Devon Goral paused to feel the summer breeze play over his face. The sun shone brightly and it was going to be a beautiful day. There wasn't a cloud in the light-blue sky and birds chirped happily.

The Protector was refreshed. He'd taken several days to recover from injuries, both physical and emotional, and he was finally on the rebound. Six days since his return to RhyDin he was ready to get to business. And RhyDin's industrial district was his first stop of the day.

In front of him stood a large warehouse. From the outside the building appeared to be vacant, although Devon immediately noticed the excessive number of security cameras placed unobtrusively around the exterior. The cameras watched as he approached the main door and pressed an unlabelled buzzer. Seconds later the door lock clicked and he stepped inside.

The lobby was sparse and unoccupied ? just a hallway leading to an elevator. Devon proceeded towards the lift, and the doors parted without requiring any action. Stepping inside he pressed the button for the top floor and waited as he was silently carried upwards.

Any pretense of this being an unoccupied building was shattered as Devon emerged on the fifth floor. A large glass security door barred his progress, featuring an optical scanner. A man stood in front of the door, waiting. He was very large, his muscles stuffed uncomfortably into a suit. He wore a mustache but no hair atop his head. He regarded Devon through intense, serious eyes.

"Devon Goral for Xander Carter."

The big man nodded ??Devon was expected. He peered into the scanner and released the door, opening it for Devon to pass through. The two men walked silently through a large open-air office filled with cubicles and workstations. The technology appeared state-of-the-art, beyond anything Devon was used to. But no one was working ? roughly a dozen pairs of eyes simply watched The Protector walk among them. One wall was emblazoned with the company logo and title ? Creighton and Associates, Inc.

Devon was led to a corner office. It was clean and nicely-appointed and featured a large window that looked out onto the heart of RhyDin City. A bar took up one whole wall and there were minimal decorations. Devon recognized the style immediately.

Behind a large expensive desk sat a tall man of roughly Devon's same age. He was handsome and physically fit, with a bit of grey around his temples. Seated across from him in one of the guest chairs was an older man, short and balding with a nervous twitch.

Devon knew both men well. They used to work for him.

The door was closed behind as The Protector stepped into the office. Both men stood. Xander Carter stepped out from behind the desk and offered his hand. Devon shook it with a friendly but professional smile.

"Thanks for coming, Dev," Xander said.

The other man, Ryan Bisterfield, also shook hands with Devon.

Xander Carter was one of Devon's most trusted bodyguards before the schism tore his company apart roughly a year before. He was competent and respected, but he fell under the influence of Daniel Creighton ? as did most of Devon's people. Carter shared the belief that they were turning away too much business in the name of morality and he jumped ship during the mass exodus. He wasn't the first to leave and he wasn't the last, but he did leave.

Bisterfield ? Devon's former accountant and business manager ??left on the same day, being lured with the promise of a larger business with more money to handle. What he lacked in personality and charisma, he made up for in financial knowledge. Devon was always wary to trust him due to his former position as the accountant to some of RhyDin's most notable crime families, and there was little love lost when he left.

The third man, who escorted Devon into the office, made his way around the side and leaned against the bar with his arms folded over his chest. Devon know him as well, but they never worked together. Ronald Gant was little more than a thug and Devon turned him down for a job when he applied several years back. He was one of the first employees to be scooped up by Creighton ? a shining example of the difference between the two companies. Creighton hired anyone who was a badass and could use a weapon. Devon required a moral compass.

Xander, Bisterfield, and Devon all took their respective seats ??Xander behind the desk and the others in front. The office reeked of Daniel Creighton (both literally and figuratively), and Devon was disquieted. Still he kept his expression impassive and professional.

"As you know," Xander started, "Dan left town about a week ago. There was no warning and no word. He appears to have skipped town completely."

"Jury's still out on that," Devon responded. "He may have just gone underground."

"Well, wherever he went, he decided to stick it to us in the process," Xander continued. "He emptied all of our bank accounts."

"He left us with nothing," Bisterfield confirmed.

"Devon, I can't make payroll and we have bills that are already past-due and creditors threatening to shut us down and repossess everything we have. We literally have nothing." Xander paused. "We need your help."

The Protector couldn't help but smile. He never wished any ill on the men and women who betrayed him ? it was just business. His anger was with Creighton solely. Still, there was some relief in knowing that Creighton operated his business with the same level of bullshit that he lived his personal life.

"We can't even get a loan," Bisterfield continued, "because everything's in Mister Creighton's name. We don't have the authority to put any of this up for collateral."

Xander nodded. "Despite what it says out in the hallway, we never incorporated. This is all one big house of cards. The business belongs lock, stock, and barrel to Daniel Creighton and I can't get anyone to return my calls."

"How much do you need?" Devon asked, his expression returning to sincerity.

Xander nodded to Bisterfield, who produced three folders from a briefcase sitting next to him. He handed the first to Devon, who paged through it briefly.

"Those are the past-due bills that are of the biggest concern. I have a feeling that Mister Creighton was preparing for this for a while, he hasn't authorized me to pay a bill ??other than payroll ??in over two months."

"If we don't get those bills paid within the next day or so, this all goes away," Xander added.

"Then we have another huge set of bills due within thirty days," Bisterfield continued, handing over the second folder. "Stuff we can't put off any longer."

Devon reviewed both folders in silence. The numbers were staggering. Creighton spared no expense in building his empire.

"What kind of incoming revenue do you have to look forward to?"

Bisterfield offered the third folder. "This is everything we're expecting within the next thirty days, but our collections are behind."

"Dan was quick to seek out shady clients with big promises," Xander explained. "Mostly they paid but sometimes they didn't. The money never came in as fast as we were expecting."

Devon gave Xander an 'I-told-you-so' look and Xander frowned, looking down at his hands.

"We have nowhere else to turn," Bisterfield said.

Devon continued reviewing the numbers for several minutes. He'd written checks donating his entire net worth to charities. Within a matter of days he'd be broke himself. But he did have options ? first and foremost a mortgage on his now-vacant house on the outskirts of town. And this request, besides giving him a certain sense of payback, featured other appealing elements.

"We're prepare to offer this company and all of our assets to you if you'll help us out," Xander advised slowly, looking back up. "You can hire and fire at will. This can all be yours."

Devon narrowed his eyes, glancing up at his former employee.

"If you need some time to think about it?" Xander said, looking back up.

Devon shook his head, setting all three folders down on the desk. "I work for myself now. I have no interest in running another operation on this scale or any other."

"I see," Xander responded, despair setting in.

"But I will help you," Devon continued. "If you meet my terms."

"Go on."

Devon paused, quickly working the numbers in his head. "First, you need to incorporate this thing. Pretend Dan never existed and do it from scratch the right way. Make your top employees shareholders with you two as CEO and CFO."

Xander and Bisterfield exchanged confused glances. The accountant produced a pad of paper and began taking notes.

"I'll cover your immediate past-due bills and payroll in return for a ten percent stake in the new company," Devon continued. "To protect my investment, I want a voting seat on the Board ??but I promise not to get involved with your day-to-day operations. Like I said, I work for myself now. Once you return to profitability, I'll expect dividends in accordance with my share."

A long pause, before Xander finally nodded. "That's fair."

"I'll also lend you the money to pay the bills due in thirty days. In return, you'll provide me with a private office here and logistical support. I'll pay the company rent at a fair-market rate, which will initially just be applied against the loan."

"We have plenty of office space with state-of-the-art facilities, that's not a problem."

"We can also sign some type of agreement that if I ever need help on a job, you'll provide me with available staff and equipment paid at an agreed-upon rate. Likewise, if you never need an extra pair of hands and I'm available, I can help out. Outside of that, however, I'm just renting space from you. We stay out of each others' hair."

Xander and Bisterfield again exchanged glances. Bisterfield nodded his approval and Xander turned back to Devon.

"I think we have a deal, Dev."

"One last thing."

Xander squared his jaw.

"May as well deal with the elephant in the room," Devon continued. "Over the past year, you and I have found ourselves repeatedly on opposite sides of the turf war between the Dockworkers' Union and the mafia. It resulted in my wife being seriously injured by someone under your protection. We need a non-compete agreement and ensures it won't happen again."

"Of course," Xander said. "We'll find a way."

"Then we have a deal," Devon said with a smile. All three men stood and The Protector shook both of their hands.

"As soon as you can show me recorded articles of incorporation, along with paperwork on the rest of our terms, you'll get the money."

"I'll head over to our lawyer's office immediately," Bisterfield said.

"I have another meeting to get to," Devon said, glancing at his wristwatch. "You know how to reach me once you're ready to finalize this."

"Devon?" Xander started, "I don't have to tell you that a lot of people in this building think they made a mistake. Starting with me."

Devon waived his hand dismissively. "Dan had a lot of charisma. I can't blame anyone for falling under his spell. Hell, I gave the guy a job here after he tormented me for years."

"Still, the fact that you're willing to still work with us says a lot about your character versus his."

"It's all just business, including this deal. I need an office. You have a nice one here. Would be a same to see it torn apart."

Xander smiled. "Yes it would."

"Do me a favor, though, get that buffoon's name off the wall before I come back."

* * *

Only a few blocks away, twelve men sat around a conference table. They were all dressed almost identically ? dark pinstripe suits and hats ? as if chosen from mobster central casting. They glanced around nervously at their surroundings, with occasional breaks in the silence to laugh about some unfortunate war story. Most of these men were in competition with each other, although in the past few months they were brought together in a loose (and unstable) coalition towards a common goal. None believed it would last, and at least half of the assembled men expected to be assassinated this morning. Such was the life of a gangster.

Giovanni Donatello burst gregariously into the room with a bottle of champagne held high above his head. He was a short and rotund man, his head featuring only a few wisps of graying hair around the back. His suit was disheveled and worn and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. He blotted the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief with one hand while swinging the bottle around with the other like a trophy.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Donatello practically sang. An aide followed him into the room and began distributing tall plastic flutes.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," the short man continued. "I know it can be hard for some of you to get away, especially so early in the morning. I imagine most of you are night owls," he added with a laugh.

All twelve of the assembled just stared uncomfortably.

"I'm pleased to announce that the RhyDin Dockworker's Union elected a new president yesterday. I met last night with President Talbot and Director McRae and we have a new understanding regarding security at the ports."

"For two years my master has worked to bring order to the chaos that is our line of work," Donatello continued cheerfully. "Last night was the culmination of our efforts as I shook hands with the President and the Director on behalf of all of you. Going forward, all large shipping containers coming in or out of RhyDin ports via ship or spaceship will be protected by our security forces. You will all be responsible for securing those containers and ensuring that you collect your fees. Any merchant not using us for security risks ? well ??let's just say that it's a dangerous world out there and there's no telling what will happen to unprotected containers."

There was minimal reaction from around the room. The mobsters all awaited the dropping of the other shoe.

"Well?" Donatello asked. "We won! We're here to celebrate! None of this would have been possible without all of you and your people. We've successfully eliminated the competition and streamlined the process across the entire region. Congratulations!" He popped the top off the bottle of champagne, causing a stream of bubbly to shoot up in the air accompanied by a loud pop. Several of the man around the table flinched as if it were a gunshot.

There was still little reaction other than a few forced smiles. Donatello took a swig straight from the bottle before passing it to his aide, who began filling the flutes.

"Starting today, I want you to get down to the docks in your assigned territories," Donatello commanded, his tone getting more serious. "Make sure your people begin the collections. They kick up to you, you kick up to me. I make sure the master is happy."

"Failure will no longer be tolerated," he continued. "If anyone gives you trouble, let me know. And if I see trouble from any of you, expect a visit from The Wraith."

Any color in the room faded away. Everyone knew The Wraith. Everyone knew the consequences of crossing The Wraith.

"Any questions?" Donatello asked, his tone returning to the cheery.

No one said anything.

The aide returned the bottle to Donatello and he raised it high. "Then we toast. To you, to your people, and to the master who made this all possible. And to the docks and the Dockworker's Union. Today, thanks to them, we all become very rich men."

* * *

Miles away, Kristos Papadous walked cheerfully through the streets of central RhyDin and its most upscale business district. People were just beginning to congregate at the various outdoor cafes ? the beautiful weather was sure to attract busy crowds today. He held a bouquet of brightly-colored flowers in his hand and his expression was all smiles. Kristos was a handsome man in his early-twenties, dark-skinned with raven-black hair. He walked through the city as he walked through life ? often blissfully unaware of his surroundings. In a certain respect he existed on a different plane from most people, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse.

He stopped in the street outside an apartment building and looked up at a second-floor balcony. Seeing no activity, he found a stone and threw it at the glass window ??causing a loud tapping noise. Kristos waited for a reaction, but there was none.

After a minute he found another stone and threw it just a bit harder. A nearby smoker gave him a dirty look but he didn't pay any heed nor dissuade from his efforts.

A third stone sailed into the apartment as the window opened at just the right (or wrong) moment. Lynne Lancaster dodged the stone just in time, and scowled down to the street below.

"Hello!" shouted Kristos cheerfully.

"You could have hit me!" Lynne yelled back.

"And I could be hit by a car right now!" Kristos offered. Nothing was going to ruin his mood.

"Well, you're about to!" she yelled, pointing. Kristos dodged a small car as it raced down the street.

"Come have lunch with me!" Kristos yelled, holding up the flowers.

"I can't, I'm having lunch with my parents."

"Then have pre-lunch with me. Please, it is a beautiful day and I want to spend even five minutes with you."

Lynne eyed the man suspiciously. She loved him, but he was always being just a bit too sugary for her. Still, his optimism was refreshing compared with the pessimism she usually found around her.

"I'll be down shortly."

"Thank you!" he practically sung, dancing a bit in the street before having to dodge out of the way of another car. Lynn rolled her eyes and closed the window, disappearing back into her bedroom.

Five minutes later, Lynne emerged from the apartment building. A professional (and medaled) athlete, she was about the same age as Kristos and in supreme physical condition. She did not emulate Kristos' dreamy dance through life, although she moved gracefully and purposefully with every step. They embraced briefly and shared a gentle kiss. For a few brief seconds, the rest of the world melted away, leaving only the two lovers.

Kristos offered the flowers to Lynne, and she took them in one hand while resting the other on his arm. The two walked directionlessly along the sidewalk.

"Please give your parents my regards when you see them," Kristos offered. "Where will you all go for lunch?"

Lynne chuckled. "If my parents had any idea I was seeing you, they'd lock me in a box and ship me far away. Be glad they don't know you exist. They're taking me to the spaceport, my brother has an office there."

"If my parents were alive, I would bore them all day with stories of you, my love," Kristos declared brightly.

"Your father is alive, you've told me about him," Lynne observed with a curious glance.

"Yesterday he told me that I am dead to him," Kristos explained. "So now I am an orphan!" he shouted for all the world to hear.

"You're a strange, strange man," Lynne said with a chuckle. She was used to her lover's odd statements and his tenuous grasp with reality.

"Will you have tea with me?" he asked.

Lynne stopped their forward progress. "I'm sorry, Kris, I don't have time. I really have to get going ? my father's car will be here shortly."

Kristos stepped back and swept low into a bow. "I understand, my love. If these few minutes are all I shall receive, then I accept them gratefully."

"You're a strange man, Kristos Papadous," she observed with a smile.

"And you are the most beautiful woman in the multiverse, Lynne Lancaster."

She stepped forward and the two embraced tightly. The only people in the world.

* * *

Percy Waller walked swiftly over the hot morning sand, his bare feet and toes leaving uneven footprints behind. Dressed in a bright, flowery t-shirt and khaki shorts, the man completed his look with a straw hat on his head, sunglasses on his face, and a thick cigar in his mouth. He smiled broadly, feeling the summer sun on his face and legs. He was far away from the cares of his former life, enjoying a hedonistic existence the likes of which should be written about in books.

He started this morning like he started every morning ? a long walk on the beach followed by a liaison in his cabana with a prostitute (referenced in his day timer as "business meetings" of course). Then he'd head down to the local racetrack and handicap the horses. With a little bookmaking on the side, he was able to protect his nest egg and lead an entirely carefree life.

"Good morning, Mister Smith!" shouted a young boy fishing from the beach.

"Good morning, Aaron," Waller responded with a smile. He used the alias George Smith in order to avoid being found. There was no danger in this island paradise, many universes removed from the life he used to know in RhyDin. He remained careful, doing business only in cash and never revealing his true identity. Can never be too careful.

As he reached the resort where he lived, he turned away from the ocean and made his way inside past the reception desk.

"Good morning, Mister Smith," the concierge greeted. "There's someone in your cabana waiting for you."

Waller smiled. "I bet there is. Thank you, Domingo."

He made his way out the other side of the building to a series of cabanas on the beach. Slipping inside his own, he slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and began stripping open the buttons as he walked into the living room.

"I'm here!" he shouted to his awaiting companion.

Only there was no companion waiting for him. Instead, all he saw was a tall and skinny olive-skinned man in a black pine-stripe suit. The man's face was worn from too much sun and his mouth was almost totally obscured behind a bushy black mustache. He wore a fedora on his head and held a gun in his outstretched arm.

"Oh, shit," Waller observed moments before taking a bullet between his eyes. He fell backwards, crashing into a bamboo chair and collapsing on the floor.

Vito DiMeo took several steps forward, firing two additional shots into Waller's chest to make sure he was dead. He then unscrewed the silencer from his pistol and stuffed both pieces into his suit coat, instead producing a phone. He redialed the last number and held it up to his ear.

"The loose end has been tied," Vito said. "I'm on my way home."

* * *

Not far from RhyDin's business district was a small, nondescript office building featuring a miscellany of unrelated businesses. Devon Goral entered the building for his second meeting of the morning. It was nearly noon and he was getting hungry, but he had to take care of one more thing before his morning would be over.

Benjamin "Beans" Cooper was among the best private detectives in RhyDin, although he was not widely known and avoided the spotlight. His office ? a one man operation ? was cluttered and Beans appeared disorganized and disheveled. What he lacked in organization he more than made up for in raw talent. He could find anyone. Devon had worked with him before on a professional basis, often helping clients track down their would-be assassins or looking for victims of kidnapping.

This was The Protector's first visit of a personal nature.

Beans was fighting with the coffee maker when Devon entered the small office. He wore a crumpled polo shirt and denim pants. A pencil was tucked behind his ear and his eyeglasses were perched high atop his head. He smiled as Devon stepped in and the two shook hands firmly.

"Hey, Dev," Beans greeted. "Good to see you. Please come in. Coffee?"

"No thanks, Beans," Devon answered. "Getting lunch soon."

"Is it lunch time already?"

"Soon."

Beans invited Devon into his inner-office and cleared off a chair for the tall bodyguard to sit. He then made his way around behind his desk and took his own seat.

"How can I help you, Dev? You said you had two jobs for me?"

Devon nodded, producing two folders from his longcoat.

"Go ahead."

Devon handed over the first folder and Beans opened it and began perusing the contents.

"Daniel Creighton. He cleared out his condo and his office roughly a week ago. I want to know if he actually left town or if he's just gone deep underground. If he's still floating around somewhere, he's a threat to me."

Beans nodded. "Are we talking town or universe?"

"It's possible he traveled to another universe. He's done it before."

"Okay. No problem. You've got a lot of info here, shouldn't be hard." He looked up. "What else ya got?"

Devon handed over the second folder. Inside a picture of Zephyer.

"My wife," Devon explained. "She'll still be local. She may have gone off the grid, though, she has an affinity for caves and doesn't have a problem with being far from civilization. She's also a shapeshifter and you may need to track the wolf population."

Beans studied the picture carefully and then looked up with a frown. "Man, I've had to help a lot of people find their spouses, but nothing like this. And I'm sorry it had to be you."

Devon shrugged. "Just find her, Beans. I want to bring her home. But be aware that she can be quite deadly if she thinks she's being tracked or followed. Keep a safe distance and beg off if she catches your scent."

Beans nodded. "No problem, Dev. This is what I do."

Devon smiled uncomfortably and held up his hands. "That's all I got. Find these two people for me. The sooner I know where they are, the sooner I can put the pieces back together."

"This is reckless. The kind of thing I would do ? not you."
?26 days from now

* * *

The air inside the conference room buzzed with nervous anticipation as Devon Goral made his way through the stack of contracts, signing and/or initialing the various provisions. Xander Carter and Ryan Bisterfield watched the process like expectant fathers, eager to see it finished but hesitant to get in the way.

After signing the last page, Devon took one last look and then slid the stack over to Bisterfield to notarize. He then opened an envelope and withdrew two crisp personal checks, offering them over to the accountant. One would cover the company's past-due bills, the other would get them through the next thirty days.

Bisterfield took the checks and held them gingerly in his pale hands. He looked up at Devon and asked if the company could deposit the checks immediately ? discomfort in his eyes and voice. With a respectful smile, The Protector confirmed that the checks were good. He had just taken out a mortgage on his home and was momentarily flush with money. That, of course, would soon change as he went deep into debt to finance his former rival's company.

Outside the glass walls of the conference room, the employees of the company ? bodyguards and support staff ? nervously peeked over the walls of their cubicles to make sure the deal didn't sour. Their paychecks were among the debts being paid via this agreement. Most wanted to stay, others had little choice. They all wanted stability.

After completing the deal, the three men (well, mostly Xander and Devon) toasted with a bottle of Daniel Creighton's finest scotch. The wall just outside the conference room was emblazoned with the company's new name and logo ? RhyDin Security and Investigations, Inc. Devon was now on board as an owner and board member, as well as a tenant. The beginnings of a new and somewhat unorthodox relationship.

* * *

After completing their toast, the meeting inside the conference room broke up. As Xander opened the door, they were immediately approached by Harrison Mueller ? one of the company's bodyguards. Somewhere beyond the cubicles, someone was making a fuss in the reception area.

"What's going on?" Xander asked.

"Waller is here," Harrison answered with a sour expression.

Xander frowned. "Get rid of him. Tell him we can't help him."

Devon nosed into the conversation, stepping through the threshold into the operations center. "Percy Waller?" he asked dryly, eyes narrowed.

Harrison shook his head. "Sherman."

"Percy's brother," Xander added.

"What does he want?" Devon asked.

"He's looking for his brother," Xander answered.

Devon folded his arms over his chest. "And where is his brother? I'm well aware that Dan snuck him out of here to avoid me."

Xander and Harrison exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"Daniel arranged transport out of RhyDin. To another dimension is my understanding."

"I escorted him to Star's End Spaceport," Harrison continued. "That's the last I saw of him."

"And there's no record of where he went?" Devon asked.

"Intentionally," Xander explained. "He didn't want you to find him."

Devon scratched the beard on his chin. "Is Sherman also a client?"

"Yes, but on a completely different spectrum," Xander said. "Percy was a mobster, we primarily protected him from his competition. Sherman is a hard-core gambler, he shows up every few months when his debts get out of control and someone is looking to break his legs."

"And Daniel would take that kind of business?" Devon asked with a groan.

"He kept an account with us. He'd pay when he was flush, and we'd draw on it when he was behind. Sherman is quite the roller coaster when it comes to the ponies."

"But that's not why he's here today."

"No, he's screaming about his missing brother. Wants us to tell him where Percy went. Probably wants to hit him up for a loan."

Devon glanced across the office, past the various employees now in his debt, in the direction of the reception area. Something in the back of his mind was clicking into place.

"I'll meet with him in my office. I want both files ? Percy's and Sherman's."

Again Xander and Harrison exchanged glances.

"Devon, are you sure you want to get in the middle of this?"

"Percy Waller was directly responsible for an attack on my home in which my wife was seriously injured," Devon shot back, his voice grave. "I still have a lot of things to make right around here. I want the files, and I want Sherman in my office."

Xander paused, then nodded to Harrison. "Do it."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Devon's new office at RhyDin Security and Investigations was modest but comfortable. The furniture was relatively untouched and one wall featured a window with an impressive panorama of the city beyond ? including a distant view of the Red Dragon Inn where Devon once spent most of his waking hours. The previous occupant quit when things got bad, and Xander had the office made like-new for Devon's use.

Devon sat down in the chair behind the desk and glanced around. Eventually he'd bring in some of the boxes from his old home office and set things up the way he liked the place. But for now he only needed to make one addition to the decor ? from out of his coat he produced a picture of Zephyer, in a silver frame. After glancing at the picture a moment, he set it on his desk so that it would always be in his view.

After a couple minutes, Harrison arrived with Sherman Waller and two mid-sized file folders. Devon stood and came back around the desk, greeting Sherman and shaking his hand. He then took the two files and invited Sherman to sit in one of the guest chairs. The Protector sat back down in his own chair, briefly thumbing through the Percy Waller file before pausing at a file photo. Harrison closed the door and departed.

Sherman Waller was the spitting image of his younger brother. He was a short man and just a bit stocky, with a bushy mustache dominating the lower half of his face. His was balding up top and lines of worry creased around his eyes and forehead. Unlike his brother (who looked the mobster life just as he lived it), Sherman dressed casually ? a polo shirt and khaki pants. He shared his brother's love of cigars, however, chewing on one as he eyed Devon suspiciously. Although Sherman was two years older than Percy, his eyes betrayed a certain immaturity.

"I'm sorry about the delay out there, Mister Waller," Devon began. "Thank you for joining me."

"I want to see Daniel Creighton," Sherman demanded abruptly.

"Mister Creighton is no longer with the company. I am a former colleague of his and I will be assisting you going forward."

Sherman looked Devon up and down. "Never seen you before."

"I was on your brother's detail ? I worked closely with him," Devon said, testing out his first lie. In fact, he had never met Percy and didn't even know what the man looked like until he saw the picture in the file. "When I found out you were here, I asked to have your case assigned to me."

"Why won't anyone tell me where he is?"

Devon set the two files down on his desk and drew a dramatic breath. "Because we don't know. When things got hot, Percy asked us to get him out of town. We set him up with a fake identity and travel papers and escorted him to the spaceport. I don't expect he'll be back until things calm down here."

Sherman tilted his head, studying Devon carefully. The Protector peppered in enough truth to make the story believable. So far there was no sign of skepticism.

"I know that you and your brother were close, but circumstances caused you to sometimes be out of touch," Devon continued ? all an educated guess. "I don't know if you were aware how bad things were when he had to go."

"Bad? Last I heard from him, he was doing well."

Devon nodded sagely. "Unfortunately there was a bit of a schism between the various factions here. He was double-crossed by his allies and they tried to take him out. That's when he came to us. Asked us to help him disappear."

Sherman narrowed his eyes. He wasn't entirely buying the story.

"We got him out safely," Devon continued reassuringly.

"Who double-crossed him?"

Devon licked his lips. Time for a leap of faith. "The Wraith," he answered simply.

Sherman paused, but he couldn't hide the tinge of fear that came over his face. He knew the name. That was fortunate.

"I see," he finally answered.

"My understanding is they appropriated quite a bit of your brother's money," Devon continued, spinning a tall tale, "so he had to use emergency funds to pay for the trip out."

Sherman visibly twitched. Yes, money was the way to get his attention.

"His plan was to try to recover the money before he left, but it didn't work out. He had to leave without it."

"That's a shame," Sherman answered. "A man shouldn't be denied what's due him."

Devon nodded slow. "I agree, Mister Waller."

Sherman rose slowly to his feet. He looked like a drug addict trying to score. "Well, then I suppose you can't help me."

Devon maintained eye contact. "Percy was a good client. We miss him. If you ever decide you want to pursue the matter more ? aggressively, please let me know."

Sherman furrowed his brow. "What does that mean?"

"Percy was betrayed by his friends. If it were up to me, there would be some payback ? both on a moral and a financial basis. If you decide that's the route you want to take, we might be able to help you."

Sherman stood there for a long moment, studying Devon's face. Greed and just a bit of desperation hung on his barely-parted lips.

"I'll think about it, Mister Goral," Sherman finally answered. "Thank you for meeting with me."

Devon stood and shook the man's hand. Without any further conversation, Sherman turned and left.

Devon sat back down in his chair. He looked briefly at the picture of his wife before swiveling the chair to look out over the city. As he replayed the conversation in his head, the beginnings of a plan started to come together.

"You're not a thief. This is beneath you."
?5,612 days from now

* * *

A light rain misted down on RhyDin as three young men approached Standee's Restaurant. Bobby Bocardi led the group, urging them to stay out of sight as he climbed up on a small planter and peered inside the small establishment.

"There they are," he told his comrades with a grin. "Just like I said."

Ryan Ho slipped his pistol out of the back of his jeans and checked to make sure it was loaded. He nodded affirmatively to the group leader.

Bobby jumped back down and walked over to the third member of their motley crew, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder.?

"They're armed," Bobby said. "They're trained killers. Do you understand that?"

Albert Rooney nodded. A thin man of pale color, he was prematurely bald. Although his skin was completely free of wrinkles, his vacant eyes and lack of hair incorrectly implied age and fragility.

"That means we're counting on you, freak," Ryan added, stepping into Albert's comfort zone from behind. "Frak this up and we're all dead."

Bobby smiled menacingly, raising a calming hand towards Ryan. "He's not going to mess up," he answered calmly. "Is he?" he asked, his tone threatening.

Albert merely shook his head.

"Good," Bobby continued, drawing his own pistol. "Now let's do this."

The three youths brazenly stormed into the restaurant, Bobby and Ryan with their guns out. It was a Saturday afternoon and only one table was occupied. Three men in expensive suits sat around a relatively-small table in the center of the restaurant's main dining room. The only other person in the room was the the proprietor, "Stan," who stood behind a a bar at the far end of the restaurant ?absently wiping down the oak surface.?

The three men in suits did not immediately notice the arrival of the youths. They appeared to be locked in an intense discussion. One man in his mid-50s appeared distinguished and calm, while the other two in their late-30s looked angry and menacing. Each had a companion coffee cup on the otherwise bare table.

"Nobody frakking move, this is a robbery!" Bobby shouted, leveling his gun at the suits. Ryan stood nearby, his gun also extended.

The men at the table did not follow instructions. The older man turned his head in surprise. One of the younger men jumped up out of his chair, reaching into his coat ? presumably for his own weapon. The other remained seated but turned his body to face the newcomers.

Stan looked up, but did not otherwise react.

"Now, freak!" Ryan shouted.

Albert narrowed his eyes. The moment froze in time. He reached into each of their minds and shut down their fine motor control. Within a fraction of a second they were his prisoners.

Bobby smiled, lowering his guard. The three men in suits hung motionless around the table ? one on his feet, the other two seated. He approached the table and poked the standing man. There was no reaction, beyond a look of fear molded on his face.

"Well done, Albert," Bobby said, slipping his gun back into the waistband of his jeans.

"Yeah, freak," Ryan grunted.?

Albert remained motionless, maintaining control.

Bobby slipped a hand into the standing man's coat and drew the man's pistol. He dropped it on the floor, safely out of reach. Still the man did not move. He then relieved the man of his wallet, glancing inside to see a substantial wad of crash.

"It's almost too easy," Ryan said, making his way over to the table.

"Live it up, boys," Bobby replied. "This is the life."

"Do we know who they are?" Ryan asked. He began searching the younger of the two seated men.

Bobby nodded, still searching the standing man. "Local gangsters. They come here for their meetings."

Ryan flinched. "You have us robbing the mob?"

Bobby shrugged, moving away from the standing man to approach the table. "Who are we supposed to rob? Poor schmucks who work for a living?"

Ryan frowned, stuffing his hand into the seated man's pocket. "Good thing we have the freak."

At that moment, a loud gunshot rang out. Albert jumped slightly, looking around to see if he had missed someone.?

Bobby reached into his waistband to draw his gun, as Ryan slumped lifelessly to the floor. The older man at the table was too quick, however, and he dropped Bobby with a second shot.?

Albert focused his attention on the older man's mind. Once again he told the man's brain to shut down his motor system.

It didn't work.

The older man stood, walking over to where Bobby was writhing on the floor in agony. A second shot into Bobby's head relieved his pain.

Albert quietly resigned himself to his death.

No one else was moving, and the older man slowly spun around in a circle. He then slipped his gun back into his coat and knelt down, taking Bobby's gun. He checked it over and stood, turning towards Albert. Slowly he walked forward, peering curiously into Albert's eyes. The man had a kind face, but also a serious expression. The pistol in his hand proved he meant business. He had just executed Albert's friends and compatriots, yet he didn't reveal any sense of urgency or panic.

The older man paused, again looking over at the table where his coffee companions remained motionless. He glanced over at Stan behind the bar. Then back to Albert.

"You're doing this," he observed plainly. Then he smiled. "Fascinating."

The older man returned to the table, walking slowly. He peered into the standing man's eyes before forcing the muzzle of the gun into the man's mouth. He pulled the trigger once, and the man collapsed in a heap.

Albert blinked. Just what had he walked into?

"You've just saved me quite a bit of trouble," the older man explained as he?rounded the table, peering at the second gangster from behind. "These two men came here today to put me out of business. It very well might have ended with me begging them for my life."

Still no motion from the man at the table. Albert could have released him at any time, but that didn't seem like the right play.?

"How quickly circumstances change," the older man observed. He then?executed his other coffee companion with a shot to the back of his head, causing him to slump forward onto the table.

"Whatever you did to them," the man observed, "doesn't appear to have any affect on me."

Albert glanced around the restaurant at the four gunshot victims. He did not have any means to defend himself against this man. He never used a weapon himself ? he didn't need one. His ability ensured that he was never in any real danger.?

Until now.

The older man turned and approached Albert, Bobby's gun now pointed down at the floor. His expression was now curious, the smile encroaching on his lips.?

"Are you going to kill me?" Albert asked, breaking his silence.

"Kill you?" The man's smile widened. "You just saved my life, son. I have no intention of killing you."

Albert did not react outwardly, although relief flooded over him.

"Your friend called you a freak," the man observed, nodding his head in Ryan's direction. "I get the impression those two didn't think much of you."

Albert just stood there. It was true that Bobby and Ryan did not treat him particularly well, but they were right ? he was a freak. He was lucky to have them. Now he was alone.

The older man walked a circle around Albert, studying him. "You shouldn't be taking orders from punks like that. You should be the one giving the orders."

Albert looked down. He was uncomfortable at the attention.

"Your talents were being wasted on petty larceny," he continued. "You are special."

Albert didn't feel special. He was just a tool, like a gun or a knife, that could be used to kill.

"How'd you like to work for me?" the man asked, once again standing in front of Albert. "I can help you become a very rich man."

Albert looked up. He never really desired money, even though it's all Bobby and Ryan ever talked about.

The old man seemed to read Albert's mind. He smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder ? much as Bobby had done earlier. "A rich and very powerful man."

To that, Albert smiled.?

"What is your name, son?"

"Albert. Albert Rooney."

"All you're life you've let people push you around, Albert," the man continued. "I can see it in your eyes."

Albert nodded slowly.

"With me, no one is ever going to push you again. People will fear you. I can show you how. Does that sound like a good idea, Albert?"

Warmth flooded Albert's face for the first time in ? well, as far as he could remember. "I'd like that," he answered with a faint smile.

The older man dropped the gun to the floor and kicked it over near Bobby's corpse. "Let's go, Albert. We've work to accomplish."

Albert finally released his grip on Stan, who barely reacted to receiving his freedom. He then headed for the closet to get the mop.

Albert and his new boss turned and walked out of the restaurant, shoulder to shoulder, leaving their old problems behind.?

* * *

Daveon Miler's luxury condominium was located in the wealthiest section of RhyDin city. The elevator ride up to the penthouse suite on the thirtieth floor was relatively quick, although Devon had to swallow a few times to equalize the pressure.

The private elevator opened directly into Miller's suite, and Brian Hambright was waiting patiently. The two men exchanged nods and Hambright led The Protector into the brightly-lit living room. A massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the city's most expensive buildings, glittering with the bright spring sun. Miller was seated in a large leather chair, reading a book.

"You never should have brought me here," Devon said with a grin, "I'm not going to buy your stories about being run out of business."

Daveon stood and smiled, shaking The Protector's hand. He had a glass of scotch waiting and eagerly offered it over. Hambright turned and left them alone.

"I won't be standing in a bread line any time soon," the smuggler responded, "but my business really has dropped off nearly seventy percent."

"I'm sure you have investments to help soften the blow," Devon observed, sitting on a chair opposite.

Daveon returned to his chair. "I get to live in a place like this because I don't let thugs and despots run me out of business. I intend to fight back."

"But surely you have resources far and beyond hiring me to help you."

Daveon smiled confidently. "Let's just say I have several irons in the fire."

The Protector raised his scotch in salute. "Fair enough."

"And Nik is in a much more vulnerable position. I prefer to think of you as helping him, not me. He's the one with a target on his back."

"Nik is a good man, but he got himself into this by laying down with the mob. He should have seen that they'd seek to expand their influence."

"That's fair," Daveon said with a nod.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Devon continued, changing the tone.

"Does this mean you're going to help us with our little problem?" Daveon asked.

The Protector smiled, glancing down at his scotch. "Let's just take it one step at a time. I'm in research mode."

"Alright, Devon. How can I help you?"

"Explain this whole operation to me," Devon asked, producing a notebook and pen. "This thing that they have going on down at the docks."

"Explain it?"

Devon nodded. "From the beginning."

"Hmm. Well, it's a pretty standard mob protection scheme. Anyone shipping or receiving anything on a boat or a spaceship out of a union-operated dock must pay protection money to the mob to avoid having their cargo damaged, destroyed, or stolen."

"How do they collect the money?"

"The mob handles it directly. They've split everything up into, I believe, twelve regions. They have twelve mid-level mob crews which each police their territory. They collect the protection money directly from the ships and kick up a substantial percentage to their superiors."

"How do the logistics work? Where does the money go?"

"To keep it all off-books they collect cash from the crew on the actual ship. It then gets taken to a safe house and periodically picked up from there. I don't know the specifics beyond that."

Devon did. He's been watching the money drops for several days now.

"It's a lot of money, though," Daveon continued. "All untraceable."

"And how is the union involved?"

"The union tells the mob when shipments are passing through their hands. They also refuse to touch anything that hasn't been 'secured' by the mob. In return they get kickbacks from the mob based on the protection payments."

"And the Port Authority?"

"My good friend Cameron McRae basically smooths things over with the business community. Makes sure they don't make too much noise about having to make the payments. In return, he gets a discount that he can pass along to his own clients ? which is where my issue comes in. Anyone who does business with him can ship things in and out of RhyDin for cheaper than the rest of us. And I'm sure he kicks some of his profits up as well.

"Who's in charge of all this?"

"Well, Giovanni Donatello runs the mob operation. The twelve crews all report to him. He, in turn, works for someone at a higher level that is not known to us. The 'big boss' as we refer to him or her."

"And The Wraith?"

"I believe he also works directly for the big boss. He's there to keep Donatello honest, in a sense."

Devon paused, glancing down at his notes and filling in a few thoughts.

"Donatello's crews all hate each other. Without The Wraith, this whole house of cards falls apart. He's the key."

"What about the union?"

"Talbot is a puppet of Donatello. Without the mob standing tall, Talbot has no power."

"There's something else I don't get," Devon said, sipping his scotch before shifting his seat. "You were there last fall during the attempt to kidnap Cameron McRae. We looked into it and found that Donatello was behind that operation. Why are they suddenly in bed together?"

Daveon shook his head. "Not so sudden, Devon. This whole thing came about as part of a massive consolidation of organized crime in RhyDin. At the time, McRae and Donatello were part of separate, competing factions. Now those factions are working together. That's why this whole thing is so unprecedented. Former enemies are working together and printing money."

"And you're the odd man out," The Protector observed with a sarcastic smile.

Daveon shrugged. "I don't hide who I am, Devon. But I never resorted to these kinds of tactics. The pile of corpses Donatello and The Wraith have left behind to get to this point would practically reach up to this window. They're bad men."

Devon nodded, closing up his notebook and finishing his scotch. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

Daveon stood, taking a step towards The Protector and offering his hand. "Does this mean you're going to take the case?"

Devon shook hands with the smuggler. "I haven't made my final decision. Still gathering background information."

"If you have any other questions, give me a call."

"Thank you."

"These are bad men, Devon," Daveon asserted

"Maybe, but what are we?"

"There's always something to lose."
?12 days from now

* * *

For their first order of business, newly-minted partners in crime Devon Goral and Sherman Waller paid a visit to a nondescript building in RhyDin's industrial district. Home of one of the city's many quasi-legal betting parlors, you wouldn't know what was going on inside if you didn't have the inside track. Both men had visited before ? Devon only once, and Sherman a number of times as one of the parlor's frequent customers.

Today they would be participating in a very different gamble. They were dressed in their finest suits, although they were not attempting to be flashy or even be noticed. Instead they planned this trip for the late evening ? when the place would be the most empty. Sherman had no trouble talking them past the guard outside (apparently his name was Monty and he enjoyed bass fishing), and no one paid them any heed inside. The handful of people in the building at this hour were the most hard-core gamblers and they had no interest in anything that wasn't a betting slip or a newspaper.

The parlor's main room was sparsely-furnished and featured no decorations. A wall of betting windows took up one wall and the remainder of the large room was various chairs facing televisions displaying results from race tracks, boxing arenas, and live sporting events. A certain intensity hung in the air ? everyone in the room seemed to have big money on the line and the results of the next match would either bring them big money, or mean they were in big trouble.

Devon noticed a bit of sweat beading on Sherman's forehead as they walked through the room. He understood that gambling was an addiction and that his new business partner was in deep. But to Sherman's credit, he kept it under control. He didn't flinch or twitch, instead staying on course. The payday from this operation would dwarf the rewards he could get playing the ponies.

The office door was set into the wall next to the betting windows. A chair sat next to the door where a guard would normally sit, but this evening it was empty. Devon swung open the door and the two men entered the inner-office, letting the door close behind.

Louis Grimaldi was a heavy-set man who typically wore a fedora to hide his bald head. His dress shirt and suspenders completed the look: half accountant, half bookie. He glanced up from his cluttered desk with a start, not expecting to be visited at this hour. First his eyes focused on Sherman and he appeared perplexed but not alarmed. But as he looked over and noticed Devon, his eyes went wide and he instinctively reached for his top desk drawer.

A simple shake of Devon's head ended that fantasy and Louis instead raised his hands as if being mugged.

"Relax, buddy," Sherman said with a laugh. "It's me, Sherm."

"What're you doing bringing this guy here?" Louis asked with a grimace. "He's a narc."

"He's no narc, Louie. He's my friend and we're here to talk to you."

"Talk about what?"

"Business," Sherman answered with a grin.

Louis' eyes darted between the two men before he finally lowered his arms, gesturing for them to sit down on a simple wooden bench against the nearest wall.

"How'd it go with that Lamborghini?" Sherman asked as the two men sat. "Quite a ride, eh?"

Louis clearly wasn't ready to be small-talked, still eyeing his visitors suspiciously.

"I talked with my guy at the track this morning," Sherman continued. "They're bringing in a fleet of Vipers next week. Let me know if I should put you down."

"What do you want, Sherm?" Louis asked.

"You kick up to Brian Kearney," Devon said, jumping in. "His crew makes regular pick-ups from this and other nearby establishments."

Louis paled. His eyes began frantically searching the room as if looking for the hidden camera.

"Kearney's boss put a hit out on my brother, Louie," Sherman continued. "I've come for payback."

Louis narrowed his eyes. "Are you out of your mind, Sherm?"

"I pulled your bank account records," Devon added, producing a notebook from his jacket pocket. "And those of your money laundering operations at the muffler shop on James Street and the gourmet doughnut place on Seventh. I know your profits are down and I assume it's because Kearney's taking a bigger piece of the action here. Correct me if my conclusions are incorrect."

Louis just gaped.

"We're going to rob Kearney's safe house," Sherman said. "And we want you to give us the schedule. We know they change it pretty regularly so we'll need you to keep us updated."

"Get out of my office," Louis said coldly.

"We're prepared to compensate you handsomely," Devon said. "Along with fringe benefits at the race track."

"I said get out," Louis repeated more forcefully.

"We'll leave if you want," Sherman said.

"But then we leak it that you helped Ramon Calderon find The Wraith," Devon continued. "That you helped me. Maybe we'll put the screws to one of Kearney's other operations and drop that on you as well."

Louis just stared a moment.

"Louie, I promise we didn't come here to threaten you," Sherman said. "You've always been straight with me. We have a good business relationship, you and I. No one ever has to know that you helped us."

"Either that," Devon added, "or everyone will know. The choice is yours."

Louis leaned back in his chair, glancing down at his desk. "I liked it better when you showed up with that dame," he finally said in Devon's general direction. "Easier to know where I stood."

"Would you rather I bring her in here?" Devon asked. "Because she'll be less accommodating."

Louis chuckled before finally looking back up. "Look, you already know that Kearney works for The Wraith. No one crosses The Wraith. I'd be a dead man."

"He's going to have his hands full with us," Devon said. "He'll be too busy playing catch-up to figure out where we're getting our intel."

"You know me, Louie," Sherman continued. "You know I wouldn't be involved if this wasn't rock solid."

After another pause, Louis gestured at his desk. "May I?"

Devon nodded.

Louis reached into his desk drawer and produced a small pocket calendar. He leaned forward and handed it over to Sherman. "That's the current schedule. It's in code, but if you have anything higher than a sixth grade education you'll figure out the key."

Devon narrowed his eyes but Sherman nodded appreciatively.

"You won't regret this, Louie," Sherman said.

"They change the schedule roughly every two weeks, sometimes more often and sometimes less."

"Give the updates to Sherman," Devon said. "You know how to reach him."

"And my cut?" Louis asked.

"You'll get it after our first move," Sherman answered.

"But here's an advance," Devon said, producing a bulging envelope from his jacket pocket and setting it down on the desk.

Louis eyed the envelope suspiciously, as if expecting it to bite him. When it didn't, he shoveled it into his desk drawer.

Sherman rose to his feet. "Thanks, buddy. I knew I could count on you."

"Like you said," Louis began with a shrug, "Kearney's been cutting down on my profits ever since the new boss took over. There's no competition so there's no place to go. It's bad for all of us that aren't on the inside."

Devon also stood. "You're not the first person we've heard that from. They may come to regret not taking care of their most loyal people."

"Be careful how you contact me," Louis added. "My guy Bob has been bucking for a promotion in Kearney's organization. If he gets wind of this, he'll betray me in a second."

Sherman nodded. "Understood."

Louis smiled for the first time. "So go make me some money, boys."

* * *

"How did you get access to all of his finances?" Sherman asked.

Devon gunned his car's engine, driving the two men through the city streets away from their meeting.

"I didn't," Devon admitted. "But it made sense from all the information I've been able to find about this new alliance. Many of the old-school mobsters not directly involved in the new scheme have had to increase their payments to make it all come together. There's quite a bit of grumbling about it too."

"Ah, I see. That was a risk."

"A guy like Louie is only mildly interested in saving his own skin. I've been down that road with him before ? had my hands around his throat. But go after his pocketbook and suddenly he gets more cooperative."

"Still, he's a liability if anyone puts any heat on him. You know full well he'll turn on us if anyone looks at him."

Devon nodded. "And if it comes to that, I'll be the one to silence him."

Sherman frowned slightly. "I know this is a dangerous business but I don't want anyone to get hurt. I'm not like my brother."

"Sherman, you know I can't promise that."

"I know."

"Just focus on your task and leave the violence to me. I've got it all under control."

"So what do you have planned for the remainder of the night?"

"Well, speaking of violence, I need to hire our third. I've got a meeting."

"Oh yeah? What's this guy like?"

"Best you not know too much. Let me handle it."

Devon dropped Sherman off outside his apartment and then drove to a nearby commercial district. He parked just down the street from an old fashioned candy and ice cream store and approached it cautiously. It was late and the shop would be closing soon. From outside he could see the employees putting chairs on top of tables and mopping the floor.

There was only one patron inside and Devon knew right away he was here to see her. She sat at a table in the corner of the restaurant, enjoying a hot fudge sundae. Her hair was styled into an unnaturally-colored white mohawk. Her exposed, muscled arms were covered in tattoos and she had piercings in her ears, nose, lip, and eyebrow. Everything about her screamed bad ass killer. Just what he needed.

Devon let out a soft sigh as he approached the woman. He wanted Gunther for this job. He trusted Gunther for this job. But Gunther wasn't available. Whereas Sherman's primary role in the new venture was to launder the money and give him a bit of insight into the criminal world, this mercenary would need to have Devon's back in a firefight. There were few that Devon trusted to do that. Gunther and Vix, of course. Zephyer.

And now he'd have to learn to trust this woman.

"Thank you for meeting me," Devon said.

The woman barely glanced up, still focused on her sundae. "No probs," she responded gruffly.

Devon sat down on a small wire-framed chair decorated in candy colors.

"Randall Harmon speaks very highly of you," he continued.

"He should," she said with a low chuckle. "I've saved his bacon more than a few times." She looked up and her eyes were surprisingly warm despite her intense appearance.

"I'll just lay it out."

"That's what all the men say," she grunted.

Devon rolled his eyes but his lips curled into a slight smile. "I'm going to rob the local mafia. I need a gun I can trust to back me up."

"The mafia, huh?" she asked. She didn't appear frightened of the concept.

Devon nodded. "Aye. And I'm prepared to offer you twenty percent of the haul, with a guaranteed minimum. You supply your own weapons, I do the rest."

"Sounds dangerous," she said, although she still didn't show concern. "How big a crew are you running with?"

"Three total, although the other guy is mainly just there for show. You and I will be the only trained fighters."

"What kind of resistance are you expecting?"

"I've done quite a bit of research. We'll be hitting safe houses that are guarded by two or three people at most. The guards are mostly low-level thugs who won't put up much of a fight, especially if we hit them by surprise."

"How soon?"

"Less than two weeks is the first hit. Depending on how that goes, there may be more."

The woman looked back down at her sundae, her spoon mixing the fudge and the ice cream.

"So what do you think?" Devon asked.

"What makes you think I'm right for the job?" she asked, not looking up.

"I'm basing that on Randall's recommendation. I kept the details vague, of course, but he said you are trustworthy and competent and that you keep your head down."

"And he told me that you're a bodyguard," she said, looking up pointedly, "and that you don't know how to play offense."

Devon narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, well, Randall can be a prick sometimes. He's wrong about that, I can pick a fight when I need to."

"It's my ass on the line if you can't hold your own."

"I'll give you a demonstration any time you want, lady."

For the first time, the mercenary grinned.

"Well?" Devon asked impatiently.

"That won't be necessary."

Devon shifted slightly in his seat.

"You should be aware that I don't talk much. I'm all-business."

"That's what I'm looking for. My other partner talks enough for all three of us."

The woman muttered.

"Do we have a deal?"

She set down her spoon and thrust out her hand. "We have a deal."

"Devon Goral, nice to meet you."

"Gretchen Polk. People call me 'Gretch.'"

Devon smiled, shaking the mercenary's hand firmly. "Welcome to the team, Gretch."

A warm spring breeze swept through the canyon of buildings on Red Street, sending clouds and eddies of dust into the fresh morning air. The sun was just beginning to peek out over the various structures, casting long shadows that seemed to bounce to and from each fa?ade. A handful of people made their way up and down the street, some on their way home from an evening's raucous activity, others preparing to start an early shift. The convergence of night into day was as common in RhyDin ? a city that truly never sleeps ? as anywhere else in the multiverse.

Rising only three stories off the street, just a few blocks from the infamous Red Dragon Inn, stood an unimpressive apartment building with a faded and gritty exterior. One of the units on the first floor was boarded up in the aftermath of a fire from several years ago ? with no effort made to return the apartment to habitability. On the other side of the building were signs of a renovation for attempted condominium conversation ? now abandoned and forgotten. The six-unit apartment building seemed lost in time, a combination of old and new, simultaneously both broken and functioning.

One of the third-floor windows was open, allowing the morning air to drift leisurely into Devon Goral's single bedroom apartment. With the air came the sounds of the morning ??a father and son attempting to repair their beat-up jalopy across the street, waitresses and cooks enjoying after-work cigarettes at the bar on the corner, and chow time at the nearby stable.

Devon, like the city, didn't go to sleep last night. As the first rays of dawn streamed into his living room, The Protector sat in his desk chair, reviewing his notes one last time. His desk was no longer cluttered with equipment ? instead everything was packed neatly and ready to go. A duffel bag containing their disguises, and two plastic flight cases were filled with the explosives and RF equipment. Weapons and ammunition were packed in another case, set on the floor next to the desk. All except the revolver, which he wasn't quite ready to pack.

Today was the day. In just a few hours, he'd put his plan into motion. A month of planning and preparation came down to this. Hundreds of hours of sitting on dimly-lit street corners in a rental car observing mobsters and thugs ? all completely unaware of his presence. Twisting Sherman Waller's arm to get him on board (and seemingly-endless reassurances and hand-holding to ensure that he didn't bail). Cash money delivered to Louis Grimaldi and Gretch Polk. Thousands invested in equipment and supplies.

Despite all the people he'd brought into his operation, the weight sat primarily on Devon's shoulders. He was the one taking most of the risks. He was the first one The Wraith would visit if the plan failed. He'd bear the full brunt of any retaliation.

Not that such a prospect caused him any fear or doubt. In fact, he welcomed a theoretical visit by this Puppetmaster. Wasn't that what this was all leading up to?

He knew it wasn't that simple. If The Wraith gets the drop on you, you are already dead. Everyone knew that. Devon had no intention of underestimating his enemy.

Devon closed his notebook and set it down atop the pile of others. His fingertips then ran across the cold surfaces of his weapons. The nickel-plated revolver he purchased last week, now loaded and tested and ready to go. Next to it, a psionic disrupter procured by Magatha Thundercrow. The Wraith knew of Devon from his encounter at the house. But when Devon backed off, there was no further contact. Perhaps they'd forgotten about him by now.

Today he'd get their attention again.

The Protector reached into his shoulder holster and drew his Ares Predator. The dim light from the desk lamp glinted off of the pistol's shiny surface. He'd brought this gun to RhyDin over a decade ago as one of his only possessions. It had served him well through hundreds of jobs and dozens of gunfights. But where he was going, his favoured weapon would not follow. This different endeavour required a different weapon. And so he placed the Predator gently in his desk, locking it safely in the top drawer.

Completing the transition, Devon hefted the revolver and caught his reflection in the sheen. He'd polished it almost obsessively the day before and he could easily catch the colors of his eyes in its surface. Red lines retreated from his pupils. He didn't even try to sleep last night. He hadn't slept well in weeks. Planning and preparation had so consumed him that it left little room for the nonessential. Other than regular trips to the gym to keep his still-healing body fit and ready for the coming battle, most of his time was spent either in his apartment or out observing his targets. He cooked all his own meals at the apartment, not wanting to waste time or money in restaurants. No distractions.

The intense focus also allowed him to escape her. There was no time for doubt or recrimination. No time for guilt or anger. He couldn't get through the mission with her constantly looking over his shoulder, punishing him for his crimes.

Not to say she wasn't there. She was always there. Every time he looked up, she'd be sitting there on the couch, or looking out the window, or sometimes making noises in the kitchen. When Devon met with Waller, she came along ??sitting silently out on the balcony as they discussed business. She also liked to come with him to the grocery store, often mischievously pushing peoples' carts away from where they'd left them. Whether she did it to entertain herself or because she knew it annoyed him, Devon didn't know.

But as long as he stayed busy, she didn't speak to him. And right now, he preferred it that way. Their last few conversations didn't go particularly well.

He shut his eyes tightly, now realizing that he'd summoned her with his thoughts. Already he could feel her walking a semi-circle around his desk, peering like a hen at his supplies, his notebooks, and the gun in his hand. Her gaze was always judgmental, always dubious. In his mania he knew she'd never be happy again.

The sound of her footfalls stopped. Devon sat there in silence, focusing in on the sounds drifting into the window from outside the apartment. The boy and his father were attempting to get the engine to turn over, but it merely coughed and sputtered.

He prayed for her to retreat, to leave him alone. He couldn't deal with her right now. Not today. Not just before the first hit. But as his eyes fluttered open, she stood between him and the window, the light of the morning sun flowing in around her and causing her skin to glow.

Her expression was the typical look of disapproval that he'd gotten used to since he began seeing her just before winter came. Her lips were pursed and her gray eyes narrowed. Still she was just as beautiful as the day he'd met her in the Red Dragon Inn so many years before. Just as radiant as the day they were married alone on the beach.

"Is tha' supposed to be Daniel's gun?" she asked pointedly.

Devon's eyes darted down to the pistol clenched firmly in his hand. In the reflection, his eyes had sunken back into his head and seemed full of darkness and despair. He didn't like what he saw, and he set the revolver back down on the desk's surface.

"Is this yer big plan? Steal from the mob with Daniel's gun an' make 'em think 'e did it?"

Devon pushed back from his desk, hoping that simple dismissive action would make her go away. But it had the opposite effect, and Zephyer took a step forward, leaning against the side of his desk with her arms folded over her chest.

"I needed a different gun," he answered, not looking up at her. "I thought it might be a nice bit of irony to use the same model pistol as him."

"Do ye even know wha' 'irony' means?" she asked derisively.

"They know who Daniel is," Devon continued, finally letting his eyes meet hers. "Who knows."

"The same bit of 'irony' tha' has ye usin' the brother of the man who almos' had me killed?" she pressed.

"I don't think anyone is going to mistake me for Daniel Creighton," Devon answered, annoyance and frustration welling up in his voice, "and I don't think anyone is going to mistake Sherman Waller for his brother. I picked those elements to keep my brain entertained. To distract me from the gravity of what I'm doing."

"Stealin' from career criminals who'll find ye, torture ye, and execute ye," Zephyer responded, her voice thick with condemnation. "All before lunch."

Devon folded his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. Clearly he wasn't going to get out of this argument. Maybe it was best they have it out now, so she wouldn't show up during the actual heist. Besides putting herself at risk, it would destroy his concentration.

"I mus' applaud you, Goral, quite the plan ye've come up wit'," she pressed, letting cruel sarcasm take over. "If I'd known ye were such a criminal mastermind, we could've really ha' some fun."

"Get it all out, Zephyer," he retorted with full-on passive aggression. "Go on. Beat me up. Take your best shots."

"This is reckless," she asserted, gesturing at the stack of notebooks and equipment on his desk. "The kin' o' thing I would do ? nae you."

"It's not reckless if I spend four weeks planning," Devon answered, jerking a finger at the notebooks.

"Yer not a thief. This is beneath ye."

Devon narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure from her tone or posture if it was meant to be a simple observation or more of a compliment. No, not a compliment. He couldn't let down his guard and let anything positive through.

"Maybe this is what happens to a man when he has nothing left to lose," he responded, lips curled into a cruel sneer. He immediately regretted admitting that ? he didn't want her to think that losing her was turning him to a life of crime.

He wanted her to think that he was doing okay without her. It was the only way he thought he'd have a chance of getting her back.

She paused, perhaps taken aback. But her eyes were cold, unforgiving. "There's always somethin' t' lose," she warned.

He couldn't help smile, but it was a sick, twisted smile. "None of it matters if I can't have you." In for a shilling, in for a pound.

The two stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity ? him on his chair, her leaning against his desk ? both with their arms crossed. Their eyes spoke volumes ? hers clouded with derision and disappointment, his with exhaustion and hopelessness.

Yet both also had determination.

"If ye hate Daniel this much, why don't ya just kill him?"

Devon frowned, looking back at the pistol on his desk. Why did she always have to bring it back to Creighton. Was she so obsessed with him after all this time?

"I can't get to him," he answered simply. "He's protected."

"But ye were ready to," she observed coldly.

He nodded, still not looking up. "I broke into his apartment ready to murder him in cold blood."

"Ye've never done that before," she asked. Or perhaps just a statement.

"I've killed people. But always in defense of myself or a client." Devon's voice deepened, the moisture evaporating rapidly from his throat. "I've never just ended a life because it was inconvenient for me."

"What if ye have t' do it today? What if ye have to kill t' rob these mobsters?"

Devon shrugged. "They're criminals. They'd kill me if they had the opportunity. I'll do whatever I have to do."

"And if ye ran into Daniel tomorrow?"

Devon looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "I'd break his neck without a second's hesitation." His expression told her he had no doubts, no second thoughts.

Zephyer again seemed taken aback. She'd never seen murderous intent in her husband's eyes. Perhaps it was unsettling to her ? he wasn't sure.

"And me?"

Devon tilted his head curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I see how angry you are wit' me. Would ye fly into a rage an' kill me too?"

Devon's eyes widened in horror. "God, Zephyer, no. I could never hurt you." His expression softened ? he didn't want her thinking he was capable of harming her in any way.

Zephyer took advantage of his weakness, pressing her own attack. "Hurt me? Shall we count all the ways?"

"Only if I get to include you cheating on me with my nemesis," he responded swiftly, his voice still rough and low.

"How many dates have ye been on since we parted?" she pushed back aggressively.

Devon jumped up from his chair, clenching his fists and trembling in anger. His skin flushed red and his eyes flashed. Nostrils flared and his lips parted to show a toothy snarl.

Zephyer responded by straightening and closing the distance. She was much shorter than him, yet somehow they were confronting one another eye-to-eye. Emotions peaked, tensions mounted. But for a few long moments, neither said another word. Nor did either back down.

Yet Devon was strangely disarmed. He caught a whiff of Zephyer's scent and he suddenly found that he couldn't be mad at her. He couldn't hate her for betraying his trust. Not after he'd been absent for so long. In truth, without knowing it at the time, he'd since come to understand that he was the one to abandon the marriage first.

Her gray eyes sparkled in the morning light. She was eager for a fight. That same part of her that sought out bar brawls was ready to turn that energy on him. He remembered all the dreams where the wolf killed him, tearing his throat to ribbons. He was not eager to risk her further anger. Not today. Not now. So he lowered his eyes, surrendering the field.

Zephyer smiled and absently licked her lips.

"I don't know how to get you back," Devon admitted timidly. "Gunther says I need to beat you over the head and drag you back home by your hair."

"You go ahead an' try tha' an' see how it goes," she warned.

"You value strength. I won't come at you from a position of weakness."

"Like yer doin' now?" she pressed.

He looked up again. The space between them had widened and she was no longer in his face. Her guard remained up, however.

"I'm in the best physical condition of my life, without the need for my cybernetics," Devon said slowly, his voice even and measured. "I've learned how to cook for myself, the apartment is fairly organized, and I have my business back up and running at a comfortable profit. I gave away the rest of my money to charity and I intend to never again have more money than I need. And I intend to keep my needs modest."

Zephyer nodded slowly. "I'm proud of the changes ye've made, Dev. Honestly I am."

Devon tilted his head, this time appreciating the compliment. "If I could find you ??if I knew where you were ? I'd tell you that I was wrong, that I'd made mistakes, but that I was ready to do it right this time. That I am ready to do it right."

He paused, really studying her eyes. She seemed so real. So present. He kept having to remind himself that she wasn't really there.

"You and I," he continued, "we have too much history to throw it all out because I got sidetracked and consumed with money and business. There's no other woman for me. And I'd like to believe there's no other man for you."

"Maybe I don' need a man."

Devon chuckled. "Maybe. But wasn't it more fun when we were together."

She gave him a dirty look, perhaps unwilling to concede the point.

"So tell me where you are, Zephyer. Because the best private investigator in RhyDin can't find even a trace. Tell me where you are and let me bring you back home."

Zephyer paused, before extending her arms out to the sides and turning in front of him. After a complete revolution, she smiled ? her whole aura growing bright and warm. "I'm righ' here, Dev."

Devon chuckled, looking her up and down before licking his lips deliberately. "I wish I could believe that."

She tilted her head. "Why nae?"

"Because even as I'm putting the pieces of my life together like never before, I fear I've lost my mind."

"How so?"

"I gave up my beautiful house and moved back into my old shitty one bedroom apartment. I gave away most of my money to charity and put the rest into my former rival's business to cover his debts. And, as you've so insistently pointed out, I'm about to rob a bunch of hardened criminals of illegally-obtained profits just to keep my mind occupied ??and perhaps also to avenge an attack on you from nearly six months ago."

"An' ye thin' tha' makes ye crazy?" she asked simply.

Devon chuckled again, a smile coming to his face. "No, you make me crazy, Zephyer. Because either way, this conversation ? and all the others we've had since you left ? prove that I'm no longer in control of my faculties.

She took a step forward, entering his sphere of comfort ? but this time not attacking. "Why is that, Dev?"

Devon sighed, touching a hesitant finger to her chin and tipping her head up so that he could look in her eyes. Unlike a few minutes ago, she was no longer as tall as he.

Her eyes fluttered a moment at the touch. Energy passed between them and caused the hairs on the backs of both their necks to stand up.

"Because in the past few months we've had the most lucid and detailed conversations. I see you every day and talk to you multiple times a week. You make intelligent, cogent observations about the things we talk about. I can smell your scent and feel your touch on my skin. You are as real to me as anyone else I've talked to."

His fingers continued a feather-light caress of the side of her jaw, and she leaned into his touch. Her eyes remained half-lidded ? she appeared to enjoy the touch as much as it filled him with life.

"But I know you're not really here, Zephyer. I know you walked out of our house on October twenty-sixth. I know that today is March nineteenth and I've only actually seen you once in the past five months. I know that I survived a cold RhyDin winter without you. That I visited my grandfather in London without you. That I've been through all of this planning without you. Because you're not really here, Zephyer."

She rested a hand on his, pausing before removing his hand from her face. Her touch on his arm lingered before she took a step back, breaking the contact and plunging them both into coldness. A shiver ran down his spine that no amount of morning sun could cure.

"Ye said 'either way'," she recalled.

Devon nodded. "Because if you are here, then I've really lost my mind beyond hope. Because I no longer associate you with reality. I think you're a phantom and I've been treating you like a spectre for months. If it turns out that you are real ? that you really did come with me to London, and that you've been visiting me here in this apartment since I moved in ??then I truly can't tell fantasy from reality."

"Do ye think I'd stick around if ye were treatin' me like a ghost?"

"I can't look at this from your perspective when my own is so heavily compromised, Zephyer," he answered. "Maybe we've fought about it. Maybe I'm not as functional as I think I am. Hell, maybe I'm in an institution right now and the only thing real are your visits and our conversations," he concluded, throwing his arms up helplessly in the air.

"Oh?" her eyes blinked.

Devon's lips curled into a sick smile. "Maybe I invented this whole plan as a way of keeping my mind busy in my cell. Maybe you come visit me and I tell you all about it. You must really think I'm a mess if that's the case."

"Dev?"

"It's after seven o'clock," Devon observed, his voice grave and his expression going blank. "We hit the safe house at a little before three. I think it's best you let me get back to my work."

"We shoul' discuss this more."

"Either you're here or you're not," he said, his voice now resigned and emotionless. "Either I'm here or I'm not. But this is all I have right now," he said, gesturing at the pile of notebooks. "So let me get back to it."

"Dev?" she said again, more insistently.

"Get out!" he shouted at her, the shock causing her to take a step back. "I have work to do."

Devon sat back down at his desk, taking the revolver and slipping it into his shoulder holster. He then picked the top notebook up off the pile and opened it, returning to where he left off.

Zephyer was already gone.

Sparse shafts of light pierced through the curtains into the apartment, causing a faint glow in the otherwise murky living room. Devon Goral sat silently in his office chair, his shoulders hunched over as he looked down at his hands. He held a pair of black synthetic gloves, stained with blood and soapy water. For over an hour he'd soaked and washed and scrubbed the gloves, yet they still oozed of plasma. Now his hands were likewise stained red.

Across the living room, a large duffel bag sat on his couch. It was unzipped, and money seemed to be spilling out of it. A combination of credit chips, cash, and gold coins intermingled to form the illicit haul.

Devon wasn't ready to inventory the bag. Not until he could get his hands clean. He didn't want to get blood on the money.

At first he didn't react to the repeated, insistent knocking at the door. He couldn't hear past his own demons. The sound of the bullet passing through his victim's throat. The last gurgle the man made as he slumped to the floor, life gushing through the savage wound.

"Devon, it's Beans. Are you in there? Please open up."

It seemed much easier to clean up the van. All fingerprints and genetic evidence carefully scrubbed away. The van returned to the rental shop good as new. No one would ever link it to them. They left nothing to chance.

But his hands. He just couldn't wipe away what had happened.

More knocking at the door. "Devon, I heard you in there. I heard the water running. If you don't want to talk, let me know and I'll go away. Just talk to me, Dev."

There's still time to get out of this with your lives intact. Leave and we'll pretend you were never here.

Easy for you to say.

"Dev, it's me ? Beans. I talked to Zephyer. Please let me in."

The reaction was slow, but Devon looked up at the door as if seeing it for the first time. His wife's name got his attention ? finally. He blinked away the fog, squinted his eyes to make sure the door was really there, and then slowly rose to his feet.

* * *

In stark contrast to the silence and foreboding atmosphere in Devon's apartment, Sherman Waller surrounded himself with sound and sights. Every light in his apartment was turned on ? even the shaving mirror. Both televisions were tuned to different sporting events ? the track on one and a basketball game on the other, both competing with each other at top volume. Sherman paced around his living room with nervous energy, looking for something ? anything to focus his mind on.

Waller wrung his hands together and then mussed his hair. He reached for his mug of coffee, but it was empty. Glancing into his kitchen at the coffee maker he saw only an empty pot. He was all out.

He glanced up at the clock. It was nearly eleven o'clock in the evening. The nearest grocery store was closed, he'd have to go several blocks over to get more coffee. Or he could go to the caf? ? it usually stayed open until midnight. Or was it eleven thirty? He couldn't be sure. He knew he needed more coffee. He needed to stay awake. He needed to be alive.

Something happened on the larger television that caught his attention. A photo finish at one of the race tracks he followed (on another world, of course). Everyone seemed so excited, so thrilled at the spectacle. He wished he were there, at the track, feeling the breeze on his face and the smell of the stables in his nose. Being at the track always had a way of calming him. He belonged there.

Sherman reached for the phone and dialed his favorite bookie. It was the only way he was going to get through this evening.

"Rog, it's Sherm. How are you? Good, good. Give my love to Beth. Oh, good. Hey, I want to get in on some of this action at Sheraton Park. Yeah, man, I'm good for it. Rog, I know I owe you from last time, but I just came into some money. I'm flush, buddy, I promise. Yes. Yes, understand. Good, thanks Rog ? you're the best. Ten grand on Lucky Larry in the fifth. Yes, I'm sure. Great, thanks Rog. I owe you. Well, I mean I owe you a favor, but you'll get your money. Tomorrow, I promise. Unless Lucky Larry is lucky for me, in which case we're square."

Sherman laughed and hung up the phone. The flutter of his heart settled a bit and he lowered himself into a chair with a good view of the television. They were lining up for the fifth race.

"Go, go, Lucky Larry," he said quietly to himself, eyes wide and his fingernails digging into his legs. Better than coffee, to be sure. Better than being alone with himself.

* * *

Giovanni Donatello stood still as a dervish of activity went on around him, his eyes on a swivel as he supervised and studied the scene. It was late at night at Murphy's Hardware but he wore his traditional pin-striped suit, a fedora pulled low over his forehead. His people avoided him ? avoided his gaze ? for fear of drawing his ire.

Behind Giovanni, Vito DiMeo stood at solemn attention. His suit coat bulged noticeably with the presence of unseen hardware beneath. He was prepared to kill to protect his master if circumstances required. Despite the fact that they were surrounded by armed men, he was particularly on guard due ? perhaps ? to the horrific scene in front of them. His eyes were not on the workers studying the scene, nor the two dead bodies laying in pools of their own blood on the floor. Vito watched just one man, who stood tall in the corner of the room with a vacant expression on his face.

Albert Rooney was barely a presence in the otherwise hectic showroom. He paid little attention to the two dead bodies or the professional men and women searching for clues. His eyes seemed unfocused and without direction. Instead, he almost looked as if he were feeling the aura of the room ? attempting to divine the identities of the culprits. Whether or not that was working for him, no one knew or cared.

The rest of those assembled tended to fit into two camps. There were several mobsters, all wearing suits, standing guard to ensure that the operation wasn't interrupted. Most appeared nervous or concerned at the fact that two or their own were butchered here. With one exception ? Sam Watts sat leisurely on a chair, loading and unloading bullets from the magazine of his 9mm beretta almost compulsively. He'd occasionally pause to look down at the body of his friend and colleague, Victor Stanislav, before returning to his exercise. Everyone else gave him a wide berth as he was the only one in the room that didn't seem concerned that his boss' boss was standing ten feet away.

The others in the room were professional forensics investigators hired by Donatello to canvas the room and find evidence. They were collecting bullet fragments, dusting for prints, and examining the bodies with careful attention. They were well-paid and highly professional, although they disliked having to work while surrounded by a bunch of surly wise guys.

Brian Kearney emerged from the back room, shaking his head. A technical specialist followed behind.

"We've checked all the surveillance footage," Kearney explained to Donatello. "The cameras ? all of them ? go to static right before when we think the attack happened."

"All of our equipment was supposed to be upgraded to be hardened against RF interference," Donatello responded dryly. "Why did this not happen?"

Kearney frowned, a bit taken aback by his superior's criticism. "The equipment's on order. We haven't received it yet."

"What are you waiting for, Brian?" Donatello pressed. "Is there something more important you're focusing your efforts on?"

"I'll make sure all of our safe houses are upgraded within the week," Kearney responded quickly.

"Not just that," Donatello announced loudly to anyone who was listening. "We need to improve our security throughout the operation. Two men guarding half a day's proceeds? No wonder we were robbed."

"We all agreed that smaller guard details were better to avoid attention," Kearney answered meekly.

"Security through obscurity led to this," Donatello snapped, gesturing at the bodies. "Lesson learned. I want to double the number of guards we have on all drops and safe houses. I want them better-armed and better-prepared."

"Yes, sir," Kearney responded.

"And no more distractions," Donatello added, gesturing at the television and the open bags of potato chips and junk food on the nearby desk. "These guys were pigging out and watching hockey while they were being gunned down. This is not a game and it's not a vacation. We're moving huge amounts of money to support a massive operation with hundreds of employees. How many will go hungry tonight because these two yahoos dropped their guard?" Donatello asked sarcastically.

Kearney glanced nervously over at Watts, who seemed oblivious to the conversation as he studied the way the light shined over the surface of one of his bullets.

"If anyone thinks I'm joking, that I don't take this seriously, send them to me," Donatello continued, on a tear. "Perhaps we've gotten complacent. We eliminated the competition so we think no one else will come up? We think no one wants to take away what we've built? I will not lose this all to laziness. Not on my watch."

"Understood, sir."

"There have to be consequences. No one robs me. Don't they know who I am?"

"Probably not, sir," Kearney answered, showing no assertiveness whatsoever.

Donatello turned to DeMeo, his most trusted associate and consigliere, annoyed at the simpering subordinate. "Time to get serious, Vito. Time to knock some heads."

"I agree, Mister Donatello," DeMeo answered simply. "Where shall we start?"

"We need a short list of who might have been responsible for this. Let's break it down into categories."

"We're still having trouble with elements in the union," Kearney suggested to get back into the conversation. "They have just enough information about our operation to cause problems. People like Nik Papadous and his punk of a son. If I had to put money on it, I'd say one or both of them had something to do with this."

Donatello turned back towards Kearney, waiving a finger in the air. "Okay, you investigate that angle. Get Talbot involved and talk to Papadous. If he had anything to do with this, bring him to me."

Kearney nodded with a confident smile. "I'll speak personally with senior," he said. "And I'll have Mister Watts pay a visit to the son," he continued, jerking his head in the direction of his subordinate. "They have history."

"I don't care how you delegate, just get it done."

"Yes, sir."

"We also need to look at the other families," DeMeo suggested. "They resent the monopoly we've taken over the docks and they might be bold enough to mount a hit like this."

Donatello nodded. "That's a sensitive issue, I'll handle it personally. I'll talk to Randazzo and Sanch?z and maybe Mitchell. I'd like to think that one of the other families wouldn't start a war with us, but it's something we need to look at."

"Business interests as well," Kearney added. "People we aced out, like Mary Coleman and Daveon Miller."

"I'll put Cameron on that," Donatello said with another nod. "He has relationships with all those people."

"Assuming this wasn't random," DeMeo suggested, "that leaves one other possibility."

"An inside job," Donatello continued, his eyes on Kearney.

"Well you don't need to look at my crew," Kearney responded defensively. "We don't murder our own."

Donatello turned slightly to look past Kearney at Rooney. "Would you like to spearhead an internal investigation?" Donatello asked.

Rooney focused in on the mafioso. He paused a moment, as if in thought, before glancing over at the bodies. "An attack this bold must have had some inside information," he pronounced. "A knowledge of our schedule, of our defenses and security precautions."

"There was a period of only about twenty minutes in between drops," DeMeo observed. "If the attackers had come a few minutes earlier or later, they've had met twice as many guards. Knowing our schedule makes that possible."

"There were maybe twenty guys with the schedule," Donatello said. "I want a list," he said to Kearney.

Kearney nodded. "I'll get it to you."

"Get it to me," Rooney instructed. His lips curled into a sick smile. "Yes, I will handle the internal investigation. I will find out if one of our own betrayed us."

Donatello nodded. "Thank you."

"And perhaps we can use this as an opportunity to clean house of those not worthy of our employ," Rooney added, the smile deepening.

Donatello glanced around a bit to see who was listening before taking several steps towards Rooney. DeMeo followed closely behind, still on guard.

"My goal is to find out who did this and punish them," Donatello said, his voice low. "This isn't an excuse to start a witch hunt."

"Why not, Mister Donatello?" Rooney asked, his voice betraying a sense of superiority. "Fear is a powerful motivator. Keeps the children in line."

"This is my operation," Donatello asserted. "We do it my way. I want the guilty parties brought to me."

Rooney's smile faded, but he did not challenge the mobster. For a moment, unresolved tension between the two welled up before Rooney turned away and moved for the door. As he reached the threshold he turned and nodded. "Let us begin the investigation," he said amicably.

Donatello returned the nod. "We're going to find out who did this and we're going to make a bloody example of them. Everyone will know my wrath."

"Indeed," Rooney responded simply.

* * *

Devon made room on his living room couch for the Private Investigator, zipping up and moving a large duffel bag out of the way. He then sat down on his office chair, hands clasped tightly together. Beans noticed that his client seemed distracted, even a bit disoriented, but there was no apparent reason. Perhaps the shock of him finally locating Zephyer was overwhelming.

"Tell me everything," Devon said, his voice soft. He was looking in Beans' general direction, but not straight at him. In fact he almost seemed to be looking through the PI.

"Well, I found her," Beans began nervously. "Well, really she found me. Just showed up as I was walking by."

"Where?"

"Down by the docks. Truth be told, I wasn't looking for her at the time. But there she was."

Devon reached for a bottle of scotch on his desk and poured himself a glass, neat. He took a long drink before smacking his lips and continuing. "Tell me you hit her over the head and she's in your trunk right now."

Beans cocked his head. "I know you don't think I'm capable of that."

"What did she say?"

Beans licked his lips and took a breath. "That she's okay, but that she doesn't want to come back."

Beans expected that his pronouncement would get Devon to focus, but it had the opposite effect. His eyes became even more glazed-over and his expression clouded.

"She looked healthy. She sounded good. And she's here, in RhyDin. She's still human."

"Doesn't want to come back," Devon repeated, almost listlessly.

"She wants you to stop looking for her."

"If she knows me at all she knows that's futile. Did she give you any clues as to where she's living?"

Beans shook his head. "Nothing."

"Well get back out there and find her." Devon seemed to be glancing up at the ceiling while speaking, his hand clutching the tumbler tightly.

"Dev ? I'm going to return your money. I'm not going to continue with this job."

That finally got Devon to look the Investigator in the face. His expression was cool, his eyes icy and detached. "Excuse me?" he asked.

A shiver ran down Beans' spine. "I'm not a marriage counselor, Devon. She doesn't want to be found. She wants to move on with her life. I'm not going to get in the way of that ? even if I thought I could."

"You're a private dick," Devon sputtered. "Most of your clients are husbands and wives spying on each other."

"You're my friend, Devon."

"I'm paying you good money," Devon snapped, showing the first bit of life. "Over the years I've paid for at least one of your cars."

Beans raised a hand defensively. "I know that, Devon. But this doesn't seem right. I saw it in her eyes. She doesn't want to be found."

"But that's what you do, Beans. You find people who don't want to be found."

Beans let out a sigh. "Not this one. I'm done. I'll have my assistant send you a full refund check."

Devon regarded the PI coldly, a look of derision flashing across his face.

After a long pause, Beans rose from the couch. "I'm sorry, Dev. I'm just sorry."

"She's everything to me," Devon said. His expression sinking into anguish. "I'd do anything to get her back."

Beans fidgeted. He was used to dealing with people at their worst in his line of work, but he never quite grew comfortable with seeing people break down.

Devon downed his scotch and set down his glass. He looked down at his hands, seeing some defect that was not apparent to Beans, and began to wring them together tightly.

"Dev, whatever you've done ? it's something you're going to need to work through on your own. I can't help you."

"What I've done?" Devon asked, looking up. His eyes were big, betraying some weakness that Beans couldn't quite pick up on. What had he done?

"She's out there, Dev. She's watching you. And she's hurting. Keep that in mind as you go through your days."

Whatever small bit of focus Devon had was lost as he looked back down at his hands. Beans half-expected them to be mutated or twisted, but they looked normal. Just hands. Yet Devon saw something else. Was he hallucinating?

"Just go," Devon finally said, his voice weak.

"I'm still working on that other job ? Percy Waller. I'll let you know if I find him."

Devon said nothing more.

After a sigh, Beans let himself out of the apartment and into the twilight beyond.