watch on him," he ordered. "Nobody goes in, and he doesn't come out, no matter what. I don't care how injured or sick he looks. The only exception is if he attempts suicide. Let him pass out before entering, however. He is extremely dangerous, and I want him treated that way." The guard nodded, then left to make arrangements for the orders to be carried out.

Mark glanced back at the glass pensively. He desperately wanted to know Mirage's mind. If he couldn't read it, he would break it...



Chapter Twenty-Five: Animalistic Mentality...

A few days after the incident with the medic, Mark was once again watching Mirage through the glass partition set into the floor of his office. This time, numerous armed, muscular guards were in the cell, chaining the dangerous man down to the floor so that another medic could insert an I.V. needle into Mirage's arm. Having taken nothing for sustenance in nearly a week, Mirage was weakened to the point of offering up but the most feeble of resistance. Still, after what happened last time, Mark was taking no chances.

Finished, the medic glanced up to the glass ceiling and nodded once, then left the cell with the guards, Mirage still tightly restrained. Every few hours, he would return to change out the drip bag with fresh saline and nutrients, noting how quickly Mirage was recovering from his malnutrition and dehydration. Dispassionately, Mark watched it all, staring at his nemesis as though mesmerized. Every time the door opened, Mirage would try to lunge upward, only to slam back into the floor as the chains tightened on his wrists and ankles. Under the floor was a machine that pulled the chains down into it any time the prisoner attempted to move, painfully drawing the shackles tightly into the man's flesh. Blood seeped from the manacles where the skin had broken. The medic, without even coming close enough to touch...or, for that matter, be touched...observed the bleeding until satisfied that there was no danger of exsanguination.

Conscious once more, Mirage growled as he felt the I.V. line shift, then slowly began to draw steadily upon the chains. It almost seemed as though he was trying to overpower the machine below, but his all too-human musculature lacked the strength to do so. It would take an engine of some size to accomplish what Mirage wanted to do, and at that would likely only accomplish perhaps ripping it from the foot-long bolts that secured the machine to the floor. Mirage lay there, his muscles finally relenting, and gasped like a grounded fish.

Mark went over to the intercom and pressed the button, saying into it, "Do you see now, Mirage, how futile your attempts are? You will not escape here. And, even if you do manage to break free of the chains, you cannot see. Your eyes have ceased to function. Without them, you cannot hope to outfight or outrun my guards. It is hopeless.

"And, now, my friend," Mark continued, pointing and nodding at one of the guards in the office, who nodded in return and left. "To show you just how completely you are in my power, I shall take away yet another thing of yours." In moments, a struggling young woman was dragged into the cell and flung down atop Mirage's supine form.

"Mirage, I'm here," sobbed Maj. Donner's voice as the woman smoothed Mirage's sweat-plastered hair from his face.

A growl rose from Mirage's throat that eventually formed words, "I don't care what it takes, Rolbard. When I get free from here, the first thing I'm going to do is not escape, but find you and kill you. If I have to, I'll do it by tearing your throat out with my own teeth."

Chuckling, Mark replied, "You keep that in mind, old friend. That's assuming, of course, you still have any teeth left by the time I get done with you."

The woman looked up through the glass in horror. "Leave this poor man alone, you-" she started to say, but was cut off by the impact of a rifle stock against the side of her head. Not enough to knock her out, but it did knock her down across Mirage's body again. Mirage, for his part, lost capability of human speech again and began to growl and roar, tugging at the restraints once more as the woman lay crying atop him.

Mark waited for a few moments longer, then said coldly, "Kill her."

The woman looked up sharply, just in time to see the .45 Colt 1911 being pulled from its holster, aimed in her direction, and the tightening of the guard's trigger finger. A bright flash of light and a loud bang was the last thing she experienced just before the bullet entered through her forehead and out the back, spraying Mirage with blood and brain-matter. "Leave her," was all Mark said before dismissing the guard, who left, slamming the heavy steel door behind him.

Mirage didn't reply, didn't respond in any way. He almost seemed to be in a catatonic state.



Chapter 26: "Ow, my back! Take that out of there!"

Mirage woke suddenly from the dream he had been having. Disturbing on a level even to his fractured psyche, he found that he was coated in sweat. However, it wasn't the dream that had awakened him. It was the body being moved off of him. Still blind, still chained to the floor, he tried to shrink away, fear finally setting its claws into him.

He felt small, feminine hands at his shackles, unbinding his wrists with care. As soon as his right hand was free, he struck out weakly, trying to grab for a throat, an arm, anything, only to fall back in surprise as he heard a woman's voice.

"Mirage!" whispered Major Donner's voice sharply. "Stop it, I'm here to save you!"

Deep in shock and barely able to whisper himself, Mirage slurred, "How...how did...you get here?"

"I snuck in and infiltrated the compound," Major Donner said. "You've been in captivity for a month now. Joseph doesn't even know I'm here, but he's waiting for you. I told him that the Agency would help you in whatever way we could. Come on." She freed his other hand, then gently raised him to a sitting position. Mirage then felt a sharp hiss on the side of his neck as she injected something into him. "It's a stimulant," she said, restraining him from flinching away. "You have malnutrition, as well as your muscles have started to atrophy. I need you strong."

Mirage felt the stimulant rushing through his body, strengthening him, allowing him to help her get him to his feet. He was still too weak to walk unaided, however, leaning heavily against her slight form with his arm across her shoulders. Stumbling, he let her lead him to the door.

There, they paused as she looked up and down the empty hallway. Then she pulled another injector out and pressed it to Mirage's neck. "It's something that should let your vision clear up. I did a little research through the notes we've collected about the surgery to give you your bionic eyes and found a cocktail of chemicals that might help your eyes 'reboot'."

Indeed, Mirage's vision suddenly came back. In his current state, however, he found that seeing was as painful as it had been immediately following the original surgery. He had to squint against the dim lights, and found it too difficult to shift between the different spectra. "Where's Mark?" he gasped, flicking his own gaze up and down the hallway as if he expected his tormentor to suddenly jump out at him, then struggled to focus his view on the girl supporting his weight. It did, indeed, appear to be Major Donner.

How is this possible? he thought to himself. I thought Mark killed her? Was it some sort of trick? Was this? If it was, what was the purpose, especially in giving me my sight back?

"Let's go," Major Donner grunted as she pushed away from the doorway, pulling Mirage along. She tried to keep their passage silent, but Mirage's stumbling and grunts of pain made that impossible. Fortunately, they didn't run into any curious guards on the way.

After several interminable minutes of furtive movements followed by breathless resting and watching for pursuit, Major Donner pushed Mirage toward an unmarked door in the middle of another hallway. "This one," she hissed. "Go! There's another door inside that room. I have to go disable the alarm system to let you out, so don't try to open it! I'll meet you inside in just a minute. Go!"

Mirage shoved open the door, Ashley closing it once he stumbled inside the darkened room. Unable to shift his mode of vision, he found himself flailing around blindly as soon as the door shut. Helpless, and still weakened from his ordeal, he tripped over his own feet and fell heavily on the floor. Unwilling to just wait around for help, he crawled painfully over to the wall and pulled himself to a sitting position, his body screaming at him as he rested. He heard nothing aside from his own breathing for what seemed to be several minutes. Repressing a yell of agony, he turned on the floor and began to use the wall to pull himself to his feet when his hands found something cold and smooth...Glass.

Painfully, light stabbed into his eyes, causing him to recoil and crash to the floor again. Hand upraised to protect his eyes, he squinted into the glare to perceive a pair of shadows on the other side of the thick window set into the wall. They stood close together, the larger shadow's arm draped familiarly across the smaller's shoulders, holding it tightly. From a small speaker grille set below the window, he heard laughter: a man's and a woman's.

His vision cleared slowly, but enough to tell him that it was Mark Rollbard and Major Ashley Donner, holding one another like lovers. He saw Mark kiss Ashley passionately, then heard him whisper, "Well done, my dear...I was wondering how we'd get him in there when you came home. Thank you."