Chapter 10


Brian Kinney was a free spirit. In fact, he was almost the poster child for the entire concept - an individual who lived his life according to his own unique principles (even if there were many who chose to believe that he had none). He never pretended to be anything other than what he was - gay (first and foremost), bright, unapologetic, brutally honest, intellectually gifted, ambitious, demanding, adventurous, promiscuous, and impatient with posturing of any kind. Unique, in all things, and unbound by the conventional morality others might try to apply to him, which was not to say that he didn't have a very explicit moral code of his own, but it was one he kept to himself, rarely allowing anyone to perceive it.

But the truth was that he never felt freer, or less restricted, or more unconfined, than when he was cruising down the road on his Harley, enjoying the throb of the power between his legs (and no, the deeper meaning of that particular metaphor was not lost on him).

This was especially true in the wee, small hours of the morning, when the streets were virtually deserted and he could safely ignore the limits applied by regulatory laws and traffic congestion. Thus, when he emerged from the alley behind Babylon, he was already close to maximum acceleration, and when he came to the next corner, where the narrow side street intersected a major thoroughfare, he didn't bother to slow down; he simply took the corner at speed by leaning into the left turn at a sharp angle, before roaring down the 4-lane boulevard, ignoring traffic lights and speed limits and even, to some degree, the laws of physics. If there had been a police patrol car around, he'd have been busted - and saved. But there wasn't, so he continued on his way, reveling in the freedom of the ride and the speed of his passage, and ignoring anything that might be lurking behind him, safely submerged beneath the growl of his engine.

He had never bothered to analyze how he felt when he was in this particular zone; it pretty much defied analysis anyway. But he occasionally imagined that the sensation was similar to what an eagle must feel when it soared into the sky, freeing itself from the chains of gravity.

Scraps of poetry always sang within him at such moments, and he understood the poet's musings on a visceral level - knew what it was to "slip the surly bonds of earth, and dance the sky on laughter-silvered wings."*

Flying.

The thought struck him before his rational mind had a chance to rein it in.

Flying. Like Justin.

He was suddenly not quite so enamored of the sensation, or so caught up in the revelry of the moment. So eager to reach for infinity. So free.

Up ahead, at a major intersection, he saw a traffic light shift from green to amber, and spotted the headlights of a bright red 18-wheeler sporting a familiar logo, as the driver began to ease the big rig forward. For a moment - a moment, he knew, of complete madness - he debated making a dash for it, pinning his hopes on being fast enough to roar through the intersection safely (somewhat) with a couple of inches to spare, before the truck could completely block the way.

Even though the rational part of his mind was insisting there was no way he could make it, he almost gave in to the impulse, almost listened to the tiny little whisper in the back of his mind which occasionally reminded him of how spectacular it would be to risk it all, to take the chance that might result in leaving this dark, dreary world in a blaze of glory. Like Cobain, or Morrison, or Hendrix. Forever young. Forever beautiful.

For the space of a heartbeat, he wavered and wondered. The same thing he always wondered: what would it be like? What came next, if, indeed, anything came next? How hard would it be to find out? And how easy would it be to just let everything go. Feel nothing. Know nothing.

As it happened, he was teetering on the verge of a pivotal moment, the confluence of a set of circumstances that would prove to be a major turning point in his life. Of course, he had no way of knowing that, as such moments occur in every life and are almost never recognized. Nevertheless, if he had given in to his impulse, and continued to accelerate, pouring on the speed, he would have cleared the intersection safely, if only by a couple of inches, while the truck would have blocked the way for the vehicle coming up behind him.

And he almost did, but survival instincts (flawed but imminently rational) kicked in and prompted him to slow down instead of speeding up; it would prove to be one of the costliest mistakes of his life.

He eased off the accelerator and coasted, biding his time and hoping the light would turn before he was forced to come to a complete stop, thoughts still spinning around his own personal intimations of mortality.

Thus, he did not see the huge, black SUV until it was upon him, until he felt a loop of rope settle over his shoulders and jerk itself tight as a ham-handed fist wrapped itself in the collar of his jacket and yanked him sideways off the bike. He was momentarily suspended in mid-air, then pulled toward the side of the big car, where he was slammed into the door, knocking the wind out of him and banging his head against the frame, before being dragged into the dark interior.

He was still struggling to regain his breath when he was thrown onto the floor, and felt himself grasped by rough hands as a heavy weight settled onto his back, while someone pulled his helmet from his head before shoving his face against the rough carpet.

Then he heard the hoarse laughter.

"Well, look what we got here, Fellas. I think we caught ourselves a real live faggot - and a pretty one too."

Brian had spent his whole life fighting his way out of tight corners while simultaneously making sure that anyone who dared to attack him lived to regret choosing him as a target. It was all he knew, and he saw no reason to change now, but when he tried to buck up and twist away from the weight on his back, he realized he was heavily outnumbered. There were at least four wide bodies around him, focused, for the moment, on keeping him face down and immobilized.

Nevertheless, it wasn't in his nature to simply settle back and accept whatever fate might have in store for him, so he spent a few seconds gathering himself and mastering his breathing. After a short time, he realized his assailants had assumed that he was too overwhelmed to fight back, perhaps even only semi-conscious; then he used the strength of his legs and body to thrust himself upwards, while twisting violently, using fists, arms, and elbows as weapons. Regardless of the gravity of his situation, he felt a surge of adrenaline-fueled glee as his elbow connected solidly with someone's face and he felt the sudden gush of warm blood from a broken nose. At the same time, he sank his fingers into the soft tissue beneath another's jawline and squeezed with all his strength, reducing his target to gasping for breath.

"Son of a bitch!" snarled a guttural voice in his ear, as he was grabbed from behind and immobilized by massive arms. "He sure don't hit like a fuckin' fairy."

For a few seconds, there was pandemonium, as Brian continued to struggle, managing to kick out and catch one of his attackers squarely in the balls and another in his kneecap. Both screamed as they went down.

But in the end, there were simply too many of them, and they were too big and too angry and too determined. Once more Brian was forced down, and this time his assailants had learned a valuable lesson. This time, they would take no chances. Moving quickly and roughly, they retrieved the rope they'd used to capture him, and bound him tightly so he could not fight back. Then two of them sat astride his prone body, to make sure he couldn't wriggle free as another jammed a gag in his mouth.

Immobilized by their combined weight, Brian was once more having to fight to breathe, but he was marginally surprised to note that he had yet to succumb to panic or desperation. Then he sensed that someone else had joined the circle around him - someone who had been content thus far to sit back and watch and enjoy the spectacle of his capture.

For a few moments, there was only silence and a slight shift among his attackers as they moved aside to grant the newcomer access.

Up to this point, Brian had been filled with rage, intent only on inflicting as much damage as he could. Then he felt a pressure against his shoulder as the man who had just knelt beside him leaned forward, bracing his weight against Brian's body, and spoke slowly, as if savoring the words, and there was no doubt that everyone inside the vehicle was listening intently.

"Get us out of here," said the voice, a deep, raspy baritone with just a hint of a brogue threading through the rough accent. "Before his fuckin' private army comes along. Take us to the rendezvous, where it's nice and private and dark, where we can take our time and enjoy every second of this special occasion." The man shifted forward suddenly, and Brian almost gagged from the stench of an unwashed body, as the voice dropped to a rough whisper. "I promise you this, Pretty Boy. We're gonna make it a night you'll never forget."

Brian felt the SUV accelerate hard, and turn sharply to the right, and he fought to draw a deep breath, remembering what lay in that direction. The warehouse district, where there were blocks and blocks of decrepit old storage buildings, most of them long-abandoned. A derelict place which was virtually unoccupied even during daylight hours, and ghostly at night, a place where few dared to walk.

A place where people went to lose themselves, or to dispose of things they did not want, things that were used up and broken.

Strangely, it was not until that moment that he actually began to understand the danger he was in. Understand and, with barely a second thought, accept it. He remembered the actions and the demeanors of the men who had attacked Emmett just the night before, and knew immediately that these were the same people, with the same intentions.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift, for just a moment, realizing he might very well not survive this encounter, and it struck him suddenly that it was one thing to contemplate relinquishing his hold on life and going out in the proverbial blaze of glory, but was very much another to accept that his life might be taken from him.

But he would face whatever came, as he always had, with few regrets.

He would have liked to have had a chance to say good-bye to the only three people who had ever really mattered to him - his son, his best friend, and the only man he would ever love.

He thought about Gus, and felt a deep abiding sadness that his child would have to grow up without a father, but he was pretty sure Gus would not really remember him any way, and the little boy would be well taken care of by his lesbian mothers.

He thought about Michael, who had always been there for him - almost; who had always loved him, even when he tried not to. But Michael had Ben now, and J.R. and Hunter. Michael no longer needed Brian to run interference, to stand up for him and protect him. He would survive the loss, no matter how much he might mourn.

But Justin . . . Justin would always remember, would never allow himself to forget. Brian could not deny that, knowing that regardless of all the things that kept them apart and kept them from living out their lives together, no one would ever love him as Justin loved him, just as no one would ever love Justin as Brian did. So it was inevitable that Justin would grieve for him and go on grieving - for a while. But eventually, he would recover and go on with his life so, in the end, the world would continue without Brian Kinney, as if he'd never lived at all. And maybe, said an ugly little voice inside him, it would have been better that way. Still, Brian hated to think about the pain his young lover - the only soul mate he would ever know - would endure.

So he would fight to survive, to prevail, to make it through, although he knew the odds were against him. Still, he would not die docile and indifferent, nor for lack of fighting to live. But in truth, he had to admit he had always known this day might come. Invincibility had always been a cloak he chose to wear, but it had been no more than a convenient illusion, worn for appearances only, to comfort those who depended on him and needed him. No one, after all, was immune to the viciousness of hatred and intolerance and the cruelest cut of all - random chance.

He took another deep breath, and tried to focus, to think, to find a glimmer of light in the darkness.

But as he thought, as he plotted, struggling for breath and desperate to find a way or make a way, he was aware of a small voice buried deep in his consciousness - a voice that whispered only one thing.

"Good-bye, Sunshine."

His respite, and the opportunity to contemplate his fate, was brief.

When he felt himself lifted roughly and slammed into a new position, as brutal hands ripped away his jacket and shirt and tore at his skin, he tried to brace himself, to summon the toughness he knew he would need as he once more became the center of attention for the thugs gathered around him. At that point, he couldn't concentrate on anything except the initial stages of pain which he knew was only going to get worse before it got better - if it ever got better - and his resolve to endure whatever he must in order to survive.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Mother-fucker!" snarled Lance Mathis, careening around the corner in pursuit of the motorcycle that had vanished into the night. "I should have known. It was right in front of my eyes, and I never saw . . ."

"What?" demanded Drew. "What was right in front of your eyes?"

"Boots!" snapped the security chief.

Drew and Emmett exchanged glances, each convinced that their companion had momentarily lost his mind in the urgency of the moment, as Lance floored the accelerator of the Land Rover. "Boots?" they both echoed, obviously confused.

"He was wearing boots," Lance explained impatiently. "A label queen like Kinney doesn't wear biker boots unless there's a reason for it. Versace, maybe, or Prada. But not biker's engineer boots. I saw them. I just didn't put two and two together. So I should have known."

"Ummm, Sweetie," said Emmett gently, "I hate to burst your bubble, but I've seen Brian wear boots lots of times, so there was no way . . ."

Mathis didn't bother to suppress the eye-roll. "Not like this. These were real boots - the kind Harley riders wear. And the jeans were a clue too. Not 7's or True Religion. Real, honest-to-God 501's. Not even close to what you'd expect from a man who probably wears Gucci underwear."

Emmett closed his eyes and visualized Brian as he'd looked when he'd come down from his office, playing his slinky, predatory walk for all it was worth, and realized that the security chief was right. On this night, Brian had forsaken sartorial elegance for street creds, and none of them had picked up on the clues.

"Still," he reasoned, "you shouldn't blame yourself. You've only just met Brian, so how could you know . . ."

Mathis smiled, but there was no warmth or joy in it. "I make it my business to know everything about my clients, and I learn fast. I picked Drew's brain for everything he knew, and I checked him out on line. And then I talked with his employees, who tend to see a man more clearly than his friends do. So trust me when I tell you that I know more than you think I do. As for knowing the man behind the mask . . ." He paused and glanced toward his cousin, and there was a nameless shadow in his eyes neither of his companions could quite identify. "I doubt that anybody - anywhere - really knows that man. Because he surrounds himself with walls - for protection - and never lets anyone inside to see who he really is."

Emmett's mouth gaped. "How did you know that?"

Mathis paused before answering, locked up for a moment in dark memories of another beautiful young man who had been forced to lock his heart away from the world. "I've seen it before," he said finally, his tone making it clear that he would say no more on the subject.

"Did you reach Horvath?" he asked, as Drew shoved his cell phone back into his pocket.

"Yeah. He's bringing the cavalry, but . . . "

"But?"

It was Emmett who dared to ask the question. "Where should he bring them? How do we find him?"

"Well," Lance replied, his voice subdued, "we can start right there."

Emmett turned to follow the direction of the security chief's gaze and gasped as he took in the sight of the big, powerful motorcycle lying half-way on its side, against the curb, with its front wheel jammed against the base of a street light.

Lance slowed and drove past the Harley, glancing at the bike only long enough to determine if it would reveal anything about the condition or location of its rider (it didn't), then coming to a stop as he reached the next intersection, his gaze sweeping left, then right. The only vehicle in sight was a big red 18-wheeler two blocks down on the left, signaling to make a right turn. In the opposite direction, there was nothing but an empty stretch of road disappearing into the darkness, beyond the spectral shape of a rusted-out railroad crossing signal just visible within the meager glow of the last functional streetlight.

"Now what?" asked Emmett, not quite able to suppress the fear that sent his voice into a higher octave.

Lance Mathis watched the truck make its swing onto the thoroughfare that would lead to the entrance ramp of Interstate 279 a few miles to the north and knew that, if the Escalade had managed to make that turn ahead of the big rig, it was probably long gone, and their chances of intercepting it almost non-existent.

Then he turned and looked off to his right, noting the shabby condition of the street and the buildings stretching off into the darkness.

He had almost nothing to go on, except for the vaguest suspicion of a hunch. From what he'd seen of Kinney, he would not go down easily or without a fight, and his abductors might not have any desire to prolong their time in the vehicle. If Mathis was right about their intentions - and he'd have bet big money that he was - then they wouldn't want to risk drawing attention to themselves or keeping their victim in the car for too long just in case he managed to find a way to upset their plans. Kinney was nothing if not resourceful, and it was a sure thing his attackers knew that as well as Mathis did.

"What's down there?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to the dark area to his right, wishing he'd had more time to study the city and familiarize himself with potential trouble spots.

Drew and Emmett exchanged uneasy glances. "It's the old warehouse district," Drew said finally, then hesitated before adding, "They call it the Dead Zone."

Lance nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure they do. So I think that's where we're going."

"What?" Emmett squawked. "Why?"

Lance sighed. "Because it's my best guess. Because it's all we've got. Because - if I'm wrong - then there's nowhere else to go."

"But what if . . ."

Lance spun the wheel to the right, and accelerated sharply. "Look. I don't really know anything. But my instinct tells me these bastards are too anxious to get on with their fun to waste time driving to some remote place out in the country. Especially when there's a pretty remote place close at hand. And if you're thinking that they could be anywhere by now, blazing up 279 at 100 mph and already out of reach, you're right. They could be, and if they are, the bottom line is that we're not going to find him. Not in time, and, maybe, not ever. So do we just give up and stop looking, or do we take the only chance we've got and go looking, and hope we've guessed right?"

For a moment, it looked like Emmett wanted to argue, but, in the end, he didn't, opting instead to settle into the back seat and chew on a ragged cuticle, as Drew once more pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the button to activate a pre-programmed number.

"The warehouse district," he said without preamble, when his call was answered. "And no sirens. If they hear us coming, there's no way he's coming out of there alive."

Then he paused and listened for a moment. "No, we don't know where exactly. We might even be completely wrong, but it's all we've got." Then he frowned. "Although you might want to send a patrol car to intercept a Coca-Cola truck that's barreling up toward 279. No way of being sure, but the driver might have seen something."

Lance darted a quick look at his cousin, before favoring him with a grin and a sharp thumbs up. Sometimes, out of sheer luck, amateurs spotted things that pros might miss.

He desperately hoped this was one of those times.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


He had promised himself he wouldn't pass out, and he'd succeeded - mostly. But he had drifted a bit, floating on the surface of nothingness after a particularly nasty kick to the groin coinciding with a blow to the diaphragm. But drifting had done nothing to dissuade his attackers; they had simply gone on with the bludgeoning, figuring - correctly - that he would feel it sharply enough once he surfaced from his near-fugue state.

Thus it was that he had no idea how much time had passed when the SUV stopped, and he was dragged from the back of the vehicle and trundled into a dark building, where the only light came from a group of lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls and overhead rails, a couple of handheld torches, and the flicker of a fire burning in a barrel. The concrete floor underfoot was stained and cracked, and the cavernous chamber into which he was dragged echoed in the darkness and was frigidly cold, with a layer of frost on the massive piles of debris that had accumulated in corners and against rusted metal walls.

Despite the fact that he'd been barely conscious only moments before, he did not go easily, struggling and fighting against his bonds as he was wrestled forward. He managed to drive a knee into the groin of one of his assailants and twist free for just a moment, just long enough to notice a small platform on the other side of the building, with another door, directly across from the one through which he'd been dragged, and the group of figures standing there in the shadows, looking down on his struggle.

He could discern nothing about them, except that there appeared to be four of them and  they were careful to stay away from any flicker of light and removed from the activity taking place below them, though close enough to see it all.

The big boys, he thought. The powers that be. He could not identify a single feature on a single face. And yet, he thought, he knew them. Not perhaps by name. But he knew nonetheless.

They wanted to revel in his pain and his terror - to bathe in his humiliation. They wanted a show.

He actually managed to dredge up a smile. They wanted a show, and he would give them one, but it would not, perhaps, be the one they were anticipating.

Then he was driven to his knees under the blow of fists joined together and swung from behind to connect with the base of his skull, forcing him to fight to remain conscious as he was jerked backward and slammed against an iron railing. Two sets of arms wrapped around him from behind to keep him still as three men scurried to chain him, spread-eagled, to the upright metal supports, securing him at wrists, shoulders, neck, torso and knees. When they were done, he was immobilized completely, with no room for error. A twist too far in one direction or a lunge in another would serve to cut off his air and render him more helpless than he already was.

Yet, he still struggled, unwilling - unable to simply give up and give in, managing, somehow, to head-butt the first of his attackers to step up and come close.

"Son of a bitch!" snarled the luckless assailant, as blood gushed from his nose. "I've had enough of his shit. Somebody give me a knife, and . . ."

"Not yet!" said a voice from the shadows - low-pitched, cultured, almost emotionless. Yet, somehow, everyone in the building sensed the tone of triumph threaded through each word.

"There is yet much to be done," the voice continued. "Much that our guest has to atone for."

Brian lifted his head and stared toward the speaker, and summoned up a rough, bloody smile. "What's the matter, Sport?" he asked. "You jealous because I wouldn't suck your dick?"

No one offered a verbal answer, although there was the faint whoosh of indrawn breath from one of the watchers as the massive individual with the horrendous body odor stepped forward to grasp Brian's left hand and proceeded to break two of his fingers, as nonchalantly as if he were snapping a stick.

Brian drew a hoarse breath, and bit down hard on his bottom lip, but he did not scream.

The finger breaker leaned forward and nuzzled his big nose against Brian's ear and spoke very softly. "You think you're gonna be able to resist all this, and hold your tongue? Think again, Baby Boy. Hold it all you want. Fuck, bite it off. But you're still gonna scream before we're done with you. And we'll see how much you like it when you get to choke on a real man's dick."

Despite the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, Brian looked up to meet the cretin's eyes, lips twisting into a smirk. "A real man?" he asked, ignoring the blood in his eyes and the agony in his hand. "Like you? Why don't you untie me, motherfucker, and we'll see who the real man is. Cause it looks to me like you boys are afraid to go one-on-one against this poor, helpless little faggot. And by the way, anything you stick in my mouth, you fucking better be prepared to lose."

"Yeah?" barked one of the others, a big redhead with a beer belly and a fleshy, pock-marked face. "You think you're a real tough guy, don't ya? But how about this, Pretty Boy? How you gonna feel when a real man reams your ass?"

"I'll let you know," Brian snapped, "if I happen to come across one."

"That's enough," said the cultured voice, slightly irritated now, and growing impatient. "Kindly keep your juvenile smack talking to yourselves. Mr. Kinney has more important things to learn tonight."

Brian managed a smile. "So," he said softly, "this is personal."

"Did you ever doubt it?" A new voice this time, higher-pitched. Less refined. "Did you really think you could just go on flaunting yourself, throwing your depraved lifestyle into the faces of decent people, and never have to answer for it?"

"Decent people," Brian repeated, eyes sweeping the circle of thugs around him. "Like this fine crew you've hired to do your dirty work?"

A third voice, muffled slightly, but amused and . . . something more. Hungry? Brian, for the first time, felt his blood run cold. He knew bald, unbridled hatred when he heard it, and he was hearing it now. "Do you really think we would soil our hands with the likes of you? No, Mr. Kinney." The syllables of his name were spoken like a curse, dripping venom. "It's time you learned your place. For too long, you've crossed the wrong people, and believed you could just walk away from the chaos you've created. You've wrecked homes, torn apart families, and defeated efforts to take back our streets and our country from abominations like you. So now, you've made yourself a target for people who don't appreciate being thwarted by a swaggering, child-molesting pervert. So let me tell you what's going to happen. You're going to pay the price for not staying in the shadows where your kind belong. When we get through with you, nobody's ever going to mistake you for a pretty boy again. You'll be lucky if anybody can even stand to look at you. Just imagine: the stud of Liberty Avenue, transformed into a freak - a broken, mangled lump of flesh that people will laugh at, and cringe away from. After tonight, no one's ever going to think you're beautiful again."

The voice dropped to a near whisper. "No one's ever going to fuck you again, or let you fuck them. Even if you were able to get it up, which - trust me - you won't be."

Brian stifled a sigh. So that was the plan. He was meant to survive this night, and wish he hadn't.

The hulking thug, the one he'd silently christened Stinky, stepped forward again, and grinned at him, exposing crooked, stained teeth. "Ain't that poetic justice, Sweetheart? And when we're done with all that, when we've reduced that sweet little face to raw hamburger, we've got a little parting gift for you." He paused and pulled an item from his pocket and held it up for Brian to see. The captive managed not to flinch away from the sight, but only just.

A syringe, obviously used, dirty, with a huge, bent needle. It didn't require much in the way of intuition to figure out what it meant.

"So how about it, Pretty Boy? Just imagine - the Stud of Liberty Avenue, broken and ugly and unfuckable, and wasting away from AIDS. Exactly what you and all of your kind deserve."

And there was suddenly no more time to respond, no more opportunity to defy or resist - no more nothing as the blows began to fall. As the bruisers hefted chains and cables and straps and set to work, using fists and boots and whatever else came to hand. He felt the sickening crunch as a steel-toe connected with his knee and smashed it like kindling; he felt ribs shatter, felt his left femur snap, felt his skin split and shred under the massive assault. And still he did not cry out.

Then there came a pause, as the thugs took a moment to catch their breath, and Brian managed to lift his head and peer through a curtain of blood to stare at them. Waiting. Just waiting.

At that moment, Stinky came close and wrapped his fist in Brian's hair, jerking his head back so they were virtually nose-to-nose. "Tell you what, Little Faggot," said the big man, with an ugly smile. "I'm feeling merciful tonight. So here's the thing. You're still gonna leave this place, when all's said and done, as a dickless fag. No gettin' away from that. Still gonna be broken and busted up and ugly as a fuckin' troll and infested with disease. But if you just put on your best manners and beg oh so sweetly, maybe we'll end it all early. Maybe you don't have to take another beating, and another, and another after that, before we turn you loose. So what do you say, Sweetheart? Want to kiss my ass and ask nicely."

Brian said nothing for a moment, simply staring back at the man who literally held the life of his captive in filthy, massive hands.

Then he slowly gathered himself, pursed his lips, and spat into the troll's face. "Fuck . . . you!" he said softly, not even bothering to raise his voice, knowing it was not necessary. Knowing the words would burn like acid and drive the man to new heights of rage, but finding the satisfaction earned in having said them was worth it all.

Stinky recoiled, and hastened to wipe away the spittle which had landed on his lips and nose. He would not, could not, admit to being embarrassed by his victim's defiance. Instead, he let himself ride the crest of the fury rising within him. Then inspiration struck, and he pulled an item from his coat pocket and knew instant gratification as he saw Brian close his eyes for just a second as he recognized it.

The snick of the switchblade was loud in the silence surrouding the two of them.

"Let's see how long you can stay quiet now," he laughed.

He wasted no time in going to work, slowly and deliberately carving shapes and symbols into his victim's body and face, his face alight with glee as he gloated in the power he had over the mutilated flesh under his hands.

Brian did not scream, but, after a while, he began to moan, only partially conscious by this time. Blood had pooled beneath him, and his attackers were driven to greater frenzy as they realized they were running out of time. Unless they wanted him dead - and the powers-that-be, watching from their elevated position, had been clear in their insistence that this was not what they wanted - it would be necessary for them to hurry and finish up. Especially since the best was yet to come, from their perspective. Although some among the spectators were beginning to have doubts.

One in particular. The softest of the voices, the one most filled with vitriol, finally spoke up. "If you go ahead with that blade," he called out, "you're going to kill him. And that's not what you're getting paid for. He needs to live - to suffer - to pay for his sins."

Stinky paused then, and looked down at the blade in his hand, still caught up in the vision of what he had intended to do with it. But he knew the man was right. If he went through with what they'd planned - if he castrated the pervert - there would be no extended justice. The little bastard, who had proved far tougher than anyone could have predicted, would simply bleed out and die, without ever knowing how much damage had been done, without ever feeling all of the pain he had earned.

And they still hadn't reaped the reward of hearing the motherfucker scream and beg for mercy.

"Shit!" he muttered, growing angrier by the moment. No way was he going to let this little fucker get the best of him. No way . . .

He took a step back then, and looked around, waiting for inspiration to strike. And when it did, the thugs around him, the ones who had been enthusiastic participants in the destruction of their victim up to this second, were suddenly not so sure they wanted to be a part of what came next as they read the cold, monstrous look in his eyes.

Stinky moved to a corner where a rough container of old, rusted tools and pieces of iron spilled its contents across the dirty floor. He dug through the assortment and finally found exactly what he was looking for.

But he didn't immediately come back to resume his assault against his victim's body. Instead, he walked to the barrel where they had built a fire from old broken shards of lumber, and thrust the item he'd found, a yard-long length of angle iron, in to the heart of the flames.

"Strip him," he instructed his gang of thugs after staring into the flames for a few minutes. "Maybe we can't afford to let him bleed out, but there's more than one way to fuck him up ". . . his smile was an ugly, twisted thing . . . "so he can't ever fuck up anybody else again."

Brian, only half conscious by this time, tried to muster enough strength to fight off the hands that reached for him, but, in the end, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. They didn't bother to try to unbutton and remove his jeans the conventional way. They simply grabbed the switchblade and cut them off, not caring how many cuts they inflicted on skin in the process.

He struggled to breathe, to hold on to his determination, his sanity, but he didn't know if he could face this.

Nevertheless, he struggled to brace himself as straight as possible, trying to ignore the icy touch of the frigid metal against his bare skin and the nasty, hungry gleams of the eyes watching him, reveling in his helplessness and the damage they had managed to inflict on his body. For his part, he didn't bother to look too closely, knowing what he'd see. He figured he'd see it soon enough, unless these motherfuckers miscalculated and killed him.

A development, he thought, which would not be without certain advantages.

But there was no time now to think about that, for Stinky was coming toward him, and there was no doubt that this would prove to be the critical moment of the entire fucking night.

The smile on the thug's face was lurid, his eyes glittering with an unholy glee and a compulsion to inflict pain, to dispense his ugly brand of justice, reflecting the orange glow of the object he held in his hand - the length of angle iron fresh from the fire.

"Time's up, Pretty Boy," said Stinky, hefting the piece of metal like a baseball bat. "If you were thinking you'd get through this night without screaming, think again." Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Oh, and when we're done with you, we're gonna take care of your pretty little boytoy. You didn't really think we'd forget about him, did you?"

Brian glanced over toward the observation platform and saw one of the watchers step forward and lean into the railing in front of him, limned for a moment in a pale gleam of light, with eagerness and impatience written in every line of his body. The man spoke then, so softly that his words were barely audible, but there was no mistaking the malice in them.

"Now you learn the most important lesson of your life, Kinney - the wages of sin."

Brian closed his eyes and reached desperately for some kind of control, some kind of strength, but all he could hear was the snide snicker of shared laughter rising from hell's version of a peanut gallery.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"New York never sleeps," said Daphne, hoisting her glass toward her companion. "And it's a fucking miracle."

Michael just smiled, not bothering to offer a verbal response, appreciating the coldness of his vodka-rocks glass as he drew it across his forehead in an effort (probably futile) to ease the headache pounding behind his eyes.

The hotel bar was dark and almost deserted, except for a few diehards scattered among the shadows. The two from Pittsburgh were the only ones who were not alone. Even so, neither of them seemed eager to make much effort to communicate.

"I couldn't sleep," Daphne volunteered after a few silent minutes. "Couldn't even bring myself to go to bed. Don't know why."

Michael offered up a small smile. "Me neither. And it's funny because I'm really tired. And I never have trouble sleeping." He thought about that for a moment, before shaking his head. "Well - almost never."

Daphne nodded, contemplating the dark liquid in her glass. "Something bothering you?" she asked finally.

He shrugged, aware only of a vague sense of unease, of something being not quite right. "I don't think so, but . . ."

"But there must be something," said the voice of a new arrival, leaning in over his shoulder.

Lindsey slid onto the bar stool next to him, and signaled the bartender to bring another round for her friends and one of Daphne's chosen poison for herself.

"You too?" asked Michael. "Where's your other half?"

Lindsey smiled. "Sleeping the sleep of the innocent," she replied. "Mel doesn't do insomnia."

Michael nodded. "Yeah. Ben too. And my mother is probably sawing wood loud enough to keep an entire floor awake."

"I resent that." Debbie took the stool next to Daphne after greeting Michael with her customary head-slap, which did absolutely nothing to assuage his headache.

"Ma," he whined. "What the fuck are you doing up?"

"How do I know?" she complained. "The bed's too soft? The traffic's too loud? The room smells like disinfectant? Something."

"Yeah," said Michael after a while. "Something."

Debbie ordered her drink, and no one was even slightly surprised when Ben showed up a few seconds later, rumpled and sleepy, but obviously concerned. He stood behind Michael, draping his arms around his young mate's shoulders. "I woke up," he explained, "and you were gone. I was concerned."

"Sorry," Michael answered, dropping a kiss on his husband's hand. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"So," Ben went on after a pause, "what's this? You guys plotting something or . . ."

It was Lindsey who interrupted. "Actually, we're all pretty much wondering the same thing. We're here, and we have no idea why."

"You don't think there's something wrong, do you?" That was Debbie, ordinarily the most pragmatic of individuals, though occasionally given to leaping blindly to unwarranted conclusions. It seemed, however, that even she was not immune to the macabre fancies arising from the wee small hours of the morning.

"What could be wrong?" asked Ben.

No one answered for a while. Then Daphne voiced her concern. "Well, I don't know about anything else, but Justin could be making the biggest mistake of his life."

"What?" That was Debbie, shrill, almost resentful. "What the fuck does that mean? He just had the night of his life, and he's off to fucking Tahiti, for Christ's sake. With the man of his dreams, by the way, so how . . ."

Daphne just stared at her, waiting for reality to kick in. When it didn't, she sighed and offered up a succinct explanation. "The 'man of his dreams' is in Pittsburgh, Debbie. And always will be."

Debbie made a 'pfft" sound in her throat. "So what? He's supposed to spend his whole life grieving over the Mighty Kinney?" She drained her drink in one gulp. "Brian had his chance, and blew it. And Sunshine's moving on, just like he should."

Daphne looked up then and saw that Michael had turned to look at her, understanding exactly what she was saying. "You know, Ma," he said slowly, "just because Steven is rich and famous and a member of New York's high society doesn't make him right for Justin. Doesn't guarantee that he can make Justin happy."

"And you think Brian can?" she laughed. "Dream on, Michael. Brian is never going to change, never going to . . ."

"I'll drink to that," said Lindsey suddenly, "and pray to the powers that be that you're right."

She turned then, and met Ben's eyes, and saw something flicker there, a flash of understanding, of approval, but she was still surprised when the professor lifted the drink the bartender had just handed him, and said firmly. "To Brian!"

"To Brian!" echoed the others around him, hoisting their glasses, except for Debbie who looked as if she thought they all needed their heads examined.

Lindsey and Michael exchanged smiles, both suddenly grateful that Melanie was not present to add her typical ascerbic comment.

"You can all think what you want," Debbie observed finally, "but Sunshine's gonna be just fine without the Stud of Liberty Avenue."

Even though several of them wanted to voice their disagreement, it was Daphne who had the last word, and she spoke it while staring into her glass, her eyes dark with certainty. "You're wrong, Debbie. He may survive; he may endure, he may have success beyond his wildest dreams, but he's never going to be 'just fine' as long as Brian is not by his side. And one more thing." She paused, and her smile grew wistful. "This was not the 'night of his life'. That happened years ago, on the night he first 'saw the face of God'."

She rose then and made her way to the door, moving carefully to avoid weaving.

"Now what," said Debbie into the silence that enveloped the group, "is that supposed to mean?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


None of the three men in the car dared to voice it, but they were all keenly aware of the passage of time.

Emmett, particularly, was having trouble controlling his breathing and the tendrils of panic rising in his mind. It had been too long, and every second that elapsed might very well be Brian's last.

They had been cruising the warehouse district for half an hour, chasing shadows, seeking some sign, some indication, that the SUV had been here before them, the difficulty of their task compounded by the need for discretion. They dared not let their prey know they were nearby, for the thugs would surely make quick work of their victim if they realized they had been discovered.

Emmett's eyes smarted from peering into shadows, trying to see what was hidden, trying to pierce the darkness.

"This is hopeless," muttered Drew as they pulled around a corner, and his voice was loud in the stillness, broken only by the moaning of the wind and the whoosh of the tires on the slushy surface of the streets. Though there was no more ice on the pavement, there was still a wintery residue, and dirty snow was still packed along the edges.

Emmett opened his mouth to voice his own growing concern, when he spotted something as they rolled past the entrance to a tiny alley off to his left.

"Stop!" he said sharply. "Back up."

Lance looked up and met Emmett's eyes in the mirror. "What?"

"In the alley, there was . . . something."

Lance sighed. He doubted that Emmett had managed to note something both he and Drew had missed, but he was desperate enough by this time to grab for any nuance of a clue.

He backed up slowly, and peered into the yawing blackness at the mouth of the tiny passageway that was barely wide enough to be termed an alley.

"What do you . . ."

"Tire tracks," said Drew suddenly. "Look past the entrance. There are tracks in the snow back there."

Lance paused and tried to see what the others had noticed. Was there something there, or was it merely wishful thinking? He drew a deep breath, realizing that, at this point, it didn't make much difference. They were out of time; Brian was almost certainly out of time, and this was as good a direction as any.

"Make the call," he said tersely, as he eased into the alley before parking the car to block the entrance. Then he got out of the car.

Drew spent a few seconds looking around to get his bearings; then he spoke into his cell phone briefly before making his exit into the frigid night.

When Emmett moved to follow, Drew was standing in his way. "Emmett," he said softly, almost whispering, "you need to wait here, Honey. This is no place for . . ."

"For what?" Emmett demanded. "For a silly little faggot who couldn't possible help to rescue a friend? Get out of my way, Drew."

"But . . ."

"He's my friend, and I'm going."

From the other side of the car, Lance met his cousin's eyes. "I think you better listen to him," he said gently.

Without another word, the three started down the alley.

There were three buildings in the vicinity, all dark and foreboding and on the verge of collapse, and Lance knew they dared not pass any of them up in the assumption that they couldn't possibly be what they were looking for. There was simply no way to be sure.

So they spent a few minutes checking out the first one which opened onto another alley intersecting the one they were on, at right angles. They were just finishing up, hoping they hadn't missed anything, when Drew suddenly stiffened.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, head turning frantically to locate the source of the sound.

"Hear what?" Lance demanded.

"I'm not sure. A rattling, like chains or something. Or . . ."

And then there was no more need for speculation or uncertainty as a scream split the night, a scream, thought Emmett, he would never be able to forget, no matter how long he lived. The scream of a damned soul, in torment beyond imagining.

"Jesus!" he breathed, but there was no time to gather himself, as Lance and Drew had already taken off at a dead run toward the dark hulk of the next building down.

As they approached, the scream seemed to waver and fall away; and then there was another sound, possibly even more horrible than the scream had been.

There was no mistaking the sound of laughter.

The three rounded the corner and saw the SUV blocking their passage, with another car beyond it, dark and big but only the rear fender was visible as it was parked just around the corner of an intersecting alley. Still, there was no way they could take the time to investigate, all three of them intent on only one thing - to get to Brian, to prevent a repeat of whatever had driven him to that inhuman scream.

Brian Kinney did not scream. It simply did not compute.

Nevertheless, they were only half-way to the doorway on the other side of the SUV when they heard it again.

"Wait," Lance shouted desperately as Emmett threw himself forward, knowing nothing except that he could not endure that sound for another second. "There are guards."

But Emmett was beyond caring, beyond caution. He had to get to Brian, had to . . .

The warning shout came from a thug who had been at the opposite end of the alley when they'd made their approach, and occurred just as Emmett burst through the doorway, with Drew and Lance on his heels.

Then he slammed to a stop, suddenly unable to move a single muscle as he took in the terrible, bloody tableau in front of him.

Brian, chained up like a cut of meat, hanging against a metal railing, naked and bleeding and bludgeoned to the point where he was unrecognizable, with four hulking bruisers gathered around him, and the frigid air thick with the stench of scorched flesh. Three of the thugs were frozen in shock, the weapons they had used on him still in their hands. But the fourth - the biggest of them all - was still moving.

"Son of a bitch!" he snarled, still intent on his victim, as he lifted the heavy piece of red-hot angle iron away from its contact with Brian's torso, and swung it upwards,attempting to put all his weight behind it. Fortunately, he was slightly off-balance and staggered a bit, but when it impacted against the side of Brian's head, there was a terrible crunching sound, and the scream was silenced.

Emmett started forward then, frantic to reach his friend, frantic to stop this horror, but he knew he wouldn't get there in time. The ogre seemed to be so caught up in bloodlust that he didn't care that he'd been caught or what might happen next.

He lifted the piece of metal again and aimed it toward Brian's groin, determined to complete his task.

Emmett screamed then and . . .

Three shots rang out.

The thug went down like a broken doll, and the only sound was Emmett's sobbing, and the rising howl of sirens in the distance.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


* High Flight -- John Magee Jr.

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