- Text Size +

Chapter 58

"Don't it feel like something from a dream.
Yeah, I've never known nothing quite like this.
Don't it feel like tonight might never be again."

The Waiting
- Tom Petty

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

There was still a light rain falling when Liberty Air Flight 3126 finally touched down on runway 5, and the tarmac was gleaming with standing water as the big passenger liner made its way toward the terminal. Fortunately, the landing had been delayed by only fifteen minutes, although, from McClaren's perspective, that fifteen minutes had felt like an eternity. The storm that kept them circling the airport, waiting for a break in the weather, had moved on to the northwest quickly, though the towering cloud bank off in that direction was still brilliant with random flashes of light, suggesting that New Castle and Youngstown were next in line for heavy downpours and damaging winds.

The big black sedan awaiting the arrival of the aircraft was parked adjacent to a wide, shallow puddle, and Chris McClaren was wet to the knees by the time he had made his way to the vehicle from the spot where the Boeing 747 had paused in an unscheduled stop to allow him to exit. He was, however, so grateful the car was there, waiting for him as promised, he barely noticed any discomfort.

It was an added bonus that Alexandra Corey was already seated in the car's back seat, having landed just minutes earlier aboard one of the FBI's charter jets. He hoped her presence might help him find some measure of detachment, perhaps even serenity, but it didn't.

Their driver - a field agent from the local office - obviously realized they had no time to waste and was already rolling toward the nearest exit as McClaren closed the door behind him. By the time the passengers from the big plane were unfastening their seatbelts and lining up to debark, the black sedan was already several miles down the freeway, navigating the moderately heavy traffic as rapidly as possible. Michael and Ben had assured the FBI agent that they did not require a bodyguard when they'd been waiting to land, and the near panic in Michael's eyes when he'd realized why the FBI agent was so alarmed had only served to reinforce McClaren's misgivings.

As they wove in and out of traffic on their journey, the ominous dark mantra in his thoughts grew steadily stronger and louder: Hurry, hurry, hurry . . .

His superior did not bother to try to persuade him to relax and allow common sense to prevail. She was much too familiar with the validity of what she privately referred to as the "Fire-in-the-belly phenomenon". She had never been able to predict it or even define it completely, but she knew that the very best agents managed to develop an uncanny ability to sense a certain 'wrongness' during an investigation - a gut instinct that was seldom wrong. And that was what was driving McClaren now; she did not necessarily share it, but she would not discount the possibility that he was right, considering that this phenomenon was a gift usually reserved for the very best agents - and Chris McClaren, though still maturing in the job, promised to be one of the best she'd ever encountered.

Thus she did not even flinch when he shouted into his cell phone, finally getting an actual live answer on his seventh attempt, after trying a half-dozen other numbers and getting no response from any of them except for bland voice mail messages. "Goddammit, Mathis, where the hell have you been?"

Corey could not make out the words spoken on the other end of the call, but she could plainly hear the outrage and impatience in the growl of the response. "I know that," snapped McClaren, not waiting for the security chief to finish his snippy comment, "and I don't give a fuck if it burns to the ground. Now you listen to me, Hotshot. Brian is at Kinnetik, and from everything I can tell, he's by himself there, and he's not answering his phone - not even his private office line. So think about this. I get sent to Florida to help retrieve Novotny's kid. All other available FBI staff is busy putting together the evidence on the case. Cynthia's daughter gets threatened, so that pulls you out of the action. Then the bomb threat, and Brian sends everybody else to Babylon, assuming - like he always does - that he can take care of himself. Now tell me, Mr. Security Expert. Doesn't that all strike you as just a little too coincidental to put down to random chance?"

A quick beat of silence, and then, "Oh, shit."

Corey didn't need to actually hear the words; the sharpness of the tone was enough.

"Yeah. Deep shit. Look, I don't care what you're doing. I don't care if Babylon is imploding into a sinkhole, and I don't care who is crying on your shoulder and expecting you to soothe egos or protect bodies. You get your ass to Kinnetik right now. But don't, whatever you do, go busting in there like an invading army. If someone is there with him, they might be compelled to take advantage of the moment to get what they want before you can stop them."

"And what they want is . . ."

"You're not that dumb, Mathis. From their perspective, the only good Brian is a dead Brian."

"I'm on my way."

"Me too. But I mean it. No sirens, no bells & whistles. If you get there before me, you deactivate the alarms, and go in silently."

"Right."

McClaren started to disconnect, but changed his mind and spoke again. "Mathis?"

"Yeah?"

"You're armed, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then make sure you're ready to shoot first and question later. If you hesitate, you're dead, and so is Brian, because they won't hesitate at all."

He disconnected and leaned forward to check the speedometer on the big Buick, opening his mouth to comment, but deciding otherwise when he saw the glint of disapproval in Corey's eyes.

"Relax, Chris," she said firmly. "Unfortunately, one can't simply wish the traffic away."

"Should've taken a chopper," he muttered.

"And what?" she demanded. "Skydive onto the roof? In case you hadn't noticed, there's nowhere around there for a helicopter to land."

"I'd have found a way," he replied, shifting to retrieve his Beretta 38 from his shoulder holster to make sure it was fully loaded, offering silent thanks to the powers that be that his professional identification had allowed him to retain possession of his gun during the flight. In fact, that was just about the only thing he could think of to be thankful for in this calamity-in-the-making. He then checked his pocket for the spare clips he carried there, and - knowing the effort was futile, but unable to resist the urge - he hit the speed dial to Brian's cell phone again. Again, it went straight to voice mail.

And all the while, Alexandra Corey watched him, her eyes bright with speculation. She chose to remain silent until he looked up and met her gaze directly.

"What?" he prompted as he dropped his phone into his pocket. He didn't actually want to hear what Corey had to say, but he was pretty sure she was going to say it anyway.

"Do I need to take you off this case, Agent McClaren?" she asked, her voice steady and without emotion. Professional - it was the word that always suited her perfectly. "And please don't pretend that you don't understand what I mean. You know the rules."

He wanted to scoff at what she was not - quite - saying, but couldn't manage to do so. "I don't think so. I don't think anyone else could step in and understand all the ramifications of the case, or do a better job of protecting him."

"And that's what it all comes down to, isn't it?" she replied. "It's all about protecting Brian Kinney. Nothing else matters."

"Isn't that what it's supposed to be about?" he retorted. "Isn't it true that - without him - we have no case to pursue?"

"Maybe," she conceded, "but that's not what drives you, is it? It's Brian. It's only Brian, and don't insult me by pretending that you don't know what I mean."

McClaren sat back and closed his eyes. "What do you want me to say, Chief?"

She stared at him for a moment, before giving him an answer. "I want you to tell me you're still capable of doing your job. That the way you feel about him won't distract you from your duty. So, can you do that?"

His gaze was steady as he turned to face her. "Since the first day I met him, my job has been to protect him. That was my primary purpose, and it still is. I can guarantee you nothing will prevent me from doing that, and the way I might feel about him is beside the point."

"Is it?" she replied. "Because I want you to understand this. You have to . . ."

"I do understand," he said softly, his eyes no longer focused on her face. "I'd die for him."

Corey took a deep breath before turning away to stare out her window and watch raindrops trickle down the glass. "Yes," she said softly. "That's what I was afraid of. You've allowed yourself to get too close to him, and that's dangerous. You know it as well as I do."

He didn't bother to argue. "Maybe, but nobody can protect him better than me, and you know that as well. Because he let me get close; he let me in. And if you know him at all, you've figured out that he almost never does that. That means it's all on me, doesn't it?"

Corey wanted to argue, wanted to make a case for dismissing him from the investigation, but ultimately, couldn't. Because he was right. It would take more time than they had to spare to work another agent into Brian's inner circle, where McClaren had already made his place. Only . . . she turned once more to study his profile, a view that almost any woman would enjoy, and wondered. Failure was not a viable option for any agent, especially in such a momentous case; but failure here . . . It didn't bear thinking about.

She closed her eyes finally and willed their driver to move a little faster and the traffic to grow a little thinner, because she wouldn't allow herself to consider what would happen if they were too late.

Without Brian Kinney, all of the evidence they'd gathered would probably still be sufficient to prove multiple cases involving corporate corruption, but for the more serious charges - such as conspiracy to commit murder - his contribution was vital. He was the key. But more urgently, if he was lost, she would not only lose the case; she might very well lose the best young agent she'd ever supervised. The fact that she also liked him very much didn't make things any easier.

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

Brian's private office was not completely silent, of course. The strong beat of a rock classic rose full and rhythmic from the music system.

It was not the most well-known version of the song, as it was not the tenor of Tom Petty's perpetually callow voice that sang the words. Instead, it was Eddie Vedder's husky baritone that doled out the lyrics and injected them with raw emotion, punctuated by the occasional perfectly pitched arpeggio, underscored by the thumpa-thumpa of a solid drumbeat. Somehow, it seemed appropriate, harmonizing perfectly with the swirl of smoke from Brian's cigarette as well as the heaviness of the atmosphere in the room. In the same way, the words of the song felt almost prophetic.

Every day you see one more card.
You take it on faith. You take it to heart.
The waiting is the hardest part.


The music continued, but around, above, and beneath it, the silence was stifling, like a thick mist, translucent but palpable nevertheless.

Brian made no effort to stand up to greet his guests; nor did he extend his hand to grasp Wylie's - a double omission that elicited a fierce frown from Kinnetik's CFO.

"I know you weren't expecting company, Bri," Ted said quickly, deliberately using the nickname he knew Brian hated, "but this is just too important, and time really is money, so there's none to waste."

"Theodore, I . . ."

"I am truly deeply sorry, Mr. Kinney," said Clayton Wylie quickly, pretending he had not noticed the physical snub of having his proffered hand ignored. Still, his move to lower that hand was almost smooth enough to qualify as unflappable aplomb. Almost. But as he moved closer to the desk, he inserted his left hand into his pocket, turning just enough to grant Brian - and only Brian - an unobstructed view of that pocket and the outline of what it contained. "But I'm afraid this really couldn't wait." The elderly man smiled, and Brian was immediately reminded of a death's head image, observing that the word 'skeletal' might have been coined just to describe Wylie's face and form. "You might even call it a matter of life and death."

"Yeah," said Brian coldly, suddenly certain - and even a tiny bit flattered by the thought - that he was probably the only person who had ever troubled the man enough to persuade him to pick up a gun. "I can see that."

He reached over to shut off the sound system, cutting Vedder off mid-growl, and pausing just long enough to allow the heaviness of the silence to make itself felt. Thus the vibration from his cell phone, lying on his desk, was disturbingly loud. With a single glance at Wylie to confirm what he already knew, he reached over and rejected the call.

Wylie smiled again, taking his time to choose his next words carefully - as if what he chose to say mattered in the least - but his eyes were frigid, almost lifeless. "But where are my manners? I was especially anxious for you to meet my son, C.J., Jr. Mostly, we just call him Clay. Although, now that I think of it, you two have probably met before. He's very active in the community."

The other new arrival stepped forward then, moving to stand beside his father and giving Brian a better view of the thick brush of bright silver hair.

But the close-up was unnecessary. A single glimpse had done the trick.

He shivered suddenly, and told himself he was just being silly. The room had not suddenly grown cold, but the power of memory would not be denied.

It had been much colder then - the kind of cold that turns warm breath to cold mist - and the light had been sporadic, interwoven with thick, writhing shadows and the hard hungry glitter of flames, creating shifting patterns and compounding the nightmarish quality of the violent movements of the group of boisterous, muscular men, drunk with physical power and lurid eagerness to draw blood, moving through a chiaroscuro landscape. The fire inside him - sharper and deadlier than the one leaping and sparking in the darkness and waiting for a chance to devour his flesh - and the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies, and pain, pain so pure and sharp it was like furious molten eruptions of boiling lava in his mind and body, blinding red and redder still, reflecting the crimson splash of his own blood. But even then, even through the chaos and the agony and the near certainty that he would not survive the ordeal, that bright, almost metallic thatch of silver had glittered like frozen fire.

"Oh, yeah," replied Brian, his voice surprisingly steady, "I'm sure we have."

Wylie Jr.'s smile was almost a carbon copy of his father's, but he did not bother to pretend to want to shake hands. The glint of venom in his eyes was as hard as steel. "It was my pleasure," he said as he leaned against the desk, obviously relishing the sensation of looking down on the individual he would always categorize as a lower life-form, worthy of nothing but his contempt. "Nice place you've got here, Mr. Kinney. Nice and private."

Finally, Brian got to his feet, irrationally glad to realize he was roughly an inch taller than Junior. At the same time, he offered up a mental apology to Lance Mathis and Chris McClaren, both of whom had insisted that it was foolish to refuse to allow surveillance cameras to be placed in his executive suite. Foolish indeed, he thought. Deadly foolish, perhaps.

Still, given the kind of activities he frequently enjoyed in the privacy of his office, he knew he would not have agreed to the placement of the cameras under any circumstances. Though many might accuse him - rightfully - of exhibitionist tendencies, there were some things which were simply none of anyone else's business.

He thought then about Justin, and allowed himself a very small sigh, realizing there was the very real likelihood that he would never again have the pleasure of gazing upon the young man to whom he had finally, irrevocably given his heart.

But with that thought, he stood a bit taller, recognizing that particular truth as the only good and positive option of this entire debacle. If he was lucky - very, very lucky - Justin would be spared. No, not spared. He didn't even want to consider the pain his young lover would endure. But he would, at least, survive, and that was a blessing much to be desired. He would be damaged; no doubt about that. But he would endure.

He opened his mouth to suggest some way to get Ted out of the room, avoiding more collateral damage, but the elder Wylie was way ahead of him. The old man's expression remained pleasant as he turned to face the accountant, and his smile grew wider and sharper. "There are important things you and I need to discuss, Mr. Kinney, but first, I wonder if I could persuade dear Ted to do me a favor."

"Dear Ted's" eyes were suddenly huge, and Brian thought he looked like a recently punished puppy begging for a chance to be redeemed. It was something of a relief to realize that the Wylies had no interest in expanding the focus of their hatred to include other members of Brian's circle. On the other hand, Ted would not really be spared, as he would soon come to understand that the 'golden opportunity' which had looked so promising was really nothing more than an ugly scam designed to relieve his employer of the bulk of his money. Brian found he was almost glad that he wouldn't have to watch it happen. "Of course, Mr. Wylie. Anything."

"I'm afraid our time is short, and Clay needs to be at the airport within the hour, to make his flight to Chicago for an important meeting. If you could give him a ride, Ted, then Brian and I would have time for a complete discussion about our project. I would be very grateful."

Ted didn't hesitate. "I'd be happy to, Mr. Wylie. It's the least I can do, after all the effort you've put into including us in your project."

"Excellent," exclaimed the senior Wylie. "That way, my driver can wait for me here, and Mr. Kinney and I . . ." He hesitated and favored Kinnetik's owner with a still more brilliant smile. "Although, I'm hoping we can avoid so much formality in the future. May I be presumptuous and call you Brian?" He did not wait for a response. "Brian and I can go over all the pertinent data on the project, so we can put our plans in motion."

Ted looked just slightly disappointed, but only for a moment. "Should I come back here then, once I've dropped Clay at the airport? I'll need to set up. . ."

"No," said Brian sharply. Then he took a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone. "Tomorrow will be soon enough."

Once again, Ted looked like he wanted to disagree, but instead, he simply nodded, trying not to look too pleased with himself. After all, he could afford to be magnanimous; he had carried the day, and the future was golden.

He took a moment to favor Brian with a smile that was only slightly smug, but the smile was short-lived, as something in Brian's eyes seemed determined to take away his sense of victory. Oh, well. That was just Brian, being Brian; he had never been very good at giving credit where it was due. And if a tiny voice in the back of his mind was scoffing at that observation, he chose to ignore it.

"Run along then," said Wylie, Sr. as he settled into the chair directly across from Brian, who was glad to reseat himself, as he was not entirely certain his legs would continue to support him. He managed to maintain a surface calm - by the hardest - but his heart was pounding, and he couldn't quite manage to control the tremor in his hands, so he placed them firmly on his desk, rather than allow any physical evidence of the fear that gripped him. He shifted to brace his knee against the right-hand pedestal of his desk, trying to ground himself, as he was determined to give this vicious old bigot no measure of satisfaction by cowering before him, not even when the man said, "Oh, and would you ask my driver to bring my briefcase in. It contains some vital information Brian will certainly want to see."

Brian knew perfectly well what that meant; the elite did not, after all, dirty their own hands with wet work.

"You bet," said Ted, his enthusiasm giving a bounce to his step and a glint to his eyes.

Wylie, Jr., nodded to his father, took one moment for a final triumphant smirk at Brian, and turned away, assuming, with a confidence characteristic of those born to privilege, that the problem was solved, and all was once again right with the world. Father always knew best.

Neither Brian nor his visitor spoke again until the two had made their exit, at which point, Brian's cell phone vibrated again.

"It's better if you just shut it off," Wylie observed, in a tone of voice he might have used to comment on the weather outside the window.

Brian nodded and obeyed. He then sat back in his chair, and managed a small sardonic smile. "I figured you'd be around, sooner or later."

Wylie kept his hand in his pocket, but did not bother to reinforce his actions with a verbal threat, knowing it would only serve to leave a bad taste in his mouth - and that it was unnecessary anyway. "It's a shame you're not a better actor, Mr. Kinney. I was hoping we could conclude our business, and you would never realize who my son is."

"He should have dyed his hair," said Brian, actually managing a disdainful smile. "It's very distinctive. And, as for our business, I assume you're referring to your little scam?"

"Ahhh, yes. So you really are as smart as people say. How did you know?"

At that point, the phone on Brian's desk began to ring.

"Persistant, isn't he?" Wylie observed wryly, knowing he need say no more.

Brian hit the appropriate button to reject the call, glancing at the display just once to confirm what he already knew. McFed was not going to be happy with him, but - then again - that hardly mattered now.

Wylie was still watching him expectantly.

"I didn't actually know anything yet. But I'm pretty sure a few specific inquiries with the land management offices would reveal the true nature of this so-called bargain piece of property. But now - since the deal is never going to happen - why don't you show me the bottom line, just to satisfy my curiosity."

Wylie favored him with another one of those death's head smiles, without a trace of warmth or remorse.

"It's simple enough, really. The parcel of land is exactly as described, as far as the description goes, although the photograph provided with the data is not precisely correct. It features a different site, in the same area but more pristine - unspoiled. I'm told that the actual property was quite beautiful once. Would have made a perfect site for a project like this, except that it bears an unfortunate legacy from its previous owners. Back in late 30's and 40's, there was a factory there which produced ceramic ware, and back then, no one knew anything at all about toxic waste or contamination. Anyway, during the 17 year span of its operation, the ground water was contaminated with hazardous waste products. Primarily lead and asbestos, with traces of arsenic and benzene and other equally unpleasant compounds."

Brian was shaking his head. "And for this, we were supposed to pay almost eight million dollars?"

The smile flashed again. "Don't be silly. In actual fact, only you were going to pay your share of the price. It was all arranged perfectly, so that our investment advisors would uncover the dastardly plot just in time to spare the rest of us, while the lowlife owner of the property would vanish into the great unknown, with your money, of course. You alone would have paid the price."

Brian took a deep breath. "And my two million or so would buy this owner a quick trip to a country where there is no extradition treaty with the US. Right?"

Wylie nodded. "Of course. But there is something that you should know, if you haven't figured it out already. It was never really about the money. It was always about you, and putting you in your place, and making sure you stayed there."

"My place," Brian echoed coldly. "And that's why you're here, to put me in my place - permanently."

"I understand you have a son.  Is that right?"

"That," Brian said firmly, "is none of your business."

"Relax," Wylie replied. "We have no interest in your son. I don't buy into that old biblical nonsense of holding a child responsible for the sins of his father."

"How noble of you!"

"On the other hand, you will understand that I had to be sure. If you had not reacted to the sight of my son, I would have been content to confine our actions to taking away your money and consigning you to perpetual poverty for the rest of your life. From what I can see of your lifestyle, that would have been enough, if I could have been sure you would not recognize my son, that he would be safe from your determination to get your revenge, because - whether you believe it or not - there is a certain loyalty among those in our station. The others involved would never have betrayed his trust. It just isn't done. So you were the only threat to him. Only you could destroy him, and I'm sure you can understand that I can't allow that. Beyond that, there's also the fact that you've caused a lot of trouble for people who are an intimate part of my social circle, and that's just not acceptable - from someone like you."

"Has it occurred to you," asked Brian, "that it's not revenge I want? It's justice."

"Of course it is," Wylie said with a soft chuckle. "From your point of view."

"Then let's . . ."

"Oh, come now, Brian. Do you really think I'm going to sit here chatting with you, wasting enough time to let some of your lackeys come running back to protect the king of the queers." He turned then and raised his voice. "Come on in, Tommy."

Brian looked up, and, for just a moment, was confused by the sight of the man who came through the door - a slightly chunky, broad-shouldered individual who was carrying a cognac-colored old leather briefcase and wearing a dark suit and a chauffeur's hat that partially obscured his face.

But when the new arrival walked forward, recognition came swiftly, even before he doffed his hat and regarded Brian with a mocking smile.

"Jackson," said Brian coldly. "Why aren't you skulking around redneck country, fucking your sister or something?"

"You know," replied the one-time therapist, "there was a time when I almost regretted what was going to happen to you." With a smug smile, he removed a large, semi-automatic pistol from the briefcase. Then he leaned forward and reached out to grip Brian's face with brutal fingers. "But now? I'm actually going to enjoy this. In fact, it's a shame I can't take enough time to do the job properly."

"And how's that?" Brian pulled back, his expression reflecting nothing but contempt.

"Slowly, with maximum pain. Instead, I get to shoot you fast and dirty, like putting down a rabid dog."

Brian folded his lips and returned Jackson's gaze, apparently unphased by the ugliness of the threat. "And you think I'm going to just sit here and take it?"

Jackson shrugged. "It won't matter in the end. Although, if you did choose to fight, I might just have to visit other members of your family later. Just to sweeten the pot, so to speak."

When the desk phone rang again, it was Wiley who reached out and yanked the chord from the wall. Then he chuckled softly. "No worries, Tommy. He's not going to fight back, because he understands the consequences. In fact, he's going to give me a key card to use to deactivate the alarm systems and open the front door. Then he's going to stand up and show me out to the hallway, where we will shake hands and part company, all within view of the security camera in the corridor."

Brian's eyebrows lifted. "And what?" he demanded. "Your little lap dog here is going to shoot me and then stick around to take the fall for you?" He turned his head to favor Jackson with a contemptuous smile. "What a good little piece of cannon fodder you are!"

Wiley laughed again. "Oh, don't worry about Tommy. He's very loyal, and we always take care of our own. With the right contacts, anyone can just disappear. Until his particular brand of skills are needed again."

"And when would that be?"

Wylie leaned forward, and this time, there was no trace of a smile on his face. "When the next nasty little pervert tries to force his way into a society where his kind don't belong.

"Now, the key card, please, Brian. Then you get up and walk with me. And be careful. A single gesture out of place means that your son - and maybe a few others - will share your fate."

Brian's mind was working furiously, trying to figure out a way to outsmart his would-be assassins, as he provided the coded card and got to his feet, but, in the end, he could not take the risk. If he died here, at least he died without bringing harm to those he loved.

In the hallway, standing in the open doorway and noting that the security camera was focused on his face, Brian managed a small smile as he accepted Wylie's proffered hand, painfully aware of the gun barrel pressed against his spine, just beyond the scope of the camera. "I hope you burn in hell," he muttered pleasantly.

Wylie laughed. "You first, Mr. Kinney. There should be plenty of your kind there to greet you."

Brian stepped back, turning and closing the door behind him quickly so that he wouldn't be tempted to take off running. The gun remained steady, pointed now at his chest and assuring him that he wouldn't get far. He would die anyway, and leave behind a legacy of pain for his son or his lover or maybe even his friends. It was a risk he could not take.

"Back to your desk," said Jackson, gesturing with his free hand, while maintaining a deadly aim with the gun.

Brian obeyed and sat back down, careful to keep his hands in plain sight, flat on the desk, as he positioned himself, pushing forward and trying to avoid trembling. His mind was moving frantically, looking for a way out, a means of escape, or - at the very least - a method by which he might improve the chances of his killers being identified, but the prospects were bleak, at best.

He had done all he could. The rest was up to random chance.

Meanwhile, Clayton Wylie, carrying his briefcase and whistling to himself, made his way to the front entrance and used Brian's key card to allow him to make his exit and avoid setting off the security alarm.

Overhead, the clouds were moving off, and he could even see a drift of stars - rarely glimpsed in the reflection of the city's hard brilliance. He took a deep breath, and caught a trace of spring flowers riding on the night wind, also rare in the smell of humanity that pervaded the area around Liberty Avenue.

He thought it was going to turn out to be a wonderful night, with problems solved and things restored to the way they were supposed to be.

With Brian Kinney finally, happily consigned to memory.

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

Cedric Lasseigne sat staring at his television set, noting that the clock on the DVR read 9:32, and wondering if he'd manage to stay awake to watch the rest of Desperate Housewives, which was occasionally, marginally funny, so he could get to the show he really wanted to see, Brothers and Sisters. It was one of his favorites because he'd always been fond of Sally Field, and he enjoyed the performance of the young Welsh actor who played the gay son as he tried to discern traces of a Welsh accent in the usually perfect California dialect. It was silly, of course; young Rhys almost never missed his mark. But he was pleasant to look at, and Lasseigne was comfortable enough in his own skin to accept the occasional twinge of homo-erotic attraction.

The elderly Cajun thought he just might have explored that possibility if he'd ever come face-to-face with an actual personification of someone like Kevin Walker/Matthew Rhys, although he was pretty sure that - until very recently - he had never allowed his mind to turn in that direction or dwell on that idea.

He smiled to himself, realizing that one is never too old to learn new lessons.

At that point, inevitably, he thought about his current circumstances and the environment around him, and the smile became a chuckle. He was certainly living in the right place should he decide to act upon that notion.

Only - he allowed himself a weary sigh. A man knew when he was well into the grip of old age when he reached a point at which he couldn't be sure he could stay awake long enough to indulge a sweet, sexual fantasy. Eleven o'clock seemed very far away, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the moment. His job at Kinnetik was not particularly taxing, but it did require him to be alert and available during regular 9 to 5 office hours. Sometimes, the day could seem very long.

But this was Sunday, and he had not been called on for anything. Once in a while, he did have week-end tasks, but not today. So there was no reason for him to be so tired, but that didn't change the fact that he was.

Compounding the problem, he was out of the special tea bags that Miss Cynthia always provided for him. In just a matter of days, he had become downright addicted to the rich, ginger taste of the sunflower jasmine brew she'd introduced him to during his first week in residence here. It helped him in two different ways - as a mild stimulant to help him stay awake and as a lovely relaxant, to let him sleep like a baby when he decided the time was right, completely content in his private space.

His apartment was small - hardly more than a studio - but it was comfortable and contained all the conveniences he wanted, thanks to Justin's oversight and Brian's unexpected generosity. There was even a sizeable flat-screen television, with DVR and Blu-Ray, a tiny full bath with a spa-style tub - small but adequate - and a fully equipped kitchen with a mini-fridge, a two-burner cook-top, and a toaster oven. And, if he ever had the urge to flex his culinary muscles and prepare a huge meal, there was always the big kitchen downstairs, to which he had been given total access.

He could hardly believe that this small space - this private area - had begun to feel like home.

All down to Brian Kinney. Justin had, of course, instigated, and pleaded, and urged, and cajoled, and even pouted a little, when necessary, but the final say had been Brian's, and Cedric was moderately surprised to realize he had been summarily judged and found acceptable; he had no idea why.

He had lived in bigger places. He had, in fact, during the more lucrative phases of his life, lived in luxury apartments and once even a penthouse. It was also true, however, that those circumstances had happened during a phase when his best boon companions had gone by names like Captain Morgan and Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels, so his memories were less than clear and not nearly as fond as he would have expected. There must surely have been good times - even fantastic times - but the recollections were filtered through an alcoholic haze rendering everything in a soft, gray blur, neither good nor bad - just there, unworthy of any attempt at total recall.

He was surprisingly happy now. His history of substance abuse had long since cost him any connection with a family he barely remembered; thus, he had grown accustomed to being alone. Given the spotted nature of his past, he had not expected to make friends among members of the Kinnetik staff; he had hardly dared believe such relationships possible. Even more unlikely, he had become fond of the puzzling young individual who was the owner of the place. Even though he didn't always understand the man, he had come to believe that the things Brian did might appear inexplicable at first, but, in the end, they always turned out to benefit the individuals who were beloved of Brian Kinney.

The man could certainly have served as the inspiration for Churchill's famous observation: a riddle inside an enigma, wrapped in a mystery. Cedric doubted that anybody really knew Brian well enough to predict what he might do in any given situation, but he was beginning to think he himself might be in a unique position to figure it out. It was possible, he thought, because - unlike so many others that hovered around the man like bees to honey - he was not in love with Brian, and that, he was pretty sure, gave him an edge no one else had. Of course, he was fond of Brian; people were either drawn to the man or repelled by him; neutrality did not happen in the Kinney universe. But fondness was not the same as head-over-heels obsession, and he thought it gave him an insight given to very few. Even Emmett, who had become a favorite new friend, as well as a potential business partner, was not immune to the Kinney charm, in spite of the fact that he was completely in love with his big football player beau. If Kinney had deigned to beckon, Cedric was pretty sure the big nelly-bottom would have come running, providing a perfect example of the power of the legendary irresistible force.

He took a peek out his window, noting that the rain was beginning to slack off, and he wondered if the big boss was still working downstairs. For a man with a widespread and well-deserved reputation as a playboy of the first order, Kinney sure worked a lot. Perhaps, in a little while, he'd go down and check, maybe . . . he'd even . . .

He came awake with a jerk, realizing immediately that he had dozed off while nestling under a clowd-soft duvet, in the cozy comfort of the plush recliner Justin had found for him at Ikea. On the tv screen, the very talented and quite lovely young Mr. Rhys was doing a bang-up job of portraying a heartbroken husband, betrayed by the equally lovely young man who was his partner. It was, of course, a rerun; Cedric had seen it before, but he still thought the Welsh actor should have gotten an Emmy for it.

Oh, well! He also thought that both Mad Men and The Good Wife were melodramatic, overacted, and ultimately boring. It was, in the end, all a matter of taste, and he preferred his own to everyone else's.

Time, he thought, as ABC shifted into commercial mode, to go downstairs and learn if there was a box of his addictive tea tucked away in the employee kitchen. And on the way, he'd just have a listen at . . . well, he wasn't quite sure what to call it. He'd only discovered it recently, quite by chance, and was still debating over whether he should mention it to the powers-that-be - and risk their displeasure - or leave well enough alone and do his best to resist temptation when it came his way.

He was almost certain it was just one of those things that happen during renovations - an oversight, a happy - or unhappy, depending on one's point of view - coincidence.

He could not deny that Brian Kinney would be extremely upset to learn that - at certain times and under certain circumstances - what was said or done in his executive office could be monitored from a specific spot at the top of the spiral stairs leading to Cedric's apartment.

The first time it had occurred, Cedric had put it down to happenstance - a fluke of circumstances that would not be repeated, as he listened in on a very personal exchange between Brian and his young lover. But then it had happened again, on another very intimate occasion, and he had decided to investigate, to figure out what was happening. The chimney that ascended toward the roof from the sleek, modern fireplace in Brian's office intersected the curving stairway at one point, and had to zig where the stairs zagged, to avoid flooding the upper level with smoke and ashes, and someone - the artisan who had been charged with the job - had not been careful to seal it off completely. The chimney itself was adequately sealed, but the space around it was not, functioning as part of the building-wide ventilation system.

Thus, sometimes, when the cooling and/or heating systems were inactive, Cedric had a first row seat - in a strictly auditory sense - to the goings on in that office. He had been careful not to milk the opportunity too frequently; it felt more than a bit like voyeurism, especially on some particularly memorable occasions. But - sometimes - he found himself yielding to temptation.

He would never speak of it to anyone, of course, and he wasn't entirely sure that he would even admit his eavesdropping, if asked, but sometimes, the conversation and sound effects of the meetings between Brian and Justin were extremely intriguing.

Invasion of privacy? No way to deny that, of course. But virtually irresistible? Absolutely.

And then there were the other times, when it served as nothing more than a casual contact point to confirm whether or not Brian and/or Justin was present, and that would be his motive on this night. Maybe he could even take the opportunity to introduce the big man to his special, semi-addictive tea.

He paused to slip into a terrycloth robe - the central heating thermostat was usually turned down a bit at night - and made his way toward the stairs. He hesitated just for a moment, hearing nothing at first, and assuming that the boss had made his escape to enjoy the enticements offered up by Babylon. So he was alone, except, of course, for the security staff who were always around. He proceeded to take the first step down, and that was when he heard the quick, staccato rhythm of words, spoken by a voice filled with characteristic Kinney impatience.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" That was Brian all right, arrogant, annoyed, sharp with anger.

So he was still here, and he wasn't alone, and - given that ugly tone of voice - Cedric rather hoped it was not Justin he was speaking to. In fact, it did not sound like a conversation anyone would want to overhear. Cedric sighed, unwilling to eavesdrop on one of the scores of arguments that Brian had every day, with a dozen different co-participants. He continued down the stairs, so he almost missed hearing the answer from the second party.

The response was slower, lower-pitched, and flat, without inflection. It was also unfamiliar. "Don't be dense, little Brian. It wouldn't do to have our distinguished friend make his exit - on camera - one minute and for you to get yourself killed the next. I'm waiting for him to give me the all clear. Besides, why are you so eager? I thought you might want to beg for your life."

"No, you didn't"

A cold chuckle. "You're right. I didn't. I doubt you've ever begged for anything in your miserable, faggot life. Too proud, right? Too convinced that you're God's gift to every little queer on the planet."

Brian paused, and his voice was vaguely sardonic when he chose to answer. "Most of them would agree with that. In fact, I seem to remember a couple of times when you were a little too focused on massaging my ass to . . ."

"That's enough! You shut your mouth, or I might just forget to wait for my signal."

"What? I get a little too close for comfort?"

"Shut up!"

Cedric Lasseigne had frozen in place when he'd realized what he was hearing, but now he knew he had to move, had to do something. But the question was . . . what could he do? And where in God's name was the security staff?

He moved down the stairs slowly, carefully skipping the one step that always creaked under his weight. He wasn't sure Brian's assailant would have heard it, but he dared not take the chance.

But then he was at the bottom stair, and he froze, trying to figure out which way to go.
Should he try to find help and alert security, or should he take it upon himself to barge into Brian's office and put a stop to this debacle? The latter was what he really wanted to do; only - the man obviously had a gun, and he was just a helpless, sleepy, little old man in a bathrobe. What could he do that would make a difference?

He hesitated for a moment, wringing his hands and noting the headache that was beginning to pound at his temples.

What could he do? What . . .

Then, quite suddenly, he was stricken by an obvious truth. He was an old man, and he had lived a full life, even if he had wasted a lot of it. But Brian Kinney was in his prime and still had everything ahead of him, including a chance to share his life with a young man who loved him without limit, without reservations, and an adorable son who needed his father to help him grow up.

He couldn't do much; Cedric knew that. But he couldn't just stand here and do nothing, like a craven coward, while the man who had given him a new life and, more than that, the man who was the beloved center of Justin's heart was murdered. Thus, he would do everything possible to make certain that didn't happen. He had never really had a reason to risk himself in order to save someone else, and it surprised him to realize that it actually felt pretty good.

He quickly, silently, made his way toward Brian's private bathroom, the one that had a discreet rear door which was seldom used and always locked, but - as the janitor - he had keys to every lock in the building. On his way, he paused by Cynthia's desk to retrieve his keys from the cabinet by her door. In addition, he also took the time to dial the security office. When there was no answer, he knew that his suspicions had been correct. Something drastic had happened to empty the building and leave Brian alone, at the mercy of his assailant.

So it was up to one slightly dilapidated old Cajun, with restricted vision, a slight hearing loss, arthritic limbs, and occasional heart palpitations - none of which mattered now.

Okay! It was time to stop obsessing - and start doing.

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


Emmett had not had a good day.

The evacuation of Babylon had been loud and frantic and nerve-wracking, with everyone flinching away from any sudden noises or sparks, constantly afraid that each was the prelude to a deadly explosion that might take lives - again. In addition, many of the staff - and Emmett did not exclude himself from that group - were inclined to jump at shadows, panic-stricken when sighting a nondescript box or a stray container, and he didn't even want to try to count the amount of glassware that had been smashed during the crowd's chaotic exit. Luckily, it was not the Waterford crystal stemware that was locked away upstairs for the private use of select patrons. But it would still cost a nice hefty bundle to replace it all.

In addition, they would probably have to replace a few members of the staff, as well. One waiter - relatively new to the job - had actually erupted in hysterical sobs when he grabbed his own coat from a rack by the door and noticed something long and tubular wrapped inside it. It proved to be nothing more than the umbrella he had stashed there himself when he'd arrived and come in out of the rain, but he was too shaken to continue to help with the evacuation or the clean-up and had to be escorted home by an area patrolman.

Too bad, really. He'd had a nice smile, and an adorable ass.

It had not stopped there either. Throughout the ordeal, every eye darted around constantly, looking out for bombs, of course, but also watching for suspicious strangers who might prove to be crazed serial killers, frustrated by the failure of whatever explosive device they might have planted and looking for new victims to make up for the ones that had escaped.

And now, just when he thought things might be settling down and getting back to normal, when the bomb squad had finished their search and announced that the warning had been a false alarm, and the general air of hysteria had begun to spin down into a curiously breathless aftermath, with sighs of relief interspersed with occasional bouts of shaky laughter. Now, he had to notice that Drew was nowhere to be found.

"What the fuck?" he asked of no one in particular as he moved back inside and strode to the bar. "Where's Drew? For that matter, where's Mathis?"

"Not sure," answered Jared Hilliard, bending over to gather up a messy bundle of large, wickedly sharp shards of a huge mirror which had been shattered during the mayhem. A waiter nearby was gathering debris in a large, portable trash container and changed direction to come over and help when he saw what the security man was doing.

Emmett, fully conscious of the fact that his partner was among the missing, along with the security chief responsible for all of Brian's business holdings, still could not resist taking a moment to enjoy the imminently enticing view. Jared Hilliard's butt, straining the seams of tight designer jeans, was a sight to behold.

"But wherever they are," Hilliard continued, still intent on his task and still distracting Emmett with the prominent display of perfectly formed muscles and a beautiful swath of dark tan skin peeking from beneath the back of his shirt, "they're together. I saw Mathis making a beeline for the door about ten minutes ago, and he grabbed Boyd and pulled him along with him. They went outside, and I haven't seen them since."

Emmett went very still, trying to ignore the tiny alarm building to a shriek in his mind. "Maybe I'm asking the wrong question," he said slowly, as Hilliard straightened up and turned to look at him. "Maybe the real question should be, 'Why isn't Brian here?'"

"Because McClaren and Mathis both threatened his life if he so much as thought about straying into something like this, and I personally reinforced that just before he sent me over. I promised to kick his ass if he showed up here."

Emmett spent a few seconds wondering how such a perfect specimen of the black race, with beautiful skin like creamy chocolate, had turned out to have eyes like blue arctic ice. "And you think that would stop him?" he asked finally, mentally cautioning himself to pay attention to the matter at hand, and to stop ogling the entirely too comely help.

For a moment, there was only silence, and the answer, when it came, was filled with a sense of dread that was almost enough to overpower the weariness of the moment. "No. It wouldn't. Why don't you try calling Drew? I'll try Mathis."

It was the logical thing to do, but somehow, both knew it would prove to be a futile attempt.

Still, they tried.

"Straight to voice mail," Emmett announced.

"Yeah. Me too."

They exchanged quick glances, not bothering to voice their misgivings.

"I'm going," said Hilliard. "You coming?"

"Yeah. Just let me tell Horvath. He might want to provide some back-up."

"Good idea, but let me. You . . ." Hilliard took a moment to swallow around the lump in his throat. "You should call Taylor. Make sure he's where he's supposed to be and stays there."

"I don't know," Emmett replied uneasily. "He's very good at sussing things out, especially things you don't want him to know."

Hilliard hesitated. Then he nodded. "You're right. Better that I call Chuck and clue him in on what's going on. Then he can sit on Justin if he has to."

"And I'll go drop the news on Horvath."

"OK. But hurry, because I'm not going to wait for you. Meet me at the back entrance, and we'll cut across through the alley."

"Wait. We're going on foot?" Emmett sounded vaguely outraged.

Hilliard resisted an urge to roll his eyes. "You can drive if you want, but it's faster to run."

Emmett did not argue, except for grumbling under his breath as he went to find Horvath. The distance from Babylon to Kinnetik was roughly five blocks - not far at all - but Hilliard was right. By the time they managed to extricate a vehicle from the parking nightmare surrounding the club, maneuvered it to reach the correct intersection, and were finally able to drive the required distance, they could have already reached their destination with several minutes to spare. But he wasn't particularly happy with the prospect. He knew that he could dance all night; he'd done it on more than one occasion.. He could even fuck all night - also a proven fact. And, given sufficient motivation, he might even manage to jog all night. But running? Nobody even considered running anymore - for anything - unless maybe they were training for a marathon. And yet, he kept coming back to that cold hard truth. Hilliard was right, and, in this case, minutes mattered.

Shit! Now he not only had to run; he had to try to keep up with Hilliard, and that, he was certain, would prove to be damned near impossible.

Could this day possibly get any worse? Then he shuddered, and wondered how he could possibly be stupid enough to ask that question.

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

This job should have been a piece of cake. That's what Chuck Valencia kept telling himself. So why did everything have to go all pear-shaped and transform a simple duty into a complicated, nerve-wracking ordeal?

The answer could be summed up in two words: Justin Taylor.

Or maybe, he thought with a big sigh, two additional words were required: Brian Kinney.

The call he'd received earlier from Brian had been brief and very specific about what he was expected to do.

Brian Kinney did not mince words.

It was roughly twenty minutes later when Mathis called, and Chuck knew immediately that things had gone from bad to worse, hearing traces of desperation in the man's voice. When the security chief explained what had happened, Chuck realized that the degree of 'complication' had just risen to stratospheric levels.

He'd listened carefully, dont his best to suppress his own fears, and disconnected with a quick, "Ten-four, Chief. I'll take care of it."

Mathis had not bothered to explain how dire the consequences would be if Taylor's security squad failed to perform as directed.

Justin could not be allowed to leave the loft, and, even more importantly, no one else could be allowed in. Anything else was simply unacceptable.

He looked around for Angel, who was doing a circuit of the premises, a practice the two alternated between them, making sure the timing was sporadic and entirely unpredictable. No sign of him yet, but that was hardly alarming. Each of them made sure their recon trips around the perimeter did not actually look like security checks. The route taken changed from one time to the next, and the pace could vary from a business-like, determined stride to a casual, just-moseying-along stroll, with random stops along the way to check out places of particular interest or risk, such as the dark entrance to the narrow back alley that intersected the area behind the building. It was a place where one or both of them paused frequently, ostensibly to light a cigarette or retie a shoelace or perform some other random task in order to sneak an in-depth look into the deeper shadows at the entrance.

The two young men complimented each other well; Chuck was faster, quicker to react, more talkative, and more concerned with the big picture while Angel tended to mosey along, taking his time and concentrating on the smaller details, thinking things through before opening his mouth. The mix worked well, for the most part.

Chuck glanced up then at the big windows fronting on the seating area of the loft, and was gratified to notice a shadow move across the bright façade. Debbie Novotny had made her departure almost an hour earlier, and young Taylor had appeared a few minutes later, bearing paper plates full of warm, spicy puttanesca, and paper cups of light beer, along with a handful of cannoli wrapped in a napkin.

Chuck smiled, recalling that the food had been tasty and filling, and Taylor had apologized for the "light" characteristic of the beer, acknowledging that he himself would have provided a stronger, more intoxicating version if he'd not been under strict orders from both Brian Kinney and Lance Mathis to do nothing of the kind.

Taylor had certainly meant well, but both members of his security team would have refused the strong brew even if he'd offered it, because they understood that to indulge a moment of weakness meant they would have to face their boss later and fess up. And then, there would be the matter of facing the boss's boss, and nobody in his right mind would take a chance on calling down the fury of Brian Kinney on one's own head for nothing more than a quick beer-buzz.

Still, a cold beer would have been nice, although - he tucked his hands up under his arms and shivered slightly - a hot coffee would probably have gone down better.

He moved away from the front entrance of the building, turning his collar up and jamming his hands into his pockets to shield against the chill of the fitful cool breeze that was rustling nearby trees and dislodging globules of rainwater that hit the pavement with rhythmic splats, like a muffled drumroll. As intended, he didn't look like a security guard; he looked like a drifter, an aimless teen-aged vagabond with too much time on his hands and nowhere to spend it. It was the persona he always assumed when he was on duty on the streets, in order to blend into the somewhat seedy background of Liberty Avenue - an area with more than its fair share of lost souls and angry young men. He wasn't really angry, of course; he considered himself to be one of the lucky ones. He had a job he didn't hate, making a decent salary with good benefits, and working for one of the hippest companies in the area. In addition, it was rarely boring. What else could a young man want?

Of course, there was another side to it. He usually avoided thinking about what had happened to Brian Kinney when a group of homophobic thugs had kidnapped and almost killed him. He couldn't let himself dwell on that, although he did, occasionally, imagine what he would do to that group of bullying cowards if he ever found them in his sights.

That was something else he shouldn't dwell on. Only, sometimes . . .

He heard the sharp clang of a sliding door being closed hard, followed by the thunder of footsteps on the stairs - a sure indicator that the person on the move had insufficient patience to wait for an elevator to answer an electronic summons. Chuck sighed, and allowed another question to rise in his mind. What else could a young man in his position want? Well, a little bit of luck wouldn't be too much to ask, would it?

"Chuck!" It wasn't spoken; wasn't even yelled. It was bellowed.

"I'm right here, Justin. You don't have to . . ."

"Where's Angel? We need to go, right . . ."

"Hold on. Go where?"

Justin froze in his rush toward the corner of the building where a walkway led to the parking area, and leveled a look filled with pure ice at his security guard. "Don't do that! Don't pretend you don't know about it. It's on fucking TV! So you had to know that they tried again. And I have to be there. I have to be. Brian is . . . he . . . "

"Justin," Chuck said softly, aiming for a soothing tone of voice and almost pulling it off, "he's not there. I swear he's not."

"And you know that how? Because he's not answering his cell phone or his office phone, and I can't get through to Babylon, or to Kinnetik. Which makes no sense at all because someone is always there."

"Look," Chuck replied quickly, "I just spoke to Mathis. He says the cops have cleared Babylon - no bombs. And he wants me to make sure you stay put. There's no need for you to . . ."

"Where - is - Brian?" Justin's tone was icy and harsh. "Why isn't he . . ."

"Because . . . he's coming here, so you should . . ."

"You're lying, Chuck." Justin's gaze was steady, unflinching. "And I don't think you've ever tried to do that before. So . . . something's wrong. Isn't it?"

"Justin . . ."

"No lies." The tone was even sharper and colder. "Where is Brian?"

Chuck sighed. "They're not sure."

"What do you mean by that? How can they not . . . Oh, my God. They left him alone at Kinnetik. Didn't they? Because of the bomb threat, he sent them there, and now he's . . ."

Without another word, he turned and started running down the street.

"Justin, wait," shouted Chuck. "You can't go down there."

"No?" The young blond didn't even slow enough to look back. "Watch me."

Chuck took a deep breath, and grabbed for his radio as he started running after the kid. "Angel," he shouted, "get back here now, and bring the God-damned car. Justin is headed for Kinnetik at a dead run, and if we don't stop him, it's our asses on the line."

Justin was younger and had the lungs of a healthy individual who rarely indulged himself with a cigarette - not the kind that was composed of tobacco anyway; those factors worked to his advantage. But Chuck was able to compensate for those assets by being almost four inches taller and longer of limb. Thus he managed to close the gap between them until he was almost close enough to reach out and snag the back of Justin's jacket - if sheer bad luck had not intervened. Just as he reached down inside himself to find the strength for an extra burst of speed, he failed to notice a wide, slick patch of mud before him. Justin had seen it and managed to leap over it; Chuck was not so fortunate and went down hard.

Still, he did not take the time to evaluate his condition; broken ribs or limbs or not, he had to shake it off and move or risk losing sight of the young man whom he was sworn to protect. By sheer luck, Angel pulled over beside him at that moment, so he jumped into the car and made ready to jump out and grab Justin once they caught up to him.

But Justin Taylor was nobody's fool and apparently had kept one ear focused on keeping track of where his pursuers might be. Thus, when he reached a narrow opening - less an alley than a footpath - behind a small apartment complex, he ducked in and increased his speed. Chuck had no choice but to follow him, since the path branched in several directions at the far end of the property.

"Go around," he shouted, flinging himself out of the car as it slowed, and only barely managing to keep his footing.

Angel did not argue; he simply stomped on the accelerator, peeling out and heading for the first turn, as Chuck plunged into the shadows behind the building.

The security guard was worried for his job, of course, and for the tongue-lashing he would receive if he didn't manage to catch up to his wayward charge. But it was more than a concern for keeping his job and avoiding any charge of failing to perform as directed that drove him.

A lot more.

His boss had been very explicit. The only possible conclusion, when all pertinent facts were considered, was that some people - powerful, determined people - were dead-set on doing terminal, fatal harm to Brian Kinney. The fact that he had been left alone to fend for himself was bad enough. The fact that the young man for whom he would willingly lay down his own life was - for the moment - in the wind and getting closer to disaster with every moment, was even worse.

Chuck ignored the grinding pain in his rib cage and ran faster.

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


"You weren't there," Brian said softly, staring across his desk at the face of the man who sat looking back at him, his big Glock semi-automatic pointed directly at his victim's chest.

Jackson's smile was lopsided. "You mean the first time they worked you over? No. I wasn't there."

"Must have broken your heart."

"Actually, it did. But then I got a shot at the brass ring - a chance to prove that I could accomplish what they couldn't."

"Yeah? And yet . . . here we are. If you were as good as you think you are, I'd have been dead already."

The smile became a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself, Kinney, by assuming that your survival had anything to do with how clever you are or how tough you pretend to be. You're still alive because of the willingness of stupid people to put themselves in harm's way for your sake. In fact, you should be ashamed of letting other people fight your battles for you. What'd you do? Offer to suck them off for their efforts?"

"So says the little man who's so proud of doing his masters' dirty work." Brian sat back and took a deep breath. "And if you're waiting for me to try to bribe you with one of my legendary blowjobs . . . " He managed a tiny, derisive smile. "You better be prepared for a very long wait."

Jackson shifted in his chair, deliberately adjusting the position of the gun so it was pointed directly at Brian's forehead. "You know," he said softly, almost purring with contentment, "you might want to rethink that attitude and make some little attempt to be nice to me. That might persuade me to make it quick and painless, rather than slow and agonizing. Did you know, for example, that there are certain areas of the human body that bleed out very slowly, inflicting maximum pain over an extended period of time? And the really good thing - the fun part, you might say - is that the best way to make sure it will work as planned is to pump in five or six shots in a narrow little circle. Does maximum damage and hurts like a son of a bitch. I know that because I've had medical training and experience."

Brian grinned. "Oh, yeah. You're a regular Dr. McDreamy, although you two don't look at all alike." The grin morphed into an unpleasant smirk. "I'm betting nobody's ever mistaken you for him."

"Keep it up, Smart-ass, and maybe I'll just amuse myself with a bit of fun and games." He shifted to reach into his pocket with the hand that wasn't holding the gun and withdraw a slender silver cylinder. "I always carry one of these - just so I'm never unprepared for any trouble that might come my way." With a flick of his thumb, he opened the tube to display a small scalpel, pristine and wickedly sharp.

"I wouldn't have taken you for the Boy Scout type. And by the way, what should I call you? Obviously, your name's not Jackson. Your master called you 'Tommy', so is that . . ."

"He's not my master, Dirtbag, and he only calls me that because it's the role I'm currently playing. But, if you're really interested, my full name is Bradford Jackson Hobbs. I guess it's appropriate for you to know the name of the man who's going to actually put you out of your misery - and everybody else's."

Brian pondered that response for a moment; then he grinned. "That's not really your name, is it? Not your legal name anyway. I'm guessing it's really just Bradford Jackson. The Hobbs is just you bidding for a place on the Hobbs family tree. But you know what, Tommy Boy - or whatever your fucking name might me? That's never going to happen. Why do you suppose Wylie and company selected you to do the wet work? Because nobody in their elite brotherhood would ever dirty his hands that way."

The expression on his attacker's face confirmed that Brian had hit the jackpot in finding Jackson's ultimate vulnerability. He had scored a direct hit, but there was no way it was going to garner him anything but more trouble than he'd expected. Still, he could not quite swallow a rush of satisfaction. He had done what he'd hoped to do; he'd exacted a tiny measure of payback, but it would not be without a cost.

Jackson's face was flushed an ugly red when he replied. "Yeah? Keep running that mouth, little fag, and I might just decide to carve my initials into that pretty face. You know, it's pretty obvious that the thugs who worked you over the first time were just amateurs. They had no idea where to cut in order to make the damage permanent." He smiled again, running his thumb lightly over the blade and then sticking the bloodied digit into his mouth to suck away the bright trickle. "But I do."

Brian simply watched him, his face completely still, giving nothing away. Not even a nuance of the despair rising within him as he struggled to find a way to accept the inescapable truth; he would probably die tonight, so it shouldn't matter if his face was slashed to ribbons, but, somehow, it did. Somehow, he didn't want Justin to have to confront the mutilation of the man he'd loved.

It was stupid, he knew. But, if given an option, he would do something completely outrageous, so that his killer would have no choice but to kill him quickly and run. He was on the verge of accepting the inevitable conclusion to this little drama, but he would, at least, spare Justin that much.

And there was, ultimately, no time like the present, so he pushed away from the desk and took a deep breath, gathering his courage, so that he could . . .

He froze in the chair, hands braced on the arm rests, uncertain of what had made him pause. Something . . . something wasn't quite as it was supposed to be, something glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, perhaps. Something or . . . someone.

His eyes grew huge as he opened his mouth to . . . well, he wasn't exactly sure what he could do, since the explosiveness of the moment was beyond his power to change, to . . .

When Jackson's cell phone buzzed, he knew his time was up. It was move now, or never move at all.

And he shifted to do so, but he was too slow. Shit! Tyson Gay would have been too slow! In the duration of a single heartbeat, any small advantage he might have had was nothing more than a lost memory. All he could do was watch and wait and entrust his life to a providence that - for the most part - seemed disinclined to intervene.

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

They had not exactly enjoyed serendipitous timing throughout this interminable day, but - for once - Lance Mathis and Drew Boyd and Chris McClaren had cause to offer up a silent prayer of thanks for one tiny bit of divine intervention, although none of them actually took the time to utter it. By sheer happenstance, they arrived at the employee entrance to the Kinnetik building at exactly the same moment, and it was a toss-up to figure out which of them was quieter. Not the sound of a single footstep betrayed their presence, and, when possible, they used hand gestures rather than spoken words to communicate.

When Mathis used his electronic master key to shut off the building's alarm system and unlock the door which opened into a rear hallway near the primary security office, McClaren took the lead moving inside, while Mathis took a moment to whisper in Drew Boyd's ear, explaining that he'd received a call from Chuck Valencia just moments earlier, advising that Justin Taylor was on his way to Kinnetik. It would be Drew's job to apprehend him before he could come tearing into the building and screw up everything; him - and anyone else who tried to muscle in. Extra amateur bodies - vulnerable to a hail of bullets, likely to get in the way of those who were better trained to deal with this situation, and providing ample opportunities for a would-be hostage-taker - were the last thing the professionals needed right now.

With a grim nod, Boyd moved toward the front corner of the building, careful to stick to the shadows as he walked and taking up a post where he would have a clear view of anyone approaching from the street in either direction and have time - if the Fates were kind - to intercept any inbound potential disaster.

One base covered, McClaren acknowledged with a nod, slightly surprised to realize he actually trusted the ex-quarterback to handle the task assigned to him. The FBI didn't ordinarily depend on non-professionals in such a critical situation, but this . . . this was different. He admitted to himself that he needed all the help he could get. He had done everything he could do to stack the deck in Brian's favor, and Alexandra Corey was certainly still busy stacking. Calling out the cavalry, as she'd phrased it. But none of that changed the fact that what he did or failed to do during the next five minutes would either save a life or lose it. He deliberately refused to think about the identity of the potential victim. It might tear his heart out to find himself accountable for the death of Brian Kinney, but that shouldn't matter.

An individual was being held hostage. Period. Nothing else was pertinent to the moment.

Yeah, right!

He moved down the corridor toward the central hub of the building, but Mathis reached out and touched his shoulder to get his attention, and nodded toward the door to the main security office. The FBI agent almost shrugged the man off, remembering - with more than a little surge of anger - that the monitoring screens there would reveal nothing of what was happening in Brian's office, since he had absolutely refused to have security cameras installed there. But Mathis was quick to offer him a whispered reminder that there were other ways to keep track of what was happening in any section of the building.

True, there was no camera in the boss's office; Brian Kinney valued his privacy too highly. But there was a microphone, indicating that he was determined enough to refuse anyone the opportunity to spy on him, but not so stubborn he would fail to recognize the need for his security team to be able to check in on him periodically. To a man, they were well paid and trustworthy, and well acquainted with the penalty for indiscretion, so they would all understand their obligation to preserve the boss's privacy. Thus, Brian had yielded - with some reluctance - to the installation of listening devices on which both McClaren and Mathis had insisted, with the proviso that they should be turned off unless there was some sort of major screw-up.

From McClaren's point of view, things just didn't get any more screwed up than this.

In silence, the two entered the security office, prepared to activate the listening devices, but found - to their surprise - that someone had beaten them to it. The murmur of voices was low-pitched but definitely audible, channeling from the executive office through the security monitors.

"What the . . ." Even when surprised, Mathis remembered to speak in a whisper.

McClaren could not quite suppress a grin. "Brian," he whispered. "Has to be."

And Mathis understood the truth of it. With no one else left to man the security system, only the boss could have tripped the switch to activate the listening devices. A single glance at the panel revealed something else as well. Not only were the bugs functioning perfectly; so was the recording device that was attached to the system.

Thus neither spoke, choosing instead to listen in silence as an ugly, bizarre event played out in Brian's office.

" . . . you're still alive because of the willingness of stupid people to put themselves in harm's way for your sake. In fact, you should be ashamed of letting other people fight your battles for you. What'd you do? Offer to suck them off for their efforts?"

They listened for a moment longer - long enough to be appalled and disgusted by the degree of hatred and murderous intent they could hear in the words spoken by Jackson or Hobbs or whatever his real name might be. Quickly, Mathis retrieved two earwig devices from the equipment cabinet, inserting one in his own ear and handing the other to the FBI agent. The tiny instruments would allow them to monitor what was happening in the executive office as they proceeded toward it and to communicate with each other.

"Okay. What now?" asked Mathis, as they moved back into the corridor.

"We split up," replied McClaren, inserting his own earwig and pausing briefly to make sure it was functioning correctly. "I'm going to Brian's office. Is there another way in?"

Mathis nodded. "There's a rear door in his private bath, but I'll have to make a bit of a circuit to get there without being heard or seen. Give me a couple of minutes."

The FBI agent swallowed around the lump in his throat as he tried to monitor the conversation between Brian and his would-be assassin and control an impulse to go racing into that office, shooting first and thinking later - an act that would almost certainly get Brian killed or maimed, not to mention costing his own life. "I don't think we've got minutes to spare. Make it fast."

"I'll let you know when I'm in place."

Mathis didn't wait for a response, moving quickly into an intersecting corridor and disappearing around a corner. If McClaren remembered correctly - and he was sure he did - the security chief would be circling around the art department and the break room before gaining access to the door he was seeking.

But he couldn't wait for confirmation that the man had made it to the private doorway. He had to get to Brian's office immediately because - judging by the content of the conversation of the two protagonists - he was running out of time. And so was Brian.

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

Just a block to go, but he wasn't sure he'd make it. Chuck was closing in. He shouldn't be, Justin thought, but he was. Probably because the security guard was terrified of losing his job if anything happened to Justin on his watch.

But Chuck's determination to hold on to his job paled beside Justin's determination to get to Brian, to keep Brian safe.

He knew, of course; how could he not know? Knew Brian believed that Justin could survive without him. Maybe he even believed Justin would actually be better off if Brian was removed from his life.

But Justin knew something else - knew it surely, with no nuance of doubt. Without Brian, he could not survive. He might live on, of course, but that was not really survival, because the person who lived on would be forever changed into someone else, someone that no one would recognize as the Justin Taylor he had always been.

So - just a little extra kick of speed. Just a little more . . .

So intent was he on the man sprinting in his tracks he did not see the man - larger, tougher, and stronger - who stepped out of the shadows to grab him when he was only a few yards away from Kinnetik's front entrance.

Simultaneously, two other individuals approached from the opposite direction, and it was only due to the strength of Drew Boyd and the flexibility and perfect balance of Jared Hilliard that they didn't wind up in a windmill of floundering limbs and bruised torsos.
They all retained their footing, but only barely. More important, from the viewpoint of Chuck Valencia who arrived on the scene just in time to witness the collision, it all happened in complete silence.

Justin, of course, opened his mouth to protest - loudly - but Boyd anticipated the young man's action and placed his hand over Justin's mouth, limiting the protest to an infuriated but muffled humming - barely audible.

To put a stop to the possibility of a shriek of anger, Boyd pulled the young blond to his side, and whispered urgently in his ear.

None of the others could hear what he said, but his words must have been sobering because Justin went limp immediately and stopped struggling.

"I can't just stand here," he said finally, barely louder than a whisper.

"Yes," replied Boyd gently. "You can. Unless you want to go tearing in there, and get him killed. And yourself as well."

"But I . . ."

"Justin!" That was Emmett, facing his young friend squarely and touching Justin's face with gentle fingers. "I know how you feel. I know you can't stand the idea of someone else saving his life." He paused to take a deep breath. "Especially McClaren. But you have to face this. He's the one who knows what to do - the one who's trained his whole life to safeguard the people he's responsible for. You have to let him do it."

"But . . ."

He didn't actually voice his uncertainties, but Emmett, who knew him better than almost anyone else, recognized them anyway and leaned closer to speak in a whisper. "I know you're scared. And I know you're angry - that you'd give anything if it could be you who saves him, instead of the man who has somehow become a part of his life in a way you don't understand. But . . ." He put a finger under Justin's chin and lifted to force tear-filled blue eyes to meet his own. "It doesn't matter. The only thing that does matter is that he is saved, so he survives long enough to grow old with you. Brian loves you, Justin. Nobody else - just you. Please tell me you know that, because - if you don't - you're not nearly as smart as I thought you were."

Justin looked away - not because Emmett was wrong, but because he was right.

"So what do we do?" he asked finally.

It was Jared Hilliard who responded; he was the ranking professional in the group. "You and Emmett need to stay out of sight. Find a handy shadow and stick to it. Boyd, you stay here and keep watch, and Chuck, you stand look-out at the other end of the alley. Needless to say, nobody goes in that door. Not even the cops if they show up, not unless you get an all clear signal. Comprende?"

"And you?" That was Justin again, understanding that he had to do as he was told, but still not liking it very much.

"I'm going in," Hilliard replied as he removed his Glock pistol to make sure it was fully loaded. "To see if I can help."

"Then why . . ."

"Because I know what to do. You don't." He turned to go inside, then paused and turned back to face Justin. "I'll let you know as soon as I can."

"Please . . ." Justin started, but didn't know what to say next.

"I know you're scared, but try to stay positive. Whether you like him or not, you need to remember that McClaren is really good at his job. If he wasn't, he never would have been assigned to do this. So cross your fingers for us, and try to be patient. We'll be back - soon."

With that, he opened the rear door and headed in. He'd taken only a few steps when he heard the sound of gunfire - two rapid shots, then a slight lull, followed by at least five more, one immediately after the other.

At that point, there was no holding Justin Taylor back, and Emmett was right behind him as they raced inside.

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

From his position just inside the executive washroom, Cedric Lasseigne could only see the back of Brian's head and body, but he could hear everything perfectly. Actually, he wished he couldn't hear it at all. It was the kind of vicious filth he figured he would never be able to wash from his mind.

But that didn't matter.

He had waited as long as he dared, in the hope that someone - anyone - would show up to assume the task of protecting Brian. This kind of duty was most certainly not included in his job description.

One part of his mind scolded him for his foolishness and reminded him that, if he just stood here in silence, refusing to show himself at all, this would be over soon, and he would be safe.

Then all you'll have to do is look into Justin's eyes and explain to him how you could just stand by as the love of his life was put down like a rabid dog.

One part of him wished he was brave enough to face that. But he wasn't.

He was still standing there when Brian pushed back and started to rise. He took a deep breath then and inched forward; it wasn't much of a move, but it was apparently enough to register in Brian's peripheral vision, because Kinnetik's owner froze just as his would-be killer's cell phone rang.

There was at that point no more time for thinking.

Lasseigne tightened his grip on the broom stick he'd retrieved from the maintenance closet and raced forward, shouting at the top of his lungs - a string of Cajun French profanity which no one present could translate, but that didn't matter since the words were only a means of bolstering his own courage - arriving at his chosen vantage point at the exact moment when the assailant raised his gun toward his intended target, just as Brian leapt from his chair, crying out a frustrated, "No," as he realized he was too late to make any difference, but he still had to try.

Odds against the old Cajun making an actual difference were incredibly high, but he had the benefit of surprise in his favor, so the gunman was confused by the unexpected assault and unprepared for the overhand blow from the broom handle. Lasseigne was not particularly strong, and the strike was not hard enough to do any permanent damage, but it did impact solidly on the gunman's hand, solidly enough to affect his aim The pistol fired, and Brian gasped, clasping a hand to his chest as he was thrown backwards by the force of the bullet. But Jackson, who was forced to turn immediately to defend himself from the old man and his broom handle, had no opportunity to follow through with the second shot at his intended victim to make sure he'd completed the job he was sworn to do. Then, adding injury to insult, he was forced to turn away from both Brian and Cedric and fire at the tall individual bursting through the front door, gun in hand.

Chris McClaren was torn between wanting to kiss the old Cajun for interfering with the assassin's aim and wanting to yell at him for getting in the way, for making it impossible for him to fire his gun until he could be certain he would not injure Lasseigne.

Thus, he could only throw himself forward and to the side as a second shot emerged from Jackson's pistol. He felt the impact of the bullet in his left shoulder as he went down, but had no time to ponder how much damage it might have done. Instead, he braced his elbows against the floor, and coldly, deliberately aimed his Beretta and fired three quick shots into the gunman's chest and one additional shot - slightly delayed - to the middle of his forehead.

Jackson was still falling when Lance Mathis leaped in from the washroom and Jared Hilliard burst in from the front corridor.

Both held their firearms at the ready, but neither needed to use them.

Jackson was very dead.

The only question was whether or not he had accomplished his mission before dying.

McClaren, ignoring the blood pouring from his arm, stood up and leapt across the expanse of Brian's desk, and found the man he was charged to protect sprawled against the wall, with blood covering the area below his throat and saturating his shirt.

"Brian?" The FBI agent swayed slightly as he knelt amid a growing pool of blood.

But if he'd fooled himself into thinking he would be the one to offer comfort or to cradle lovely Brian in his arms, he was quickly disabused of that notion. He had only just managed to lay his hand against the bloody surface of Brian's throat - just long enough to ascertain that there was still a pulse there; at that point, he allowed himself to slump forward on his knees. It was no guarantee, of course; there was a lot of blood, and the injury might still prove to be fatal, but at least, he had not had to be the one to find that beautiful, mighty heart stilled forever. He took a deep shaky breath, and was shifting to lean forward to examine the wound, when he was pushed aside, and Justin Taylor was there, gathering his unconscious lover into his arms and murmuring constantly, saying nothing in particular, but saying everything that needed saying with the love flowing through his voice as Lance Mathis, utilizing extensive first aid training, took care of checking out the extent of the damage and staunching the blood flow while Hilliard dialed 911. Others arrived - Emmett and Drew Boyd among them - with FBI agents, including Alex Corey, and policemen bringing up the rear.

So this was it, McClaren thought as the crowd surged around them. He took a deep breath and struggled to rise, clasping one hand against his wounded shoulder. The case would go on, and he would continue to be involved, but the intimacy, the closeness, the . . . whatever-it-was he had developed with Brian Kinney would be gone. Those who had used their massive resources and willing underlings to put an end to the infamous Stud of Liberty Avenue were finished; they would never threaten anyone again. It ended here, and Brian would need him no longer. He should go; he should really, really go - now. But when he turned to make his escape, he was astonished as young Taylor took a moment out of his chanted soliloquy to look up at him, blue eyes bright with tears - could they really be tears of gratitude? - and lift one hand to wrap it in the fabric of his shirt and pull him down again, drawing him firmly into the circle that surrounded Brian as they waited for paramedics to arrive.

It was an elite circle with only one criteria required for inclusion: a love - one way or another - for Brian Kinney.


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

 

 

You must login (register) to review.