 
### The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition

Copyright 2016 Travis Adams Irish

Published by Travis Adams Irish at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

I. Lament of the Natural World

II. Drive Thru

III. Hotel Room

IV. Back to the Start

V. Survival 101

VI. National Hero

VII. Let the Games Begin

VIII. Anthony Pezzloni

IX. Long Night

X. Brave

XI. Hell on Earth

XII. Mothers & Dogs

Other books by T. C. Clover

Connect with T. C. Clover

Acknowledgements

Dedication: For Tatyana Alexandra Khorishko, the desert rose that survived the blizzard; my inspiration, and someone I love very much.

To my father and siblings (in alphabetical order): Robbie Griffith, James Sellers, Jodi Sellers, and Shane Sellers.

To my mentors Jacque Turner-Schettler and Don Miles. I hope this work does justice for the wisdom that you have shared. I'm grateful.

To Lonna Marie for performing a beautiful, original song. Please visit: www.LonnaMarie.com for more great music.

Twitter: @LonnaMarie

Performance and Editing by Lonna Marie

Song Lyrics by Travis Adams Irish

To Tierney Roberts for your beautiful and inspired cover artwork. Please visit: www.TierneyRoberts.com for some incredible designs.

Twitter: @TierneyRoberts

I. Lament of the Natural World

For those who have borne witness to what drives the incumbents of nature; their lives will be filled with: sorrow, elation, intrigue, and fear. As a means to an end or the ingredients of a new beginning, the wheels of nature turn; not like the gears in a precision clock, but as the wheels in a game of chance.

Sorrow: In desperate moments we are filled with despair as the door that was always open, warm and friendly, is forever bolted shut, creating a yearning for those mother's milk feelings to return.

Elation: During that same moment, miles away, amidst the lonely drawl of poverty, a soul is carried out of urban hell, wiping away the tears of a single mother who no longer needs to bear twice the burden to survive each day.

Intrigue: A powerful hurricane marches forward, bringing forth its minions of windy soldiers to create devastation. Many are captivated by the majesty of the destruction, illuminated bolts of lightning tearing through the sky, massive trees being torn from the ground, and a chaotic harvesting of human symmetry as architecture is returned to the earth whence it came. Those who observe this destructive lightshow and the battle against inevitable change, feel freed from their shackles of symmetric routines, and are eager to provoke life on the edge of chaos to escape the mundane consistency of daily existence.

Fear: From that place where you are resting, taking in words with confidence in what lies ahead, a poisoned syringe of denial keeps you from facing mortality. The concept of human nature is folly as there is only nature. Beneath those effervescent bonds that make life wholesome and worthwhile lies the terror that all cherished bonds will eventually expire. Below the surface of this architecture, and fragile symmetry everyone declares as a safe haven, is the unsettling knowledge that a hurricane will someday march over our lives, leaving a path of destruction that creates sorrow for us, elation for some, intrigue for others, and fear for all. There is no greater arrogance in human history than suggesting that we must let nature take its course. On the contrary, we are on a course with nature, and the only difference between sustenance and starvation, satisfaction and solitude; is the acceptance of life on the edge of chaos as a constant companion.

Woe to thee who have sought shelter from this turbulent game of chance; they will soon discover that their shelter has been nothing more than a tiny seashell being pursued by the unstoppable high tide. Nature's greatest caveat is that it has no emotion, only the incumbents who are awarded with a beginning, and those who are dammed to an end.
II. Drive Thru

In the early moments of dusk, the sunlight clings to the horizon like an overprotective mother, shining down for too long on one face, and unabashedly neglecting the other. This is the typical array of colors displayed in Los Angeles right after a late spring rainstorm. Cars pass by under the streetlights like rats scurrying in search of food, pleasure, and companionship. Rory Chambers sits in the tan leather driver seat of his small, teal Nissan Altima. His stomach growls fiercely and he doesn't remember the last time he had something to eat. Rory looks around the car at all the garbage that has accumulated in just a few days; not caring anymore about what potential passengers might think. Amongst the many wrappers and drinks, he glances at an issue of Time Magazine® with a picture of himself on the front cover. In the photo, he is happy, graceful, debonair, and a true vision of American prosperity. The headline reads 'Rory Chambers Man of the Year.' He bows his head wishing that the magazine article were never written and that he could somehow erase the past few years of his life...

A yellow sports car disappears from the front of the line in the drive-thru lane where Rory's Nissan is currently idling, waiting to pick up his food. There is only one more vehicle ahead of his now, a large, black SUV; just one more vehicle away, he tells himself eagerly; from sustenance and some minor comfort.

Rory looks at himself in the mirror, his once confident, happy expression now replaced with doubt and mistrust. Beneath his somber brown eyes the skin bears dark circles; his face is covered in thick stubble, and there is a wise yet hopeless look in his eyes. He looks much older than a man of thirty thanks to enormous amounts of stress and sleepless nights. Rory glances down for a moment at his jeans, worn and somewhat muddy from running these past few days. He is wearing an extra long, blue T-shirt, which is the only presentable part of his appearance aside from his short brown hair.

Rory closes his eyes, meditating on these thoughts; going over the events of the past few days in his mind. He rolls down his window to get some fresh air, resting his left elbow on top of the door frame as he tries to relax. Rory watches the taillights of the black SUV in front of him in a hypnotic state of calm. After a moment, something briefly registers in his ears drumming through the peaceful silence; something moving, slowly at first and then picking up speed.

Immediately following this new sound, Rory feels a sharp sting pierce the skin of his left upper arm, and simultaneously, a stabbing pressure deep into the muscle tissue just above his elbow. His face instantly turns a pale white and he tries to pull his arm away, realizing that the sound was footsteps approaching his open window. However, his attempt to pull away is rejected as his attacker grabs Rory's arm firmly and pulls it out slightly so that his elbow is protruding from the car. As he glances out the window, he notices that his attacker is a large man of about six-foot five, wearing a black track suit, stylish black business hat, and expensive sunglasses. As the blood drains from Rory's arm, the older man holds a white, sterile container just below his elbow being careful not to spill a precious drop.

"Easy there, Rory!" The large man exclaims with a tone of entitlement. "All I need is one pint and then you can go about your day. Don't struggle; I would hate to have to cut you again."

Rory cries out at the instant and unmerciful pain shooting up through his arm with a curdled, electric throbbing force. He can feel the warmth of his blood flowing slowly down the back of his arm and he cries out again, gritting his teeth as the knife is removed from his flesh. The large man firmly grips the inside skin and bicep of his upper arm, holding it steady while the blood drains into his sterile, medical specimen container. His bloody knife is now pressed tightly against Rory's arm with the tip pointing toward Rory's neck.

"Almost done," the older man reassures Rory as if talking to a small child, "I just need a pint, but you already know that don't you, Rory?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Rory asks, still wincing in pain, and trying to jerk his left arm away while using his right hand to pry the man's fingers from his upper arm.

"I wouldn't try that, Rory," the man says in a cold and raised voice as he releases Rory's bicep and holds the knife closer to his throat.

"You wouldn't kill me," Rory shouts with defiant, animal eyes, "I am your fucking golden goose!"

"Wrong, Rory," the man responds, holding the knife closer to his throat, "I will kill you if you don't let me have a pint. Remember, you're not special... Your blood is special."

"Ow, you sonofabitch!" Rory exclaims, watching helplessly as he waits for the specimen container to fill with his freshly cleaved blood up to the one pint line. He glares out the windshield; both the man and beast within him unable to accept this penetrating trespass. His eyes dart around wildly, trying to find a way to destroy his assailant. The Hispanic family in the SUV ahead of his car is staring back at him with expressions of shock and terror. He looks up at the older man who appears to have also noticed the family.

"Sorry, brother," the older man announces with sincerity as he pulls the bloody knife away from Rory's neck, "but this is taking too fucking long and the cops will be here soon."

"No!" Rory pleads as the man slices the back of his arm again, even deeper this time, and he shrieks from the pain as if red hot fingernails just scratched right through his skin. He protects his arm instinctively, jerking it back into the car. Droplets of blood spatter on the tan leather upholstery and soak into his T-shirt with every movement of his wounded left arm.

The older man reaches into the car to regain his grip, but Rory pushes the gas pedal and rams the black SUV ahead of him, sending the Hispanic family into a frenzy of horror. He pushes the pedal down further and hears the sound of metal grinding and scraping against metal as the family's vehicle starts to move forward a bit. Just when his attacker is about to reach inside Rory's car again, the vehicle lurches forward as the family's black SUV pulls hastily out of his path. When his car starts to move, Rory reaches out and swats the sterile container out of the man's grasp and it hits the asphalt, spilling most of his valuable blood all over the drive-thru lane.

After the family pulls straight ahead toward the other side of the building, Rory turns the wheel of his car hard to the right, and it recklessly jumps the curb, making his way into a gap of traffic and onto the open road. His car bounces violently on its chassis causing his bloody arm to slam against the door, and he soon feels the stainless steel door handle getting hung up on the sinewy, exposed muscle and flesh from his deeply wounded arm. Rory cries out in severe agony; physical and emotional, closing his eyes tight for a half second as he speeds toward an escape on the busy city street.

"You motherfucker! You sonofabitch! You selfish piece of dogshit!" The man screams after Rory as he watches the car leave the parking lot, jumping the curb out onto the street, before speeding into traffic. He removes a pistol from a concealed weapons holster that is secured to his back under his track suit. With a hateful gaze, he fires the pistol at the rear right corner of Rory's car as it speeds down the street, hitting just the rear fender and trunk before the car is out of pistol range.

Inside the car, Rory ducks down when he hears the gunfire, shocked that someone would actually shoot at him. He presses the gas pedal and the car flies over the asphalt to safety. As he sits up in the driver seat, he feels intense throbbing on the back of his arm and his sticky, warm blood is now soaking the inside of the car door and driver seat. His heart is pounding and he is sweating from his brow with adrenaline. Tufts of his short black hair are sticking to his head, mixing in with the perspiration here and there. Rory fumbles clumsily with his right hand in the car's center console and retrieves a cell phone. He winces with agony each time he has to move the steering wheel, but seems to relax a bit as the car finally comes to a stop at a red light. His hand is shaking as he thumbs through his contacts and dials a familiar number, placing the phone next to his ear. The stoplight turns from red to green and he drives swiftly again, pushing the gas pedal with fierce energy. He hears the phone ring a few times and his expression turns sour as he senses that the call will soon go to voice mail.

"Hey, Rory," a familiar young woman's voice answers.

"Kelly! Oh my god, Kell, I need your help, babe," Rory pleads into the phone without hesitation, knowing that he is quickly losing blood.

"Oh my God, Rory, what's wrong!?" The woman asks with genuine concern.

"I've been attacked," Rory blurts out; his heart is still racing and his breath is coming out in heavy gasps. "Kell, some fuckhead attacked me with a knife and cut my arm open, I'm losing a lot of blood and need your help right now."

"Holy shit, Rory, shouldn't we be getting you to the hospital?" The woman asks with concern; clearly shocked by his words.

"The hospital is too fucking dangerous for me; you know that!" Rory states with certainty. "My Goddamn blood is worth over five-hundred thousand dollars a pint! Every asshole in the valley wants a pouch of the shit, and now these fuckers are stabbing me... NO HOSPITAL!" Rory shouts, making sure that she understands as he drops the phone on the passenger seat to make a right hand turn.

"Okay, Rory, tell me where to meet you so we can stop the bleeding," she instructs in a soft, sweet voice filled with empathy.

"I'm at the Double Ambassador Inn just North of L.A.," Rory says with a feeling of relief for the first time, "in room 207."

"Okay, Rory, I've got my kit and I'm on my way out the door!" Kelly exclaims with urgency. "Wrap your arm in a towel and hold pressure on the wound; I'm on my way."

"Thanks," Rory says briefly before hanging up the phone and tossing it into the passenger seat.

He drives rapidly toward his hotel now, feeling less alone in the world, but no longer as secure as he did before this whole nightmare began. The sunlight is quickly fading in the now crimson sky, almost as sickeningly red as the blood draining from his left arm. Rory stares defiantly at the murderous hues of the sunlight, feeling betrayed by the world as his car moves slowly up a small concrete incline toward his hotel.
III. Hotel Room

Rory is lying on his bed in the dimly lit hotel room waiting for Kelly. There is a blood soaked towel wrapped tightly around his upper arm, and he holds it taught with a painful grimace, watching for Kelly's headlights to shine through the cheap, tan hotel curtains. His bloody shirt is in a pile on the short, brown carpet below the bed; lazily tossed aside moments ago, exposing his muscular upper body and pale skin. He closes his eyes in disbelief for a moment, remembering the recent attack at the fast food restaurant. In his mind, he envisions the furious strike of the knife deep inside his arm, spilling his blood into a sterile container as if someone were tapping a keg of beer. The backside of his arm still bears a sharp, stabbing pain each time his heart beats, and every movement inspires electric pain from his damaged triceps. Rory rolls over on his right side, turning his back to the door, watching the blank television, feeling an overwhelming connection to the empty, dark gray screen.

Soon he sees headlights drawing symmetrical patterns and shadows on the walls as a car passes by the window and comes to a halt. Then the lights go out and he hears the soft tapping of Kelly's delicate little fist on the door. Fortunately she doesn't wait for him to answer, and after a short pause, makes her way into the hotel room, carrying a First Aid Kit and some extra gauze bandages. Rory rolls over slowly, showing Kelly a weak smile as he sits up straight on the edge of the bed, holding the towel tighter as he rises.

"Quite a shitty day you've had, my friend," she admits with her soft, sweet voice, looking at the blood soaked towel around his arm and smiling at him with her bright blue eyes.

Kelly sets the First Aid Kit down next to Rory on the mattress then moves to a cheap wooden nightstand near the bed and turns on the small, black freestanding lamp.

"We need to clean it first," Kelly states, looking at him with an apologetic smile.

Rory looks up at her from the bed, still missing his ex-girlfriend, but even more now that she is married. Kelly still looks amazing at the age of thirty-three. He glances down at her wedding ring, then turns uncomfortably to the other side of the room and points to the ice bucket with his right hand. The large diamond is out of his line of vision, but he can still feel its presence in the room, a roadblock between him and his fondest memories. Kelly smiles at him quickly, assuming his pain has worsened, and walks over to retrieve the small, tan ice bucket from the dresser near the bathroom. He watches her walk in her black stockings and matching skirt with a white, silk button-down blouse. She has a petite figure and is naturally well endowed. Despite his wounded arm, he feels an old hunger coming back for his old lover and best friend.

As she steps over to the bed he admires her brunette hair with blonde highlights, a stylish compliment to her elegant demeanor. Only someone like Kelly could pull off a sexy nurse with him experiencing severe pain, and have it be just as tantalizing. Rory admires her plump, moist red lips and smooth white skin as she holds the ice bucket under his elbow. He smiles at her rigidly, trying not to show that he is feeling any pain. She goes into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a wet wash cloth, then delicately removes the towel from his arm and places it under the ice bucket.

Rory shudders in pain now as she moves his arm, the fibers of the towel feeling rough and sticky as it is pulled from his wounded flesh. Kelly begins to slowly clean the blood from his arm, moving carefully around the wound, leaning sideways around him with one knee on the bed.

"Wow, he got you good, babe," Kelly says freely, but then stops herself. "Sorry, old habit..."

A smile starts to form on his face, but is quickly wiped away as she corrects herself. Rory looks down at her wedding ring again and decides that he needs to respect what is important in her life- no matter how badly he wants her. As his eyes move up her right arm, Rory notices the scars from dozens of stitches, feeling ashamed that he put her through so much. She notices that he is looking at her scars, and turns slightly away from the light, smiling to avoid the uncomfortable conversation.

"I'm so sorry, Kelly..." Rory says with a remorseful gaze, realizing how fortunate he was that she survived. "I never knew this would blow up in your life..."

"So what happened?" She asks, changing the subject as she sees the two stab wounds now without the blood; the second wound is nearly three inches wide, while the first is half that size.

"Some clown dick attacked me while I was trying to get a burger." Rory blurts out with frustration, his arm shaking as she cleans the blood away.

"Gawd," Kelly laughs under her breath, "you and your clown dick insult. I don't blame you; this guy sounds like a total bastard."

"Yeah, he wanted a pint of magic blood from the goose." Rory replies, smacking his right knee with the palm of his right hand as a jolt of pain causes him to sit up straight. He begins to rub his kneecap in clockwise circles, attempting to sooth himself with this repetitive action.

"I'm sorry, baby," Kelly offers softly, "I know it's been insane."

"It's fucking crazy, I should have just given them all what they wanted, but when does it ever stop?"

"There's no way it would ever stop; not unless everyone forgot who you are... Hold still, sweets," Kelly speaks with sudden urgency, "this is the part that is going to really sting."

Rory closes his eyes for several minutes, shivering in pain every few seconds while his lovely nurse applies stitches to the deep wound in his arm. Despite the sting of the needle tugging and pinching its way through his wounded flesh, he enjoys the closeness of her familiar, gentle touch. In the midst of the stinging pain, he is able to enjoy the smell of her French perfume, feeling old memories resurface as the needle continues to pinch him back to reality. After a long silence, and a few bitter moments of sharp pain, his wounds are fully stitched and Kelly begins to clean his arm with rubbing alcohol, applying it slowly as he winces and twists his head in sour agony. Once the wound is thoroughly cleaned, she starts to wrap his arm delicately with a gauze bandage, using pieces of medical tape here and there.

"Thank you," Rory says slowly, feeling awkward for the first time since she arrived. While they have talked several times recently, it is the first time they've seen one another in years.

"You're welcome, sweets," Kelly says slowly with a smile, "I can't believe all this has happened. You've really been through some bullshit... I saw your issue of Time Magazine®; don't know if I should say congrats?"

"Yeah, Man of The Year," Rory laughs defiantly, "Time Magazine® can kiss my ass."

"Yeah, well, it was nice to find out you were still alive..." Kelly smiles somewhat, quietly admiring her ex-boyfriend's muscular upper body under the soft lighting in the small hotel room.

"What the fuck is that?" Rory asks, getting up out of bed and moving to the wall on his right side.

"It looks like..." Kelly squints a bit and leans forward on the bed looking at something on the wall near Rory's right abdomen. "Oh, it's just a spider," she states dismissively.

"Fuck you- you little black cocksucker," Rory quips at the spider as he smashes it with his bare fist, "every-damn-body is trying to get my blood," he explains to Kelly as he wipes the remains of the spider from his fist with his T-shirt, then tosses it lazily back onto the floor.

"Now, babe, that spider is too small to be a cocksucker," Kelly teases playfully, turning away with a naughty half grin.

Rory laughs, feeling a restored connection to her for the first time, and lies down on the bed with his knees in the air, pushing the ice bucket and First Aid Kit aside.

"That would be a great change of pace," he laughs, "a spider that sucks cock would be very welcome in my life; or even a person."

Kelly laughs and smiles a bit, obviously happy that he is alive and okay. After several weeks of phone calls she feels relieved to finally see Rory without a swarm of reporters following him around. Rory smiles back up at her with his deep brown eyes, moving his hand over the top of her hand that is resting on the bed next to his leg. His eyes are filled with a powerful and sensual appreciation for her healing touch, and Kelly feels suddenly overwhelmed with old emotions. She takes his left hand into her right, and then strokes his forearm delicately with the fingertips of her other hand as she stares into his eyes, losing herself back to an enjoyment that was taken from her.

Rory smiles wide at Kelly's familiar touch, enjoying the simple grace and intelligence that brightens every room when she is around. After a short moment, she lets go of his hand and removes the ice bucket and First Aid Kit from the bed, putting everything in a neat pile near the stuffed chair that is next to the front door. Rory smiles and half waves to her as he gets ready for her to walk out of his life again; back to her extremely lucky husband.

Instead of leaving, Kelly gets back on the bed, and surprises Rory by kissing him delicately on his toned stomach. She continues kissing all the way up his torso to his neck, and finally, his lips. Then she playfully teases him by rubbing the tip of her nose against his nose, appearing sweet and loving, with a hint of desire. But her sweet appearance quickly fades as she reaches down to Rory's jeans and undoes his zipper. She slowly inserts her fingers into his boxer shorts, feeling him instantly become hard in her hand. For a moment she strokes softly, building him up slowly, then she uses both hands to unbutton his jeans and pulls his fully erect member out of his boxers. Once his shaft is exposed, she slides her fingers slowly up and down from base to tip, staring into his eyes and enjoying the relaxing look on his face.

Inside her white panties there is now a glistening lust, wanting to relive old memories with every ounce of her soul. She remembers intense moments of their bodies entering a familiar rhythm of endless pleasure and soon her labia are becoming moist with demanding anticipation.

"I want you," Rory says suddenly, rocking his hips in the air.

This statement seems to bring her back to her senses as she stops stroking him for a moment and stares at her wedding ring with sad eyes. Rory looks up at her gaze, tracing it down to the wedding ring, and somberly nods his head with sincere understanding. After an uncomfortable silence, he reaches down to cover up and button his jeans, but Kelly brushes his hand away and grabs his shaft again.

"No," Kelly says with a guilty smile, "I love my husband, but at least you can enjoy this."

After saying this, she starts rubbing his shaft feverishly, watching him build up with excited anticipation. Both of them are staring at one another wanting the deep pleasure from their fond old memories. Soon Kelly can't handle the anticipation any longer and she uses her free hand to undo her pink bra, pulling it off recklessly and tossing it to the floor. Then she uses both hands to unbutton her blouse showing off her milky white mid-section with petite, feminine ribs.

Rory is suddenly excited when she reveals her perfect breasts from beneath the blouse as she half smothers him and he eagerly puts his mouth over her right nipple. Kelly exhales in slow, sensual bliss. Under her business skirt, her panties have become a bonfire of wanting and she pulls Rory's injured hand greedily up between her legs. She shudders with anticipation as her left hand feels him getting harder knowing that he is about to touch her. She smiles as he moves from her right breast to a more passionate engagement with his mouth on her left breast. Now she feels his fingers fishing around inside her panties and soon the familiar touch of his fingertips on her clitoris.

For half a second she feels awkward, realizing that she hasn't shaved for two days. She looks down at his body to see if he is at all fazed by this bit of fresh growing hair, but then smiles as she feels him get even harder in her left hand. A wide grin spreads across her face as she feels his fingers enter her moist and sensitive lips. She continues to stroke him and feels his index and middle finger thrusting lovingly up inside her. Kelly rocks her hips up and down on his fingers and feels his hips starting to rock as well.

Rory grabs her right thigh suddenly, trying to get her to mount his extremely stiff member.

"I'm sorry, baby," Kelly admits in breathless ecstasy, "but this is as far as we can go- I love my husband... Let's just enjoy this..."

Rory feels disappointed, and the mention of Kelly's husband makes this whole encounter seem suddenly alien. Despite his pleasure, he now has this emptiness flowing through his body from the back of his mind.

"Think about the time before all of this happened," Kelly states with heavy pleasure as he plunges his fingers deeper inside of her.

Rory decides to take her advice, and with her gorgeous breast halfway in his mouth, her hand on him, and his fingers deep inside her, he allows himself to go back. His mind lets go of the past few months and he enjoys the pleasure of imagining how life used to be, and how it could have been...
IV. Back to the Start

Two Years Earlier

Rory takes a deep breath of the fresh California mountain air, letting his mind relax for a moment as he waits for his clients to finish resting. He is wearing a red and orange flannel shirt over his salmon colored loose fitting undershirt.

"How close are we to the summit again?" Artie Southwick asks as he hands a canteen to his nine-year-old daughter.

"We're about a thirty-minute hike to the summit," Rory replies as he shields his eyes from the sun, gazing up toward the top of California's Mount Baldy.

Rory smiles to himself in the cool spring breeze; his years of experience telling him that this group doesn't have the legs to reach the summit despite taking the ski lift up The Devil's Backbone, drastically cutting the amount of hiking needed to reach the summit. He lifts his right leg and rests it on top of a large boulder near the trail, feeling the soft material of his off-white cargo pants as he rests his hands on his elevated knee.

Artie's wife, Janie Southwick, looks miserable in the mild heat as she brushes back her fine black hair. She has some delicate Asian features and fair skin that is covered in sweat from the short hike. Although, in her white blouse and jeans, she is doing far better than Artie who chose a black Nike® sweatshirt and dark brown khakis for the hike. His golden, curly hair is drenched with sweat and his white face is on the verge of sunburn.

Little Rosie Southwick is wearing a spring dress with walking shoes, which Rory advised against before they ventured into the mountains. She gives the canteen to her mother after one final drink, and then brushes her long, black hair backward with her small hands, enjoying the shade from the large pine trees.

"Thirty minutes, huh?" Artie asks in a defeated tone, pulling uncomfortably at the black sweatshirt that is sticking to his upper body from perspiration.

"We don't have to go to the summit," Rory says in a reassuring tone, "you can get some good speed right from this spot."

Artie looks down at the ground where his stylish MBS Mountainboard is waiting amongst a group of backpacks. As he glances at the Mountainboard, his face immediately turns a pale color and Rory senses that the young man has never used an off road skateboard before.

"What the hell," Artie agrees with a macho rhetoric, wiping the sweat from his face, "we'll do it from right here. Where is the best place to start so that I can get a killer run?"

"I would start by riding the inside of this ridge," Rory says with a smile using his left hand to demonstrate a potential path down the side of the mountain.

"As long as that gives me a killer run," Artie snaps back in a cocky tone. "Lets do it," he says briskly, grabbing the backpack that holds his helmet and kneepads, and hoisting it over his right shoulder.

"Sounds good," Rory agrees, picking up the Mountainboard and carrying it over his shoulders.

"We'll wait here for you," Janie says to the men with a tired smile, then looks at her daughter who seems content watching flies buzzing around the pine trees.

Artie nods to his wife and daughter, then shuffles arrogantly up the mountainside ahead of Rory. They hike about one-hundred and fifty yards from the shade of the pine trees to the flat curve of the ridge that makes up part of The Devil's Backbone. This part of the mountain is covered in dry brush and large patches of tall grass. When they reach the top of the ridge, Artie unzips the backpack on the ground and begins to put on his helmet and kneepads.

"Okay," Rory begins as he examines the terrain, "what you'll want to do is ride along the edge of the ridge and pick up speed gradually. The key to this is to stay calm and make sure that you don't go over the ridge. You want to stay around ten to twenty-five miles an hour max."

Artie nods his head with irritation, the shiny, black helmet now fixed tight against his scalp. He uses his fingers flamboyantly to signal Rory to continue his instruction as he puts on his black kneepads.

"Anyway," Rory instructs again, showing more than a little visible irritation, "if you get into trouble, just turn the board slowly until you level off with the mountain. Or if you find yourself moving too fast you can always hop off and use your kneepads in an emergency."

"Yeah, bro, I don't think I'll be using kneepads," Artie states with his chin jutted out in defiance as he steps onto the Mountainboard and puts his shoes into the bindings. "After you watch this run," he says with a smirk, gripping the handbrake with his right fist, "we'll see who should be wearing kneepads."

"Cool," Rory says dismissively, looking down at the Mountainboard, "you should be ready to roll."

Up on the Mountainboard, Artie is feeling claustrophobic in his sleek black helmet. His hair is drenched with thick sweat and the extra gear has increased his body temperature in the already warm spring sunlight. He releases the handbrake and the board starts to roll, but he soon applies the brakes again and comes to a stop, letting his head droop for a moment.

"You're a terrible guide, Rory," Artie declares in a somewhat panicked and cracking voice, "this run doesn't look safe to me; I think the grade is too steep and there are a lot of rocks."

"Naw, you should be okay," Rory reassures him, "I've made this run with dozens of people; it's pretty tame."

"Look, bro, I just... I don't have a good feeling about this," Artie counters quickly, sounding more like a young boy with every sentence. "I can't do this, asshole, okay!?" Artie finally explodes. "All I wanted was to get some cool pictures for Facebook and Twitter."

"Okay, no problem," Rory says with only a faint degree of surprise, "we can get you some great shots for your Facebook and Twitter. I can make it look like you're riding the ridge, kicking ass, and taking names on The Devil's Backbone."

Rory pulls out his camera and spends the next hour helping Artie to setup amazing looking shots of him enjoying the extreme sport of mountainboarding in Los Angeles, California. As he is taking the photos, he thinks to himself how many of his clients start out wanting to participate in an extreme sport, but when they see the danger staring them in the face, their sense of self preservation takes over. As the owner of X-Face L.A. Extreme Sports, Rory has experienced nearly everything a thrill-seeker in California could ever desire. After all, his company's slogan of 'Every Hardcore Adventure in California Right at Your Fingertips' has provided clients with: street luge, snowboarding, surfing, skydiving, bungee jumping, base jumping, rock climbing, and so many others.

After the opportunistic photo shoot is over, Rory finds himself sitting in the driver seat of his Toyota Tacoma waving to the Southwick family as they drive away from the Mount Baldy scenic parking area. When the family departs, Rory checks his cell phone and sees over a dozen missed calls from an unfamiliar number. With a sudden curiosity he decides to check his voice mail to find out if some emergency took place while he was in the mountains.

Soon he is listening to the most recent message, and it is from an excited man with an accent that he doesn't recognize: 'Mr. Chambers, this is Doctor Yahmir at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center; we would like to talk with you about your recent blood donations to the hospital... Something has come about, and I'd first like to draw a sample of your blood to confirm that you are the right person. We will need to do this before I have any further discussion. Please call me back when you have a moment.'

Rory's face now bears an expression of concern as he listens to the rest of the message that contains the doctor's contact information, including his home telephone number, cellular phone number, and personal email address. Now completely baffled, Rory immediately calls the doctor's cell phone number as he starts the engine of his truck.

"This is Doctor Yahmir," the same man's voice answers with a professional tone, "who am I speaking with?"

"Doctor Yahmir, this is Rory Chambers, I just got your-"

"Mr. Chambers, so glad to hear from you," the doctor interrupts with a somewhat urgent voice. "Have you been donating blood at The Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, Sir?"

"Yes... I have." Rory responds, feeling a bit uneasy by the doctor's sense of urgency. "My Father's life was saved by a surgeon at your hospital years ago and I try to donate as often as possible."

"That's fantastic, Sir," the doctor says in a cold, dismissive manner. "Is your blood Type O Negative?"

"Yes," Rory admits with a degree of frustration at the doctor's lack of interest in his personal life, "that's another reason why I donate; my blood is the universal donor."

"That's truly remarkable!" The doctor replies in a warm voice for the first time, becoming more anxious in his tone. "Could you stop by the medical center tonight?"

"I'd like to know what this is regarding," Rory declares, feeling his natural sense of self take over the conversation. "Why do you need me to come to the medical center tonight?"

"Uh, yes, Sir, we have found an anomaly in your blood and need to have you come down for some lab tests to confirm that we have the right person," the doctor announces in an almost scripted manner. "I really cannot disclose any information until we know that this is your blood we are discussing; you know- doctor to patient confidentiality."

"How long is this going to take?" Rory asks, sensing that he has the upper hand for some reason. "I have dinner tonight with my girl."

"It won't take long, Sir," the doctor reassures him, "we will run the blood tests while you are here at the medical center and can have you back home within an hour or two."

"So this can't wait until later in the week?" Rory says dryly, looking at his designer wristwatch.

"It's a matter of life and death," the doctor replies with a voice of genuine empathy and concern.

"I'm leaving Mount Baldy now," Rory exclaims, nodding his head inside the truck, feeling that this is the right thing to do, "and I'll be there in about an hour."

"Very good, Mr. Chambers," the doctor confirms briskly, "we value your participation."

"Sounds good," Rory exhales in a tired voice, "I'll see you shortly."

"Thank you, Sir!" The doctor exclaims, sounding like a man who just won a date with a supermodel.

Rory hangs up his phone and immediately dials his girlfriend Kelly.

"Hello, babe," Rory begins with a broad smile, "how was your day?"

"Hey, sweets," Kelly says in a soft, playful tone, "it was good, but it's going to get a hell of a lot better!"

"Yeah, I'm excited too," Rory agrees, realizing his sudden disappointment in having to run this unexpected errand. "Hey, I had the hospital call me and they asked me to come down as soon as possible. The doctor said something about a Type O Negative blood donor, and that it's a matter of life and death."

"Holy shit, sweets," Kelly replies with genuine shock in her voice, "it sounds like they need your blood to save someone's life. Which hospital was this?"

"It's Ronald Reagan, right by our house; they said it would only take an hour or two."

"Yeah, babe, go and save someone's life, I'll be here when you get done. We'll still have a good time tonight."

"Thank you, baby, I'll take tomorrow off if you want to call in sick, and we'll go play like teenagers."

"Hells yeah, in that case go ahead and save two people. Are you sure you aren't cheating on me with some naughty lady doctor?" She asks with playful suspicion.

"Yes, her name is Yahmir, and I don't think she shaves her meat and potatoes."

"Oh my God, babe; that is disgusting!" Kelly giggles deviously. "Go and save a life for hairy balls, but save yourself for me tonight, sweets."

"Absolutely," Rory says with a smile, "I won't let doctor hairy balls use up all of my energy. Haha. I love you, baby; see you soon."

"Love you too, sweets, come home soon. Bye."

"Bye, baby."

Rory starts his one hour commute to Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center in the comfort of his Limited Edition Toyota Tacoma. The white truck has chrome step bars, and bears his X-Face L.A. logo on both doors and the tailgate. He meditates deep in thought during this long drive, listening to a roadhouse mix on his iPod all the way to the hospital.

After navigating the traffic surrounding the massive Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center complex, Rory finds himself moving briskly through the modern lobby. He admires the familiar interior design of the hospital that is more sophisticated than the aged exterior of the buildings. It is equipped with some warm lighting, immaculate floors with gorgeous laminates, and architecture that is brilliant in its simplicity. As a child, he had always loved the hospital ever since surgeons saved his father from a severe stroke. For a long time, his childhood mind believed that Ronald Reagan was a brilliant surgeon who just fixed people; a veritable physician version of Santa Claus.

When he gets through to the right corridor, he is soon approaching the pathology clinic, feeling relieved to finally get some answers. Rory steps toward the reception desk, looking down with a smile at the intelligent and well dressed woman behind the protective glass. She is wearing expensive, sliver horn rimmed glasses that are balanced on the end of her nose. As the woman looks up at him, she returns his smile gracefully, showing a few wrinkles on her well kept face, displaying a radiant look for a woman in her fifties.

"May I help you?" The woman asks in a tone that commands respect and showcases her level of education.

"Yes, I'm here to meet with Doctor Yahmir;" Rory announces with a blank look, "he needs to run some tests."

"Right, you're Mr. Chambers," the woman says with a wider smile, "please walk right in, I'll let Doctor Yahmir know that you're here."

"Thanks," Rory replies, raising his eyebrows a bit, having never gotten into the medical center this fast before even when donating blood.

"Mr. Chambers," the doctor greets him with excitement as he opens the door, "so happy you could make it tonight. As promised, we'll keep this short so that you can get home in time; I have a phlebotomist on his way."

"Thanks, Doctor," Rory says with relief shaking Doctor Yahmir's hand with a firm grip. As he shakes the doctor's hand, he thinks to himself that this guy probably really doesn't shave his balls, and suddenly finds himself wanting to get home to Kelly. "Can you let me know what's going on now?"

"I'm afraid I need to confirm your correct blood match before we continue; is that okay?" The doctor asks with a serious stare placing his hands on his hips under his long, white lab coat, which shows off his small belly through a black dress shirt.

"Yes, that's fine," Rory agrees, "but I'd like to know why I'm here- in general?"

"Certainly," the doctor replies with an austere grin, showing off his shiny, balding scalp, rich Egyptian features, and eyebrows as thick as his glasses. "I just need to ask you some questions first and get some disclosure forms out of the way."

"Okay." Rory accepts, feeling glad that the doctor is keeping his promise to move things along.

The door swings open and a tall, slender white man steps into the room carrying a tray full of needles, rubber gloves, glass tubes and other instruments of phlebotomy. He is wearing small, thin glasses that are pressed tightly against his face and he pulls up a chair next to Rory in Doctor Yahmir's office, setting his tray down on the desk as he sits. The office is cramped, and Rory feels a bit suffocated in such close quarters by these two men who are both wearing lab coats and glasses. Doctor Yahmir's office is unremarkable save for a few shelves with medical journals and a black, steel filing cabinet in the corner behind his desk.

"This is Doctor Anderton," Doctor Yahmir says in a formal introduction, gesturing toward the tall doctor with an outstretched palm.

"I thought you said that we had a phlebotomist drawing the blood?" Rory asks with suspicious eyes.

"Not to worry, Mr. Chambers," Doctor Yahmir reassures him, "Doctor Anderton is a member of our Pathology Research Clinic; I'm sure he'll do a great job drawing your blood."

"Mr. Chambers," Doctor Anderton says with a quick smile, shaking Rory's hand halfheartedly before getting back to business. "I just need to ask you a few questions before we get started." The doctor speaks with almost no emotion, which is not at all complimented by his pale face and feminine lips. "Have you had any alcohol today?"

"No." Rory replies, watching Doctor Yahmir as he writes on a clipboard while Doctor Anderton asks him standard questions.

"Have you used any illegal drugs, had a transfusion, or been diagnosed with any new medical condition in the past year?"

"No," Rory answers briskly, clearing his throat and feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

"Have you had any allergic reactions; weight loss or weight gain of more than twenty pounds in the last six months?"

"No."

"Have you come into contact with any foreign substances, foods, or liquids in the past six months?"

"No."

"Have you experienced any abdominal discomfort, blurred vision, joint aches, or any other significant health symptoms in the past six months?"

"No," Rory replies with frustration, "I'm feeling a little abdominal discomfort from these questions."

"I understand." Doctor Anderton continues without breaking his line of vision with Rory. "One last question; do you have any family history of heart disease, cancer, or any other major hereditary illness?"

"My father had a stroke, and passed away ten years later," Rory evokes with great emotion. "His life was saved by this hospital. My mother has diabetes, but she exercises regularly and keeps it under control."

"Okay, that's superlative," the doctor says with an icy demeanor. "Oh, and one final question; have you had promiscuous sex with multiple partners in the past six months?"

"No," Rory states in a rough tone, "but my girlfriend and I have very promiscuous sex together."

"What?" The tall doctor asks with some confusion, blinking his eyes at Rory and shifting his legs under his long, white lab coat. He looks like a computer that is about to crash, having not understood Rory's response.

"He's joking," Doctor Yahmir says with a smile, "please sign here, Rory, and I'll tell you more after Doctor Anderton can extract a blood sample."

Doctor Yahmir hands Rory a clipboard with a hospital disclosure that is already filled in with all of his correct contact information. Rory glances at the line items showing many of the questions he just answered, and briefly reads the disclosure to donate blood, then quickly signs the form and hands it back to Doctor Yahmir.

"Excellent!" Doctor Anderton exclaims with a smile in his eyes, showing as much emotion as Rory deems the man is capable of displaying at any given time.

The doctor gently grabs Rory's right arm, rolls up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and begins the steps to extract his blood while Doctor Yahmir watches with fascination from the other side of the expensive mahogany desk.

After an hour and fifteen minutes of waiting in Doctor Yahmir's office by himself, Rory is seething with frustrated energy. He wants to get home for a romantic evening with his girlfriend, and still hasn't gotten any answers as to why this meeting is so important. Rory looks down at the fresh gauze and medical tape on his arm where the doctors drew over a pint of his blood for some lab tests. Once they extracted his blood into the clear, plastic pouch, both men left the room talking quietly with excitement between them.

"Mr. Chambers," Doctor Yahmir announces as he steps back into the office, closing the door behind him, "I'm so very sorry to have kept you waiting. We had to confirm our findings with a few of our peers before I could give you any solid information."

"Great, I'm ready when you are," Rory says in a sour tone, leaning forward and feeling like all of his time waiting will finally mean something.

"Well, Mr. Chambers," Doctor Yahmir states with cryptic pride, "I will first need you to sign this non-disclosure statement before I tell you anything further about our preliminary findings here at the hospital."

"I already signed your damn permission slip," Rory begins with a disgusted tone, "just tell me what the fuck is going on already."

The doctor smiles patiently at Rory, pretending he didn't hear his expletive, and he extends the clipboard to him again with a new disclosure form and a pen.

"Whatever..." Rory says with disgust as he immediately signs the form and tosses it onto the doctor's desk.

"Thank you!" Doctor Yahmir says with an excited look in his eyes. "As we discussed," the doctor speaks slowly, pushing his glasses tight against his nose, "you have been giving blood at this medical center for some time now."

"That's right." Rory agrees with tired eyes.

"Well, we've been using your blood on many patients over the years, and recently used some of that blood in a transfusion for an AIDS patient who was injured in a car accident just a week ago. Since the week has passed, we have noticed that the man's AIDS symptoms are in rapid regression." The doctor adjusts his lab coat and turns in his chair, placing his elbows on his desk and putting his fingers together to form a triangle shape. "We spent the entire week scratching our heads about this rapid regression of AIDS symptoms. At one point," the doctor chuckles, "we even thought that we had read his records incorrectly and that he never was infected with HIV or AIDS. To our astonishment, after the transfusion, the man's T-Cells are now showing a surface expression of an unknown protein."

The doctor smiles wide, looking at Rory with pride and waiting for him to smile back, but Rory stares blankly at the doctor, not understanding what he is trying to say.

"Okay, so the man got some extra protein from my blood," Rory deadpans, "hoorah for the crash victim. What the hell does that mean?"

"I apologize," Doctor Yahmir says with a bit of arrogance, "you're not a pathologist."

"No, I'm definitely not." Rory says with an impatient expression.

"The HIV Virus attacks the body's T-Cells and destroys them over time. This causes the natural body defenses or immunities to break down. After we transfused your blood into the crash victim, he experienced immediate regression of AIDS symptoms. As we examined his blood further, we noticed that the virus is unable to penetrate his T-Cells. Without the ability to bind with T-Cells, the HIV Virus will eventually be destroyed by the body's natural immunity."

Rory stares at the doctor, still waiting to understand what he is trying to explain.

"To put it in simple terms, when your blood was introduced into the crash victim, his immune system was somehow recalibrated, and he is now vaccinated for HIV. For some reason- that we are still researching, a pint of your blood cured an AIDS patient."

"Holy shit!" Rory exclaims with a long, deep breath, starting to understand why the doctors are so excited. "Are you sure it was my blood that cured him? I mean, maybe he has his own immunity."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Doctor Yahmir states boldly, "as further testing tonight has shown that the T-Cells in your blood have the surface expression of the same protein that prevents the HIV Virus from propagating."

"What does that mean?" Rory asks impatiently.

"Your immune system comes with its own condom to protect against AIDS. It does not allow the disease to harm the body. Further, once your blood is introduced into a patient it seems that your T-Cells become the normal structure for the entire body."

"And you're sure about this?" Rory asks, folding his arms with doubt.

"We're about eighty percent certain," Doctor Yahmir says with a grin, "but we have infused your blood into another AIDS patient this evening, and within a few days, we'll be one-hundred percent certain."

"Don't you need permission from the FDA or some other agency to just start trying this on other people?"

"No, Mr. Chambers, we don't need permission from the FDA to give life saving transfusions. Besides, you've already signed a questionnaire indicating that your blood is free of harmful contaminants. Look, we need a few days to dot some 'i's and cross some 't's, but I would be very grateful if we could get more of your blood for testing tonight. This could be a major breakthrough in modern medicine."

"Yeah, no problem," Rory concedes with a sigh, "I just want to get back to my girl, but if we can really save people's lives with a new medical breakthrough, then I'll be happy to help."

"That's tremendous, Mr. Chambers!" Doctor Yahmir says with a somewhat geeky enthusiasm, "I'll have a tech come in and draw your blood, and then we'll talk in a few days. In the meantime, get plenty of rest and eat green, leafy vegetables to replenish your blood supply."

The doctor stands up and shakes Rory's hand firmly, smiling at him like a game show host who just saw a ratings increase.

"Thanks so much for all you're doing," Doctor Yahmir beams with a phony wink and smile, "we value your participation."

"Okay," Rory says with a forced smile, "I'll see you in a few days."

Rory walks out of the Pathology Clinic and feels an eerie chill run through his body as he sees a technician standing just outside the door, eagerly waiting with a tray of phlebotomy instruments to draw his blood. He shakes off his fear, rolls up his sleeve, and sits in one of the waiting room chairs, watching the technician with a sober expression.

Half an hour later, and one and a half pints of blood lighter, Rory is at his lavish home on Club View Drive. He is relaxing on the tan leather sofa and Kelly is resting her back against his chest. They are each enjoying a glass of Kendall Jackson Red as they discuss the events from earlier in the day.

Kelly looks absolutely gorgeous in her lime green top with stylish ruffles around the shoulders, which is complimented by her black skirt and red heels. This being her outfit from a day job as the hostess for a sushi restaurant. Rory had joked that with a yellow skirt she would look like a reverse stoplight, but that only yielded a threatening stare from his tenacious girlfriend.

Rory has chosen the more casual route for this evening by changing his flannel shirt and cargo pants for a flattering, bright white robe. Kelly is resting her head on his chest as they lay together, sprawled lazily across the sofa both drinking their glasses of wine without a care in the world. The house was given to Rory by his Father and paid off by a life insurance policy after his Father died a few years ago. Rory had wanted his mother to have the home, but she instead decided to live the quiet life in Colorado with her new husband.

The four-thousand square foot home is every young man's dream, having been built with: a pool, hot tub, mini bar, and many other accommodations. The entryway spans out to high vaulted ceilings with decorative, natural woods, and the kitchen, living room, and dining area are all tied together into one large cozy space. There is hardwood flooring throughout the house infused with bamboo, and there are soft, thick carpets placed strategically in almost every room.

"So what do you think?" Rory asks, squeezing Kelly tightly with his muscular arms. "Do you feel like this German-Irish mutt has the cure for AIDS in his blood?"

"I don't know, sweets" she begins as Rory strokes her long, soft black hair all the way down to her blonde highlights. "If it's true that your blood can give people a second chance at life, I think it's definitely worth doing. We're only a few minutes from the hospital anyway."

"Yeah, it could be cool; I think they're going to try and make an AIDS vaccine from my blood, but there was something that bothered me today... I don't know what it was." He declares, sitting deep in thought.

"What do you mean?" She asks with surprise.

"Well, they seemed so eager to get my blood; it was like every time I tried to turn around in that place someone had their hand up my ass. I feel like one of Dunham's puppets; just a big hand up my ass all night."

"Haha. Should I start calling you Peanut?" Kelly smiles and leans further back into Rory's chest, enjoying the soft comfort of his freshly cleaned white robe.

"I don't know; should I start calling you no nuts?"

"That's not exactly a slam, baby, she says with a giggle, I wouldn't look very good with a big package swinging, especially in this skirt."

"Nah, we're survivors, we'd make it work." Rory says softly, kissing the back of her head. "We'd be in the news as the first man with a protein condom in his blood and his gorgeous girlfriend who spontaneously grew a penis."

"If I had a penis, I'd smack you in the head with it every morning to wake you up," Kelly suggests playfully, finishing her wine.

"If you had a penis, you would not want to smack anything with it; that sounds really painful. As a matter of fact," Rory says seductively, gulping the rest of his wine and setting the glass on the floor, "with all this talk, I better check to make sure you don't have one."

Kelly also sets her glass down on the floor as Rory passionately kisses her neck. Since they are both tired, their body language shows that there is no need to be shy, and Rory pulls his robe open while Kelly gently raises her body in the air. Then he moves his hands fiercely down to her skirt and pulls it up around her waist. In that same moment, Kelly removes her panties, and then lowers herself down on him. Soon they can feel the warmth of one another that they have hungered for all day.

Three days later, Rory finds himself back at the hospital. This time he is seated in the conference room amongst a group of people who are all smiling at him; most of them wearing long, white lab coats. He recognizes Doctor Yahmir and Doctor Anderton who are seated to his immediate right, but there are four other faces in the room that he does not recognize; two men and two women.

Rory glances at Yahmir who is wearing his typical thick glasses; his balding head still shiny under the powerful fluorescent lighting in the conference room. Doctor Anderton is his usual amusing self, sporting his small glasses, a clean shaven, pale face, and a full head of short, dark hair.

While he sits at the head of the table waiting for them to begin, Rory realizes he is the only person in the room that has a bit of stubble growing. He looks the medical staff over trying to determine who is the alpha dog of the group. Doctor Yahmir waits patiently with his hands clasped together on the smooth glass tabletop. In a less friendly pose, Doctor Anderton has his arms folded, and every few moments, glances at an older woman on the opposite side of the table, just one seat away from Rory on his left side.

The young woman to Rory's immediate left is an attractive brunette, and she smiles wide at him displaying that she is a people pleaser. In the seat next to her, the older woman is cleaning her glasses slowly, and the two men on her immediate left seem to be waiting for her as well.

"Why don't we begin?" The older alpha dog declares, finally taking ownership of the room as she puts her glasses back on, raising her head to look Rory in the eyes. "I know you have met Doctor Yahmir and Doctor Anderton," she says gesturing gracefully toward each man with her right hand as she speaks. Each man subsequently nods as his name is called as if bowing to show respect. "This lovely young lady on my right is Cecily, my personal assistant, and this fellow to my left is Horace Jackson from our legal department, and to his immediate left is Doctor Chan, our microbiologist."

Rory looks at Cecily again to his immediate left, admiring her glowing smile and simple Swedish features; her brunette hair is neat with small curls and she has brilliant blue eyes. Horace Jackson is an aging black man in his late forties; he bears a serious expression under his salt and pepper head of hair, but seems like he would be a friendlier person outside of work. Doctor Chan appears extremely humble and patient; his scalp is clean shaven and he looks to be the youngest person in the room, but also has a wise demeanor. His Japanese origins show radiantly with kind smile.

"My name is Corba Strong, and I am the administrator of this hospital." Corba finishes her staff introductions with a wink, and then continues to run the meeting. "Ladies and gentlemen of Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center," Corba announces with fervent pride, "this gentleman is Rory Chambers. Mr. Chambers has something very special in his blood; at least that's what our microbiologist and these two fine doctors have told me so far. We'd also like to thank Mr. Chambers for coming down here on such short notice today. My staff and I would like to ask you some questions, and I'm certain you have some questions of your own."

"Thank you," Rory says with sincerity, looking around the room for a moment, "and yes I do have some questions."

"Well, lets dive right in," Corba replies, locking her eyes directly on Rory. "What I know to this point is that we have a non-disclosure agreement on file with Mr. Chambers and that everything said in this room is to remain confidential?" Corba looks at her legal counsel to her immediate left and he nods to confirm her statement. "Fantastic. Mr. Chambers, you are bound by law not to discuss anything that is revealed to you in this meeting or any future meetings with myself or any UCLA Medical Center staff? Are we understood on this point?"

"Yes, I understand," Rory concedes, squinting his eyes with a bit of irritation from how crisp and cold her words travel across the room. He chooses not to be affected by the bureaucracy and allows himself to relax in his gray cargo shorts and black sports shirt. With his sunglasses resting on the top of his head, he folds his arms in the best 'what can you do for me' pose he can muster.

"Good." She says slowly with a bit of motherly disappointment in her voice.

Corba gives off the appearance of the typical business alpha dog. Her blonde hair is done up in a fancy French braid and she is wearing makeup that is motivated more by looking powerful than looking beautiful. She clasps her hands together effortlessly in front of her with elbows resting on the glass table, yet her petite frame remains rigid in the expensive, black leather swivel chair. Beneath the long white lab coat she sports a fancy white button up blouse, displaying a tedious sense of style.

"As you know, Mr. Chambers," Corba continues looking at him evenly with her dark brown eyes, "one of our car crash patients was infused with 500 milliliters of your blood and subsequently started exhibiting signs of regression from the HIV Virus. More astounding than that, our microbiologist has confirmed that the man's immune system has been completely recalibrated, which is another way of saying that he is vaccinated from the virus, right?"

"That's correct." Doctor Chan asserts as Corba glances in his direction for a moment.

"Great." Corba says as the meeting continues. "Also, as of three days ago, we had infused another AIDS patient with Mr. Chamber's blood, and they are now showing signs of regression from the virus. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct," Doctor Anderton acknowledges in a flat tone. "With only 125 Milliliters of donor blood, we have confirmed rapid regression of AIDS symptoms and a potential prognosis of complete recovery for the patient."

"That's awesome!" Rory exclaims, sitting up in his seat with pride as he realizes his blood has already saved two lives.

"Yes... It is... Awesome," Corba retorts in a condescending tone, raising her eyes to look at the wall behind Rory, "and we value your participation, Mr. Chambers."

"That's right," Doctor Yahmir chimes in after Corba, "we value your participation."

Rory glances down at the floor to his left for a moment, feeling suddenly cheap amongst these people who clearly only see him as their big, dumb Rhesus Monkey, ready to dispense blood at the snap of their fingers.

"What we'd like to do next is to start developing a vaccine that matches the effects your blood has on AIDS patients." Corba states with a plastic smile, now looking into Rory's eyes. "In order to do that, our team would need to draw twelve pints of blood from you over the next six months. This blood will be used for development of the vaccine and further testing into how effectively it can be used to treat the HIV Virus. Another strategy we will attempt is to infuse your blood into another Type O Negative donor to see if they can also naturally produce this protein. And we'll attempt to artificially grow the protein in laboratory animals such as rats and monkeys. Is that agreeable with you, Mr. Chambers?"

"I would love to help out as long as it doesn't conflict with my work schedule," Rory says in a firm tone; "I do have a business to run."

"Well, fortunately our hospital is open twenty-four hours a day," Corba speaks with sincerity, "and our staff is happy to work around your schedule."

"Also, all of the medical expenses and lab work will be covered one-hundred percent by the hospital." Doctor Yahmir announces as if he just offered Rory a new car.

"Wow!" Rory reacts with uninhibited disgust. "You would do that for me?" He asks Doctor Yahmir sarcastically. "How lucky am I that you are going to pay for the supplies while you use me as a gerbil for six months? Maybe if I give you a handjob in the parking lot you'll provide me an ice cream cone and some wet naps for my hands?"

Horace snickers quietly into his closed fist as he looks over at his now embarrassed colleague, but stops short as he notices Corba's expression of revulsion.

"Mr. Chambers," Corba begins, looking first at Rory, and then fixing her gaze on Doctor Yahmir, "I do apologize that my colleague feels your time is trivial or of no value. We'll definitely pay you an hourly stipend for your time. How does thirty-five dollars an hour sound?"

Rory looks over at Doctor Yahmir who now appears small under the gaze of the business alpha. His brow furrows a bit and he stares down at the glass surface of the mahogany conference room table like a samurai who has just been told to fall on his own sword.

"Yeah, that's fine," Rory agrees, not wanting to appear greedy in front of all these healers from the hospital that saved his Father's life.

"We value your participation, Mr. Chambers," Corba says in a flat tone, looking through him with her cold, dark brown eyes. "Please remember that you are bound by a non-disclosure agreement and that any announcements to the press or on social media about our findings will result in immediate and aggressive legal action."

"I understand," Rory agrees, "this is something I'd also like to keep quiet since AIDS is such a sensitive topic and I do have a girlfriend."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Corba concludes dryly, forcing a smile, "Oh, and two pints of blood a month is a very aggressive regimen for a donor; we will need you to maintain a diet high in certain vitamins and minerals which will be provided by our hospital dietician. We'll also have our pharmacist monitor your Iron levels to ensure you are healthy. I have another document that you need to sign allowing us to publish our findings in medical journals and press releases. This document will also stipulate our agreement to draw two pints of blood per month."

"I'm okay with that as long as you only use my last name on the press releases," Rory counters swiftly, "and I'd also like to get a written agreement for our hourly stipend, and something stating that the hospital guarantees my safety while all this blood work is being done."

"Consider it done!" Corba beams with a fake smile as she rises from her chair and extends her hand out to Rory.

Rory immediately stands up from his chair and shakes her hand with a happy grin.

"Thanks again, Mr. Chambers, it was our pleasure." Corba says as she releases his hand. Then she turns to Cecily on her immediate right. "Please make sure Mr. Chambers has everything that we agreed upon before he leaves the hospital today. Also, I want to schedule a phlebotomist to draw another pint of blood within thirty days."

After giving these instructions, Corba nods to Rory, turns on her heel, and steps briskly away from the meeting. Doctor Yahmir still looks like a dishonored samurai and briefly shakes Rory's hand before disappearing out the door as well. Finally, the rest of the staff all get up from their chairs to give Rory obligatory handshakes before going about their day again.

For the next two weeks, Rory goes through the same basic routine with the hospital. Every morning at 7:00 a.m. he visits the lab to meet with the dietician and pharmacist to verify that he has a healthy blood count and that his diet and vitamin intake are regularly adjusted to promote optimal production of new blood cells in his body. They explain to him that donating two pints of blood per month will leave him chronically anemic and his health will need to be constantly monitored.

After his early morning checkup, he undergoes other tests to determine the makeup and production of his blood and immune system. These tests include bone marrow samples, lymph samples, liver cell cultures, kidney cell cultures, and many other painful procedures that involve scraping cells or an uncomfortable syringe. Each day there is a different medley of painful tests or lengthy questions. Rory soon realizes that thirty-five dollars an hour is nothing to the hospital and between his regular testing and running a business, his days are now twelve to fourteen hours long.

Two full weeks after that first Friday meeting in the conference room, Kelly is standing over her boyfriend in their bedroom watching him sleep with a look of concern. She peers down at the dark circles under Rory's eyes from the exhaustive hours he has put in at the hospital. His skin has become pale and he has lost his desire to make love more than once a week. Kelly slowly strokes his short, dark hair feeling a bit selfish, but wanting her boyfriend back. As she is stroking his hair Rory slowly opens his eyes, smiling weakly at his beautiful girlfriend.

He stretches slowly, opening his eyes to see the familiar cedar footboard of his king size bed. Rory stares up at the black ceiling fan as it chops through the air in a stead rhythm, and he finally sits up in bed, looking at the large dresser, and then back at Kelly.

"Good morning," Rory says with a dry throat. "Oh shit! Have I missed the hospital?" He sits up suddenly in bed realizing that he has slept past his normal 6 a.m. start time.

"No, you're not going to the hospital today," Kelly tells him with a stern voice, "you are going to stay home from the hospital, and from work, and they are just going to accept that you will be living your life like a normal person."

"I know it's been rough, baby, but they setup some cellular mitosis tests for me today-"

"No!" Kelly interrupts with passion, "you are not doing any testing today and those bloodsuckers can fuck off for the entire weekend."

Kelly stands up straight in her dark green, silk pajamas, folding her arms across her chest defiantly. Her normally sleek black hair is pulled up neatly into a braid and she is somewhere in the middle of the waking up, and; the taking a shower phase of her morning routine.

"You're going to get a shower, and we are going to have a nice, romantic breakfast like couples do when they are in love. And if the doctors call here or try to interrupt us," Kelly raises her fists like a pro boxer, "I'll Evander Holyfield their asses to the curb."

"Sounds good, babe," Rory says with a weak but loving smile, "I couldn't agree with you more. I want to save people's lives, but I also need to live my life."

Kelly puts a soft hand on Rory's right cheek feeling glad that he agrees with her about his health, and the health of their relationship.

"Now get your ass out of bed and grab a hot shower," Kelly commands him, slapping him softly on his cheek, "then we'll have a nice, quiet couple's breakfast."

After a few moments, Rory steps out of bed wearing only his boxer shorts as he walks into the bathroom for a hot shower.

Down on the first floor of the lavish California home, Kelly is working in the kitchen like a soldier to prepare a good meal for them. The travertine countertop is covered with breakfast foods: an open carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, a package of turkey bacon, and various jams and jellies. She has six fresh strips of turkey bacon sizzling in a frying pan on Rory's black designer stove, and is making toast a few inches away, enjoying the smell of freshly cooked breakfast. As she begins to setup their placements on the large, round cedar table in the middle of the kitchen, she hears some odd noises coming from the front door.

Kelly shrugs, assuming that something is being delivered on the front steps, and continues setting up their plates and silverware for the meal. Once the placements are neatly laid out she moves to the countertop and starts to break eggs open one by one into a large, black bowl, putting the empty eggshells back into the carton until she has six little yellow yolks floating in front of her. As she picks up the whisk and begins to stir the eggs, the doorbell rings its familiar low, cathartic chime, and Kelly sighs with frustration, turning off the heat under the turkey bacon.

She steps toward the door over the gorgeous, bamboo hardwood flooring, avoiding Rory's ficus plants as she walks to the entryway, fixing her hair a bit in the process. Kelly looks herself over, and then opens the door slowly, bending her head around the large cedar frame. Her mouth opens wide and she immediately glares at a group of reporters that have been waiting to ambush the couple all morning.

"Young lady," a portly man asks, holding out a microphone with the CNN® logo at its base, "do you know if Rory Chambers is home? Has he been donating his blood to The Ronald Regan UCLA Medical Center?"

"Oh my God." Kelly replies with frustration, rolling her eyes at the various cameras pointed toward their front door. She looks over the unwelcome crowd with the guise of a lioness protecting her cubs. The group of five reporters and three cameramen has somehow managed to all fit on one slab of concrete in front of their door. They remind Kelly of a group of circus clowns cramming into a car for the sake of giddy laughter from the audience.

"Miss, have you heard about the new AIDS breakthrough announced this week by The Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center?" A woman asks boldly, stepping closer to Kelly with her microphone. The woman has bright red hair and is extremely thin, sporting a formal evening dress and holding a microphone with a 4 logo on its base. "Does Rory Chamber's blood really have healing properties? Can he cure the HIV Virus?"

After this question is asked, the entire group waits for an answer as it seems to be what they are all trying to confirm. Kelly shakes her head with disgust, closes the door and twists the deadbolt in place with a flick of her wrist. She puts her palms against the door, closing her eyes as she realizes that her boyfriend is being pursued by the National News Media, which cannot be a good thing.

"Smells good, baby," Rory says with a smile, walking cheerfully down the bamboo staircase to join his girlfriend for breakfast. He is wearing a casual, navy blue fitness shirt and black cargo pants with no shoes or socks, and his hair is still wet from the shower. "What's wrong, Kell?" Rory asks with concern as he sees his girlfriend with her palms against the cedar front door and her face drooping toward the floor.

"There is a group of reporters standing on our front patio," Kelly begins, turning slowly toward him and displaying sadness in her eyes, "and they are asking if Rory Chambers is the one donating blood to Ronald Reagan Medical that cures AIDS."

"Holy shit!" Rory states with frustration as he walks over to Kelly and stands next to her by the door. "The hospital said that they would only use my last name in their press releases, and nobody told me that they were publishing anything yet."

"Your last name?" Kelly asks with the bitter contempt of a betrayed lover. "Damn it, Rory, how many Mr. Chambers do you think are living in L.A.?"

"I think there are a lot," Rory says with a voice full of confusion. "How the hell did they-"

"Rory, I'm sure they camped out at the medical lab and asked questions; or bribed people; or whatever the fuck else they do to get their information." Kelly starts to cry, looking at her boyfriend with exhausted eyes, feeling that she is losing him to the hospital and the rest of the world. "They are not leaving..." Kelly announces in stunned dismay. "Is it legal for them to just stand out there for as long as they want?"

"I don't know, babe," Rory says with a soothing voice, "maybe if I talk to them they'll go away."

"You can't tell them anything, Rory;" Kelly declares in a defeated tone as more tears spring forth from her eyes, "you signed a non-disclosure agreement. That means the hospital has fucked you because you'll be sued if you say anything and they won't leave you alone until you do."

"I'm sorry, Kelly," Rory replies, rubbing her back in clockwise circles through her silk pajamas. "I just wanted to help people."

"I know, sweets," Kelly says with a half smile. "Look, I'm going to take a shower... Why don't you call the hospital and ask them what they published and how we can get rid of that circus on our patio?"

"Yeah, I sure as hell will," Rory agrees in an aggressive tone. "They better give me some answers and stop this media bullshit or I won't donate blood to them anymore."

"Sounds good, sweets," Kelly speaks softly, giving him a hug before moving toward the upstairs bathroom for a hot, refreshing shower, "let me know what you find out." When she reaches the top of the stairs, she turns with a sober expression, "I won't live in a fishbowl, Rory, too many of my friends have tried that in this town, and it's not a happy life."

Rory nods his head and steps toward his home telephone with a sublime expression.

A few hours later, he and Kelly are sitting in the conference room of the hospital waiting for Doctor Anderton and Doctor Yahmir to return with the offending press releases that had gone out during the week. Rory squeezes Kelly's hand softly as she sits on his immediate left at the head of the conference table. They enjoy a quick kiss and smile at each other as they continue to wait. Kelly is wearing a white evening dress with her hair pulled into a ponytail, and Rory is wearing the same fitness shirt and cargo pants he had put on after his shower earlier in the morning. They are a total fashion mismatch, and Kelly had asked him to change, but Rory was too consumed by his conversation with Doctor Yahmir over the phone to care about changing clothes.

They enjoy the quiet simplicity in the conference room this morning. Beams of sunlight shine through the large windows behind them, the familiar mahogany table appears elegant with its glass surface, and the old fashioned scent of real leather chairs has a calming effect.

Although the doctor was vague in their conversation, as he has consistently been since the process began, he did ask that Kelly join them at the hospital for a meeting. When Rory prodded him for more information, he simply stated that he could not go into details over the phone, but they had some important news to share with the couple.

Rory gazes at Kelly with a smile, thinking to himself that she looks far better than he, especially for being three years older at the age of thirty-one. As the conference room door opens, the young couple looks onward with eager eyes, hoping the doctors have good news for their future.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Doctor Yahmir says with sincerity as he enters the room followed closely by Doctor Anderton. Both doctors are carrying folders filled with loose paperwork and they soon join the young couple at the conference table, sitting on Rory's immediate right.

"This is my girlfriend Kelly," Rory begins as the couple releases their hands from their tender grasp.

"Pleased to meet you," Doctor Yahmir says with a boyish smile, delicately shaking Kelly's right hand, "I am Doctor Yahmir and this is my colleague Doctor Anderton. We both work in the pathology clinic here at the hospital."

"So what can you tell me about these reporters?" Rory asks evenly, wanting an immediate solution to keep the couple out of the spotlight.

"Well, before we get into that," Doctor Yahmir answers with a reassuring smile, "let's talk more about what we know from our research. Since we have been studying your lab work, our microbiologist has formed a theory that your blood might be used to treat other forms of illness." The doctor looks at the couple with kind eyes behind his thick glasses; the hair on his balding head is flighty and he has the appearance of someone who has been working around the clock.

"What other forms of illness?" Rory inquires with some confusion.

"We began our trials on blood borne pathogens," Doctor Anderton states impatiently, his pale, emotionless face showing signs of fatigue with dark circles under his eyes. "This would include incurable pathogens such as: AIDS, HIV, and Hepatitis B and C. During the Hepatitis trials, we have seen a success rate of more than 90% when treating patients with 100 milliliters of your blood." The doctor pushes his small glasses closer to the bridge of his nose and leans forward with his tall frame. "Apparently, the protein that protects your T-Cells from the HIV Virus also protects liver cells from Hepatitis infection."

"Nice." Rory exclaims in a flat tone. "How soon before you can create a vaccine in the lab so that you won't need my blood anymore?"

"Well, about that..." Doctor Yahmir says tactfully, preparing the couple for more news. "Our microbiologist, Doctor Chan, noticed a major difference in your T-Cells when compared with regular T-Cells. As such, he took it upon himself to run tests with patients who are suffering from leukemia."

"Leukemia?" Rory asks with a blank stare, folding his arms, and showing disapproval of how raucous the doctors are coming across in their messaging, despite how visibly exhausted they are.

"That's cancer, honey," Kelly informs him with a quick wink as she leans forward, waiting for Doctor Yahmir to continue.

"Yes." The doctor confirms with a brilliant smile that shows off his Egyptian heritage and raises his thick eyebrows. "In fact, leukemia is a cancer that impacts the production of white blood cells in the bone marrow and negatively affects the immune system."

"Sweet," Rory replies in a disenchanted tone, "I will have my medical degree by the time we're done here."

"There is a six-year-old girl in our cancer ward who received a small transfusion of your blood, Mr. Chambers." The doctor speaks with what can only be described as a loving smile, ignoring Rory's bitter comments. "Based on our preliminary findings, it looks like that small amount of blood may allow this little girl to have her seventh Birthday... eighth Birthday, and perhaps maybe even her twentieth Birthday some years from now."

Kelly grabs Rory's arm and leans close to him; tears are starting to emerge from her eyes, and she uses the little finger of her left hand to wipe them away, attempting to keep her makeup from running.

"This was not possible," The doctor begins, looking at both of them with a serious expression, "without the Advanced T-Cells found in your blood." The doctor opens his file folder, lifts a few papers, and slowly pushes a photograph across the glass top of the mahogany conference room table.

Kelly picks up the photo by its left corner and holds it close so that she and Rory can clearly see the image of a little girl with no hair, smiling with bright blue eyes from a hospital bed. Once again, Kelly begins to cry as she is suddenly touched by this story of a new chance at life. Rory also feels a tear roll down his right cheek as he looks at the picture of the happy little girl.

"Now the results are far from conclusive at this stage," the doctor continues in a gentle voice, "but we have confirmed an aggressive remission of the cancer cells in this young patient. Our microbiologist is also running trials on patients who suffer from lymphoma, and we should have results back in the coming weeks. Mr. Chambers, it appears that your blood carries a genetic code that is able to recalibrate the immune system and allow it to fight: HIV, AIDS, Hepatitis, Leukemia, and possibly Lymphoma."

"That sounds like a miracle," Kelly concedes with tears still running down her soft white cheeks. "How is that even possible?"

"We are uncertain what Mr. Chamber's blood contains that triggers this recalibration, and we have been unable to duplicate the results artificially or by a transfusion to a healthy second donor. There have been recent breakthroughs in leukemia treatments where scientists genetically altered T-Cells and used them to successfully eliminate cancer for patients, but what is happening with your blood could take decades to understand. That patient," the doctor boasts, pointing at the photograph in Kelly's hand with his right index finger, "did not respond positively to any of our most advanced forms of treatment."

"We understand the news media will be an annoyance," Doctor Anderton explains, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "but we hope that you will help us to continue saving the lives of little girls like this one."

"Yes," Doctor Yahmir agrees, "having the ability to cure blood borne pathogens and cancers is not something we will be able to keep secret from the world forever. This is not going to be easy, and it will change your lives, but you will have the ability to save ten to fifteen lives a month with just two pints of your blood, and when we engineer a vaccine, you will save hundreds of thousands of lives."

Rory looks at Kelly, and she immediately nods, staring back at him with loving eyes; both of them feeling a divine duty to stay on course and help the doctors.

"You have our full support," Rory agrees with a wholesome smile, "whatever you need to make this happen and save these people."

"We value your participation," Doctor Anderton speaks dryly, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose as if being kind for a few seconds is a heavy burden.

"Thank you," Doctor Yahmir beams with a sudden youthful energy, "we'll make this process as painless as possible."

Rory and Kelly shake hands with both doctors and are assured they will get copies of all press releases before publication. As he walks out of the conference room, Rory is awestruck with the ability to give such a wonderful gift to so many people. The image of the little girl is burned into his mind, and the knowledge that he has the capacity to pull someone out of hell reinvigorates his commitment to the project. He takes Kelly by the hand and smiles wide at her, proud to have someone who supports him despite the inevitable news media coverage.

After the hospital publishes another press release stating that the preliminary findings were inconclusive, and that final results will be revealed at a press conference in six months, the news media stops coming to Rory's home as fast as they arrived. Just as Doctor Yahmir told Rory, the premise of unconfirmed information is like a veritable rape whistle for anyone being pursued for a story.

The next six months progress like clockwork with the young couple leading increasingly busy lives. Rory maintains his twelve to fourteen hour a day schedule and Kelly picks up the slack in his life when he is either too busy or exhausted to handle something on his own. After the first month, Kelly decides to attend nursing school with her new passion for helping people. This allows the couple to fill in the time gaps that left them feeling empty without one another. Despite their exhaustion, Rory brings home new photos at the end of every week, and the couple enjoys the amazing thrill of giving life back to those who were almost cheated. Having experienced almost every extreme sport imaginable, Rory now understands that there is no rush in the world as powerful as knowing that you turned someone's life around and helped to end their suffering. After this becomes a habit, every Friday night is their date night, and the couple reads the case studies together. While reading the case studies, they gaze with unreserved empathy and strength at the photos of people they have helped, letting the warmth penetrate their souls. Then after a long week of public service and work, they focus on nothing but each other for rest of the weekend.

Now that six months have passed, Rory finds himself pacing across the living room with nervous energy. He walks back and forth over the bamboo flooring; his dress shoes cracking hard on the floor with every other step. Rory is dressed to kill in a black button-down shirt and a pair of expensive black jeans, neatly tied off with a stylish black and silver leather belt. The worried expression on his tanned face does not compliment his slightly messy, spiked hair and the glass with three fingers of Scotch that he carries. Soon he hears Kelly's key turn in the lock of his large cedar door and he takes a healthy swig of Scotch, feeling the intense burn down his throat and in his chest.

"Hello, sweets," Kelly greets him with an adorable smile, still wearing her formal clothes from nursing school. She is underdressed for their date, but still looks amazing in her auburn blouse and sexy black skirt. "Are you all right?" She looks over at Rory trying to catch her breath from a busy day, but notices that something is bothering him. Her gaze stays locked on her boyfriend as she takes off her bright yellow high heels and tosses them near the front door. "What's wrong, baby?" She inquires, gliding across the floor with her bare feet past the leather sofa until she is right behind Rory.

"Doctor Yahmir is going to show me the results from the six-month case study Monday morning," Rory declares in a stressed tone as Kelly wraps her delicate arms around his chest.

"That's great news, Hon, don't you want to know what they found out after all this time?" She asks, kissing his neck playfully with her arms still around him.

"Yeah, I do," he begins in a sober tone, pulling her hands from his chest so that he can face her, "but now there are so many questions. I... I'm just worried that something is off." His face appears sickly with doubt as he stares hard at the floor just off to his right.

"Like what?" She asks with a smile looking at the glass of Scotch in his hand.

"Shit, I don't know, Kell," he says, flopping down heavy on the leather sofa and placing his left hand against his temple with the Scotch resting on his right knee. "What about the case study results? What if they can't find a way to create a vaccine? Another question is the press; the hospital is publishing their results Monday afternoon, and we're having that press conference Monday night. What's going to happen when this story hits the news? Officially becomes news?"

"I don't know, Rory, but we can't do anything about that now. We're in this with both feet; the important thing is that we stay together." Kelly plops down next to him on the sofa, clearly exhausted from a hard week of nursing school and helping Rory to pick up slack. She turns her back toward him and pulls his hands up on her shoulders.

"You little shit!" Rory says with a grin, delicately working his fingers against her petite shoulder and neck bones.

"A massage if you please, sir," Kelly demands with a slight English accent followed by a playful giggle.

"I don't know," he begins, working his fingers with more energy as she moans with relaxation, "something just feels off... All this time we've enjoyed these amazing healing stories, experiences that we'll never forget, but I guess I'm just nervous about what that case study is going to say, and... now the whole world is coming to the party... I just hope they don't crash it for us..."

"This is L.A., babe, the whole world is already here to party," she reassures him, and then starts to sing while moving her body in rhythm. "California, knows how to party. In the city- of L.A.; in the city- of good ol' watts. We keep it rockin'."

"We keep it rockin'." Rory joins in with a smile.

"Shake it, shake it, baby," Kelly sings seductively, raising her backside up into Rory's face.

"Shake it, Cali," he says with a wider smile.

"Shake it, shake it, momma," she sings, dropping her skirt to the floor and tossing her blouse toward the kitchen.

"West Coast, West Coast," he says cheerfully as she takes the Scotch from his hand, shoots it down quickly, then drops the glass on the far end of the sofa as she climbs on his lap and starts kissing his neck. The couple soon escalates to heated passion, and moments later, falls into erotic bliss on the tan leather sofa, washing the stress away throughout the night.

On Monday morning, Rory is seated at the head of the familiar conference room table in the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. With the press conference only hours away, he cannot present himself in his everyday casual attire. Rory is dressed formally in a pinstripe suit with designer shoes, and his black hair is combed in sleek, even rows. The entire look was coordinated by Kelly so that their outfits would match for the press conference later in the evening. He is smiling down at the glass that covers the mahogany thinking about the wild weekend he just had with the love of his life. All the nervous energy he was experiencing Friday night has faded, and he feels free, even optimistic about the case study findings. Soon Doctor Yahmir interrupts his thoughts, stepping into the conference room with a wide smile, carrying a file folder under his left arm.

"What's up, brother?" Rory asks the doctor with a devilish grin. "Did you take your lady to that sushi place?"

"I did, my friend," Doctor Yahmir says with a broad smile as he sits down in the leather swivel chair on Rory's immediate left.

"So, how did that go?" Rory asks, leaning forward a bit. "Kelly used to be a hostess there, and that's where we met; it's romantic as shit. Did it start a fire in her panties?"

Doctor Yahmir looks back toward the door to ensure it is closed and they are alone, and then speaks with giddy shyness. "It started a bonfire; she was crazy most of the weekend. I will definitely be going back to that place."

"What about the massage, wine, and soothing sounds of the sea on your iPod?" Rory presses him for details with a proud smile as if addressing a younger brother.

"That also... worked very well," the doctor admits with a satisfied smile. "Anyway, here we are at the moment of truth," the doctor states as he opens the small, tan folder that he brought with him. "Before we begin," Doctor Yahmir says with sincerity, his brown eyes showing strong admiration behind his thick glasses, "I want to say that it has been a pleasure working with you, and I have enjoyed seeing the lives that we have changed."

"I appreciate that," Rory replies with a wide smile and sincere expression. "And we... value your participation."

Both men laugh feverishly at the corporate branding that has become so familiar to donors at the medical center.

"Yes, we value your participation, smartass," Doctor Yahmir exclaims boldly. "Now, here is that case study; I'll be happy to answer any questions." He delicately removes a clear, vinyl presentation sleeve from the folder that contains a well-formatted document, and places it in front of Rory on the glass tabletop.

Blood Transfusion Case Study Notes | Donor: Rory Chambers

Introduction of 75 to 125 Milliliters of donor blood categorized as Type O Negative has been administered to 60 patients with various blood borne pathogens and cancers. Preliminary findings are shocking to say the least.

Patients suffering from Hepatitis B and C case study: Introducing donor blood in a 100 Milliliter transfusion promoted growth of a new protein that binds to liver cells and produces regression of Hepatitis B and C virus in 95% of those infected. For those 95% who responded positively, the donor blood introduced what appears to be an unknown protein with a surface expression on liver cells and Advanced T-Cells, producing what pronounces as a permanent vaccine. However, the Hepatitis B and C viruses remain in the blood for an extended period, and patients should still take precaution from infecting others for at least six months. A follow up visit is required to verify Hepatitis negative status.

Patients suffering from HIV / AIDS case study: Introducing donor blood in a 100 Milliliter transfusion promoted growth of an unknown protein that binds to liver cells, produces Advanced T-Cells, and prevents the HIV virus from infecting T-Cells with a success rate of 100%. Once introduced into the body, the new protein and Advanced T-Cells replicate as part of the normal cell structure, producing what presents as a permanent vaccine. However, the HIV virus can still reside in the blood for an extended period and patients should take precaution from infecting others for at least one year. A follow up visit is required to verify an HIV negative status.

Patients suffering from Leukemia and Lymphoma case study: Introducing donor blood in 100 to 500 Milliliter transfusions showed a pronounced reaction of Advanced T-Cells with a 90% success rate for leukemia and an 80% success rate for lymphoma. Transfusing 500 Milliliters of blood from the donor was required for success in lymphoma patients, but had no increase in success for leukemia patients. The donor blood introduces a permanent, Advanced T-Cell type that virtually eliminates leukemia and lymphoma cells in cancer patients. Further, it appears there is a protein reaction that permanently alters the T-Cells within the body for persistent remission of leukemia and lymphoma. Moreover, the recipient shows a consistent growth of Advanced T-Cells after a few days, illustrating that the donor blood is replacing inferior T-Cells over time. For patients who did not respond positively to the treatment, it was discovered that the new proteins were unable to bind with any consistency, and the body rejected alterations from presenting in the immune system. Although the results are inconclusive, it appears that recipients whose immune systems responded positively to the treatment may never experience recurrence of leukemia or lymphoma growths.

Negative Side Effects: Introducing donor blood produced negative side effects in less than 2% of patients in the case study. For those suffering from Hepatitis B and C, less than 10% showed an intensive autoimmune response resulting in rapid destruction of bladder and large intestine tissues. This reaction has been irreversible, and the patient suffers from symptoms similar to Interstitial Cystitis and Ulcerative Colitis. Doctors who administer this donor blood will want to carefully monitor potential autoimmune disorders that could present with further testing. It seems the recalibration of the immune system may prove overly aggressive in some patients, resulting in rapid destruction of the bladder and large intestine by the immune system.

Summary: The donor blood has consistently produced what appears to be persistent immunity to blood borne pathogens and cancers with nominal side effects, and 80% or better success rates. When the Advanced T-Cells and other proteins are introduced from the donor blood, it results in a recalibration of the entire immune system. Much the same as the RNA based HIV Virus destroys T-Cells and grows more HIV Virus, the donor blood introduces Advanced T-Cells that replicate within the body and cannot be penetrated by the HIV Virus. The donor blood shows a surface expression of an unknown protein that seems to protect liver cells and T-Cells from binding with RNA based, blood borne pathogens. Further, the Advanced T-Cells are instrumental in rapid molecular remission of leukemia and lymphoma. While it takes over 500 milliliters of donor blood to effectively treat cases of lymphoma, preliminary findings show an 80% or better success rate in treating both forms of cancer.

Research Progress: Despite multiple attempts over the past several weeks, we have been as of yet unable to replicate the effective protein strains present in the donor blood. The unknown protein with a surface expression on liver cells and T-Cells is finite and may require many years of research to properly engineer. Further, we have had no progress understanding the Advanced T-Cells in the donor blood other than observing that the introduction of these cells produces a recalibration of the recipient immune system. Producing a synthetic vaccine that emulates these results may take decades of research and billions of dollars in funding.

Attempts to Grow Donor T-Cells: We have introduced the donor blood to other healthy Type O Negative blood donors, but have been unable to reproduce the same recalibration of the immune system that is provided by the original donor blood. As the blood is mixed into another vascular system, it becomes diluted to the point where the original effect is no longer possible. This was also true when trying to reproduce the results by growing the Advanced T-Cells in laboratory rodents and apes. Regardless of a high or low potency infusion of the blood, secondary donors cannot replicate the immune response created by the original donor. This presents an issue as none of the ten secondary donors were able to provide even nominal change in second tier recipients. Further testing will be required to determine what is diluting the blood when it enters a secondary donor or laboratory animal. Perhaps there is an antigen present in the original donor blood or some other immune system trigger that will help us to reproduce these results. At this time, we have not identified any such triggers.

"So, what is this part about negative side effects?" Rory asks with clear concern as he points to the case study and looks at Doctor Yahmir.

"Yes," the doctor begins placing his hands together in discomfort on the glass tabletop as he begins, dipping his balding head and raising his thick eyebrows as he speaks, "that woman was infected with Hepatitis C, and she experienced a radical autoimmune response to the treatment."

"What does that mean?" Rory asks, clearly shocked to see these results. "The transfusion caused problems with her bladder and large intestine?"

"Unfortunately," the doctor agrees with a sigh. "The autoimmune response was extremely powerful after the transfusion-"

"Speak fucking English!" Rory demands with frustrated rage.

"After the transfusion, her immune system started attacking her body, especially her bladder and large intestine. Despite our best efforts, she passed away from cardiac arrest when the lining of her large intestine burst and flooded the body with waste."

"Jesus, how long did it take for that to happen?"

"We noticed the inflammation almost right away, but she died within 72 hours of administering the treatment."

"Did she have a family?"

"Don't do this to yourself, Rory. Think of all the lives that we have saved-"

"Did she have a family!?"

"Of course she had a fucking family!" The doctor retorts with rage. "Don't most people have a family? This is the hard truth about the medical industry, Rory, you can't save everyone..."

"I'm sorry," Rory says with sincerity after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "I just didn't know we had results like that. How often does that happen with transfusions?"

"I've never seen it before in my career, or read about it in any medical journal." Doctor Yahmir states with blistering honesty. "It seems that when a patient has an allergic reaction to your blood, the end result is similar to Ebola Virus, except in this case, the body is dying from an attack by its own immune system instead of a pathogen."

"That is fucking crazy!" Rory exclaims with a look of shock and confusion.

"That is medicine, my friend," Doctor Yahmir says with a sober expression. "It isn't always a sweet little girl smiling up at you after recovery; sometimes it's a little girl who choked on her own vomit during the night due to leukemia, or a little boy who goes into cardiac arrest from a simple nightmare because his body is too weak to handle the stress... That is medicine, Rory, but I have seen a lot less of those dead faces since you have been here."

"Your little boy?" Rory asks with a sudden sadness in his eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" The Doctor asks, clearly trying to avoid his emotions.

"Your little boy died from cardiac arrest after he had a nightmare, didn't he?"

"Yes, my little boy," Doctor Yahmir says as he chokes up with sadness. "My little boy had lymphoma. He was admitted here, and I had to look him in the face and tell him that Daddy was going to take care of him." Tears begin to stream forth as the full weight of this emotion impacts the doctor. "How can you tell your child that his chances of survival are one in ten-thousand when he sees Daddy saving people's lives all day? How do you prevent breaking your code of ethics when experimental drugs are right at your fingertips? If you had entered my life nine months ago, Rory, I would have kissed you... I would have fucking kissed you, but... that is medicine."

Rory closes his eyes for a moment, unable to imagine the weight this man has had to bear for so many months. He looks at the doctor now with unflinching respect, and reaches up to rub his shoulder like he would a brother. His mind is swimming with uneasy emotion now realizing that this man has had to witness so many patients being cured almost overnight while knowing that his son will never return. Although Rory has other questions about the case study, he chooses instead to sit quietly with his friend in the conference room to honor the memory of his lost little boy.

"I wish I could have been there for you and your boy," Rory says warmly after several minutes of silence.

"Trust me, my friend," Doctor Yahmir begins with a half smile, "if I had known back then that your blood held the key to saving my little boy's life, there's nothing that would have kept me from coming to see you, even if I had to drain the blood out of you myself." The doctor jokes with a quiet laugh.

A shiver of fear suddenly shoots down Rory's back as he hears his good friend say these words, and both men look at one another with haunted expressions for a moment, realizing the statement is more profound to human nature than it is jest.

Several hours later, Rory finds himself seated in the lobby of the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center waiting for the press conference to begin. Kelly is sitting to his right wearing an expensive black and silver evening gown that has a circular cutaway on either side of the mid-section, showing off her petite, sexy abdomen. Her hair is pinned up tediously in a glamorous fashion, and she is wearing an emerald studded necklace. Rory's hands are sweating as he and Kelly sit in the uncomfortable, black plastic chairs that the hospital rented for the event. Not only does he feel out of place in his suit, but he wants to crawl out of his skin. His foot taps repeatedly on the immaculate, shiny tile flooring of the hospital lobby, and despite the familiar, decorative Lumicor panels providing soft lighting and a warm atmosphere, he feels suffocated.

"Are you okay, baby?" Kelly asks, sensing his tension. "You look really pale."

"Yeah, I'm all right; just wish that we waited a little longer to do this," he says, brushing his hair back nervously.

"It's too late now, sweets, the press release and case studies were published at one this afternoon." Kelly winks and smiles wide at her boyfriend. "Everything will be fine; we just need to give them what they want."

Rory fakes a half smile and turns his attention to the hospital's executive staff. Corba is wearing a reworked classic red dress from the 1950s; or so she has told at least four people that he knows about. She said that the designer calls it 'Mustang Sally,' but from Rory's perspective, it looks more like 'Driving Miss Daisy.' Her blonde hair is taught behind her head in a smart ponytail, and she looks like a woman on a mission. As he gazes to the left of her, he sees the almost charming Doctor Anderton wearing a tuxedo that is too short for his tall frame; however, he manages to look sharp with his small glasses and short, cropped hair.

Further to the left, Doctor Yahmir is standing with his left hand clasped over his right wrist. When he notices Rory looking in his direction, he gestures with a friendly wink and smile, pointing in their direction for a half second. The doctor has elected to wear his regular lab coat and thick glasses. He sticks out from the crowd like a duck in a henhouse, but Rory feels relieved somehow seeing his friend just being himself for the evening. He returns Yahmir's gesture with a subdued nod and a smile.

Corba and the two doctors continue to mingle with members of the press on the main floor while the rest of her staff members sit patiently behind the glass podium that was also rented for the event. There is a buffet on the far side of the room that is as out of place as the ice sculpture near the entrance in the lobby. The sculpture is a rough looking swan placed on a table that bears a hideous dark red topper. Clearly most of the planning for this lackluster event went into the speeches and contacting the right members of the press. Rory leans back and puts his arm around Kelly trying to relax; he is eager to get this dog and pony show over with.

A few minutes later, Corba is standing at the podium addressing several dozen reporters who have been assigned to cover the event. Rory feels uneasy as he sees that the lobby is nearly filled with more people than what would be allowed by fire code. In fact, there are not enough chairs for most of the reporters in the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Corba strong; I am the Hospital Administrator, and I want to thank you for coming this evening." Corba begins, addressing the room like an expert host, turning slightly as she speaks to engage everyone. "It is our pleasure to announce some startling medical breakthroughs discovered by the Pathology Clinic here at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. This is a formal presentation, so please hold your questions until the end. Before I get to the announcement, I would like to thank:" Corba points to her staff in a clockwise motion, "Doctor Anderton and Doctor Yahmir of the Pathology Clinic, Doctor Chan, our Microbiologist; all of our hardworking lab technicians, and of course; Mr. Rory Chambers and his wife Kelly."

Rory smiles wide, proudly displaying all of his teeth as Corba makes this gaff, and Kelly buries her head in her hands for a half second, then raises her head quickly trying to keep her composure in front of the press. As her face comes back up, Rory can see that she is turning red with embarrassment and he begins to gently rub the center of her back feeling the soft texture of the designer dress.

"Now, for those of you who saw the press release earlier," Corba continues with a smirk, "this is the part where we explain everything in English."

The room breaks into a bit of laughter and most of the reporters are now smiling, holding onto every word.

"Six months ago," Corba states proudly, "our hospital staff gave a transfusion to a patient who was infected with the HIV Virus. To our astonishment, that man started showing signs of regression from the virus just days after the transfusion. As of today, he is now completely cured of AIDS."

The room full of reporters is suddenly silent, watching Corba with their full attention. All of their faces seem inspired and awestruck. Rory grips his left knee nervously as these words carry from the amplified digital speakers placed all around the lobby. He closes his eyes for a moment, frustrated that this announcement is bolder than anything he read from the statements or press releases the hospital disclosed to him earlier.

"We were shocked- to say the least," she continues with a smile. "In fact, at first, our medical team thought that there was a mistake on the man's medical records, but it was confirmed that he had been suffering from the HIV Virus for two years. After this discovery, we decided to track down the blood donor as our Microbiologist, Doctor Chan, had exposed some anomalies in his blood. Like any good scientists, and I hope we are," she says with a grin, "we wanted to confirm that the results came from the donor blood. Therefore, we transfused another 100 milliliters of the donor blood into another patient who was infected with the HIV Virus. To our astonishment... The same donor blood cured a second patient of AIDS!"

The room erupts into loud applause, and several reporters have the appearance of small children on Christmas morning. Rory begins feeling sick to his stomach; not realizing how much Corba intended to build up the hype. He senses the heat of the spotlight coming down hard and fast on his life, making him very uneasy.

"After confirming these results," Corba broadcasts boldly from her aging throat, "we decided to do a deeper study of this young man's blood. Over the past six months, we have been drawing 473 milliliters of blood from Mr. Chambers every month."

Kelly looks at Rory with confusion as the couple was told that 1,000 milliliters was being drawn each month. Rory returns her suspicious stare, leaning forward to watch Corba more closely. He remembers with absolute certainty that the hospital was taking 1,000 milliliters of blood each month. In his boredom with all the testing, he had learned a great deal about metric units and recalls bags full of his blood stamped with 1000 ML.

"Now, as a world class medical facility, it is our responsibility to ensure that we leave no stone unturned when it comes to saving lives. In this regard, Doctor Chan, our brilliant Microbiologist, took the time to do extremely tedious testing on Mr. Chamber's blood. In fact, he had a theory that the treatment could impact blood borne pathogens similar to HIV. Further testing showed that a 75 milliliter transfusion of the blood successfully cured Hepatitis B and C, respectively."

There is another wild round of applause, and wide smiles from members of the press. Rory looks at Corba with distrust, resting his hand firmly on Kelly's right shoulder.

"But, ladies and gentlemen of the press," Corba beams with a sinister smile, "that was only the beginning of our breakthrough. In another transfusion with 100 milliliters of Mr. Chamber's blood, a very sick little girl with leukemia," Corba begins to sob a bit and tilts her head down for a moment, wiping a tear or two from her right eye with her little finger. "I'm sorry; this is a very beautiful story..."

Rory glances at Doctor Yahmir, and sees tears streaming down his face as he is overcome by emotion. He turns his attention to the crowd of reporters and notices that many of them are also beginning to wipe away tears.

"A very sick little girl with leukemia," Corba says with a trembling lower lip, "showed remission from her stage 2 cancer. The Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center is proud to report- that she is in full remission... Her cancer has been cured!"

There is a sudden outburst of applause and some reporters even rise to their feet. Dozens of people are wiping tears from their faces, and others are smiling with pure joy. Rory shifts uncomfortably in his chair wishing that he could be elsewhere. His heart is pounding as he sees how inspired the entire room has become by Corba's compelling and strategically flawless speech.

"Now aside from leukemia, there is another blood related cancer known as lymphoma. We also transfused 500 milliliters of Mr. Chamber's blood into a patient suffering from lymphoma, and within a few days, she showed substantial remission. After a few weeks... she is also in full remission and her cancer has been cured!"

Another round of applause ignites from the crowd of reporters, and Rory even sees a few women covering their mouths in stunned silence.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the press," Corba begins in a Political tone, "we have waited too long for results like these; suffered and died for too long, waiting for results like these. While these medical breakthroughs are astounding and possibly hundreds of years ahead of their time, our ability to take advantage of them remains limited... If you are asking yourself whether or not we are stating that we can cure cancer, then you are correct, WE CAN CURE CANCER!"

The room explodes into a fury of applause and Corba gets a standing ovation from almost every member of the press.

"However," Corba waits for the applause to die down. "However, at this time, due to a lack of funding and resources, the hospital is only capable of curing about ten to fifteen people per month... I wish we could do more."

"OH-MY-GOD!" Rory exclaims to himself aloud as Kelly looks at him, not knowing what to say.

"At this time, we only have the ability to cure patients using blood donated by Rory Chambers. However, with the proper funding and resources, the number of patients cured could go from an anorexic ten to fifteen cases a month; to a far more robust ten to fifteen-thousand cases per month!"

The room emits a shorter and less thunderous round of applause than what was produced by announcing the cure for cancer. Rory starts breathing heavily and he doesn't realize that he is squeezing Kelly's shoulder with almost all of his strength.

"Babe!?" Kelly asks with surprise pushing his hand away from her shoulder.

"Sorry, I just... I just didn't expect this." He looks around the room for a bit feeling totally betrayed and his nostrils flare when focuses on Corba again.

"So are we saying that we can cure some forms of blood related cancer? Yes we can." Corba evokes with passion. "Are we saying that we can cure HIV and AIDS? Yes we can. Are we also saying that we can cure leukemia and lymphoma with an 80% success rate? Yes, we can... But for now, our results are limited to the efficient distribution of one man's miraculous blood. For now, we can only save the lives of ten to fifteen patients per month thanks to blood donated by Rory Chambers. However, with the help of you Ladies and Gentlemen in the press, we can get the funding and resources to study this man's blood and save millions of lives!"

There is another round of applause with more displays of intense emotion and joy. Rory swallows hard already wishing this night never took place.

"Again, we at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center would like to thank Rory Chambers for his continued cooperation in saving lives and helping us to wipe out the deadly plagues of The Twenty-First Century! Please join me, Mr. Chambers, let the world know what you've helped us to achieve."

Corba reaches out toward Rory in a theatrical manner and all the lights from various cameras are soon pointing in his direction. After a short pause, he is able to muster a half smile and watches the crowd part around the podium like The Red Sea as he stands and moves toward Corba. His feet feel heavy as he crosses the lobby, and reality begins to set in as he steps up on the small, makeshift platform next to Corba. She smiles a plastic greeting to him as he walks up next to her; feeling like he is her bitch for the first time since they met. As he tries to fake a smile for the reporters, Rory thinks to himself that he would never trust this woman in or out of a prison shower; she would fuck him to death and never know when to stop.

"Now, Rory also has a very touching story that began right here at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center..." Corba states with shameless satisfaction. "Your Father nearly died of a stroke when you were younger; isn't that right, Rory?"

"Yes," Rory says with a lump in his throat not wanting to share these details with the whole world.

"But his life was saved right here in this hospital. How did that make you feel, Rory?"

"It... It was amazing," Rory says with a great deal of emotion as unwanted tears form in the corners of his eyes.

"That is... amazing..." she speaks slowly with a condescending grin. "First a Father's life is saved right here at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, then over a decade later, his son returns and vows to save the lives of hundreds; maybe even thousands more. Thank you so much, Rory. Thank God for you!"

She finishes her speech by grabbing his hand and holding it high in the air with hers, while the crowd of reports emits another obligatory round of applause.

"Take a seat, Sir, you deserve the rest," she orders with a smile, extending her hand back to his empty chair. "Once again, Ladies and Gentlemen, Rory Chambers, the man with the miracle blood."

Rory steps down from the small platform, shaking hands with smiling strangers and getting enthusiastic pats on the back all the way to his seat. As he takes a seat, he feels nauseous, unable to fully comprehend what just took place. He is a bit dizzy and puts his arm around Kelly for some familiar comfort.

"Now, Ladies and Gentlemen," Corba announces with an electric smile and hungry eyes, "we will open the floor to your questions. Allow me to present my distinguished Microbiologist, Doctor Chan."

Rory glares at Corba feeling like she has just punched him in the gut, stabbed him in the back- or worse. He watches her move tactfully off the podium as she takes a stance next to the crowd of reporters pretending to watch the Microbiologist with pride, but Rory is certain she is standing there to have more photos taken.

As the press conference continues, Rory keeps an eye on Corba waiting for a moment to speak with her in private. He feels used and disgusted knowing that she has kept vital details from him this whole time. After what seems like an hour, he takes Kelly's hand and follows their predetermined route through the hospital lobby behind the security staff.

"Mr. Chambers! Mr. Chambers!" A few reporters shout, interrupting Doctor Chan's explanation of Advanced T-Cells as they begin to rise from their cheap, black chairs, waiting for him to turn and say a few words.

With the stealth of a publicity Navy SEAL, Corba pushes past the crowd and quickly steps up to the microphone, gently pushing Doctor Chan aside.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Chambers is exhausted from having his blood work done today. Please respect his privacy; he will be available for comment at a later date. For now, we'll take your questions and issue his answers in a formal statement tomorrow... Thank you!"

Rory and Kelly have stopped in their tracks for a moment and start walking again as soon as they hear Corba's announcement.

"My God," Rory whispers through gritted teeth as they walk past the security guards toward the back parking lot, "the woman is a witch."

"Amen, baby," Kelly says, grabbing his hand as they disappear around the corner.

The following morning, Rory is seated at the head of the conference table in the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, waiting impatiently for Corba. He has switched back to his tan cargo pants and a green fitness shirt; feeling more like himself than he did wearing the formal suit twelve hours ago. His arms are folded and his legs are crossed as his casual, brown walking shoe dangles next to the conference table. He breathes deeply out of his mouth, already worked up from fighting through a crowd of reporters in the parking structure just minutes ago. His eyes are fixed on the glass that covers the long mahogany table, and his stare is so fiery; it appears that he may be trying to burn through the table with his eyes.

Soon Corba and Doctor Yahmir emerge from behind the conference room door. When she enters the room, he can see the irritated glare in her eyes. Corba is wearing a modern dress that was fashioned with Victorian colors; part of her old-fashioned, new-fashion wardrobe. Her black heels click against the carpet as she walks proudly toward Rory; her blonde hair displayed in a firm, neat braid. Doctor Yahmir walks around the opposite side of the table and takes a seat on Rory's immediate right. He looks sheepish and uncomfortable, wearing his usual long, white lab coat and thick glasses. His eyes bear a burden of guilt and are full of apologetic disappointment.

"I have a bone to pick with you!" Rory demands with vigor, pointing his finger at Corba's chest as he straightens himself in the black, leather swivel chair.

"Well, lets hear it!" Corba asserts in a challenging tone, appearing even more irritated.

"What the hell was that at the press conference last night?" Rory asks with wide eyes, his breathing becoming somewhat rapid with emotion.

"What the hell was what, last night?" Corba replies, tightening her face as she glares straight into his eyes.

"You gave my full fucking name to the press. You told them that my blood is the cure for cancer! You committed me to continue giving up every second of my free time for this Goddamn hospital! You were a bitch!" Rory finishes with his palms down flat on the table, slightly askew from one another. His words don't quite flow the way he rehearsed in the car on the way to the hospital, but he feels good about them.

"Well, yes... Mr. Chambers, you've figured me out," Corba begins in a poisonous tone, "I am a BITCH! I told a room full of reporters that you are a hero. I told them that you saved a little girl's life. I gave them your full name..."

"You were not supposed to give them my full name; I have a work order from the hospital saying that you can't do that-"

"And I have a non-disclosure agreement that says I can, you spoiled little shit! I also have a non-compete agreement that prevents you from doing research with any other medical center. I have a signed Power of Attorney from you volunteering your participation by any means necessary until a cure is engineered. BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY!"

"I can't fucking believe this," Rory replies with an expression of shock and betrayal, "you don't own me, I am a free man!"

"You are an ungrateful human being. You are a terrible son." Corba declares, going below the belt with a fierce, unflinching stare. "You said yourself that we saved your Father's life. Six months ago, you sat here with your girlfriend and told my doctors that you would do everything in your power to help us find a cure. Now you're pissed off because you don't control the narrative!? You want to run and cry in the corner because you were blessed with blood that just happens to cure cancer? What the fuck is wrong with you, Rory? I just went out in front of the world yesterday," she stops and looks at her small, gold wristwatch for half a second, "twelve hours ago, and told them that you are a hero; you are a saint, and all you can do is point your finger at me like I'm some cunt who cut you off in traffic?"

Rory swallows hard and his mouth is slightly open; he doesn't know where to begin responding to such a personal barrage. Her words tear through him as if she is the pilot on the front of a locomotive and he is the cow.

"Yeah, I'm a bitch," she says softly, "but if you're going to call me a bitch, Rory, make sure you get it right. Call me a bitch who is fighting to save the lives of thousands of people by finding a cure. Call me a bitch who needs billions of dollars in funding for research to derive a vaccine from your blood. Call me a bitch for putting your name into the History books as someone who helped to save lives," she holds her index finger up in his face, "but don't you dare call me a bitch after today!"

Rory closes his eyes for a moment, nodding his head as her message ties up knots of guilt in his gut that he can't begin to untie. "I'm sorry," Rory says finally, "I just didn't expect this all to happen so quickly."

"I'm sorry too, Rory," Corba speaks in a condescending, dismissive tone, "I thought you had more integrity than this. What did you expect? Your blood has the ability to cure cancer. And let me be absolutely clear on that point as well; I did not say your blood is the cure FOR cancer; I stated that it CAN cure cancer. There is no way in hell your body will ever produce enough blood to wipe out cancer; not at 100 to 500 MILs per person." Corba relaxes back into her chair, realizing that she has broken him down. "Now that you've been kind enough to waste half an hour of my morning with your tantrum- I would appreciate your doing the hospital a favor."

"Sure." Rory says quickly, just wanting this meeting to end so that he can get back home.

"Are you familiar with the show Our World Today?"

"Yes, it's a late night talk show."

"That's correct. Sheldon Miller has asked that you appear on his show and he is offering a $100,000 grant for fifteen minutes of your time. I would like you to attend that interview."

"Are you kidding me?" Rory asks, folding his arms again defensively.

"The hospital," she begins, holding out her hand, "has agreed to give you $50,000 if you will take the interview. No- I'm not kidding you!"

Rory opens his mouth, then closes it again, feeling like a small child for a second as she answers his next question before it can leave his lips.

"Fine, when is the interview?" Rory, asks impatiently.

"It's tonight at eight p.m."

"Jesus Christ, and you people don't bother to ask if I have any plans?"

"Do you have any plans?"

"I'll be there," Rory gives in with a deep sigh, "just... try to keep me more informed."

"Thank you, Rory," Corba replies dutifully, rising from her seat to shake his hand, "and please don't wear these... clothes; wear something nice. Well, before I leave, do you have any other bones you'd like to pick?" Corba asks with threatening eyes.

"No, we're all good." He answers, looking away from her for a moment.

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Chambers; I look forward to seeing you on television this evening." She winks at him with a winning smile, then steps purposefully across the tan carpet and out of the room.

"Break a leg, buddy." Doctor Yahmir says with apologetic eyes, patting Rory on the arm as he gets up to make his rounds.

"Yeah..." Rory blurts out with wide eyes, sighing with frustration as he continues to process the conversation like a bad car accident.

Later that evening, Rory is sitting in the green room at a studio in Burbank, trying to relax before appearing on Our World Today with Sheldon Miller. For the second time this week, he is dressed formally in his black pinstripe suit wearing subtle, brown dress shoes, and a new snakeskin belt. He closes his soft brown eyes for a moment, holding a cold bottle of water to his temple.

From the large, overstuffed black leather chair, the feeling of watching a show that he will soon make an appearance on is unnerving. He tries to focus on the program, studying the guest who is currently featured on the show, attempting to understand what will be expected during the interview. His eyes glaze over a bit as he watches Josh Asherton, a former Army Engineer, talking about how to fix the United States economy. The man speaks with a great deal of passion, as does the host, and there is a rapid exchange of talking points. Rory observes carefully as they swap hand gestures and elevate their voices every so often. Soon he hears the audience coaches telling everyone to prepare to cheer as they return from the commercial break.

The studio audience goes wild as the cameras zoom in toward Josh Asherton and Sheldon Miller while the Our World Today logo splashes across the screen with a metallic animation. Each man displays an obligatory smile to the camera as they sit across from one another at a solid white oak desk.

When the applause die down, the host, Sheldon Miller, quickly welcomes everyone back from the commercial break; his distinctive tuft of gray hair on proud display under the corporate mood lighting created by the set. The rest of his hair is short and black, which looks debonair for the Spanish American in his early thirties. He is dressed in a studio approved black suit and yellow tie with blue stripes, which was chosen to match his bright blue eyes.

Josh Asherton sits across from him with a more human look in his dark brown eyes. He presents himself as, in his own words, 'an Anglo Saxon turned hippie,' showing off a crop of messy, sandy brown hair, and completing the look with thick eyeglasses. He is dressed in a bright orange button-down shirt and tan cargo pants.

"I have been talking with former Army Engineer Josh Asherton," Sheldon broadcasts with his authoritative voice, smiling for the cameras with pizzazz. "Our topic is modern day ghost towns, and Josh has been telling us how to fix the US economy within just six months?" Sheldon ends his statement in a question, nodding his head a bit and prompting his guest to speak.

"Yes, that's correct," Josh says more to Sheldon than to the rest of the studio. His voice has a rough, good-old-boy tone, and he speaks with a steady passion. "I actually have a plan that will fix the economy for over ten years, and lead to prosperity."

"Yeah, but isn't that the Government's job?" Sheldon asks with a boyish smile, winking at the cameras.

"Well, Sheldon, that's like saying if a guy ran over my dog with his car, but then told me he was a vet, I should go ahead and trust him to fix my dog."

"That depends," Sheldon says with a smirk, "what is the dog's name?"

"Sheldon." Josh replies with a knowing smile.

"I love that name!" The young host exclaims, nearly jumping out of his chair. Then he feigns sheepishly at the camera and instantly returns from his comedy antics back to a serious conversation. "So again the book is called 'Modern Day Ghost Towns,' and it talks about fixing the US economy by repeating history, correct?"

"Yes, that's right," Josh confirms, "but good history."

"Right," Sheldon responds with an electric smile, "we don't want to fix the economy with any bad history; they're already going forward with that plan."

"Exactly," Josh says with a laid back nod, "years ago, America used to be filled with all these towns. But pretty soon there came along these big places called cities; filled with indoor plumbing, electricity, telephones- and after a short time nobody wanted to live in the towns anymore."

"You had me at indoor plumbing," Sheldon says with both fists under his chin and his elbows pressed against the white oak desk.

"Now these cities were successful because they had better planning than the towns; they brought more services to people that were needed. But over the past hundred years, our telephones have evolved at a geometric rate, along with our entertainment mediums like iPods and such, but our cities remain antiquated, Sheldon."

"So what do you propose we do?" Sheldon asks with a fierce grin. "Do you want Apple to design new cities for us? Could we evolve back to towns so they could be called iTowns?"

"Sure, I don't care what the hell you call them as long as the Government doesn't design them."

"Amen to that." Sheldon agrees with a bright white smile.

"Well we really don't need a new design- that Walt Disney World in Florida was designed with amazing efficiency. The casinos and resorts in Vegas are designed with efficiency to use renewable energy, eliminate waste, and so on. Hell, Sheldon, we already have all the best blueprints for creating the next evolution in cities, and the goal should be to cut 30% or more of the waste out of the American lifestyle."

"But what's more American than throwing stuff away?" Sheldon beams sarcastically.

"Being rich from being smart is more American." Josh quips dryly.

"Well played, Sir," Sheldon says with a genuine smile, "I believe being rich is every American's favorite pastime. So we are running out of time... Can you just tell me what you propose we should do?"

"Certainly," Josh begins with proud eyes, "we take $400 Billion, buy some land parcels in transportation hubs, and start building two new cities as the models for the future of American life. The goal of each city is to be as efficient as possible and cut the cost of living by 30%. Now as the cities are being built, we put them into an IPO so that Wall Street can fight over them for ten years. Then after ten full years of economic stimulus, the Federal Government sells off its shares to the IPO and uses that to payoff some of The National Debt."

"Nah," Sheldon says with a smirk, "I think we'll just keep printing money instead. All that stuff you're talking about sounds too exhausting, and how is it going to create jobs? All that glass, asphalt, electrical wire, and steel; will only create jobs for the people who make those things... in China."

The audience bursts into laughter for a few seconds as Sheldon wraps up by thanking his guest for his time and gesturing for him to exit the set toward the dressing rooms.

"Now my next guest has become an overnight sensation; apparently his blood is able to cure certain illnesses such as AIDS and even some forms of cancer. Please everyone give a warm welcome to Rory Chambers." Sheldon announces with enthusiasm.

Rory walks out nervously onto the set under the direction of the stage manager. He makes his way up to the white oak desk, and gives Sheldon's hand a powerful shake before sitting in the tall, black padded chair.

"How are you this evening, my friend?" Sheldon asks.

"I'm doing okay," Rory says with a shaky, nervous smile.

From their high definition television at home, Kelly is watching her boyfriend with a look of support and anxiety, biting her lower lip as she stares at the screen.

"I would assume so," Sheldon begins, putting his palms playfully on the oak desk, "it doesn't sound like you're able to catch anything. I mean," Sheldon holds up a finger each time he announces something that Rory's blood can cure, "you don't fear: AIDS, Hepatitis, Leukemia, Lymphoma, Rihanna."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I could handle all of those," Rory replies with a confident smile.

On the sofa at home, Kelly closes her eyes for a moment of embarrassment, and then opens them again. "Oh, babe, let your penis do the walking, but please don't let it do the talking."

"So just to be clear on our facts," Sheldon begins, picking up a blue 3X5 card and reading from it verbatim. "A 100 milliliter transfusion of your blood can cure: HIV, AIDS, Hepatitis, and Leukemia; all with an 80% or better success rate?"

"Yes, that's correct," Rory replies, swallowing hard as these details are discussed.

"Also, a 500 milliliter transfusion of your blood can cure lymphoma cases with an 80% success rate?" The host asks with a serious game face.

"Yeah, that's right," Rory agrees quickly, letting his left arm relax on the desk and looking past the camera for a moment at the various types of people in the studio audience.

"So, Rory, that is amazing, but I wanted to get back to the beginning of this incredible story," Sheldon boasts, building up the emotion and twisting his head back and forth under the ambient lighting of the set. "What made you decide to start giving blood in the first place?"

"Well, my Father had a stroke about ten years ago, and he was treated at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, and that treatment saved his life... for another ten years. Anyway, I work with people all day who are performing extreme sports and we sometimes have to rush people to the ER, so I thought it would be a good idea to donate blood regularly to the hospital that saved my Father's life."

"That is a fantastic story, and I'm glad the hospital gave you another ten years with your father. It sounds like your heart is in the right place."

"Well my mother used to tell me I had a heart of gold; I guess, in a funny way, she was right."

"Very nice," Sheldon replies quickly, keeping control of the interview, "we were hoping you could help the audience and I to understand how this whole process works?"

"Well, the doctors first explained it to me like the game of checkers where you have the fox and the geese." Rory says, using his hands to emphasize his point.

"Okay," Sheldon nods with a sober expression, urging him to continue.

"The fox is like the HIV Virus, trying to get to the other side of the board while the geese try to stop him. In most people's bodies the geese cannot stop the fox before he gets to the other side of the board. Each time an HIV cell grows and invades a healthy T-Cell, it's a win for the foxes. When my blood is injected into the body, all of the geese are replaced by stronger geese and the fox can't get past them anymore."

"The fox can't get past them because he moves slower... or because there are more of the geese now?" Sheldon asks with a smirk, enjoying the analogy.

"No, he can't get past them at all is how it was explained to me; the geese are too strong, and eventually they kill him."

"Wow, that is a golden heart, I guess we should call you The Golden Goose?"

The audience applauds, and a broad grin spreads across Sheldon's face, showing his opportunistic side. Rory simply nods with a half-smile; clearly not crazy about the new name.

"In fact, I think you're The Golden Goose of Los Angeles."

Sheldon gets another spirited round of cheers from the audience and he smiles with approval, as if Rory were just knighted by royalty before a crowd of political talk show peasants.

"Well, we've seen a lot of good news coming from the hospital," Sheldon continues with a serious expression, "but, as I'm sure you're aware, there has been a bit of a scandal developing?"

"No, I wasn't aware of a scandal," Rory says with a blank stare, looking around a bit, and appearing confused.

"Well, we had requested Raul Vasquez to join us on the show this evening, but the family sent over a prepared statement from their attorney. This is what they had to say," Sheldon announces, reading from a page that he lifts from the left side of his desk. "We were deeply saddened to learn that the UCLA Medical Center could have saved our little nine-year-old Maria's life, but neglected to do so. She was being treated for leukemia at the hospital during the same time that the hospital was conducting trials for the new cure. It was painful enough to bury our little girl two months ago after her terrible battle with cancer, but it was more painful to learn that someone had the power to save her, and did nothing... We are ashamed of the UCLA Medical Center for not attempting to save her life, and are filing a discrimination lawsuit against the hospital. This is based on evidence in the case study which shows that most of those cured in the past six months have been wealthy Caucasians."

"That can't be true," Rory declares, shaking his head with disgust.

"It actually is true..." Sheldon says slowly, pulling up the side of his mouth with discomfort as if he is expecting to be stabbed. "We have independently confirmed the coroner's report, and the little girl was at the hospital during that time-"

"Maybe they couldn't cure that form of leukemia," Rory asserts, not wanting to believe him.

"Actually, the same day that little Maria Vasquez was buried; the case study reports that a Senator Henri Edwards was cured of lymphoma, having received 500 milliliters, or one pint of your blood. Now, you may not be aware, but Senator Edwards is a Texas oil billionaire in his fifties..."

"That can't be true, I don't believe it," Rory repeats as he puts his hand on his forehead and looks at the floor with an expression of shock and disgust.

"We do have a statement from the hospital," Sheldon begins with a deliberate smile. "Our hearts go out to those who have lost loved ones during these medical trials. Unfortunately, some patients were in too much of a weakened state for us to try an experimental cure. Patients were chosen based solely on the following factors: a racial profile consistent with the donor blood, a strong potential for improvement, and being of legal age to sign the necessary waivers for the hospital to use the experimental treatment. We deeply regret that there was not enough of Mr. Chamber's blood to run trials on all patients which is why we need funding to develop this cure in larger volumes. Our dedicated hospital staff fought hard to save the life of Maria Vasquez and will donate an undisclosed sum of money to a charity in her name."

"I didn't know-"

"That's okay, Rory," Sheldon responds decisively, with a reassuring smile, "we know that you saved the lives of over fifty people, and they are people who would not have had any other chance to survive. That is a phenomenal success story!"

The studio audience cheers and claps with feverish energy and emotion.

"Now, here is another amazing fact that has come out of this whole story," Sheldon exclaims, building up his voice slowly. "After your press conference, some Harvard College Graduates posted a website poll on the Internet asking how much people would be willing to pay for your blood to be free of their illness. Within a few hours, that poll went viral, and just before the show, a pint of your blood was valued at over $500,000! In fact, most of those who commented said they would be willing to mortgage their home to be free of their illness. Isn't it amazing how badly we've needed this cure?" Sheldon asks with patriotic smile.

"Yeah, that's amazing." Rory mumbles with a lower tone of voice, staring off into the distance as this new information presents itself.

"Well, Rory, we appreciate your coming on the show," Sheldon says with a sincere smile, "and we had offered $100,000 for you to give us an exclusive interview tonight, but Corba Strong of the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center said that you turned down the money."

Rory looks at Sheldon with mistrustful eyes, fixing his gaze on the man and listening closely to every syllable as if it were the terms and conditions of an arranged marriage initiated by a corporation.

"Ms. Strong told us that you wanted to personally give the money to the family of Maria Vasquez to help ease the passing of their daughter, and to let them know how sorry everyone is that nothing else could have been done to save her."

From the corner of the set, a young man approaches Sheldon and hands him a large, white envelope.

"Rory, here is that $100,000 check for the family," Sheldon utters in plastic fashion, handing Rory the envelope as he speaks. "God bless you and the UCLA Medical Center for all you're doing to help fight these terminal illnesses."

The audience cheers as both men stand up and shake hands, and then Rory makes his way back off the set toward the green room with a somber expression and the envelope in his left hand.

Back in the green room, Rory is pacing like a wild animal; his temper ablaze with the feeling of being used and disgraced. When he realizes that Corba meticulously planned this entire show as a means to make the scandal go away; he grabs the flat screen television and flips it toward the floor with both hands, feeling liberated by the sounds of breaking glass and plastic.

After the television hits the floor, the unusually tall stage manager steps into the room wearing an illuminated Bluetooth earpiece, and he stares at Rory with a mild expression of shock. The tall man is dressed in all black clothing with the words 'Stage Manager' printed on the front of his shirt in bold white text. His thinning head of curly brown hair, pale complexion, and large facial features almost make him appear childlike.

"Rory," the stage manager begins, pretending to ignore the smashed television, "Sheldon wanted to ask a favor; not for him, but for his friend Victor Coamo." The man pulls out a small photo with his chubby fingers as he slides up shoulder to shoulder with Rory so they can both get a good look. "I guess this guy is dying of Hepatitis C and was hoping that you could help him out; he doesn't have much longer."

"Neat." Rory says with a blank stare, glancing dispassionately at the photo of a seemingly wealthy South American smiling wide on the deck of a boat somewhere tropical. "Well, tell Sheldon that he needs to read the statement from the hospital again; there is no more blood available, especially for his rich friends. They'll have to wait until the hospital can manufacture a cure."

"That's pretty cold, dude." The stage manager says boldly, twisting his face in confusion. "They said they'll pay you the five-hundred grand; no problem. He just wants to live."

"Then tell Victor to keep his cock in Sheldon's mouth where it belongs and he won't get infected with things like Hepatitis... That will actually solve two problems at once." Rory says with a defiant and furious passion.

"Right..." The stage manager replies with a disgusted expression as he puts the photo back into his pocket. After realizing there is nothing more to talk about, the large man walks out of the room with a disappointed gait. "Hey, Jake, we need another flat TV in green room two," the large man yells out before forcefully closing the door.
V. Survival 101

The following morning, Rory is pacing back and forth in the conference room at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. He has the envelope that Sheldon gave him the night before clutched tightly in his right hand. With fierce eyes and fast movements, Rory bears the look of a disgruntled bike messenger, dressed from head to toe in black fitness clothing. He is also wearing a white, Chicago Bulls basketball cap snugly on his head with a pair of expensive sunglasses resting on its brim.

Soon Doctor Anderton appears in the room as the heavy wooden door quickly opens and closes. The doctor is wearing his long, white lab coat, small eyeglasses, and is still neatly groomed from the press conference earlier in the week. He is carrying some type of silver touch-pad device that is cradled close to his waist with the screen turned in toward his abdomen.

"Where the hell is Corba?" Rory demands with the fervor of scorned warrior. "She damn well better not plan on hiding from me this morning; that fucking bitch!"

"I thought we discussed not calling me a bitch yesterday?" Corba's voice beckons indignantly from Doctor Anderton's right hand, getting louder as he approaches Rory's right shoulder and takes a seat at the conference room table.

"You've gotta' be kidding me," Rory snarls in frustration and sets the envelope on the glass tabletop as he takes a seat at the head of the conference table with the tall doctor seated to his right. He glares at the touch-pad as his body lowers onto the soft, black leather swivel chair; his frame remains rigid as the meeting begins.

Doctor Anderton doesn't say a word as he removes a small wire stand from under his lab coat and uses it to prop up the touch-pad on the glass top of the conference table with the screen facing Rory.

"What the hell do you want, Mr. Chambers?" Corba asks defiantly, her face and hair looking as though she just awoke recently. "I am a busy woman, and can't keep holding your hand through this process."

"I came here to tell you that I'm done!" Rory states with affirmation, shaking his head up and down a bit at the screen to reinforce his resolute attitude.

"Oh, here we go," Corba begins as if she is talking to a rebellious teenager. "You are done with what?"

Doctor Anderton is sitting just to the right of the display, looking bored and irritated with his right index finger against his temple. He yawns for a moment and stretches in a manner that shows he has more important things to do than this.

"I am done with you. I am done with this hospital. I am done giving my blood. You can continue this project... without me!" Rory holds his ground, feeling strong and in control as his rehearsed statement boldly comes out. "And what the fuck is this; by the way?" He asks, gesturing with disappointment toward the touch-pad device as if casting a cold pair of dice at a craps table.

"I have been working many late nights, Rory, trying to secure funding for this project." She evokes with passion as her voice cracks a bit and a few tufts of blonde hair fall out of place on the small screen. "You can't be serious about-"

"What happened with that little girl?" Rory demands as he cuts her off with vivacious energy and leans toward the screen. "Did we let a little girl die so that we could get grant money from some sleazy oil billionaire!?"

"I don't think you really understand the gravity of what we're trying to do here," Corba begins.

"No, no. No more speeches, you Goddamn spin-doctor," Rory erupts with fresh rage, pointing his finger at the screen. "Did we let a little girl die so that some old asshole could buy his way into a few extra golden years?"

"You heard my statement from Sheldon," Corba declares in an official tone, "there simply was not enough blood to go around and Senator Henri Edwards was a great match to your blood profile."

"What a bunch of horseshit!" Rory exclaims with a look of incredulous fury. "You just can't afford to be an adult and take responsibility for anything that you've caused. Last night, you made me look like a liar, an accomplice in your bullshit political agenda, and a total dipshit on National TV."

"Rory, I understand your frustration, but that little girl was going to die anyway. Her condition was so advanced that she may have only had a 40% chance of surviving, even with our best efforts."

"Yeah, you know what it sounds like," Rory replies with aggravation, "it sounds like wealthy white people have a 100% chance of survival and the rest of the world has no chance."

"Rory, you're blowing this all out of proportion, as usual. We have saved fifty-nine lives at this hospital that could not have been saved otherwise. I only chose white people because they match your blood profile much better for testing purposes."

"Look, I told you I've had enough," Rory commands, pointing his index and middle fingers together at the screen. "From the beginning, you've betrayed my trust, my girlfriend's trust, and you have done everything in your power to make sure you get as much money as you can. You're trying to squeeze every drop out of this situation and it's disgusting!" He finishes by pounding his right fist on the conference table and then sits back in his chair again, looking at Corba's image with angst.

"Are you quite finished?" Corba asks in a dry voice, showing how drained she is from all the events and phone calls this week.

"No, I'm not finished," Rory snaps back, picking up the large, white envelope from the conference table. He glances at it for a moment before turning it sideways and flinging it at the touch-pad, watching it tap the screen and bounce on the corner of the table before landing on the floor. "I won't be your delivery boy for your apology check, and I won't apologize for your sins. You are a cold, disturbed woman, and I will be happy to have you out of my life!"

"Rory, this hospital saved your father's life," Corba begins, and all we've done is try to save more lives with your help. I can't believe how disappointing your attitude is; what would your family think of this?"

"That's it!" Rory shouts, jumping up from his chair as it slides quickly back toward the short wall and large glass windows behind him. "Talking about my family is going too far," he says darting his enraged face close to the touch-pad.

Corba starts to speak again, but Rory immediately grabs the touch-pad, turns on his heel, and hurls the small screen at the window closest to him. However, the thick glass does not shatter and the touch-pad simply bounces hard on its surface and lands haphazardly on the floor. Although he feels freed by this aggressive action, he is disappointed to see Corba's face still on the screen, looking up at him from the floor.

Rory walks over to device, turns around, pulls his black fitness pants down around his knees and dangles his bare backside over the touch-pad. "Kiss my ass, Corba, I won't be doing anything for you;" he says, pulling up his pants with a sharp grin, "my time belongs to Kelly now. Don't you ever darken my doorway with your bullshit again. Goodbye!"

Doctor Anderton shakes his head from side-to-side in disapproval, folding his arms as he watches Rory walk with liberated fervor out of the conference room.

As he walks through the majestic hospital corridors with fancy, decorative lighting and soft, reflective flooring, a smile forms on Rory's face. For the first time in recent memory, he feels that his life is his own. Although he wasn't quite the gentleman that Kelly had asked him to be when they discussed this decision the previous evening, he still feels proud of ending his relationship with the hospital.

Rory enjoys the warmth of the sunlight on his face as he emerges a free man from the lobby, and he soon fills with excitement at the idea of taking a touring group through the Redwood National Forest just a few hours from now.

After taking the jump seat in a cargo filled Cessna from the Los Angeles International Airport to the Arcata Airport, Rory makes his way to the terminal to meet with the New Yorkers who requested a tour of the Redwood National Forest. He stretches and enjoys the clean, crisp air around him, feeling fortunate to be away from the city and the recent media frenzy. His pace is slowed a bit by the large green backpack he has slung over one shoulder. He feels alive again wearing the same black fitness clothing from the meeting earlier in the day along with a pair of sunglasses and some worn running shoes. Rory enjoys the rustic, simple land around him, mostly devoid of people at this time of year. These clients requested something isolated from the hustle and flow of daily life, and Rory took the opportunity due to the impressive $800 fee they offered him for a few hours of babysitting amongst the majestic Redwoods.

When he steps into the terminal, he immediately sees a group of three adults holding up a small handwritten sign with his name 'Rory' penned in sloppy lettering. There is a young black couple among the trio, dressed in what could only be described as New York business casual attire. The man has short black hair and brown eyes. His muscular frame is complimented by khaki dress pants and a white button-down, silk shirt.

As Rory approaches the group, he looks over the black lady who is wearing a white summer dress and a large, shiny black belt with some heavily worn, but stylish ladies walking shoes. She has beautiful raised cheekbones, shoulder length black hair, and an athletic frame like her partner. Her smile is electric as she listens to her lover telling a story quietly in her ear.

The third member of their party looks badly out of place. He is a bald, heavyset man sporting dark sunglasses and has a sour expression on his pale face as if the idea of being awake is an inconvenience. The man is wearing a large, cheap baby blue mock that drapes far past his waist, looking even more awkward with his loose fitting, faded blue jeans. His hands are tucked lazily inside the pockets of his jeans, causing the mock to bunch up around his waist and large belly.

"Hey, I'm Rory," he announces as he walks up to the group, extending his hand in an energetic California casual greeting.

"Hello, Rory, I'm Tuck," the athletic black man says with a satisfied smile, sizing Rory up a bit as he shakes his hand with powerful vigor. "This is my girl, Lace- Uh," he stops himself and laughs for a moment. "Actually, this is my girl Britney, and this unhappy motherfucker over here," he gestures at the large man with an extended right hand, "is Thomas."

"Great to meet you," Rory says quickly, nodding and shaking hands with the other two members of the party. He feels suddenly strange shaking hands with Thomas as the man doesn't look him in the eye, but focuses instead on his legs and waist. After they finish their handshake Rory blows it off as just another fat guy being jealous that he doesn't have as small of a frame as him.

Alternatively, he really enjoys shaking hands with Britney, as she has this tenacious way about her and a cheerful, bubblegum vibe to her personality.

"Are you all good on lunch?" Tuck asks Rory in a direct, anxious manner.

"Yeah, I've got some lunch and dinner in my pack," Rory says cheerfully, "we can get on the road if you're ready."

"Cool," Tuck replies with satisfaction, putting his arm around Britney as they begin to walk to the entrance of the terminal. "Our Hummer is this way," he says, pointing with his free hand toward the parking lot.

Rory nods with a half smile, feeling a little irritated at this useless information, but he grins a bit wider after a moment, enjoying the fact that this group has already arranged transportation to the park.

As the group walks out to the parking lot, Rory enjoys another breeze of fresh air, feeling free and far away from the hassles that this week has produced. When he steps toward the rear passenger side of the black Hummer, Tuck immediately intercepts.

"Yo, dude, that's full of our gear, "Tuck yells over the top of the Hummer as he opens the driver side door, "go ahead and put your bag in the back seat."

Rory peers into the cargo area for a moment, seeing multi-colored coolers, two backpacks, and some other larger bags that must hold tents and other camping gear. There is a pink mountain bike fixed to the roof of the Hummer on a Yakima bike rack, and he wonders to himself why anyone would want to bike alone. When Rory opens the door to enter the vehicle he sees that Thomas is sitting behind the driver seat which makes him grateful to place his large backpack between them on the smooth, gray leather seat. Once everyone is inside the vehicle, Tuck looks around to ensure that everything is secured, then he smiles wide at Britney as he starts the engine.

"So, Rory, how long is the drive up to the park from here?" Tuck asks, grabbing an expensive pair of sunglasses from his overhead visor and sliding them over his eyes as he drives up to the parking lot exit and waits to pull out into traffic.

"It's about half an hour if you drive the speed limit." Rory replies with a wide smile as they enter the open road. He closes his eyes and enjoys the much needed rush of adventure without any: doctors, reporters, and even getting away from Kelly feels good for a while.

"Then we sure as hell aren't gonna' drive the speed limit," Tuck says with a smile, holding his head rigid as they enter the Redwood Highway.

"So, Rory, you're an extreme sports guy; what is the craziest shit you've ever done?" Britney asks playfully, twisting in the passenger seat enough to see him with one eye.

"I would say skydiving drunk at night had to make the top of the list." Rory replies with a smirk.

"No shit!?" Tuck asks with surprise. "How the hell would you even know where the ground is if it's dark outside?"

"Well skydiving at night is still fun, you can see where the ground is by the lights, bodies of water, and mountain ridges. The big challenge is using good enough judgment when you're drunk to pull the chute in time."

"Wow, that's sexy, dangerous," Britney announces with a naughty grin. "What other crazy shit have you done- and I mean CRAZY shit!?"

"Well, when we were teenagers, my friends and I went for an early morning street luge in San Francisco on a Sunday. We barely missed two cars coming uphill and our buddy Matt went right under an eighteen wheeler." Rory says with a nervous smile.

"Damn, son," Tuck says with a grin turning to look at Rory with his sunglasses for a moment, "that is some loco teenager shit. But then again every dude is like a squirrel with big balls when he's a teenager. I remember my friends and I had a saying for our little gang back in the day. 'We eat bolts by the pound, piss a gallon of gas every morning, and shit fire whenever we please.'" Britney and Tuck look at each other with a quick giggle. "We thought that shit sounded cool too- until the neighborhood started calling us the red ass gang, which made us drop the part about shitting fire."

"You still shit fire sometimes, baby." Britney says with a playful smile.

"Hey, easy, we've got company. This ain't Vegas, girl, you can't just say what you want and have it stay there."

"So what do you folks do for a living?" Rory asks half out of curiosity and half out of instinct.

"Well, I run a successful courier business in Manhattan called Speed Deeds," Tuck answers lazily, "and this little fox," he strokes Britney's face with his index finger, "helps to run my office."

"What about you?" Rory asks, glancing over at Thomas, but trying not to look skeptical.

"Oh, Thomas, he's a professional asshole," Tuck says, with a smile after a few seconds of silence. "In fact, he walks up to people after a meeting and hands them a business card that says 'Thomas McKinney, Asshole; and don't even get me started on the business services."

"Free asshole estimates," Britney continues with heavy laughter. "Free asshole consultation and my favorite, free asshole cleaning."

"That's hilarious, baby," Tuck says with a pleased smirk. "Rory, why are you asking us about work, anyway? Aren't we here to get away from work? Didn't we hire you to get us away from our jobs?"

"I'm a diamond buyer," Thomas replies with an awkward smile. "My job is to fly to places like Antwerp and Tel Aviv to bid on the highest quality diamonds in the market." As quickly as he started talking, Thomas goes quiet and continues to amuse himself by watching the scenery pass by from behind the driver seat.

"All right, let's get some music in here," Britney states quickly, "Rory's trying to put us all asleep by talkin' about work during our vacation."

She takes out an iPod and places it in the center console dock. After a few seconds, some popular rhythm and blues tunes are filling the car with music that goes extremely well with the outside scenery of the Redwood Highway.

Rory decides to take Tuck's advice and relax on this nice vacation trip. He eases back into the comfortable leather seat watching the scenery transform through the glass of the rear passenger window. Over the last few months he had forgotten the amazing majesty of the Redwood National Forest; even the drive is a spectacular experience. The familiar sites of ponds that were landmarks even from his childhood bring back warm memories of spending time with his parents, laughing and enjoying whatever adventure the day would bring. He recalls one incident on this highway where they broke down with a flat tire and his father treated it like a fantastic part of the whole experience. This helped Rory to learn at an early age to make the most of anything, no matter how difficult.

Through the window, the small patches of trees and tall grass along the highway gradually turn into lush green forest on both sides of the Hummer. Rory closes his eyes several times wanting to sleep due to the beautiful rhythms inside the vehicle mixed with the historic tapestry of California flying by in the quiet and comfortable back seat. He watches with childish excitement as the highway juts out to the ocean and shows off the beautiful, endless waves of the Pacific, moving in peacefully toward the beaches. After a short while he sees the familiar Big Lagoon as they continue up the scenic route to the forest. The highway continues to wrap around back and forth as they reach: Dry Lagoon, Stone Lagoon, and finally Freshwater Lagoon. Rory sits up straight with childlike excitement as they are nearing the park, but as he looks around at everyone else inside the Hummer, they appear preoccupied.

"We're almost to the park now," Rory shouts over the music in an excited voice.

When he doesn't see the normal excited reaction that people usually have on trips like this, he pulls out his phone and does a search on Google for 'Speed Deeds Manhattan,' and after waiting a moment for the Internet service to finally work, the first ten results don't show any courier businesses. Rory shrugs this off and looks at the second page, which also doesn't show any courier services with that name. As his suspicions grow, he starts looking closer at his companions, wanting to ask some important questions. Britney turns down the music and glances backwards to find out who was talking.

"I'm really excited about this," Thomas says in a warm tone for the first time during the trip. His eyes are bright and his wide face is covered in childlike joy. "When I was growing up, all my grandfather did was talk about the Redwood National Forest. He would say, you need to see what is possible from the power of nature."

"That's very true," Rory says with a pleasant smile as he puts his phone away, relaxing more with Thomas' newfound excitement. "My parents used to bring me up here all the time, it was the place where we could all just shed the BS from our daily lives and go back to just being a natural family."

Thomas nods and smiles in agreement as Tuck pulls the Hummer to a stop in the parking lot at the trailhead.

"Let's go have some fun." Tuck tells everyone with anticipation as he puts the vehicle in park.

Over the next half hour, Rory takes the group on a tour of the majestic Redwood National Forest. As they progress, he explains how the canopy blocks out such a great deal of sunlight that it keeps much of the underbrush from growing. They move steadily along the river, following the trailhead, and then finally break off onto their own path. Rory chooses a less traveled route, but with smooth enough ground for Britney to ride her pink mountain bike.

As Rory is describing how old many of the monstrous trees are, and how it is virtually a miracle that they have survived for so long without being burned down, he notices that his clients are not taking any photos. They have hiked over three miles from the Hummer, and left the trail after the first mile; not taking one photo the entire time. Rory looks at the sun as it starts to dip closer to the horizon being mindful of how long it will take to get back to their vehicle.

"Now this is what I really wanted to show you," Rory says with excitement as they enter the old-growth part of the Redwood Forest. "Some of these trees are 2,000 years old. They typically live between 500 and 700 years. Many of the trees in this area of the park are between three-hundred and fifty to three-hundred and seventy-five feet tall."

Rory stops both walking and speaking as he notices that the two men in the group are not really paying attention. He looks off in the distance and can't see Britney's pink mountain bike anywhere.

"What's going on here, guys?" Rory demands as he feels a sense that he is the only person enjoying the scenery. "This is what you came here to see, isn't it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry..." Tuck retorts in a sarcastic tone. "Am I not being happy enough to your standards? I thought we were paying you, which means we should be the ones to have expectations, right?"

"We're just looking for a place to sit down and have a picnic," Thomas says slowly with his palms facing toward the ground. "Tuck is just worried because he hasn't seen Britney in a while."

"Okay, cool," Rory responds with a relaxed pose, "I'm just going to call my girlfriend and chat with her for a second while you decide where to have your picnic."

Rory pulls out his phone and begins to dial his short code for Kelly.

"Put the fuckin' phone down!" Tuck orders in a threatening voice.

Rory looks up from his cell phone to see Tuck pointing a silver Berretta pistol at him. He feels suddenly naked as his suspicions about the group are confirmed, and for the first time in his life, doesn't quite know what to do.

"Don't even think about running, little man of the forest," Tuck warns, pointing the pistol at Rory's right knee, "I can still get plenty of that magic blood from you; even with a bullet in your leg."

"Should we just do it here?" Thomas asks, pulling his backpack off and holding it close to the ground.

"Yeah, yeah, lets do it here," Tuck agrees, pointing with his free hand at a secluded area in a circle of monstrous trees. "Rory, throw your phone as hard as you can at that tree," he instructs, pointing to his left with the pistol.

Following his captor's instructions, he throws his phone, watching it break apart into several pieces as it collides with the giant tree. "What the hell is going on?" Rory demands as he glances around a bit looking for a good escape route.

"Shut up!" Tuck commands with a militant voice. "I want your back up against that tree in fifteen seconds or I'm going shoot you in the kneecap."

Rory turns halfway around, glancing nervously at potential escape paths behind him, but there are none.

"Hold it!" Tuck orders again, "face me as you back up. Now you have twelve seconds. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!" Tuck marches toward Rory with the pistol pointed at his knees moving faster as he counts. After he reaches six, he pulls back the hammer on the pistol so that he can use the hair trigger.

Rory moves backward as fast as his legs will carry him, stumbling a bit at first, but moving faster as he decides to drop his backpack. Tuck is right near his face, gripping the pistol with powerful, athletic hands and moving forward with determination. As he hears Tuck count to seven he quickens his pace, knowing that however this turns out, it won't be any easier with a bullet in his knee. At the count of eleven, he reaches the tree, slamming his head hard against its thick bark. Tuck continues moving forward, pressing the barrel of the pistol into his ribs. Rory feels stinging pain and pressure as the powerful force of Tuck's arms compresses his chest with the front of the gun. As soon as the pistol won't move forward anymore, Tuck turns his left forearm into Rory's throat causing him to choke.

Rory is now feeling pain and discomfort all over his upper body. The hard, rough bark from the tree is digging into his back, and the pistol pressed tight against his ribs permeates pressure and pain in his chest, while the forearm in his throat pushes in and releases, creating an on again, off again asphyxiation.

"I want some of your blood today," Tuck demands with a hateful gaze, his eyes staring straight at Rory. "Thomas is a doctor, and he is going to safely extract the blood that we need. Now, if I get what I need, and am able to go on with my life, then so will you. Understand?"

Rory does his best to nod, but starts choking from the pressure of the forearm in his throat. Tuck becomes instantly frustrated and delivers a powerful punch to Rory's stomach, then follows up by smacking him on the left side of the head with the large silver pistol. This blow to his head causes him to immediately drop to his knees and is followed up by a second blow from the pistol in almost the same place. His vision becomes fuzzy, and there is a moderate ringing in his ears. Rory closes his eyes, feeling completely stunned as if a heavyweight boxer just delivered a solid combination to his head. Through the haze of pain and ringing, he tries to listen to his captors.

"What the hell are you doing?" Thomas declares with concern. "You're going to cause a hematoma if you keep hitting him in those areas."

"Hey, man, he needs to know that I am willing to hurt him." Tuck says aggressively in his defense. "I didn't pay you to tell me how to be a thug; I paid you to get the blood and keep it clean."

"Okay," Thomas agrees with no resistance, "just don't hit him in the soft tissues or the head anymore. If you need to get him in line, hit him in the elbows, the top of the forehead, and the sides of his knees."

"Oh, you just want to make sure I don't spoil the blood, right?" Tuck inquires with a friendly smile. "No problem, doc, any beatings he gets will be steel against bone, and that's gonna' motherfuckin' hurt."

"Good," Thomas begins, "I'm going to need your help holding some of these things and keeping them off the ground."

Soon Rory feels something thin and smooth being pulled over his wrists, and then it is cinched tight against his skin, binding his hands together. He opens his eyes for a moment, gazing through the cloud of pain enough to see a large zip tie holding his wrists together, and watches as a second and third are added by Tuck to ensure he can't break free. There is a warm stream of blood running down the left side of his head and he is becoming more nauseated with every second.

"Shit!" Thomas curses in frustration, "I can't get the blood from his arms with his hands bound and the shirt like this... Let's just cut the shirt off."

Thomas leans over Rory, producing a scalpel from his small black bag, and then he begins to slice through the fabric of Rory's black fitness shirt, starting at the hem of the right sleeve. The discomfort is growing worse for Rory as droplets of his abductors' sweat are falling on his arms and face from the efforts of moving around their gear and manhandling him. Fluid starts to run from his right eye, but his left eye remains completely dry while the ringing in his head continues. As the heavyset doctor kneels over him, using a scalpel to cut off his shirtsleeve, Rory feels suffocated by the man's head pushing his bound hands up against his face. Finally he is overcome by the nausea, his head feeling compressed from all the heavy blows, and Rory vomits all over the doctor's head and shoulders. Almost immediately, he cries out in pain as he feels something sharp jab deep into the top of his right leg.

"Oh fuck!" The doctor declares, pulling off his vomit soaked shirt and using it to clean off his hair. "I think I just stabbed him with the scalpel."

"You what!?" Tuck asks with frustration as if scolding a four-year-old. "Why did you puke, asshole?" He shouts at Rory as he punches him in the face, catching his right eye with most of his fist.

"Fuck, don't hit him!" The doctor shouts, "I just stabbed him and may have hit an artery; we need to make sure he doesn't bleed to death."

"What do we need to do?" Tuck asks with sudden concern. "I want to get the blood before he dies."

"Help me clean off the wounded area so I can stitch it up if he needs that."

"Oh, fuck this," Tuck says after a moment, "there's all kinds of blood and puke and shit down there, I'm not touching his nasty, white ass; that's your job."

"Whatever..." The heavyset doctor says.

Thomas pulls Rory's fitness pants down to his knees, and leaves his boxers on as he half lifts and half shoves him into a sitting position under the tree. There is only a thin layer of boxer shorts now between his backside and the ground, and Rory can feel a rock pressing uncomfortably against his anus. Thomas works frantically to clean Rory's leg, his exposed belly and the back of his arms wiggle as he uses water from his canteen and baby blue shirt to wash the leg.

"It's a flesh wound, we're okay." The doctor starts to laugh and relaxes for a moment, feeling relieved that he doesn't have to apply emergency sutures.

"Well, what are you waiting for, dude?" Tuck asks incredulously. "Let's get the blood and get the hell away from here."

"Right," the doctor says, breathing heavily, "hand me that blood kit and get ready to hold onto the first bag."

Some part of Rory is wishing the doctor had cut an artery. He is in total misery, feeling the effects of a concussion, pain in his head, and a fresh cut on his upper leg. His eye is beginning to swell after the heavy punch that Tuck delivered with unmerciful force. Since his hands are bound together and pushed up close to his face, he is overwhelmed by the foul stench and sticky texture of half digested food. This disgusting aroma, combined with the copper scent and sticky feeling of his own blood, raises his suspicions that he may not survive through the end of the day.

He closes his eyes and leans back against the tree, just wanting them to get the blood and leave. The two men fumble around for a moment with gear, and the doctor sticks Rory a few times in his right and left arms with intravenous needles, but is unable to tap a vein.

"Why can't you get it from his arms? Just find a fuckin' vein, dude!" Tuck demands with growing frustration.

"Well, no, it's better to draw from his hands, but some genius decided to bind his hands... Actually, I'll just draw from his feet."

Soon Rory feels his left leg yanked in the air, and he has to twist his body sideways to prevent an injury in his upper thigh. His running shoe is thrown off and his sock is peeled away as if it had been on fire. After his sock is removed, he hears excitement from the doctor and subsequently feels a needle shoved deep into the vein of his inner left ankle.

Thomas and Tuck celebrate for a moment as this attempt to draw blood is finally successful.

"Did you get it yet?" Britney's familiar voice carries from just a few feet away. "Oh my God, babe, what did you do to him?"

"He'll be fine," Tuck insists with a calm voice, "I just needed to teach him a lesson so he didn't get away. Did you get the cooler, babe?"

"Yeah, I got the cooler, and some extra ice packs. Holy shit; did you rape him or just get the blood?" Britney asks with genuine concern. "Why are you taking it out of his ankle? And what happened to your shirt? That's nasty."

"It's a long story," Thomas says, "let's just finish this pint and get going."

"Well, hold on," Tuck stops with a sudden innovation, "how many pints does he have?"

"He has eight pints," Thomas answers rapidly, "but we can only take one or he might die."

"Maybe we should just take it all then." Tuck suggests boldly. "After this, there's no way he'll let us go. Isn't that right, Rory, you're just aching to see us all locked up?"

"Baby, what if it doesn't work?" Britney asks with alarm in her voice.

"What do you mean?" Tuck inquires with confusion.

"I mean what if something goes wrong with this blood and we're not cured of Hepatitis C? If you kill him, we'll never be able to try again, and we'll die." She finishes her last statement with emotional urgency.

"You're right, babe," Tuck agrees after a little bit of thought, "we need to keep him alive just in case the blood doesn't work. Hey, Rory," Tuck speaks in a louder than normal tone next to his head. "Look, we're sorry for what we did to you today. We're going to leave you fifty grand for your trouble. As soon as we get across the border in a few hours, we'll call the police and let them know where you are. I really want you to stay alive, but if you ever tell anyone what we look like I will visit you and your woman with some of my friends. Trust me, Rory, my friends make me look like the Keebler fucking Elf; they are not good people."

"Thanks for your blood, dude," Britney states with a sincere voice, "I'm sorry my boys did you like this. Take care of yourself, okay?"

After a bit of arguing and shuffling around, the trio finally packs up the blood and starts their journey back to the trailhead and parking lot. Britney rides the mountain bike with the red cooler that contains the blood strapped to her back, while the two men follow her on foot.

Under the large redwood tree Rory is in agony. His hands are still bound and covered in his own vomit, and he is having a hard time getting to his feet as his captors neglected to pull his pants back up. However, the doctor did take a moment to bandage the cut on his right thigh and his left inner ankle where they drew the blood. With steady aggression, he rolls himself away from the uncomfortable rocks beneath the tree. Now on the soft earth, he pulls his pants up a few inches at a time with his bound hands. Once his pants are back on he is able to rise slowly to his feet, feeling a rush of dizziness from the loss of blood as soon as he is upright. His head is still ringing from the concussion, and he has a hard time maintaining focus.

From this standing position, he steps over to another tree and uses a patch of rough bark that is jutting out to slowly saw through the zip ties on his wrists. He turns his head sideways back and forth with disgust as the putrid smell of vomit hovers right in front of his face. Within a few moments, his bonds are thin enough that he is able to break them off by pulling his arms apart. A wide smile spreads across his face as he removes the bonds from his wrists and he massages each of them carefully, making sure there are no injuries.

After taking a moment to inspect his body, he is able to recover his sock and shoe. As he walks around a bit more, a smile of experience spreads across his face.

"You stupid bastards," Rory says with satisfaction as his eyes locate his large backpack.

Several minutes later, his hair is dripping wet from the fresh river water he used to cleanse his body. He is still shivering a bit from his impromptu bath, but enjoys the warmth of the large fire he has built far away from the redwood trees. The fire is covered with dark green leaves and is producing a large plume of gray and white smoke that is rising high above the canopy. He sits back for a moment, looking at this peaceful place where he never felt fear as a child. As he dries himself by the fire he thinks of how easily everything in life can be lost, and begins to understand the weight of his new circumstances. The rules have changed, he thinks to himself; you need to know that your blood does cure cancer, and it does cure deadly viruses. People will try to hurt you and even kill you for a second chance. He swallows hard as these thoughts become real to him for the first time since the press conference.

From the distance, he hears a slow thumping sound, and a moment later, he sees the familiar orange and white rescue helicopter heading his way. As the rescue party approaches closer, tears of joy form around his eyes and he realizes how lucky he is to have survived the encounter with those sociopaths.

"I'm coming home, baby," he beams proudly, thinking of holding Kelly close to him. "Whatever this is, and whatever it brings, we are going to survive.
VI. National Hero

Rory steps through the gate at the Los Angeles International Airport and Kelly greets him immediately with a powerful bear hug, causing him to drop the backpack from his right hand. He is wearing some rustic clothing that the local search and rescue team was nice enough to provide. His typical sports gear has been replaced with a dark green flannel shirt and some faded jeans.

"Oh my God, baby," Kelly evokes with joy and relief, embracing him for a few extra seconds with her delicate, bare arms. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, sexy," he answers, kissing her warm, inviting red lips, "it was one hell of a time."

"I can't believe people do this kind of shit. Who the fuck do they think they are?" She asks with wide eyes.

"Lets get home, babe," Rory says with an exhausted expression, staring deep into the airport terminal and suddenly wanting to be away from the crowd.

He takes Kelly's left hand in his right hand and picks up the backpack from the floor with his free hand as they begin to stroll through the airport together. She is wearing a form fitting white dress that goes a bit past her knees. It is covered in little heart shapes, which go well with the expensive red heels that she is wearing. Kelly looks at her boyfriend, noticing that he is watching everyone around them with suspicion, and his usual, happy disposition has become anxious; somewhere between angry and apathetic.

A few minutes later they are enjoying a quiet drive in Kelly's black Lincoln Navigator. Rory is relaxing in the passenger seat, watching the familiar sights of the city as they traverse through thick patches of stop and go traffic on their way home. Kelly is rigid as she drives; her hands grip the steering wheel tight as if it were the life they had just a week ago, and she dares not let it get away from them.

"So what happened out there?" She finally asks, unable to save this conversation for home.

"It was... fucking crazy," Rory begins shaking his head and staring out into the distance again. "They seemed like really cool people, but as soon as they got me alone in the forest, they changed."

"There were three of them?" Kelly prompts him to continue; both for her own curiosity, and to some degree, a therapeutic release for him.

Rory sighs, running his upper row of teeth over his bottom lip for a moment before he decides to answer. "It wasn't pretty. They backed me up to one of the big redwoods and demanded my blood. Then they punched me in the gut and hit me on the side of the head with a pistol. At that point I had a concussion, and it was all pretty foggy." Rory tips his head down in shame for moment wishing he had been smarter leading up to the incident.

Kelly starts to cry as she envisions her boyfriend being bound and hit like an animal so far away from any help.

"Hey, I'm okay. I'm really okay." He rubs the side of her face tenderly, hoping that she'll relax. "It did make me realize what this means for our future. Everything has changed. I didn't realize it until Doctor Yahmir said that he would have been willing to drain the blood from me himself if he knew it would save his son. But people get desperate when their back is against the wall, and they will do crazy things for love or money."

"God, this is such a shitty gift for people like us," Kelly says randomly, "I mean there is no one in our lives that has these diseases or could benefit from a cure. It just doesn't make any sense, sweets, but I do wish we hadn't done that press conference."

"Press conference?" He asks with wide eyes. "What about that night I went on Our World Today; the opportunistic prick put a dollar value on my blood? Then his damn, Frankenstein-looking stage manager had the balls to ask me to cure one of his rich friends of Hepatitis."

"Maybe you should hire a bodyguard, Rory," Kelly suggests with a motherly stare, "I mean there are famous people who have them: world leaders, drug dealers, athletes-"

"I'm not hiring a damn bodyguard," Rory says with strong affirmation, "I just need to keep my guard up and we'll be fine."

What did the cops say?" She asks, quickly changing the subject. "Do they know who these people are yet?"

"They're holding onto the $50,000 that they left me, and trying to get prints from that. The black couple screwed up and said that they were infected with Hepatitis C, which should narrow it down quite a bit. Also, when I first ran into them, the guy who was calling himself Tuck almost accidently called his girl Lacy. The fat doctor will be easy to recognize, and the cops are setting up barricades and posting their photos at airports."

"They left you fifty grand thinking that you would just keep quiet? Unbelievable! I saw the sketches on the news," Kelly says softly, "at least that's one way the media hasn't screwed us in the past few days. Did they say anything about where they're from?"

"Tuck said they were on vacation from New York, but the cops think they are from around here based on how quick they setup this whole thing in such a short time after the press conference. Oh, and I got a call from The Governor this morning," Rory states, raising his eyebrows a bit.

"The Governor? What did he want?"

"He called to offer me any assistance the state could provide and asked if we could come to a fundraiser later this week."

"Fucking Politicians. They always have some bullshit hoop they want you to jump through. What did you tell him?"

"I thought the idea of a very secure beach house filled with wealthy people, Senators, and Secret Service may not be a bad idea." He responds with serious, soft brown eyes.

"I thought we were going to avoid the spotlight?" Kelly asks with confusion.

"So did I, Kell, but that was before all of this went down. Now I only feel safe in the spotlight, and I'm going to start donating blood again."

"Shit, are you sure? If we keep this story going; isn't it just going to provoke another attack?"

"Maybe," he agrees from his dry throat, "but I like our chances better being surrounded by a lot of people who also have something to lose. I've had a lot of time to think about this."

"Whatever you think is best, I just want us to get back to our lives." She smiles at him, loosening her grip on the steering wheel, reaching for his left hand after a moment and gripping it firmly on top of the center console.

As her SUV rolls up the street, Kelly soon sees a group of reporters staking out Rory's home. Some of them are relaxing in their vehicles as they wait and others decide to be more cavalier and stand out in the front yard.

"Shit," Rory sighs with a disenchanted expression, "I thought we took care of this up at the Park?"

"We'll never take care of this," Kelly says, squeezing his hand, "at least not until they run out of sound bites to capture."

The young couple uses the automatic garage door to escape the numerous reporters, but they waive and smile as they retreat into the home.

A few days later, Rory and Kelly find themselves stepping into a fundraiser dinner at the elegant Nautilus Banquet Room in the Coronado Community Center. Kelly is wearing a long, silver satin dress with luxurious golden earrings. Her hair is pulled back into what she likes to call her 'Goddess of The Nile' look, which is complimented by a pair of expensive white heels. Rory is wearing the same pinstripe suit and shoes he wore at the hospital press conference a few days earlier. Although, with the advice of his girlfriend, he has elected to go with a messy California hairdo rather than the slicked back look from the previous event.

The fundraiser is already moving right along and the young couple enjoys the scent of freshly cooked barbecue beef ribs and rosemary chicken mixed with the sweet aromas of scented candles that are burning on every table. They smile with satisfaction noticing a large number of security staff present throughout the building and grounds. While the couple strolls through the banquet room, they witness Senators and other VIPs forming their collective social huddles, enjoying the opportunity to do a little personal fundraising.

They make their way toward the patio, maneuvering around several waiters and busboys on their way out of the crowded banquet hall. Rory and Kelly stop on the patio for a moment, admiring Glorietta Bay in the fading sunlight. The water looks serene with a small luxury yacht anchored near the opposite shore. Their gaze stays fixed on this view that reminds them of a gorgeous, living watercolor. Even when they are at the bar, where Rory orders a martini for each of them, they cannot take their eyes off the inspirational sunset.

As Rory spots Governor Hayes talking to a group of well dressed people under the trellis, he leads Kelly by the hand over to listen in on the conversation. Upon reaching the group, they take up a stance just a few yards to the right of The Governor, sipping their drinks as they enjoy the view and the calm breeze.

The Governor is a somewhat portly man in his late forties. He has short, spiked red hair and wears a pair of small, frameless eyeglasses. His formal black suit is drowning him a bit, but his swordfish tie on top of a subtle orange dress shirt displays that he is out to show off his fun side. The man has slightly tanned skin that is predominantly white despite his mixed, black and white ethnicity.

On Hayes' immediate left is a tall, black man in a light tan suit; he appears somewhat drunk, but is having a good time and keeping his composure nonetheless. Another man stands to The Governor's immediate right; he is formally dressed in a black suit, and bears Hispanic traits. His appearance is unremarkable as a man of average height and weight, but his calculating stare makes him appear somewhat fascinating.

"That's just not true," Governor Hayes snaps at the tall black man on his left. "I would never double down on a bet against the CIA. Those folks have all the coolest sunglasses and the best guns."

"Oh, you're on fire tonight, Governor Hayes," the man replies in a Southern drawl, shaking the index finger of his right hand at The Governor, whilst trying to avoid spilling his white wine with the other hand. "But one thing I've always said, and I am absolutely certain of this; there is not a soul in Washington."

"There is not a soul in Washington who does what?" The smaller Hispanic man asks in a sober tone, staring at the man's glass of wine instead of looking into his eyes.

"No, that was the end of my sentence." He deadpans with a bit of laughter, taking another sip of his wine. "There is not a soul in Washington; the place is just a dammed city. As a matter of fact, one day you'll see a ticker on Wall Street where they are selling off all the souls of The Congressmen who have traded them in. The Wall Street bankers will get all excited for nothin' and you'll see this SOUL ticker come up on CNBC, and it will be trading for a penny."

"I really don't appreciate that, Senator Sherman," the Hispanic man responds gently, smiling a little from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Congressman, I didn't see you standing there; I thought you were a cat." The Senator quips again. "I didn't mean to insult Congressman Graham," he calls out to the sky holding his hand over his mouth. "Did you hear that, Naval Commander Johnson, I did not insult the most dysfunctional branch of Government in History. Call off the drones, Sir, a little white wine doesn't make me a terrorist."

"Unless it gives you gas," Governor Hayes says with a wink.

"Unless it gives me gas," the Senator repeats a little louder. "In which case, I give Commander Johnson executive authority to strike me down with a hellfire missile."

"Besides, Senator Sherman," Congressman Graham begins, furrowing his brow a bit, "we sold our souls to the Chinese; not Wall Street. Unfortunately, now our souls are being reproduced on the black market by fourteen-year-old children who are embedding them into iPods."

"Well that is a very touching story, Congressman Graham," The Senator declares with a smug expression, "I would love to read it on a bathroom stall sometime."

"You'd be hard pressed to find it amongst your acceptance speech last fall for that humanitarian award. What was that award called again; the honor for any guy who spends money on libraries?"

"Kind of like the speech you gave for winning that award to provide an endless supply of green energy?"

"What are you getting at, Senator?" Congressman Graham asks with a suspicious smile.

"I mean all that currency you're printing in Washington. That's an endless supply of green energy. During your House sessions I know that you easily burn five million dollars of American money just to stay warm. Just toss those on into the fireplace Congressman; don't never mind the single moms in Detroit. It's an endless supply of green energy because now that you all are in charge, none of it is worth a damn anyway."

"Gentlemen, we're here to raise money, not voices," Governor Hayes declares, stepping between the two men. "And if we're burning currency to stay warm, it better be North Korean currency." The Governor smiles at both men, and then turns his attention to Rory and Kelly. "Rory Chambers," he says with an outstretched hand, please come and join us."

Rory and Kelly nervously approach the three men, weaving between a few patrons and staff members until they reach The Governor's small group.

"Pleased to meet you, Governor Hayes," Rory says with a bright smile, "this is my girlfriend Kelly.

"You mean your far better half?" The Governor replies with a quick wink, shaking each of their hands. "This gentleman on my left is Senator Sherman; you'll find him on the far left or the far right; maybe even flat on his back if he's had enough to drink. To my right," he continues, gesturing toward the Hispanic man, "is Congressman Graham."

"That reminds me of a joke," The Senator evokes with a serious expression as he shakes hands with the couple. "A Governor, a Congressman, and a Senator all walk into a bar. The bartender says, 'What can I get you?' The Senator says, 'I am just a humble public servant, could I get one of your drinks named after me?' 'No problem,' the bartender says. Then the beady-eyed Governor steps up," he continues, taking a quick drink, and placing his hand on the Governor's shoulder. "Where was I?" He asks with a smile.

"You were at the best part," Governor Hayes prompts with a grin, "talking about The Governor."

"Right, so The Governor walks up with his beady little eyes and says, 'I'd like this bar named after me; could you do that?' 'Sure thing,' the bartender says. Then to everyone's surprise, The Congressman just sits down and asks for a glass of water. The Senator and Governor look at each other with puzzled expressions. Then finally The Governor asks. 'Didn't you want something named after you?' The Congressman just shrugs his shoulders and says, 'the bartender is already named after me; he's my illegitimate child.'"

The Congressman rolls his eyes slightly at the joke while the Senator and Governor enjoy a hearty laugh.

"He's here all night," Hayes says with a smile, turning his attention to Rory. "Now Mr. Chambers has had quite the week from what I understand."

"Yeah, a little hiking, a little abduction," Rory says with a confident smirk.

"Well, it sounds like you had a bit of luck too." Hayes replies with a warm smile. "Have they caught the suspects yet?"

"No, but I've heard they are following up on quite a few leads," Rory states, looking toward the ground for a moment as he speaks.

"What was the ethnicity of the suspects?" Senator Sherman asks with an inquisitive smile.

"There was a black man, a black woman, and a fat white guy." Rory replies with an uncomfortable smile.

"If I name a library after you," The Senator asks Rory with a devious stare, "would you be willing to say that they were Hispanic instead?"

"Not so much," Rory exclaims with a chuckle watching Senator Sherman snap his fingers as though he just lost an opportunity.

"So your blood has the ability to cure: HIV, Hepatitis, and a few forms of cancer, right?" Congressman Graham asks with a sincere smile.

"Yeah, that's mostly right," Rory agrees, "but my blood only has an 80% chance of curing cancer. There is also a 2% chance that my blood will induce an allergic reaction that will destroy your large intestine and bladder."

"Wow," Hayes says, raising his eyebrows. "That's some allergic reaction. So these people held you at gunpoint and basically... Just stole a pint of your blood?"

"That's right," Rory confirms, "I won't be able to give blood now until I've had four to six weeks to recover."

"Well, son, that's one hell of a scary story," Senator Sherman admits, "but you can still enjoy your life, and do a lot of good for people."

"How?" Rory inquires in a cocky manner as he leans back and folds his arms.

"Well, you have a commodity in your blood," The Senator begins, "the laws of supply and demand are already on your side. For example, what you have in your blood is not available anywhere else, which means that you've literally got these precious diamonds rolling around in your veins."

"I don't understand how that gives me control," Rory admits in frustration.

"Are you kidding?" Senator Sherman asks with a wink. "Every wealthy person who is sick with one of these illnesses, or cares about someone who is sick with them, is going to be knocking on your door. You can literally tell them to write a check for five million dollars to the charity of your choice, and a lot of these people will pay you."

"Yeah, but I can only produce one to two pints a month." Rory declares as his reasonable side begins to take over.

"Then come up with a waiting list," The Senator retorts quickly. "The important thing is you can ensure that whomever you save with your blood is also saving dozens of lives with their money. You can call it blood-anthropy."

"That's true," Hayes adds with an intense stare, "You wield a lot of power and influence when your body is full of something that can give lives back to people. As a matter of fact, I'll bet you'll be approached by a few people at this banquet who are asking for a second chance."

"I'm sure we'll have a lot of great opportunities to help people," Rory agrees, "and I'm on board with that concept, but I really need to get protection for my girlfriend and I when we go out in public."

"I don't blame you." Hayes speaks with sincerity. "After what you went through the other day, it would be a good idea to remain exclusive to private parties. If you want, I could be in charge of setting up all your public engagements for the next little while?"

"Setting up my engagements?" Rory asks with discomfort, feeling like an Indian bride whose parents want to arrange a marriage for her.

"No, Rory," Hayes smiles again, "I meant that I would be sending you invitations to a lot of secure social events and you could either accept or decline. There are no commitments. My office could help you to better vet your interviews, and we could use our political influence to get you in front of the right people. You can think of it as free public relations management."

"You think I need a public relations manager?" Rory questions with more than a little skepticism.

"Oh, hell yeah, you do!" Congressman Graham exclaims with a face full of concern. "You're famous now, Rory, and not just in the states. You are becoming famous worldwide. Did you know that your name was trending on Twitter for three days after that first press conference? And are you aware that the hashtag for 'The Golden Goose' has not stopped trending since that appearance on Our World Today?"

"That's right, Rory," Governor Hayes begins with a deep smile as if talking to one of his kids. "You have become someone noteworthy. When you open your mouth from here on out, you're not just talking, you are 'making a statement.' If you and Kelly get into a fight, it will be in the tabloids. If you say something about Justin Bieber's hair, such as that it looks like a patch of fur from a bear's ass, you'll soon see that comment on CNN. Your name, and your words, both carry a lot of weight. I may be out of line, but I think it was a mistake to let Corba Strong control the narrative, which landed you in the middle of The Redwood Forest with a bunch of psychopaths... I encourage you not to go it alone this time; work with people who understand the dangers of your situation, and who know how to protect you."

Although he knows a lot of this speech is false and that Governor Hayes only likes him for his blood, Rory feels flattered nonetheless. He looks at Kelly who just stares blankly waiting for him to say something.

"Why don't I talk it over with Kelly?" Rory says with a charming smile. "Can we call you back in a few days?"

"Absolutely," Governor Hayes replies, pretending that working with Rory and setting up all his public engagements is not of interest to him. "Please call my office and work out the details with Michaela if you want some help." He reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a white business card with red lettering, and then casually passes it to Rory with a bright smile. "Thank you both so much for coming tonight and we hope to see you again."

After saying their farewells to the three Politicians, Rory and Kelly retreat indoors to enjoy some food. Soon after their hearty meal, they are slow dancing on the ballroom floor, finally able to relax and just be themselves for an evening.

"I'm glad we came to this," Rory says, kissing her gently on the cheek.

"Me too, baby," she agrees with glowing eyes.

"I've been thinking about what they said, and it makes a lot of sense." Rory states, as they complete the turn on the dance floor.

"Yeah, but you know they have an agenda?" Kelly asks with suspicion.

"What agenda?" He asks with a fearless smile. "To parade me around and make them look good? Sweetheart, everyone is going to be using us for that; maybe even for the rest of our lives. I just think this is a great opportunity to help people; to stay safe, and to spend more time together."

"Yes," Kelly responds after a few seconds of deep thought. "Lets go for it. It sounds like exactly what we need right now."

The young couple holds each other tight on the dance floor as they continue to float on thoughts of exclusive parties and fascinating projects. They are both certain that this path will be far safer than the last; a public relations tour where they control the narrative and call the shots.
VII. Let the Games Begin

Things move quickly after the couple contacts Michaela Sordova at The Governor's office. She gets the ball rolling on their public relations efforts with a flattering picture of the Governor shaking Rory's hand which is subsequently sent out to The Associated Press for full syndication. Within just a few hours of that, a studio in Burbank contacts them about making a documentary to tell the story of Rory's life-saving blood. After just a few hours of negotiation, the documentary deal is done with Rory getting 7% of the royalties and 8% going to help starving children in Africa. They experience a serious hiccup in their plans when the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center tries to issue a cease and desist order for their efforts, but the Governor's attorney quickly swats it down by demonstrating the hospital's non-compliance in several sections of their agreement.

As soon as they are no longer under the restrictions of the hospital, the young couple sets out on tour to do a lot of good in the world and raise money so that a cure can be derived from Rory's blood.

Over the next few months, they go on hiatus from work and college, attending: private parties, galas, art shows, news interviews, talk shows, and medical conferences. As The Governor's Public Relations Manager, Michaela knows her way around the news media and she is able to keep Kelly and Rory in the spotlight, while steering reporters away from their home.

Not only does the couple enjoy the feeling of being able to heal people and give their families hope, they also get to leverage some expensive public works and charity projects. After their first speaking engagement, they agree to give 300 milliliters of Rory's blood to a commercial developer whose son is stricken with leukemia in exchange for a $3 Million check to help rescue children out of the brothels in Guam. A few weeks later, at a charity art auction, Rory donates 500 milliliters of his blood to an investment banker whose wife was just diagnosed with lymphoma. The banker agrees to fund an $8 Million housing project which is personally managed by Rory and Governor Hayes. The new housing project is planned for construction near downtown Los Angeles, and is an effort to modernize an entire city block with solar panels and other upgrades.

Over an eight-month period, the couple is able to raise over $350 million in donations and to save sixty-seven lives as a direct result of Rory's blood transfusions, and tens of thousands of other lives as a result of the donations.

Nearly a year has passed in what only seems like it was the blink of an eye, until one day in early February. Rory gets a call from Michaela stating that she has urgent news and wants to meet with him and Kelly in the privacy of their home. Rory agrees to the meeting, but when he asks for details Michaela refuses to speak over the phone.

A few hours after the ominous phone call, Rory and Kelly are seated next to each other on the sofa trying to speculate what news Michaela has for them. Kelly has adapted her fashion style to a more conservative look for charity work and is wearing a mauve blouse with a pair of loose fitting black dress pants. Her once sleek long hair is now cropped and molded into a more symmetrical 'news anchor' look.

Rory has also changed his style throughout the public relations tour. His cargo pants have been replaced by loose fitting black dress pants, and he has exchanged his workout shirts for light colors and soft, button-down shirts that make him more approachable.

"What do you think is going on with Michaela?" Rory asks his once seductive girlfriend; now more professional queen bee than naughty tennis vixen.

"She probably just wants to go over some disclosures, or maybe they hit a bump in the road again with UCLA Medical's legal department." She smiles at him with her brilliant white veneers. "I think we'll be fine, Hon, I'm sure it's just something she can't say over a cell phone line."

"We've saved a lot of people, haven't we, baby?" He says with a satisfied smile.

"Yeah, I was so happy to see those kids in Guam get freed, and the kids in Africa get the food and medicine; so many amazing stories..." Kelly smiles wide, grabbing his right hand with her left and relaxing into the leather of the sofa. "I really am glad that we've done all this; so many lives, and so much pain gone from the world. For me, it's the kids. I just like knowing that over 50,000 kids will not suffer due to a lack of food or some pervert having their way."

"How was your trip to Fort Lauderdale?" He asks with an exhausted smile, trying to remember the last time they were able to relax together like this.

"It was okay," she says, stretching her arms high in the air which causes the blouse to tighten around her amazing chest. "Just a really long flight; a whole round trip of boring, and more boring, but at least there are more people who won't go hungry."

"Do you remember the times we used to have on this couch? All those naughty little games we used to play before the world fell into our lives? He asks sheepishly, licking his lips a bit.

"I've been thinking about those times," she replies sensually, biting down on her lower lip and nodding her head slowly.

Kelly stretches again, leaning toward him with those amazing breasts. Soon he realizes that she's doing it on purpose and is just as on fire as him. Rory grabs her stomach with a hunger he's not felt since he was a teenager and begins to kiss up her torso.

"Oh shit, baby, that's my nasty boy..." she says breathlessly, rocking her hips towards him. "Michaela is going to be here in a few minutes."

"Then lets make the most of the next few minutes," he utters with excited desire, putting his mouth over her left breast and sucking it through her blouse.

"Baby, oh sweetheart. Give it to me, Rory. Get it, boy! Get it NOW!" She is suddenly impatient and demands her boyfriend this second, feeling like the rest of the world shouldn't be able to steal this time away from them.

Rory flips her over onto her stomach and reaches around for her small, stainless steel belt buckle. She is rocking her hips with anticipation and he rips the belt off, tossing it into the corner of the room. Then he undoes her pants with ferocious desire, feeling her top button break off before he pulls her zipper down.

"Yes, baby, give it to me. Get it inside me now!" She demands, rocking her hips more with pent up desire.

Rory is immediately aroused watching her ass twist the fabric of her panties up and down. He can smell her wetness; a putrid, damp sweetness dripping between her legs. His fingers grip tightly around her pants and he pulls them down to her knees, kissing the right side of her butt and licking the tiny bit of salty sweat from its surface. He quickly reaches down and undoes his own pants, pulling them to his knees as well. Then he mounts her sexy frame from behind, thrusting himself up under her panties and teasing her with his shaft. She moans in hungry desire, pulling her panties off at a crooked angle. He slides his pelvis up against her ass allowing his shaft to massage her clitoris. Then he reaches around to the front of her putting his hand down near her dripping labia and he holds his shaft tight against her, thrusting and teasing her clitoris even more.

She is getting wetter every second, and the smell of her is making him crazy. He begins pulling his shaft back further and further, rubbing her bare clitoris each time he goes forward. Soon he is rubbing the tip of his member in a circle just a fraction away from pushing up inside her. Kelly is now reaching back with her hands urging him to stop teasing her. Finally she can't take it anymore, and pulls his shaft inside, thrusting her hips until her inner labia have completely taken him. She moans with heat and desire as they frantically attack one another. Rory begins to bite and kiss her neck, reaching his hands inside her blouse and groping those perfect breasts. Kelly is beginning to breathe deeply, getting closer to orgasm with every thrust. Behind her, he is starting to sweat heavily, feeling himself getting ready to explode, and he reaches down and pulls his shaft out for a moment.

"Ow," she complains for a half second as his member moves too quickly across her delicate lips. "Oh, baby, put it back in! Put it back in, I'm almost there!"

He takes just a few seconds to get his breathing under control, and then slides it back inside, both of them moaning in sheer ecstasy at that initial moment of fresh penetration.

"Get it, baby. Get it! Get it! Yes, right there." Kelly cries out with satisfaction digging her nails into the leather sofa cushions and biting the leather fabric like a wild woman.

As Kelly's body is starting to convulse with the beginning of an orgasm, there is a loud knock at the door. Rory starts thrusting frantically, trying to finish her off so they can get to the door before Michaela comes around to the back of the house, or worse yet, walks through a potentially unlocked front door.

"Don't you dare answer that!" Kelly threatens in her wild woman voice. "You just keep getting it, boy. Get it!"

There is another knock at the door, and Rory firmly grips her perfect chest, thrusting his pelvis against her as deep and rhythmic as possible. He pushes with every ounce of his strength, and finally she stops moving, enjoying several seconds of total bliss, and convulsing with more pleasure. Her small feet wrap around his legs and she reaches back and pulls him with her arm as if she wants him to join her in this beautiful moment of ecstasy. He kisses her neck and she twists her head so that they can taste each other's lips while he is still fully aroused inside her. After the sensual kiss, he slowly pulls himself out of her, being careful not to cause her any pain.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you." She says with a naughty smile, quickly pulling up her panties and her pants. There is another, more urgent knock at the door, and she replies, "I'm coming," with a devious snicker.

Kelly shuffles hastily to the front door across the smooth bamboo flooring. Rory smiles as he notices that her legs are a bit cramped from their intense, passionate playtime, and she has a bit of trouble walking.

"Hello, Michaela," she says quickly, sticking her head out the door. "Could you give us just a moment? Thanks. Yeah, we'll just be a second."

She covers her mouth like a naughty teenager as she closes the door, laughing at Rory as he tries to pull his dress pants up over his still fully aroused member.

"Sorry, baby, that's my fault," she beams with radiant pride. "I'm going to get a scented candle from upstairs. Do you want me to bring down some pictures of my grandma so you can get rid of that?" She says with another sarcastic snicker.

"Fuck you!" He replies in a frustrated whisper.

"Sounds good to me, but she'll have to wait a little longer." Kelly teases with a glowing smile.

Rory takes off his shoe without saying another word and throws it at the handrail of the staircase in front of her.

"Oh shit, domestic abuse," she laughs playfully, running up the stairs to clean herself up for their meeting.

To Rory's surprise, Michaela steps in through the front door, and he immediately faces away from her as he tries to button his pants.

"If you don't mind, I'm just going to wait right here in the foyer." Michaela calls out as she closes the front door behind her. "Oh, hello, Rory," Michaela says in her overly friendly public relations tone.

"Hello, Michaela," he replies nervously, stepping into the kitchen behind the faucet and cupboards. "Would you like something... to drink?"

"Hey, Michaela," Kelly announces with her laid back happy glow, carrying a scented candle with a flickering flame down the stairs. "We're all adults here... I haven't seen my boyfriend in two weeks. He wanted me and I wanted him. Is this something that can wait for tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid not," Michaela says looking at the floor, her usually chipper tone replaced with a professional, by-the-book delivery.

Kelly looks at their public relations manager with a sudden sense of fear. Her demeanor becomes serious as she starts to understand that Michaela has some type of bad news. Michaela is a hardworking woman in her mid-twenties. Her Latin features and glamorous blonde hair with black tips shows that she always means business. Today she is wearing her designer eyeglasses, and is cradling a thick manila envelope with her right arm. Her blouse is a solid white with subtle patterns stitched around the fringe. She is sporting a fluorescent orange scarf that covers her small neck and is showing off her athletic legs under a sexy black skirt. Her black high heels have the perfect shine as she steps across the hardwood floor, letting them click heavily as she walks.

Michaela takes a seat in the overstuffed leather chair by the window just opposite of the sofa and smiles pleasantly as she waits for the young couple to get organized. Kelly quickly descends the rest of the stairs and sets the scented candle on the clear glass of the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Would you like something to drink?" Kelly asks sheepishly, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing moment.

"No, I'm fine," Michaela replies in an even tone, displaying some discomfort on her face as well. She sounds foreboding and looks ominous with her upper body eclipsed by a shadow cast from the patio doors, while her legs are covered in brilliant sunlight. "Just let me know when you're ready? It's probably best that you're both sitting down."

After hearing this, Rory immediately finishes washing his hands and steps down out of the kitchen to join Kelly on the sofa. Once he is seated, Rory leans in toward Michaela, eager to hear what she has to say. He looks over at Kelly and notices that she is doing the same.

"Okay," Michaela begins, not needing any prompting from the couple; her highly educated voice carrying easily through the large home. "I have some bad news as I'm certain you've ascertained from the urgency of this meeting. About four hours ago, a DVD was sent via express mail to the Los Angeles Times. Inside the box, which was roughly: thirty-six, by twenty-four, by eighteen inches of corrugated white cardboard; there was also the mutilated body of a goose."

Kelly puts her hand over her mouth in horror, staring down at the floor and shaking her head. Rory leans forward, swallowing hard as he puts his right hand on top of his head in astonishment. The entire room goes silent for a few seconds before Michaela continues.

"Now, the video also contained a death threat from a masked suspect, and the rest of the video... shows what happened to the goose."

"A death threat to me?" Rory asks with amazement.

"No, the death threat was to Kelly," Michaela says slowly, looking at Kelly with a great deal of empathy in her face.

"In the video, the man explains how his wife died of leukemia, and he blames you for her death, Rory." She looks down at the floor for a moment and swallows hard before continuing. "The man says that his daughter is also dying of leukemia and that he is going to do the same to Kelly..."

"What?" Rory asks, becoming impatient. "He said he's going to do what to Kelly?"

"He said he's going to do worse to her than he did to the goose." Michaela replies reluctantly.

"What did he do to the goose?" Rory asks with disbelief, his breathing becoming heavier and filled with emotion.

"He..." Michaela swallows hard, and closes her eyes for a moment, obviously having seen the entire DVD. "He beat it to death with a hammer, starting at the feet. It was awful, I don't recommend watching."

"Oh my God!" Kelly starts to cry on the sofa and pulls her legs up to her chest.

Rory slides up next to her and wraps his arms delicately around her, looking at Michaela with desperate eyes.

"There's more," Michaela says slowly, not wanting to continue. "I'll tell you when you feel that you're ready."

"She's okay," Rory says holding Kelly tenderly and stroking her hair for comfort. "Just tell us the whole story so that we know what we're up against."

"The man talks about a recent article derived from a press release that was written by Corba Strong just a few weeks ago. In that press release, Corba details that her termination from the UCLA Medical Center was unfair. She also states that doctors were unable to synthesize a cure due to the lack of cooperation from you, Rory. Her announcement details that, several months ago, you stopped providing the necessary blood that the project needed to go forward. She also accuses you both of withholding the blood so that you can become independently wealthy and famous from keeping that leverage. Beyond that, she has been hired by a pharmaceutical research firm, who has deep pockets, and they have authorized her to continue a smear campaign about you."

"She was fired from UCLA, and someone else just turns around and gives the bitch a new set of knives to stab in my back? What was she fired for?" Rory asks with frustrated curiosity.

"The UCLA Medical Center fired her for misconduct after you stopped participating in the case studies and clinical trials. Now she works for a $10 Billion firm that doesn't have the same moral constitution as the board at UCLA."

"We need to get more security around this house." Rory says, thinking out loud.

"I don't know if it's really necessary, we've had a lot of death threats in the past eight months, and none of them-"

"What the fuck!?" Kelly asks, straightening herself suddenly on the sofa. "You've had other death threats? What other death threats?"

"Kelly," she begins gently, "you and Rory are celebrities now; everyone in the country knows your faces and your names. All celebrities get death threats. Part of our job is-"

"Is to hide the death threats from your clients until they get slaughtered like sheep?" Kelly asks, her voice escalating with incredulous betrayal. "Why do you public relations people think that you can treat us like children? We are NOT CHILDREN!" She shouts, tightening her fist in a ball and holding it in front of her.

"I understand that you're not children," Michaela replies softly, "but how does knowing about these threats help you to enjoy your lives?"

"It's more important than that, you arrogant bitch!" Rory says with fury as he turns back toward her, placing one hand inside of the other. "What if not knowing about this costs us our lives? What else haven't you told us? I want to know everything TONIGHT or we are done working with you forever." He stares at Michaela with angst, breathing heavily and shaking his head every few seconds."

"I can't believe this," Kelly says with a pale expression, "all the things we have done to help people. All the lives that we've saved. I feel like I'm going to puke. How could they treat us like this?" She looks at Rory, shaking her head in astonishment, but he is still staring at Michaela.

"Well?" He demands, leaning closer to her; his backside at the very edge of the sofa. "Tell us everything. NOW!"

Michaela seems to be prepared for this part of the conversation and slowly opens the manila envelope. She reaches inside and pulls out a large stack of papers, looking closely at the cover page before setting them on the coffee table in front of Kelly and Rory.

"Those are all death threats?" Rory asks through gritted teeth.

Michaela nods slowly, looking down and away.

"What is in these pages?" Rory demands, pointing at the thick stack of papers on the coffee table.

"There have been about three a week for the past eight months," Michaela answers; her face stricken with guilt and frustration. "We have sent each threat to the FBI for follow up, and Governor Hayes has been coordinating with them as well."

"You and Governor Hayes have both been keeping this from us?" Rory asks with disgust, folding his arms indignantly and leaning back into the sofa cushions. "If we had known about these, we would have made a statement on TV right from the beginning-"

"Which is absolutely the dumbest thing you could have done in this situation, Mr. Chambers. These sick people have a little bit of humanity still left inside them. On some level, they know that what they are doing is wrong. Going to the press is a HUGE mistake; I promise you that. These people are unstable and misguided, but if two or three reporters somewhere in the Nation send out any type of message that they agree, or even partially agree with their sick logic, then that is enough vindication for them to act!" Michaela finishes intrepidly, raising her eyebrows.

Kelly puts her right hand on Rory's knee and looks him in the eyes as if telling him to listen and relax. He nods and lets his guard down, waiting for Michaela to continue.

"By keeping this away from you and by keeping these out of the media spotlight, we have extinguished any vindication or satisfaction these people were seeking when they sent these threats. The Governor and I have managed the threats this way for his entire term, but the reason I am coming to you tonight is because this story is going to run on channel 5, and it will appear in the newspaper tomorrow. Also, Corba Strong is no longer restricted by the UCLA board of ethics, which means that most likely she is going to be the media source that may tip a few of these people over the edge."

"That woman is a fucking cancer," Rory says without reservation, reaching back down and squeezing Kelly's hand tight.

"Now our attorneys are trying to issue an anti-defamation order against Corba Strong and XLevel Pharmaceuticals, but we can't guarantee that we will stop them. Over the next few days, if they don't back off, I'd like to entertain the idea of giving them 200 milliliters in blood a month to cease and desist."

"Unfuckingbelievable!" Rory exclaims, shaking his head in disgust.

"No, it gets a little worse," Michaela continues with the disposition of military leader. "Corba has friends in Congress and the Senate. Governor Hayes has heard rumblings that they want to approach The Supreme Court to find out if they can get a warrant to extract your blood and continue the clinical trials."

"You can't be serious!?" Rory asks with shock and disgust.

"The Congressmen have asserted that your blood may produce a cure for terminal illnesses and that if our enemies are able to develop the cure first; it could produce a new threat from biological weapons. However," Michaela interrupts before Rory gets too frustrated, "there is a 95% chance that they will get denied without the court even considering the case. It would be unconstitutional for The United States Government to ever demand blood from a citizen; whether free or incarcerated. The only threat this poses is that it would create a lot of unwanted publicity."

"I want a security team," Rory declares, standing up from the couch as he puts his hands on his hips.

"That probably isn't the best idea-" Michaela begins and is interrupted by Rory.

"Look, I appreciate you playing mommy to Kelly and I for the past few months, and we understand that you've been smart and careful, and kept this from going up in flames. But from what you're telling us about this goose video and that stack of letters, it has already gone up in flames, and; I really need to get some security here."

"I really don't think-" Michaela tries to speak again and is denied by Rory.

"Kell, who was that security contractor we met with at the big gun show in Vegas?" Rory asks, showing Michaela that she is done making decisions for them.

"His name was Jack Stansbury; I think he wanted some type of private consultation, but we didn't have time for him." Kelly says, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

"We have time for him now," Rory says quickly, running upstairs to grab his laptop.

"There's one more thing," Michaela adds with a shaky tone of voice.

"Okay," Kelly says with a sigh, feeling frustrated and relieved to finally get all of the information.

"There have been death threats to Rory's mother. We have been coordinating with her and the FBI to monitor-"

"You should go," Kelly says with an emboldened stare, "I'll tell him about this, but you don't want to be anywhere near him when he finds out... He's never hit a woman in his life, but tonight... You should just go, because if I want to hit you for lying to us, I doubt he'll have as much self control."

"I'm sorry..." Michaela finally admits with sincerity.

"That's not enough," Kelly replies with a firm voice. "This is our lives you've been playing with. We deserve full disclosure if Governor Hayes wants to keep up his dog and pony show with Rory."

Michaela nods with a somber expression and makes her way to the front door with the remaining contents of the manila envelope. After she leaves, Kelly holds her right hand up against her brow, shaking with fear, and looking at herself in the reflection on the double pane window. The woman looking back at her seems nothing like her old self.
VIII. International Trade War

The following morning is quiet and uncomfortable as the young couple is trying to cope with the news in their own way. Rory and Kelly sit at the large, round cedar kitchen table glancing at each other as they read through more of the death threats. Their normal lavish breakfast of fresh meats, eggs, and fried potatoes, has been economized to on-the-go foods. Everything they eat now is: dry, canned, or refrigerated in a small cup. Today's breakfast is: canned pears, strawberry yogurt cups, bagels, and beef jerky. Kelly is still wearing her green, silk pajamas, and her hair is tied back showing off her pale face. Rory has taken advantage of a day off to revive an old pair of white cargo pants with a hole in the right rear pocket and a black fitness shirt with a stain from a protein shake. They both appear exhausted as they've spent much of the night trying to sift through the death threats and make sense of all these new developments.

"I talked to Jack Stansbury last night," Rory says with a yawn, setting a small stack of death threats just to the right of his breakfast.

"Oh yeah?" Kelly replies, still reading halfway through a page from another stack of threats. "What did he have to say?"

"He said that he'll provide security, but wants us to sign a non-disclosure agreement before he tells us what he needs my blood for." Rory says with boredom, turning his thumb sideways and rubbing it between his eyes.

"HIV or AIDS?" Kelly asks without looking up from her pages.

"Yep, that's what I'm thinking." Rory responds shaking his head.

"Wife and kids?" She asks with a dry tone, continuing to read. "Wife and kids aren't infected, but the husband tested positive? Husband is wealthy and has a lot of time on his hands..."

"I don't know," Rory answers, grabbing an empty glass from the table and filling it with cranberry juice. "But he is sending a few security guys over here later tonight; I think we're going to be fine."

"Fine!?" Kelly asks, dropping the stack of pages on top of her food. "We are not fucking fine, Rory!" She declares with a look of frustration and fear. "Other couples, normal couples, are reading their newspapers this morning. But not us, we are reading our stack of death threats from the latest batch of sick, twisted assholes who decided that killing us just makes sense."

"Look, I know this has been rocky, but we've got the FBI-"

"We've got the FBI for what?" Kelly asks in despair. "To help clean up our bodies and locate our killers after we're dead? Maybe you're calm because most of these people don't want to hurt you, they want to hurt me, or Michaela, or Governor Hayes, or your Mom."

"What about my Mom?" Rory snaps back immediately; his eyes full of mistrust.

"Yeah, that's right; Michaela told me that she and The Governor, in their infinite wisdom, decided to withhold a death threat that was issued to your Mom."

"Are you kidding me? Why didn't she call me!?" He asks with a puzzled expression.

Kelly doesn't say anything, but smiles sarcastically and raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to figure it out.

"Michaela asked her to keep quiet? Michaela had the balls to ask my Mother to keep quiet from me?" He stands up suddenly, feeling an overload of nervous energy as he walks over to the sink and grips his hands tight around the edge of the stainless steel basin. Then he turns around and leans against the sink with his arms folded across his stomach, staring down at the floor that he used to play on as a child back when it was covered in soft, thick carpet.

"This is ruining our lives," Kelly says with disgust, picking up the stack of papers for a moment, and then tossing them over to his side of the table. "In that stack of papers," she says as tears start to roll forward from her eyes, "people describe hurting me in ways that I could never think of in a thousand years. I especially like how dashing the guy was that said he wanted to shove a sharp chicken bone in my throat, and watch me choke on my own blood, because you won't give up any of yours. And let's not forget the sweet man who wants to break my legs with his golf club, and then make 'rough love' to me while I'm trying to crawl away. This guy doesn't even want your blood; he just hates seeing me on TV."

"What do you want me to do, Kelly?" Rory asks holding his hands out to the sides with his palms up. "I've got security for us twenty-four hours a day; four guys covering two twelve-hour shifts."

"Security, babe? Really? We had security before all this shit started," her eyes flow with more tears as she continues, "and now some psycho wants to beat me with a hammer until my body is nothing but a horrible mess, because he blames you that his wife died... and that his daughter is going to die?" Kelly puts her hands up to her face as she begins to cry and shake with a blank stare of total fear. "I can't fucking do this; oh my God!"

"You can't do what?" Rory asks with an expression of confusion, but knows exactly what she means.

"I can't live with you... and your fucking blood anymore. I remember thinking about John F. Kennedy after you were abducted in The Redwood Forest... His wife saw these assholes take him from her; brutally, in front of kids on the street... In public! My God, Rory, you have become like heroin to these people. They think you're some kind of reservoir full of endless magic blood, and no matter how much we give, it won't be enough. It will never be enough for these sick, selfish assholes!"

"The hospital could synthesize a cure any day now-"

"The hospital, Rory? Are you kidding? I read the clinical trials, and even though the medical language didn't sink into my restaurant hostess brain, I understood the part where it says your blood does something that might take decades to understand."

"Okay!" He concedes with frustration; his face full of despair as he walks up slowly and puts his arms around her. "I don't want anything to happen to you. We need to break up, and we need to do it in a public place."

"Thank you, baby. Thank you! I'm so sorry." She says with grateful tears of relief.

They hold each other tight in the middle of the kitchen, rocking back and forth gently, and as Rory hears her sobs of relief, he feels like he's made his first good decision in a long time.

"I need to call my Mom and make sure she's okay," Rory says, swallowing hard as he looks deep into her beautiful blue eyes. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Babe, I understand, go call her," she says with a sigh of relief as tears come down in even streams on her cheeks.

Rory gives her a masculine kiss, and then dips his head slightly as he moves to the upstairs bedroom for some privacy. Kelly begins to remove their stale breakfast from the kitchen table, tossing away: bagels, yogurt cups, and clearing dishes as if she is removing the evidence of how bland their relationship has become over the past few months. When she has almost finished, there is a knock at the door and she stands frozen for moment, looking around the house. After a brief pause, she steps silently over to the hardwood floor of the entryway, peering out the peephole and holding her breath with fear. She lowers her head in relief as she recognizes the face on the other side.

"Hello, Governor Hayes," Kelly says as she opens the door. "Why don't you come in?"

"So I'm assuming that Michaela explained everything last night?" The Governor asks as he steps into the entryway and Kelly gestures for him to take a seat on the leather sofa.

Governor Hayes is dressed in a dark gray suit with a black dress shirt and bright yellow tie. His spiked red hair is a bit of a mess today, but his small frameless glasses are immaculate. He has a hard time crossing his legs as his belly has grown since last time they talked, so he elects to keep his black wingtips flat on the floor as he waits for Kelly to take a seat.

"Something to drink?" Kelly asks lazily, not caring that her hair and makeup display how little effort she cares to put in today.

"No thanks, I'm fine," Governor Hayes replies with a short half smile, wanting to get straight to business. "How are you?"

"Rory and I just broke up." She says, closing her eyes and opening them from the refreshed pain. "I spent the evening reading death threats. I got to make love to my boyfriend, right where you're sitting, for less than five minutes yesterday before everything went to shit."

"I'm sorry," Hayes says as he squirms in his seat, looking down for a bit and wondering if she is joking or not.

"No. No more sorrys." Kelly demands twisting her neck as she leans forward clasping both hands together. "Sorry is something you say to flood victims, earthquake victims; things you have no control over. But when Hurricane Michaela hit my life last night, I wanted a lot more than just a sorry. I want my life back!"

"There are a few things that I want you to know," The Governor begins, showing that she has offended him. "First off, you can't hold me responsible for the fact that there are crazy people in this world. And second, this ball was already rolling toward the pins before I got here, but I have kept you safe, as promised, from the beginning. Actually, I also want to make a third point. If you two didn't want a public and potentially dangerous life, why were you so eager to get it started?"

"We were eager because you sold us, Governor," she retorts, staring deep into his eyes, "just like you're trying to sell us now."

"Look, damn it, I'm a person too!" Governor Hayes declares, pointing at her with his right index finger. "I came down here for two reasons; one of them being to ensure you're okay. I know you're scared, and I don't blame you, but lets work together to fix these problems. Screaming at each other won't do any good."

"What was the second reason?" She asks with preemptive disgust.

"To see if you need anything. Also, I wanted to tell both of you... or one of you, that you've been invited to the Academy Awards."

"What?" Kelly asks, suddenly surprised. "Why? We didn't make a movie."

"The event is two or three weeks away," Governor Hayes says softly. "You and Rory were invited because the documentary about his blood has been nominated. Michaela told me about it this morning, but she was... afraid to come down here."

"Why do they want us to be there?" Kelly asks with a look of disbelief.

"They want to talk about the charity work you've been doing, and they want to see Rory present the award for best documentary."

"What if we don't go?" She threatens with a vindictive stare.

"Then they send the Hollywood Police to come down and beat your ass..." He jokes with a fatherly voice. "No, it's an invitation. You can go to The Academy Awards, or you can... have more time on your sofa." He finishes with a boyish smile.

"You are so damn charming," she answers in a positive tone. "Okay, I'm intrigued," Kelly says with a smile, "but only because it will help out our charities more than two years on the road ever could."

"Fantastic." Governor Hayes says with a grin, "I would say see you there, but I'm not invited." He stands up from the sofa with a 'mission accomplished' expression and shakes her hand with a knowing wink.

"Aren't you going to ask me about the goose and the threats?" Kelly beckons as he is walking toward the door.

"Michaela already filled me in on your position last night. We will stop treating you like children." He responds with a wide smile before adding a little jab. "Besides, who am I to get between a girl and her death threats?"

"Thank you, Governor," she says with a sudden peaceful grin, feeling relaxed for the first time since the previous evening. "Have a great day."

"You as well, Kelly. Tell Rory I said hello." The Governor waves to her and lets himself out, smiling with satisfaction after cheering her up so quickly.

As The Governor sees himself out, Kelly folds her arms and a wide smile appears on her face.

The next three weeks pass by without incident, and the couple decides to suspend their breakup until the Academy Awards to ensure it is public and official. Rory is able to work out a deal with Jack Stansbury who is infected with the HIV Virus and desperate for a cure. However, he demands that Rory sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding the transaction. After Rory provides Jack enough blood to inoculate him and his wife, the security mogul provides Rory and Kelly with four security guards to protect them twenty-four hours a day.

For this time leading up to the event, the young couple removes themselves from the public relations schedule, asking Michaela not to book anything until after the show. This is also the perfect time for a break as the news media enters into full frenzy mode after the video of the mutilated goose goes public. Rory and Kelly also decide that any death threats will be copied for the FBI, then immediately returned to sender. Although they enjoy each other's company, this valuable time is mostly spent inside the home, and they soon feel that their lives have been confined to a fishbowl. Every day Kelly has a story about something they used to do all the time, and when she brings it up, Rory simply continues to make the most of enjoying their time at home.

After several weeks of reclusive time in the house, or what Kelly likes to call Martha Stewart's alternative living, the evening of The Academy Awards has finally arrived. Rory is dressed in a sleek black tuxedo, fully equipped with all the traditional flair that the show demands, including black, designer dress shoes. His hair is slicked back and he has grown a neatly manicured, brown goatee around his mouth. He sits patiently at the kitchen table waiting for Kelly to finish making last-minute adjustments to her: dress, hair, and makeup.

Just as he is about to remind her that the show is starting in less than an hour, his cell phone rings, and he sees Jack Stansbury's name on the caller ID.

"Hello, Jack, how are you doing?" Rory asks in a pleasant voice like a little boy anticipating his first day at school.

"Things are going great, Rory. Are you excited for the show?" Jack speaks in his normal raucous, military tone, always trying to be pleasant, but clearly wanting to get to the point.

"I'm excited, and I think Kelly's excited." Rory replies quickly, looking at his large, silver wristwatch.

"Good, good. Well, about that," Jack says in a selfish, snappy tone, "my guys were hired to protect you under normal circumstances, and we've been proud to cover your home for this long, but I can't cover a special event like this without some extra compensation."

"Compensation!?" Rory snaps back, raising his voice. "I cured you and your wife of the HIV Virus; how the fuck do I owe you compensation?"

"I really don't appreciate your tone, Rory," Jack responds with a raised voice and a stronger rasp. "All you did was to have some of your blood delivered to my doctor, which we are not supposed to be discussing AT ALL!"

"This is bullshit!" Rory exclaims with a voice that broadcasts contempt. "I can't believe you're trying to extort more money out of us; you pompous ass! My blood is worth $500,000 on the open market, and you've been permanently cured of a terminal illness."

"Again, Rory, don't fucking bring that up. Part of our deal is that our deal never took place. As for the money, I'll give you a discount, but I have a business to run, and the guys I provided you are military badasses. Two of them even have anti-insurgency training. They could protect you from a terrorist. So yeah, you supposedly saved my life, but I've been saving yours for three weeks now."

"Jack, I've had it with people trying to get free money out of me: the people who deliver our food, our dry cleaners, and now your second rate security guards. Maybe I should just put out a press release stating that I cured you of the HIV Virus?"

"Okay, that's it, you cocky little sonofabitch!" Jack exclaims in a flare of defiance. "I am pulling my guys out, and if you need help in the future, whether you have the money or not, you can shove that dead goose right up your ass!"

"You cowardly prick!" Rory fires back as he gets up from the table to pace back and forth in his kitchen. "We bailed you out of your little mistake that took place God knows where and now you're-" Rory stops speaking as the phone goes silent. "Hello...? Jack?"

Just a few seconds after their heated call ends, Rory hears the screeching of tires against asphalt. As he looks out the front window, he sees a familiar black SUV driving at full speed out of his neighborhood. When it disappears around the corner, he recognizes it as the SUV that Jack's security guards have been using to stake out his home and escort the couple around the city.

"Shit..." Rory utters to himself under his breath.

"What was that, babe?" Kelly asks, moving at double speed down the stairs despite her high heels.

Rory looks up at his girlfriend in a state of guilt and shock, unable to enjoy her amazing breasts bouncing with vigor as she descends the stairs in a remarkable blue, designer dress. She has a sheer black scarf pulled across her shoulders and is holding a blue clutch that matches the dress, and her hair is pulled up in a sleek wave that is classic and elegant.

"What did you do?" She asks, coming to a stop in the living room to look at him for a moment, before peeking out the front window. "Where are Sal and Tommy?"

"Jack and I had a disagreement." Rory answers slowly, displaying indignant pride, but with eyes that show regret.

"I don't care what you disagreed about!" Kelly declares with wide eyes. "Those men were here to keep us alive, Rory."

"He wanted more money. The bastard doesn't even appreciate that we saved his life and covered his ass." Rory responds slowly, realizing his mistake as he hears it from his own mouth.

"I don't care, just pay him the money," Kelly demands, glaring at Rory with contempt and confusion.

"I can't; he got pissed off and said that we're on our own." Rory admits helplessly as he stares at the floor, and then looks slowly up at her. "There will be security at the awards, and we have a limo driver."

"This is unbelievable!" She says with frustration, glaring at him and folding her arms. "I want to hear you say it."

"To say what?' He asks in defeat, holding his arms out to his sides with the palms up.

"I want to hear you say that you fucked up."

"I fucked up." He agrees after a short pause.

"Okay," she says with satisfaction, closing her eyes for a moment and taking in a deep breath, "lets do this."

Rory tries to speak to Kelly in the back of the limousine, but she keeps her arms folded giving him half smiles every so often, showing her intention to ignore him in favor of staring out the window. Droplets of rain start to pelt the shiny black exterior of the limousine, and soon a torrent of rain begins to fill the streets; wild and unpredictable nature, forcing even the most dangerous people to take shelter.

As the limo stops in front of the red carpet, the driver runs around to open the door and Kelly steps out into the cold rain. However, her hair only takes a few droplets before an usher comes to her aid with an umbrella. Rory makes a fast exit from the rear of the large car then steps up to take the umbrella from the usher and holds it over Kelly's head as they make their way toward the entrance. There are lines of reporters on either side of the red carpet; many of them unprepared for the rain. A few reporters recognize the couple and ask questions about the mutilated goose, but Rory and Kelly simply put their hands to their ears, pretending they can't hear over the storm.

When the couple enters the lavish Hollywood and Highland Center®, they are amazed at the large, magnificent golden statues, and the incredible displays of fashion, combined with bold facial expressions worn by celebrities. They are awestruck by the beauty and scale of the architecture as they step through the lobby, making their way to the main auditorium inside the massive venue.

When they approach the large wooden doors at the entrance to the auditorium, a young woman in her twenties steps forward wearing an expensive black and white usher uniform.

"May I have your names please?" she asks with a bright smile and gleaming blue eyes, turning slightly to the side as her blonde ponytail droops lazily behind her shoulders. She is holding a touch pad that contains a map of the seating arrangements.

"Rory Chambers," Kelly states with a smile, still taking in all the amazing sights from this once in a lifetime event.

"Rory Chambers and guest." The young woman reads from her tablet. "Please follow me," she continues with a wider smile, escorting them to their seats on the far right side of the auditorium.

Soon the show begins, and the couple is immersed in nearly two hours of some of the best live entertainment they've ever witnessed. The experience is surreal as they sit amongst so many accomplished artists. For a moment, Rory feels like he is in a wax museum seeing all these people who have inspired him from childhood to adulthood. Kelly begins to cry when one of her favorite singers steps onstage and performs an emotional rendition of a classic song. The show is going well, and the couple soon realizes that they started holding hands at some point, engaged in the unfolding stories of triumph, disgust, and personal satisfaction.

Rory nearly forgets that he is scheduled to present at the show until an usher bends toward his seat and gestures for his attention. He takes in a deep breath and immediately his heart is pounding as he realizes that he has gone from spectator to presenter. As he stands up from his seat, he squeezes Kelly's hand softly before moving across the row of talented people who filmed the documentary about his blood. Rory closes his eyes for a moment while his body keeps moving forward. Every part of him knows that tonight means so many things: the end of his four-year relationship, exposure to the entire world as a dumb luck savior, and one dream after another slipping through his fingers.

Once he has reached the aisle, the young man leads him toward a side door for backstage access to the show. The production crew had called him on the phone earlier in the week to explain how everything would work. He should walk out on stage with a confident smile, moving slowly with one foot in front of the other as if approaching someone for whom he has great admiration. His eyes will remain focused on the podium, and he should avoid looking directly into the camera until he is reading from the teleprompter.

"Here you are, Sir," the young usher says gracefully extending a hand up to a small flight of stairs behind the stage; his face clean shaven and blue eyes filled with anticipation. "The stage manager will meet you at the top and give you instructions from there. Break a leg, Sir," he says with a smile and nod, showing off his short crop of curly brown hair before making his way back to the seating area.

Rory steps forward slowly wondering why, or even if, he deserves to be here. He hasn't created any great work of visual art or labored thousands of hours on fourteen-hour shifts to produce just two hours of history. As he climbs each stair, he realizes the blessing and the curse of his newfound fame. If only his charity work had earned him the right to stand amongst these people; that would be something he could put on display in his vault of pride and lifetime achievements. When he reaches the last step at the top of the stage, he shakes off these feelings, remembering that he is here to help honor the artists who brought his story to life.

His body is immediately filled with renewed strength and a sense of duty as he accepts his role. Rory nods to the stage manager, reaching out to shake his hand, but the tall, thin man simply pats him on the side of the arm and holds up his index finger signaling for him to wait. This pale skinned man is in his late thirties and he is wearing an expensive headset with a thin integrated microphone hanging just in front of his lips. His short, blonde hair is not remarkable compared to the rest of the people Rory has seen this evening, but there is a confidence about him as he takes instructions from the control booth, holding the earpiece closer to his head for clear audio. After a moment, Rory hears applause and then the familiar voice of the show's host addressing the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the bearded comedian begins from center stage, "now presenting the award for best documentary, The Golden Goose of Los Angeles, philanthropist, and extreme sports daredevil, Mr. Rory Chambers."

Rory swallows hard as he hears his name announced from the main stage and he looks to the stage manager for instruction, feeling suddenly anxious about making the slightest mistake.

"Walk up to the podium, confident smile; don't look directly at the cameras until you reach the microphone. Then follow the instructions on the teleprompter." The man pats him on the back of the arm as if signaling a young calf at a rodeo to run from its pen. "Break a leg." He utters in a whisper, and then speaks into his headset again, relaying more information to the control booth.

A sudden boom of original music is played by the band just below his feet as Rory walks out onto the glossy black stage. He sees the host; a comedian in his mid-forties with a balding head and short red beard, who bows gracefully when he sees Rory and turns on his heel in his expensive black shoes and tuxedo, walking briskly away from the podium.

As he approaches the podium, Rory feels his left shoe scuff the surface of the smooth black stage and his stomach tightens as he forces himself to continue to smile, holding up his right hand in a silent greeting to audience when he steps up to the microphone. He puts his hands on top of the podium, clasping them together and leaning forward a bit as he sees bright blue words appearing on the sleek glass teleprompter. The words march up in neat lines on the shiny glass surface, telling Rory what to say and do; even when to laugh and pause.

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen," Rory reads from the glass with a half smile, breathing heavy from his nose and keeping his composure. "Tonight, we are honor... Tonight, we are here to honor." he repeats, correcting his mistake as his face goes pale white, and a feeling of doubt washes over him. "Excuse me." He says briefly, clearing his throat before speaking again. "Tonight we are here to honor those filmmakers who take the stories of real life and capture the essence of something noteworthy from those stories. It is the nature of a documentary to display real courage, real strife, and in many cases to show, in only a few hours, an entire legacy or life story. Without further delay, here are the nominees for best documentary." Rory finishes by gesturing with his right hand toward the screen above his head as instructed by the words on the glass.

Immediately following his introduction, a pre-recorded video begins to play, narrated by a young woman with a confident and professional voice. On the teleprompter, his instructions say: '[Wait for presentation of nominees to finish. Maintain a noble gaze off to your right.]' As Rory listens to the presentation of the nominated films, he glances at some of the legends seated before him in the auditorium. He wonders how each of their paths all brought them to this one place in life at this moment. It also makes him consider how he reached this point in his life and whether he has any choice but to continue this course. For a moment he can feel Kelly's eyes on him, and on what should have been their most celebrated evening, they would soon have to part ways. He is gripped with emotion and decides to put these thoughts to the back of his mind as the auditorium lights go down.

Rory's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his own documentary being announced and he turns a bit to watch the short video with the rest of the audience, his insides churning with nervous energy.

"Extreme Donor," the woman's voice announces as the title of the film is also displayed on the screen, "directed by Hans Van Schaffer and Emily Schaffer." Rory closes his eyes as the video displays a scene where he is being taken in confidence by a group of travelers and attacked in The Redwood National Forest.

The stage manager steps out quietly as the video is playing and gives Rory a large white envelope with a gold foil seal, then immediately retreats back to the top of the stairs at stage right.

Rory holds the envelope in his right hand, watching as the video transitions to another scene with clips of news footage talking in grand fashion about a possible cure for: cancer, the HIV Virus, and Hepatitis. The video then transitions to more news footage that suggests controversy and playing God. A female news anchor with brunette hair and brown eyes speaks boldly from the screen. "Does Mr. Chambers and the hospital get to decide who lives and who dies? What have we become when the life of an elderly Billionaire is more important to save than the life of a small child? Until a cure is found, this is going to be a bitter war for those who want a second chance. What would any of us do to have a second lease on life? How will Mr. Chambers decide who lives and who dies...?"

The video finishes by showing images of survivors and those cured by the treatments while an emotional song about survival is played, and the final screen shows the words: 'Will we ever find a cure? The battle continues...'

Rory feels sick inside as he realizes that he has been put in the position of playing God. He swallows hard and closes his eyes feeling nauseous as his palms begin to sweat and saturate the expensive white envelope and golden seal. A deep shame washes over him, and at a time when he'd rather be alone with spiritual counsel, he instead must face the world. On the teleprompter, his instructions read: '[When the lights come up, begin announcement.] And the winner is... [Open the envelope and read the film title in a strong voice.]'

"I have to say something," Rory begins with emotion as the lights return focus to the stage. "For almost a year I have felt like a prisoner in my own skin, and somehow I believed that I was an innocent victim." He looks to the left and shakes his head before continuing. "That reporter is right; none of us should ever play God. It was never part of life's design for: one man, one organization, or even one Government to decide who lives and who dies. When people see who is chosen for the winning side, and for the losing side of this battle with terminal illnesses, some of them are elated and others are justifiably filled with rage and a sense of betrayal. If a little girl dies and an old Billionaire lives on; what have we become? Ladies and Gentlemen, I am not going to play God anymore. Until there is a cure for everyone, there is not a cure for anyone."

Rory begins to feel emotion creep up in his throat and a tear streams down his right cheek. "Since this began, my girlfriend and I have felt like we just inherited a well in a town full of people dying from dehydration. There is not enough water in this well for everyone to drink, and I am tired of living my life in fear of: stalkers, death threats, and the dark, selfish agenda that comes from a limited supply of a second chance. That being the case, Ladies and Gentlemen; from this moment forward, all of my blood will go to research for developing a cure. I am going to live my life, and no one will get to play God again with my blood... or with my family."

As he waits for shouts of disapproval or to be escorted off the stage, Rory is amazed when some of the most respected film icons from when he was a child begin a slow, steady clap. Soon these people get to their feet, and they applaud louder showing beautiful grace without direction or ulterior motivation. The auditorium is briskly filled with a unified sound of applause, and for the second time in a year, Rory feels like he has made the right decision. To his surprise, he looks down at these magnificent people and sees their eyes full of empathy. He smiles with vindication as he realizes that they too have experienced: stalkers, death threats, and forces transforming their lives against their will. Soon this moment fades and everyone takes their seats again, their gesture leaving him overflowing with confidence and inspiration.

"And the winner is..." Rory begins as he opens the envelope and reads the card with a proud voice. "Hearts of Diamonds: The survivors of the Bangladesh house of cards."

He smiles and takes a few steps backward, crossing his arms over his abdomen and waiting for the winners to approach the stage.

A few moments later, Rory and Kelly are standing backstage as the winners for best documentary are being interviewed by members of the news media. He smiles at Kelly despite the fact that she is facing away from him. She has never looked as amazing as she does in her blue designer dress with her hair in a classic movie star wave. The entire outfit is her attempt at a nod to Hepburn. This effective combination of her high heels and black scarf makes her appear statuesque and one of a kind. Even as she holds the blue clutch with curious, delicate fingers, and an expression of eager intelligence, she seems far more desirable to Rory. While he stands next to her in his expensive suit with his hair slicked back, he feels they have never been more compatible.

"Are you ready to do this?" Kelly asks, turning her head to look at Rory with a sense of duty in her voice.

Rory looks up in a daze, realizing that the reporters have finished interviewing the winners, and he swallows hard, nodding his head slowly.

"When the fuck did you decide that we would stop giving blood to save people, Rory!?" Kelly half shouts as she glares at her boyfriend with confused anger.

The group of reporters suddenly turns their attention to the young couple, snapping photos and capturing live video, as the drama unfolds.

"I am tired of being everyone's damn pincushion, Kelly!" Rory shouts back at full volume. "Don't you understand that?"

"Oh, and I'm not everyone's pincushion? I have to try to live my life with these Goddamn reporters up my ass all day... Thanks to YOU!" She gestures at the panel of journalists and then finishes by pointing a shaky finger at Rory.

"Thanks to me? Are you kidding!?" Rory asks with a look of betrayal. "Thanks to me, the world knows who you are. Thanks to me, you're no longer some second rate hostess at a restaurant. Now you're a nurse and a humanitarian."

"You phony sonofabitch, Rory! Before your blood could cure cancer you were just a guy who loved his Mountain Dew and a piece of ass like any other guy. Don't make yourself out to be this crusader trying to save the world."

"That's RIGHT! I would love a Mountain Dew and a piece of ass right about now- you sure as hell aren't going to give it to me."

"Yeah, you're right... I'm not going to give it to you anymore. You aren't a real man, Rory; you're just a guy who won the biological lottery. We're finished!" She shouts with a genuine fierceness, holding her right hand up to her brow and closing her eyes.

"Kelly... I'm sorry," Rory begins, holding his hands out to his sides. "Baby, I'm sorry that all of this has come down on us so fast. I'm sorry that we have to deal with these asshole reporters." He gestures at the panel of journalists as if describing a mountain of garbage. "But I don't want us to end here. Yes, we've changed, and we've had some scares, but look at us tonight. Don't you see how much we belong together?"

"No, Rory," Kelly says quickly shaking her head, "you belong with them." She gestures to the members of the press, dipping her head as she turns away from Rory and stomps briskly out of the room.

Rory closes his eyes for a moment, lowering his head toward the floor, and then he moves rapidly to catch up with her.

Once they reach the hallway that leads back to the auditorium, and are away from members of the press, Kelly turns to Rory with a naughty smile.

"We did it, baby," she begins, grabbing his right hand with hers. "We broke up in front of the world, and now we can be free."

Kelly gazes into his soft eyes and sees that he is filled with genuine despair. He turns his head slightly to the right, trying to mask his emotions, unable to look at her.

"You really didn't want to break up, did you?" She asks with delicate surprise.

"No, babe," Rory admits, swallowing hard and feeling suddenly drowned in the heat of his heavy formal suit. "With all that is happening in my life, this is when I need you the most."

"I'm sorry, Rory, this is something we already decided to do," she replies, putting the back of her hand gently on his face. "I already feel free, and with every second that has passed since we got all of that off our chests, I feel more like myself again. I can't live on this rollercoaster anymore, my love; it is time for me to get off. You can handle this. You're an extreme sports guy, remember? Well, now your whole life is an extreme sport, and I wish I could change that, baby, but it's out of my control."

Rory nods, looking at her for half a second, and then turns his face away as tears begin to stream down his cheeks. Kelly sighs in deep thought, not knowing what to say. Finally she gives him a warm embrace, holding him close as the reality sets in and the end of their four-year relationship is finally at hand.

"Stay alive, babe," she says after a long silence, feeling the warmth of his muscles against her body. "This is not our fault; it's just something we have to do... I love you."

"I love you too," Rory states with sadness, squeezing her tight one last time before stepping back a bit to let her know that he is ready.

"Stay in touch, sweets," she says with a big smile kissing him passionately on the lips.

As the tension becomes unbearable, she gives him one last smile, and then steps hastily toward the front lobby to find the limousine that will take Kelly to her new apartment.

Rory now stands alone in the quiet hallway between one room filled with a mob of journalists, and another room filled with a collection of celebrities whom he doesn't know. His heart is soothed with relief that the woman he loves will be safer in the world now, but he is already dreading the idea of life without her. After a few minutes of personal reflection, he wipes the tears from his eyes and straightens himself as a dignified man, then enters the auditorium to say his goodbyes to the crew who filmed his documentary.

The following Monday morning is too lonely for Rory to bear. His regular early chats with their private security guards would no longer be possible, and the familiar sights of Kelly brushing her teeth and showering in his home are badly missed. When the reality of an empty home becomes a poisonous notion, Rory decides to go for a walk in the upscale shopping district of Hollywood. In many ways he tells himself that he is just getting out of the house, but in reality, he wants to walk near tall, thin beautiful women in hopes of filling the gap left in his heart. After taking a shower and properly primping, being careful to apply the right amount of gel in his hair, he puts on his most stylish royal blue vacation shirt and a pair of tight black jeans. After the Academy Awards exposure and hype, he does not want to be recognized, and shaves off the goatee that he had grown especially for that night.

The trip from his lavish home on Club View Drive is only minutes down Wilshire Boulevard to the world famous Rodeo Drive. Rory begins his walk enjoying the breathtaking scenery in this part of Los Angeles. Nearly every inch of his neighborhood has immaculate, manicured lawns that give him a sense of serenity, and the view of the Country Club landscaping gives him a peaceful feeling. He closes his eyes for several seconds every now and then, pretending to float through danger the way he had when he was a child. It has been some time since he just went for a walk, and his body welcomes the refreshed feeling of light exercise. His mind starts to stray back to The Academy Awards from, what will become known as, an infamous Sunday evening in his life. But he shrugs it off dutifully, refusing to dwell on something that could change for the better at a later date.

After he shakes off these feelings of doubt and self-loathing, Rory stops for a moment to turn and stretch on the sidewalk, raising his hands high in the air as he lazily looks at the passing traffic. Something seems off as he turns enough to see the sidewalk behind him. In his peripheral vision, a man stops moving, then poses in a fake manner as if checking the time on his wristwatch. He turns to look at the man more carefully, first noticing his solid black track suit and white running shoes that make him stand out, giving off the appearance of a cat burglar in this city that prefers color and style. The man seems European from his pale features and unapologetic stubble. Also, his hair is grown out and combed badly into a wave, making him look like a model from a can of hairspray in the 1980s.

When Rory looks closer, he notices the man is not wearing a wristwatch, and his stomach twists in discomfort as he realizes this person has been following him. Rory immediately turns away, walking toward the corner of Wilshire and Rodeo, wanting to reach a more public setting.

"Wait!" The man shouts and Rory hears footsteps shuffling up the sidewalk as the man jogs up to join him. "I'm sorry," the man begins with a thick British accent, "but I thought I recognized you and didn't know how to react. Were you on The Academy Awards last night?" He asks with a humble smile.

"Yeah," Rory says, quickly, "but now is not a good time, I really just want to be alone today. I appreciate you coming up and saying hi, though." He adds dismissively and turns to walk away.

"Well aren't you just a fucking typical American cunt?" The man declares with rhetoric in an angry tone as he steps closer to Rory.

"Look, guy," Rory starts to say with more than a little attitude before he turns all the way around and notices the pistol pointed at his abdomen from the man's right hip.

"Yes, I'm listening, sweetheart," the man responds with a cocky tone putting his left hand to his ear. "Oh, now that I have a gun, you don't feel like telling me to go suck a cock anymore?" He asks with a cheerful grin, stepping closer to Rory as he shoves the cold barrel of the pistol down the back of Rory's jeans. "Holy shit!" The man exclaims with frustration, "Undo your top button, princess."

"What!?" Rory asks with disgust as he feels the smooth, cool steel digging slightly under the elastic band on the back of his boxer shorts.

"I said," the man raises his voice, putting his mouth close to Rory's ear. "Undo your top button so I can hide my pistol down the back of your tight little princess pants." He waits for second, realizing that Rory doesn't seem afraid, then adds, "otherwise I'll shoot you in the spine. It will be easier to draw blood from a paralyzed man anyway."

Rory grits his teeth as he hears this and undoes the top button of his jeans as instructed. After this is done, he feels the square barrel of the pistol pushed down the back of his pants, pressing tight against his right buttocks.

"There now," the man declares with arrogance, "we just look like a cute, gay couple going shopping. Lets keep walking, and look happy." He instructs in a menacing tone, as he and Rory continue down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder.

"What do you have?" Rory asks with frustrated concern, moving awkwardly with the pistol in his back.

"It's a Glock .45," the man says quickly, "great gun to blow the hell out of anyone who gets in your way."

"I mean what do you have? What illness do you have that needs to be cured?" Rory asks impatiently looking around Wilshire Boulevard for any signs of potential escape or rescue as they round the corner onto Rodeo.

"Oh, you want to play small talk, is that it? Get to know each other?" He asks with severe disdain. "Well, my name is Booker, and I don't need your blood because I'm just fuckin' fine. But I did call some friends back when you left the house and they will be joining us soon."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Rory asks with fear and shock.

"Jesus Christ, listen to the way you talk to each other in this Country with a gun in your back," Booker declares indignantly. "No wonder you people go to war every 20 years. First you try to give me the brush off like some A-list celebrity cunt, now you want to know who dares to fuck with your day and why." Booker shakes his head back and forth briefly, and then tips his head back and hocks roughly from the rear of his throat, spitting a disgusting yellow ball of phlegm on the sidewalk. "We are going to a silent auction," he asserts after a long pause.

"An auction?" Rory asks tightening his eyes a bit with suspicion. "An auction for what?"

"An auction for your pretty little princess ass." Booker states without hesitation.

"You can't sell me!" Rory says, turning a bit to look Booker in the eyes and seeing that he is serious.

"Well that would have been true if you hadn't fired your security team. I don't know what you said to Jack Stansbury, but that guy wants your ass dead, mate. How did you fuck that up, by the way? I mean, out of all the people in the world who could have protected you, Jack is the best. His people are loyal, they don't take bribes, and they work for less than they're worth. Why would you insult a guy who has retired Navy SEALs protecting your worthless ass all day? I mean, Jesus man, those guys were trained killers; they would have died for you."

Rory doesn't respond, he just continues walking, looking down at the gaps in the slabs of cement as they pass under his feet. His face is as pale and chalky as the sidewalk in the morning sun.

"Well, whatever," Booker says impatiently after waiting for an answer. "I don't really care what you did to piss Jack off, but you should know that whatever you did, it's going to cost you... The rest of your life."

"I'm not going with anyone. You can't auction me off; I'm not a fucking TV. People will notice that I'm missing." Rory retorts, staring hard into the distance.

"Yes, but you were so distraught over losing your girlfriend and so conflicted with the idea of playing God, that you decided to off yourself." Booker announces with a great deal of pride. "It's quite beautiful really; more than you deserve to be remembered as a hero. One of our guys is at your house now, writing a lovely goodbye note to your girlfriend. In twelve hours, you'll be on your way to China, or Germany, or wherever; I don't really give a shit."

Rory stops walking, he breathes in shallow gasps now, realizing that Booker is serious.

"Oh, no, hell no," Booker orders in a threatening tone, "you just keep moving; mate, or I will put a bullet through your spine. Those are my orders if you try to run; put a bullet in your spine and make it easier to ship you where you need to go."

When he feels the pistol moving out from under his jeans Rory comes back into reality and starts walking with Booker again.

"That's right," Booker says with approval as they start moving again. "We're almost there. When we get to the Starbucks, don't try any bullshit or your sweet little Kelly will be getting a lot more than a note from my guy. I'll give you some unsolicited advice... Just roll forward with this, it can be much better or worse depending on how you cooperate."

As they enter the Starbucks on South Santa Monica and North Beverly Drive, Rory is struck with a surreal rush of anxiety and nostalgia. He and Kelly used to walk down to this spot all the time to enjoy a coffee together. Within the coffee shop, almost every table is occupied by men in business suits or business casual attire. Rory screws up his face as he notices an unusual mix of foreigners among this group. To his left, he sees a portly man and a small, thin man from China both dressed in black suits, waiting impatiently at their table with two large cups of coffee. On his right, he notices three strong-jawed African men wearing cheap gray suits; their faces are stalwart and militant as they also wait with large coffee cups on their table. Rory and Booker walk past more tables into the center of the dining area and he sees several more pairs of men from different cultures, such as: Arabian, South American, Korean, Japanese, and others that he doesn't recognize.

Finally they get to the only empty table in the center of the dining area which has a placard on the tabletop with the word 'reserved' stenciled in bright white letters on a black background. Booker removes the placard from the table and sets it on an empty chair at his left as he gestures for Rory to take a seat to his immediate right. He removes a large, green handkerchief from the pocket of his track suit and uses it to cover the pistol as he pulls it from the back of Rory's jeans. Then Booker sets his left hand on the table, covering the pistol with the handkerchief. He raises the corner of the handkerchief for a moment so that Rory can see the pistol is still pointed at him.

Without saying a word, Booker raises his right hand into a square as if he were signaling a left turn while riding a bicycle. A moment later, the larger of the two Chinese men steps over and places his coffee cup on Booker's side of the table. Then a thin, strong African man steps over and places his cup on Rory's side of the table. Rory looks at each of the cups; one has a Chinese symbol, and the other bears a mark he doesn't recognize. Slowly and systematically, all of the men take turns placing cups on the table until there are over fifteen large coffee cups, with various symbols drawn in black marker on their sides, facing Rory and Booker.

After all the cups have been placed, Booker holds his right hand out straight over the table. Rory assumes this is to signal that no more entries are allowed. His mind is swimming with emotion, and his gut is feeling tense, remembering the horrible experience with those violent people in The Redwood Forest. Many of these men look like members of organized crime, militants, and representatives from Communist Governments. He turns to look toward the exit, hoping for some window of opportunity to escape, but is dismayed when he realizes that the open sign is facing inward and no other customers are in the store.

"Listen, Rory," Booker begins in a shaky and serious tone, leaning over as he notices Rory staring at the exit, "unless your cock can fire ballistic missiles, you are going to leave here with one of our buyers. If you try anything, not only are they willing to hurt you; they will also kill me. So hang tight, mate, and make the most of this."

After giving these instructions, Booker raises his right hand high in the air and begins to show his fingers one-by-one, counting up to five. Each time he finishes, he closes his hand into a fist, shakes his fist aggressively for a moment, then starts the count over again. While Booker is counting slowly and silently in the air, men step over to the table and remove their coffee cups. By the time a minute has passed, there are only three cups that remain on the table. Rory watches in disbelief as Booker continues to count with his right hand for a full minute before another cup is removed. Finally, the remaining two cups bear the mark in Chinese writing and another mark that Rory doesn't recognize. After another ninety seconds, the large Chinese man approaches the table and removes his coffee cup with an aggressive snap of his arm.

Rory stares in disbelief at the symbol of the buyer who just won him in the auction. He feels nauseous that it took just over three minutes for his life to be traded with a large coffee cup. Every part of him wants to jump up and run toward the exit, but his fear for Kelly's life keeps him firmly planted in his seat. Rory takes a moment to burn the symbol into his mind, wondering who would be bold enough to buy another person this way. The symbol has a loop with a line on the left side that juts out slightly to an angle at the bottom. There is an identical symbol on the opposite side and they seem joined together by what looks like a fancy anarchy symbol.

"Congratulations, Rory," Booker says with enthusiasm as he leans close again, "you've been sold for one-hundred and eight million dollars. These gentlemen," He continues with a sharp nod, "will take you to your car. Good luck, mate. Nothing personal." Booker snaps up his handkerchief and steps feverishly away from the table, not bothering to look back.

Two men approach the table with hard and dutiful expressions. One man is tall and muscular with Italian features. He is wearing an expensive white suit, black dress shirt and burgundy tie. His associate is also Italian; a heavyset man with receding hair wearing a less expensive navy blue suit, white shirt, and black tie.

Just as Rory is thinking about sprinting for the exit, the tall man in the white suit places a photo in his hand. When he looks down, a sudden sting of fear penetrates his body. The picture shows Kelly leaving her new apartment. This sobering image makes him concede defeat and he gets up from the table, buttoning his pants before peacefully following the two men out to a large black limousine. The larger man with receding hair opens the door and waits for Rory and his associate to get inside before closing it, then walks around to the driver side of the limo. When the larger man gets into the driver seat, he starts the engine and they are soon cruising through traffic.

In the back of the limousine, Rory is now face to face with his captor; or new owner, it would seem. Everything inside this car has been designed with careful planning and manufactured with the finest materials. The leather seats have a smooth, soft feel and the floor is covered in dark plush carpeting that reminds him of panther fur. All of the door handles inside the car and interior trim are made of an expensive cherry wood. To his captor's immediate right is a mini bar and telephone. A high definition television is mounted behind the driver taking up the entire width of the car. On Rory's immediate left, there is a refrigerator with an ice machine and two iPod docks.

"She's a pretty girl," the young Italian says finally after he finishes glancing with suspicion at the road behind them. "Do you think getting into a car with two men is going to save her?"

Rory looks down at the photo in his right hand and folds it neatly before placing it in the pocket of his jeans.

"There," the man begins, pointing at Rory's jeans, "now she's safe." He smiles wickedly, showing off the olive surface of his Italian skin and neatly manicured eyebrows. "My name is Dimitri," he says with a short nod as the wicked smile fades, "and we just paid over one-hundred million dollars for you."

"Well, I hate to give you bad news," Rory replies nervously, "but my blood is only worth five-hundred thousand dollars a pint, and I can only give two pints a month, so it will take ten years for you to get your money back."

"That's very good math, my ignorant friend," Dimitri responds with a disgusted nod. "Unfortunately, when you appeared on National Television and told the world that you were cutting off the supply, the demand went up. In fact, half of the men at that auction represent powerful, wealthy men who have illnesses that your blood can cure. So let's see if this math works for you, Rory" he says with a hateful stare, leaning forward, keeping his shoulders rigid and strong. "If one pint of your blood can cure five men of leukemia; each man having a net worth over one-hundred million dollars; how long before we recover our investment? What if we charge each man ten million dollars? Then we recover our total investment with just three pints of blood along with a forty-four million dollar profit. Alternatively, if we develop a cure and create a large enough stockpile, we'll live like Gods for the rest of our lives."

"Be careful what you wish for-" Rory warns as he stares out the window.

"You know I fucking hate you, Right?" Dimitri interrupts with an unsavory stare. "Right!? I fucking hate you, man. Rory Chambers, the douche with the special blood. Who gives a shit!? I watched you at The Oscars on TV, and your little speech about playing God. What a pussy you are, I couldn't believe my ears, man. You sounded like Oprah and shit. I've seen dying men that have more balls and courage in their little fingers than you do in your entire family... And that press conference... Daddy! Daddy!" He mocks with a satisfied smile. "My Daddy died so now I give blood to help people. Oh, but wait, there isn't enough for everyone to share so now nobody gets any. You sound like a spoiled rich kid with a new toy, showin' it off to everyone and then hoarding it for yourself and laughing like a spoiled little douche."

"Great," Rory says with a frustrated grimace, "where are we going?"

"Just shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride. Get yourself a drink," Dimitri gestures to the fridge as if talking to a small child, "and get me one too, but shut your fucking douche mouth or I'll disobey the provider's orders and smash your knees just for fun."

Rory swallows hard and instinctively reaches out to open the fridge. There is a nice assortment of top shelf spirits, wine, and imported beers.

"What do you want?" Rory asks, looking his captor in the eye, showing his question is more than just regarding a drink.

"I said shut your douche mouth. Just give me alcohol, any alcohol, but if you open your douche mouth one more time, I'll let Vince dip his big, hairy, sweaty balls down your throat."

Rory shakes his head quickly and determines that a drink is a good idea; it might afford him an opportunity to escape. He retrieves a large beer for the angry Italian and another for himself. When he holds the beer out to Dimitri it is snatched from his hand as if by a crocodile's mighty jaws. The angry man opens the beer with a crisp snap and quickly takes a sip.

"Oh shit!" Dimitri says as he looks out the window to his right, sitting up and putting his face uncomfortably close to Rory while he observes through the rear windows. "VINCE, WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM, STOP THE CAR!" He shouts toward the driver seat while he fishes for something in his right jacket pocket. The car soon slows to a stop at the side of the road. "Open the compartment on the backside of the fridge and hand me one of the big glass bottles," he says to Rory in a hurry as he hands him a key.

Rory turns the key in his hand a bit, and then leans far back in his seat until he can see the locked compartment on the backside of the fridge. He puts the key inside, turning it clockwise and the compartment opens showing four large wine bottles with plastic key chains strapped to their necks.

"Good, now hand me one of those bottles... Carefully." Dimitri demands with a hushed urgency.

As Rory passes one of the wine bottles to his captor, he hears screeching tires approaching the limousine and he turns to see two silver Honda Pilots pulling to a fast stop next to their car. He then looks out the rear window to see a third Honda Pilot approaching them at top speed, also slowing down to a screeching halt a few feet behind the rear bumper of the Cadillac Limousine. His heart is pounding and his face is filled with tension as the SUV looked like it was going to ram them.

Both Chinese men who were at the Starbucks auction get out of the Pilot on their left and approach the car. Their familiar black suits cause Rory's blood to run cold, and he notices that the larger man is holding up a cell phone while the smaller man is holding a sign with a ten digit phone number.

"Hey, Vince, your date from gaymatch.com is here," Dimitri yells with a smirk as he starts to enter the number into his cell phone. "Should I give him a call?"

"Fuck you!" Vince shouts from the driver seat.

Dimitri smiles at him for the first time since they met, and Rory is stunned by his enthusiasm at the rise of such a dangerous situation.

"This is Dimitri," he says to the man standing outside of their limousine. "Oh, you promised Lou Pi that you wouldn't leave L.A. without a pint of blood to cure his lymphoma? How is that my problem?"

Rory watches the large Chinese man outside the window at his left. He is becoming red in the face as he talks with Dimitri, and is shouting something that Rory can't understand.

"The price is fifty million for a pint and we can deliver to you tonight... I don't give a shit what those little Harvard pussies said, the price is fifty million." Dimitri negotiates boldly, turning the wine bottle over in his hand and peering at the label with fascination. "Look, we all agreed to the auction so we could avoid a war... Oh, you feel like the auction was rigged because someone from L.A. won? That's bullshit, Sang, you ran out of money... A better offer? Let me ask the provider real quick. If he does offer you a lower price then I'll write down the amount on a bottle of wine, but that will be our only discount... Yeah, give me one second."

As Dimitri hangs up his phone and sets it aside, Rory sees several Chinese men get out of the other two Honda Pilots, keeping their hands to their sides like gunslingers of the old west. There are now ten men standing around the limousine that is stopped at the side of the road near a nail salon and fitness center. Dimitri grabs a notepad from the phone console and rapidly writes a message in big letters, and then he rolls it up into a small tube and places it under the strap on the neck of the wine bottle. Next he stands up in the limousine, opening the sunroof to place the bottle where the two men can easily retrieve it from the roof. Then he immediately closes the sunroof and sits back down, holding the plastic key chain that was strapped to the bottle.

"Okay, when I tell you, Rory," Dimitri instructs, placing the key chain in Rory's right hand, "press unlock twice and lock once, but don't push anything until I tell you."

Rory looks at the key chain in his right hand and notices the familiar design of a keyless entry device someone would use to open or lock their car doors. Dimitri watches with anticipation as the smaller of the two Chinese men retrieves the bottle from the roof of the car, then steps back and gives the note to his larger accomplice.

"Punch it, Vince; get us the hell out of here!" Dimitri yells at the driver, and the car begins to pull away slowly at first, then rapidly picks up speed, putting distance between them and their Chinese assailants. The sound of gunfire breaks out from behind the car, and Rory hears a few bullets striking somewhere on the steel frame.

"Do it now, Rory," Dimitri orders in desperation, "press unlock twice and lock once!"

With the sound of bullets flying toward them, Rory immediately decides to do what he is told and taps the small plastic device three times. When he looks back, there is a controlled explosion that produces a great deal of debris and he sees bodies hit the ground at sickening speeds.

"Holy shit!" Vince exclaims with sudden satisfaction. "Did you see that woman hit the ground? It looked like superman punched her in the ass."

"What woman?" Rory asks in shock. "You mean a pedestrian?"

"Yeah, she got tossed on her tits. That was some crazy shit!" He says with a smile. "Hey, Vince, we just used my own private family reserve on the Chinese."

"Nice job, Dimitri," Vince calls out calmly from the driver seat.

"Was the woman killed?" Rory asks with a shocked expression as he looks carefully back at the site of the explosion to see if she's moving.

"No, I don't think it killed her," Dimitri says as he grabs his beer from the cup holder and takes a hearty swig. "Unless she took a piece of glass from the bottle in the back or the head; that probably would kill her."

To his relief, Rory sees a woman in a white dress push herself up from the sidewalk on all fours, staying in that position as if to recover from the blast.

"Relax, Rory," Dimitri orders with a smile, "my private reserve contains less than two pounds of C4 explosive, but it has a fruity fuckin' kick."

"I didn't see the two guys from the Starbucks," Rory says with confusion.

"You won't see those guys without a high speed camera, that blast would have turned them into a crater. Anyone within four feet of that bottle is going home in a trash bag." Dimitri replies with satisfaction. "Salute, Sang and friends, may you go to that place where people like you go. What a day, Rory, huh? You got sold on the black market and already busted your arson cherry. Now I think you're ready to meet the provider, Anthony Pezzloni."
IX. Anthony Pezzloni

After a few hours riding in the limousine, Rory notices that they have made it to the wilderness area near Lake Wohlford in Escondido, California. He recognizes the terrain and remote party areas favored by the wealthy and powerful. Their vehicle makes its way around winding paths, climbing the hills until they turn off the main road onto a dirt road that traverses about one-hundred yards, before dipping into a steep gully where the road leads to a steel security gate. He sits up straight in his seat as he notices the same symbol welded to the top of the security gate that he saw on the coffee cup at the Starbucks earlier in the day. The ornamental iron stands out above the security gate and he recognizes the deviant new anarchy symbol. This symbol is centered between two other marks that look like angled Ps with large loops and V-shaped tails jutting out at a forty-five degree angle on either side.

As he surveys the land, Rory notices that the nine foot security fence is joined together every fifteen feet by pillars of bricks; each equipped with two security lights facing away from the property. This fence stretches away from the gully on both sides of the car and disappears out of sight as the landscape dips down a few hundred yards way. When he turns the other direction, he notices Dimitri punching a code into his cell phone, and the security gate opens a few seconds later, allowing them to pass through under the brick pillars on either side. Once they are past the security gate, the road turns from rough dirt to a well kept concrete path. Soon the limousine pulls out of the gully and over the ridge, bringing a massive estate into view. The estate rises high up on a man-made hillside with terrain that juts up and down with small plateaus and valleys, making it impossible to quickly traverse the ground on foot or in a vehicle. The foliage is mostly made up of small evergreen trees and thick sections of grass planted in narrow strips. Every other section has cobblestone that encapsulates small plots of wildflowers. This gives the entire scenery a checkerboard effect of neat strips of grass mixed with symmetrical beds of cobblestone and wildflowers.

The narrow cement path is the only easy way up the hill, and Rory sees over a dozen security cameras covering just the front part of the property. As the car climbs the steep grade, it seems bogged down a bit, and Rory doesn't remember the last time he drove up such a steep hill; it almost feels like the car is pointing to the heavens in preparation for a space flight. Upon entering the drive of the main house at the top of the hill, the path beneath them finally levels off and the car pulls around a magnificent marble statue that is the centerpiece of the circular driveway. After the car comes to a halt in front of the enormous home, Dimitri nods his head at Rory, gesturing for him to get out of the car. Rory opens his door and steps out onto the driveway followed immediately by Dimitri. His face is filled with awe as he gazes at a twenty-five foot marble statue of Atlas holding the world on his back. He is amazed at the level of detail in this sculpture, and even further intrigued when he notices that the artist has managed to plant real clovers on every part of the marbled earth that is covered by land. The final result is a globe made up of marble oceans and clover covered continents.

A sudden chill runs through his body as the vision of this statue is larger-than-life right in his face. He looks down the steep cement pathway and further into the distance realizing how fast his life is being taken from him.

"Lets move," Dimitri declares with shrinking patience. "Anthony is around the other side of the house."

Rory closes his eyes for a second and grits his teeth, having been a free man just this morning; he is still not used to taking orders. Dimitri waits for eye contact from him then twists his head toward the East side of the house where he leads Rory around a narrow path at the back of the estate.

The backside of the home descends sharply down to a large, two-story secure compound at the east side of the property. Unlike the main house, this building is plain, and looks like a common office complex with large, black tinted windows and thick concrete walls. This complex is protected by its own security fence that is topped off by thick rotations of barbed wire. There is a tall, muscular man in his late forties leaning against the security fence. He is smoking a cherry wood pipe and looking down at a group of large German Shepherds who are enjoying an afternoon feast of thick steaks.

As they approach this muscular man from the elevated ground, Rory notices that he is marveling at the large dogs as they enjoy devouring the fresh slices of meat. His attire is casual, a faded blue muscle shirt and a pair of black cargo shorts, showing off his bare feet and tan, muscular legs. He holds the end of his pipe with childlike fascination, leaning forward to catch every detail of this carnivorous luncheon. His other hand loosely clutches the bloody white tray that held the steaks and is now long forgotten.

"Mr. Pezzloni," Dimitri announces with a great deal of respect, "The Golden Goose of Los Angeles."

"Hello," Anthony Pezzloni turns briefly and sizes Rory up carefully before turning his attention back to the dogs. "How was your trip?" He asks without breaking eye contact with the dogs, his short, salt and pepper hair, blowing a bit in the breeze and blue eyes fascinated by the eating habits of the shepherds. "I heard that you broke your cherry and killed your first motherfucker with a bomb today?"

"Yeah, it happened pretty fast," Rory replies with a sudden feeling of shame, "I'm just glad the lady survived."

"So the lady survived?" Anthony begins coolly, taking a deep hit from his pipe, displaying his tanned, sinewy arms, strong jaw, and German-Italian features. "But you took out a handful of Chinese diplomats. How did that feel?"

"They were trying to kill us." Rory says defensively, attempting to justify his actions. "I had no idea what that car fob would do to them."

"I see, so you didn't feel anything?" Anthony asks, pulling his pipe out and turning his head sideways to stare at Rory. "Because, I hear you acknowledge killing a few people, but I don't hear you saying that you feel anything. Are you a sociopath, Rory?"

"No, I'm just a guy who did what had to be done." Rory admits, feeling a bit of discomfort at his own words. "This last little while, I've had people try to take things from me, and... sometimes you just don't have a choice."

"I like that... honesty." Anthony says, putting his pipe back in his mouth, observing the dogs as they finish their meal. "You see these German Shepherds; they are loyal dogs. I like to reward loyalty. When I look at those pieces of cow on the ground and the little bit of happiness they have given my dogs, it makes me feel full. But a smart guy would have to realize that in order to make my dogs a little happy; I had to make a cow really unhappy. It's the same thing with the Chinese, you blew up a few of their enforcers, and made them really unhappy, but here you are alive, and as a result, we are both a little bit happy." Anthony smiles a bit as he finishes his sentence. "Dimitri, why don't you take Rory up to the house and let a few of the girls... show him the pool? I have a few things to take care of but will meet with you soon enough."

"Yes, Mr. Pezzloni," Dimitri says respectfully, looking as obedient as the shepherds. "Come with me." He gestures to Rory with a serious expression, escorting him to the main house.

As he follows Dimitri back up the narrow path to the extravagant home, Rory has a dozen questions swimming in his mind, but the demeanor of Anthony Pezzloni suggests that he does everything on his time and in his own way. His presence makes everyone feel like they have to wait for him to decide what is going to happen next.

Two hours later, Anthony Pezzloni walks to the lavish pool party area of the house. He smiles wide when he sees that the girls have done their job. Rory is sitting in a lounge chair wearing only his boxer shorts, drunk enough to be happy, and showing a look of ultimate satisfaction.

Anthony continues to smile wide, reflecting proudly on the construction of his pool area. The pool was dug out all the way to the basement, and Anthony had the insight to create a glass waterfall with a mighty current coming off the top of the home, and plunging three stories down into the large pool below. Beyond that innovation, he asked the architect to setup a clear glass gazebo right beneath the waterfall where he could enjoy luncheons and family dinners or parties with wild young women. They also added a reinforced diving board, jutting out from the waterfall on the third floor; for those who dared to tempt fate. Another popular diving spot is a reinforced ledge on top of the gazebo.

The guest area has enough room to seat over one-hundred people and includes: a full bar and grill, sushi bar, and concrete splash pads with dancing fountains.

"So, did the girls give you a tour of the house?" Pezzloni asks with a smirk.

Rory doesn't say anything, but smiles wide and grins in his drunken stupor; his hair is a mess, and they clearly wore him out fast. Both men sit back and enjoy the calm midday breeze as they watch the attractive twentysomethings playing with a beach ball in the shallow end of the pool. There are two gorgeous blondes and a petite redhead, dancing like sugarplums in Rory's alcoholic haze. Anthony sits forward a bit looking more intrigued at Rory's fascination with the somewhat attractive women, as this is a slow day by his standards.

"Lets talk about why I brought you here and what I expect, Rory," Pezzloni begins with a hardened business demeanor.

"Sounds good," Rory says with a broad smile, drinking down his remaining two fingers of tequila in one gulp before setting the glass down gently on the travertine tabletop.

"As Dimitri should have informed you," Pezzloni begins, "I have paid one-hundred and eight million dollars to procure your services."

"If I can have more days like today," Rory says with a weak smile, his eyes closed in a potent alcoholic buzz, "then tell me where I sign up."

"That's good, Rory," the aging gangster agrees with a satisfied nod, "I want you to have more days like today; as many as you want. In exchange for your room and board, I just need one pint of your blood a month. That means you need to be sober three days out of the month so your blood is clean, and the rest of time, you can party."

"Party!" Rory shouts, holding his hands in the air like a small child.

On the opposite side of the table, Pezzloni retrieves a pair of sunglasses from the travertine surface and places them over his eyes. Although Anthony's lips continue to smile at his new house guest, his eyes are burning with intense rage. As he watches the self-absorbed little Daddy's boy drinking his alcohol, screwing his women, and enjoying his pool, it takes every ounce of his strength not to crush the man's throat. The animal inside him is starting to take over as Anthony notices a paring knife sitting next to a half sliced apple on the table in front of him. He picks up the knife and slowly taps his right leg, pretending to listen to some peaceful music.

"Anthony, Sir," Rory says suddenly, drifting out of his drunken splendor for a moment, "I really enjoyed sex with those girls. They are very naughty, and this place... Is a total paradise!"

"Thanks, Rory," Pezzloni says in flat tone, holding his face tight for a moment, and breathing with stressful gasps. "My home is your home," he continues with sadness in his eyes behind the sunglasses, "I just want you to enjoy all these things I've worked so hard to get. What's mine is yours." As these words leave his mouth, he opens his eyes wider for a second, and then closes them tight in severe pain. "Tell you what, Rory," he declares with a somewhat urgent tone, "I'm going to turn in; it looks like I cut my foot on something."

"No shit?" Rory asks as he sits up with false concern and sees Anthony walking away with bloody footprints. "Good night, Sir. Get feeling better."

Anthony doesn't respond to Rory; he instead walks hastily to the heavy, revolving door and pushes the handle to enter the basement. The glass and stainless steel door cannot rotate fast enough as he feels himself becoming furious. When he finally makes his way to the basement bathroom Anthony leaves a trail of blood every time he steps down on his left foot. Once he reaches the bathroom and shower area, he drops the bloody paring knife in the sink and takes off his sunglasses, staring at himself in the mirror. He hovers there for a moment, cold, dark, filled with rage, but then he puts his left foot up on the counter and stares down at it with a childish grin. Then he looks at himself in the mirror again, suddenly filled with unhinged fury, and he begins to squeeze both sides of his big toe on his left foot, watching the blood drain out from where he shoved the paring knife up under his toenail.

"You can do it. You can do it. You can do it!" He repeats to himself, positioning the paring knife in front of his big toe again, placing the tip of the blade just under his toenail. "One more. One more. One more, big P. You can do this!" He shoves the pairing knife under his toenail again, pushing it deep into the flesh under the nail, feeling the release of the intense sting, and looking at himself in the mirror with vindication that he is not afraid to receive pain. As he pulls the knife out, another jolt of fresh pain burns through his body and he trembles all over with personal satisfaction; the animal is released. After he washes the paring knife in the sink, he walks upstairs to the second floor, leaving bloody footprints on the white marble as he goes. Anthony sets the paring knife on the travertine kitchen counter and retires to his bedroom on the third floor, allowing his bloody feet to saturate the tan carpet all the way up the stairs.

"He hates the sonofabitch," Dimitri laughs to himself as he watches Anthony on the security cameras from the concrete building on the east side of the complex. A gleeful smile of satisfaction grows on his face at the realization that The Provider despises their new guest so much that he has to severely injure himself to keep his animal at bay. Dimitri glances at the other security cameras noticing that the girls are doing their job, keeping Rory up late partying all night and paying their rent.

Dimitri sighs with frustration, wishing he were out having a lustful time at the pool without a care in the world, but he instead has to monitor the surveillance and back channels until all of their international competitors have departed peacefully. The entire complex is monitored on 6, sixty-five inch LCD displays, and Dimitri can literally zoom in to watch anything he wants or record audio in any part of the estate. His security booth is unremarkable, with exposed electrical conduits and plumbing on the plain cement walls. The desk in front of him is made of old steel and he sits in a soft, padded swivel chair. If the house represents what Anthony Pezzloni is on the surface, then the secure facility is a strong example of what the man is like at his core.

He puts his head down for a moment, remembering a recording that he kept on file from when the system was first installed. Dimitri moves his hands up to his face with a sensation of fear as these dark memories surface. He turns to his right, raising his Scotch and Soda in a salute to a picture of the late Elizabeth Pezzloni that is mounted on the wall in this secure facility. After he drinks the Scotch, he smiles up at the video monitor showing the women pleasuring Rory in every way imaginable, and he sets the empty glass down, folding his arms with a look of satisfaction. If Elizabeth Pezzloni was never able to keep the animal at bay, despite being the love of Anthony's life, then Rory's pleasure cruise would soon be coming to a brutal and unexpected end.

The following morning, Dimitri and Anthony are waiting outside in front of the large estate, watching the beautiful rays of sunshine pierce through the outer wall and shine down a divine light across the massive statue of Atlas. They both wait quietly, showing respect as they meditate in the early morning breeze. Soon the familiar sight of Anthony's large, black limousine creeps up over the lower part of the driveway and makes a smooth, slow turn around the marble statue. As the vehicle comes to a stop in front of the two men, Vincent turns off the engine, steps out of the car, and walks quickly to the rear passenger door. He opens the door slowly and stands at attention in his formal black tuxedo; his belly is sucked in and his receding hair is well groomed.

An older gentleman then emerges from the back of the limousine, carrying himself with an attitude of respect and entitlement as he smiles at Anthony and Dimitri. The man is wearing a lime green silk shirt with a blue and orange silk tie. This is complimented by a pair of white khaki pants which are cinched neatly around his waist with a black snakeskin belt. His graying hair gives away his age of sixty-four and is covered by a conservative pewter flat cap. He has a kind smile and noble jaw line, but devious, dark eyes behind a pair of thick designer eyeglasses.

"How is my favorite mutt?" The man asks, winking at Anthony as he jokes about his own Irish-Italian heritage.

"The mutt has been good," Pezzloni says with a tedious smile; "productive even. He has snagged you The Golden Goose."

"The Golden Goose," the older man nods with a smile on his aging pale face, showing off years of wrinkles, and having a powerful story to go with each of them. "How are you, Dimitri?" He asks cordially.

"I'm good," Dimitri says with a humble nod. "How are you doin', Teddy The Suit?"

Teddy smiles from the corner of his mouth and fixes his gaze with intensity on Dimitri, adjusting the frames of his glasses impatiently to remind him of his mistake. Dimitri suddenly feels sick as the old Don looks at him with disgust. A man of lower rank should never ask how a man of higher rank is doing; he should always assume his superiors are doing well. Without another word, Dimitri nods again and steps backwards several paces before retreating to the security building on the east side of the property; his freshly pressed black suit and yellow tie whipping in the wind.

"Youngsters," Teddy says with a wink as he and Anthony walk toward the large cedar doors of his estate.

Anthony presents himself sharper today in his expensive black suit, formal maroon dress shirt, and a yellow tie. He is wearing expensive, brown leather shoes that were imported from Italy, which Teddy inspects briefly as he steps through the doorway into the cavernous home. Pezzloni smiles at the older man's approval; not only are Italian shoes required, but it is the job of every host to learn the favorite color of his powerful guests, and ensure that everyone wears that color of tie during their stay. Teddy the suit was known for his love of jester yellow and it had become symbolic of his sense of humor.

The two men make their way across the Italian marble floors, and Anthony leads the way as they wind through a maze that includes: Italian leather sofas, a grand piano, a freestanding natural gas fireplace, and dozens of shiny black end tables topped with crystals in various geometric shapes. All of the bloody footprints from the previous day have been steam cleaned from every surface in the house as if they were never there. The white on white home interior is made more extravagant with custom wood trim, and the entire design is brought to life with an impressive display of interior foliage. In the front of the home, large, tinted bay windows extend up to the third floor from the lobby. Both men quickly descend the round staircase of large marble steps, leading down to the basement entrance of the pool area.

As they step through the enclosed glass of the heavy revolving door, Teddy notices some blood on the concrete, but decides he would rather not know the details. When the older man looks out at the pool, his face brightens like that of a child at Christmas, and Anthony smiles wide as he realizes what Teddy is so happy about. There are five attractive young women playing a game of chicken as they face off by sitting on each other's shoulders wearing extremely small, jester yellow bikinis.

With an uplifted spirit, Teddy moves gracefully over to the gazebo and sits in the shade where he is soon met with another surprise; his favorite drink already chilling on the table for him. He sits down with a relaxed smile and leans back against the waterproof boat cushions, looking up at the relaxing waterfall pouring across the top of the clear glass above their heads.

"You are an impressive sonofabitch!" Teddy says with a smile, raising his Mai Tai in a salute to Anthony. "I'm glad we put our West Coast business in your hands."

"To business," Anthony agrees, tapping his glass of Crown Royale rocks against Teddy's Mai Tai, waiting for the older man to drink first, before taking a generous dose of liquid comfort for himself.

"Now, I am excited about The Golden Goose, and I want to get to that," Teddy begins, setting his drink on the travertine table, "but first I need to bring you a message from Chandler about his brother."

"Oh, Herb!?" Pezzloni asks with a disgusted squint. "What has that worthless dipshit screwed up this week?"

"He tried using a shorter route when he was sending the mule; and thought he could go straight from Tijuana to L.A."

"That stupid bastard!" Pezzloni exclaims, slamming his hand on the table and shaking their drinks a bit. "How much did we lose?"

"Twenty-five keys," Teddy replies quickly, taking another swig from his Mai Tai.

"When is Chandler going to stop taking care of baby brother and let him sink or swim in the real world? Like a man!?" Pezzloni demands with a frustration that is clearly shared by Teddy. "That's over six million dollars and heat from the DEA."

"I know. I know." Teddy admits, holding out his right hand with the palm down. "Chandler says that this new deal with the goose will make up for Herb's mistake, and he promises that if he screws up like this again, he'll be sent back to the private life."

"Fuck, I've heard that a dozen times," Pezzloni says with a scowl, shooting down the rest of his Crown Royale.

"Now, about the goose," Teddy begins, knowing that they could discuss Chandler's brother all day. "Everyone wants to know if that's locked up?"

"It's locked up, Teddy," Pezzloni says with a sober expression, but the older man raises his eyebrows displaying some doubt. "Jesus Christ, it's locked up, Teddy; you have my word that this one-hundred and eight million won't be a waste."

"That's Amore`," Teddy declares that he is somewhat satisfied using some of his old-school code. "I'm going to stay here for a while to help you keep up with New York and Miami on the details."

"We would be honored to have you, Teddy The Suit," Pezzloni replies using another old-school code that indicates he knows the other syndicates want an audit of how their money is performing.

Anthony smiles deep in thought, realizing that his partners are already concerned about their thirty-five million dollar investments in Rory, and they put Teddy on a plane from New York to California the moment the deal went into action. Teddy leans back in the comfy seat with a smile, watching the young women play in the pool as a tantalizing tribute in his honor.

A few hours later, Rory is sitting on Anthony's Italian leather sofa, flicking his fingers anxiously under the cushions as he waits to speak with his captor. He has a severe headache from a long night of drinking and his body aches all over from intense sessions of sex with younger women. Since he did not arrive at the home with any luggage, he had no choice other than to wear the same royal blue dress shirt and tight jeans from the previous day, which despite his best efforts, are beginning to smell of sweat and alcohol. His face has thick stubble and is in need of a good shave. At his core he feels empty, drained of all dignity, hope, and anything familiar. In the past forty-eight hours, his life has transformed so much that he doesn't even know if it was real.

"I hear you have something to say?" Pezzloni asks in a booming voice, standing just a few feet behind him.

Rory turns around slightly, then stands up and faces Anthony man to man.

"Look I've had a great time here," Rory begins, gazing nervously at Anthony's face, then over to the piano, and back toward his face again.

"Let me stop you right there," Pezzloni orders, holding up his right hand with the palm facing Rory. "This is not a resort; you don't just check in and out whenever you want; I thought we made that clear?"

"I understand that, but this isn't my life; I had no part in making this deal, it was forced on me." Rory pleads slightly, trying to tap Anthony's emotional side.

As these words hit his ears, Anthony doesn't hear anything about someone being forced or this not being their life. What he hears is a man asking for a reason to enjoy a lifestyle that every other man desires. On some level, his lonely disdain brings Anthony peace, feeling his animal side satisfied by the fact that Rory's emotional suffering is earning his keep. Within a few seconds, his mind has rebuilt the narrative, and he sees an easy solution to the problem.

"No worries, Rory," Pezzloni begins with a reassuring grin, genuinely pleased by his misery. "I have an investment in you, and I need to make sure that we recover our investment. At the very least, I need you to stay for two days and sober up so that we can draw your blood and know that it's clean."

"I understand," Rory says looking at the floor, feeling foolish for thinking he could get out of this deal so easily.

"Aw, to hell with it," Anthony reassures him with a gypsy smile. "Tell you what, I'll make a few calls and see how fast we might be able to get you back to your old life."

Rory's face brightens with excitement exactly the way Anthony expected, and he nods in agreement with every word that follows.

"But before I put my ass on the line for over a hundred million dollars," Pezzloni warns, holding up his right index finger, "I need you to promise that once you have your old life back, you'll still hold up your end of the bargain and deliver the blood until I'm paid off. Otherwise... Well, we just won't talk about otherwise for now."

"Thank you, Mr. Pezzloni," Rory says with an exhausted smile, "I will follow through on my end. No problem."

"Excellent. Just let me make a few calls and I'll get back to you before we draw your blood. Also, I want to be clear, you do understand that there is a debt between us?"

"Yes, Sir." Rory agrees with a slight reluctance in his voice.

"You also understand that regardless of whether you were innocent or guilty of this debt being placed on you, it is still your responsibility to pay me back in full with interest?" Pezzloni finishes his sentence with a mistrustful squint, moving his head from side to side as if trying to see if Rory is lying.

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem." Rory says with a committed nod.

"You agree to pay me back by any means within your power? And I want to be clear, ANY means within your power?"

Rory takes a moment to think about this, and his heart drops suddenly as he feels like the man is talking about Kelly.

"You're not talking about hurting Kelly, are you?" Rory finally asks, staring at Pezzloni with puppy dog eyes.

"I will not hurt Kelly; nor ever harm a hair on her head, as long as you agree to pay me in full by any means within your power."

"Yes, no problem," Rory accepts with enthusiasm, "as long as Kelly doesn't get hurt, I will pay you back by any means necessary."

"That sounds fair enough to me," Pezzloni agrees, reaching out to shake Rory's hand. "I will hold you to your word," he says with a smile as he closes the deal with a powerful handshake. "Now get with Dimitri and order some clothes online; we'll have them delivered here so that you look... respectable. In the meantime, Dimitri will be happy to lend you a few of his older suits."

"Thanks, Mr. Pezzloni," Rory says with a relieved smile.

"Likewise," Pezzloni says in a curt fashion, then steps rapidly out of the room, moving upstairs to the third floor with a stalwart expression.

Later that night, Rory is lying on his back enjoying a lucid dream about his ex-girlfriend when he is awakened by what sounds like a burst of machine gun fire. His eyes open immediately with suspicion, and he stays perfectly still, thinking that remaining motionless will be safer for some reason. The red satin sheets and king size comforter feel soft and inviting on his bare skin, and for a moment, he thinks that the explosive stream of bullets was just part of a dream.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" Pezzloni's voice calls out from the hallway.

"I DON'T KNOW!" Dimitri's voice answers back, "IT LOOKS LIKE SOMEBODY AT THE FRONT GATE."

"IS IT THE CARTEL? IS IT THE CHINESE?" Pezzloni asks with some urgency in his voice.

"NO- SHIT, IT'S ELI THE WHISPER." Dimitri responds with an irritated tone.

"THAT LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER! HE'S GOT SOME BALLS." Pezzloni responds in a raucous voice.

Rory hears another short burst of gunfire, and then rapid footsteps just outside his bedroom door. The door springs open and his light is turned on as Dimitri enters the room wearing black sweat pants, a white muscle shirt, and a bulletproof vest.

"Get dressed." Dimitri orders, staring at Rory with intense, judgmental eyes. "Mr. Pezzloni wants to see you in his office on the second floor right now!"

A few minutes later, Rory is still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he pushes cautiously past the half open door leading into Anthony Pezzloni's second floor office. He sees all the familiar luxury that the girls had shown him when they finally gave him a tour of the home: a bookcase filled with rare titles, a large oak desk and credenza with glass tops, a three-foot globe in the corner of the room, and several expensive Italian armchairs and end tables.

An older man is seated in Anthony's black and gold office chair with his hands gripping the neatly polished, custom woodwork of the handles. Pezzloni is leaning over his right shoulder and they are both staring intently at a computer monitor. The older man is wearing expensive custom eyeglasses, a black silk robe, and his gray hair is a bit messy with tufts out of place here and there. Anthony appears to have also dressed in a hurry with a black fitness shirt, brown khakis, and white running shoes; his short, salt and pepper hair barely out of place.

As he steps further into the office toward the desk and looks over the men, Rory no longer feels awkward wearing a white undershirt, black khakis, and the old Italian leather shoes that Dimitri loaned him earlier. Behind the two men, the double doors are open and he can see Dimitri lying prone on the cement of balcony with a powerful, black .50 caliber sniper rifle pointed toward the front yard.

"Hello, Rory," Pezzloni says in a straight business voice, "we need to get you apprised to our situation. This gentleman here," he continues in a respectful tone, patting the older man on his shoulder, "is Teddy The Suit. Teddy, this is the goose, Rory Chambers." Anthony gestures lazily toward him and immediately moves on, rubbing his forehead with a look of strained malice. "I'm sure you heard the gunfire from the west side of the property?"

When Rory nods, Pezzloni beckons him to join them behind the desk, and he steps carefully around the armchairs as he moves to Teddy's left side and looks down at the computer monitor. The screen shows a colorful video of a young man in his twenties crouched with a rifle just a few feet in front of the security gate. His face is crisp and detailed from the high definition camera feed and Rory can clearly make out piercings in his: eyebrow, lip, nose, and ears. He has a red tribal tattoo covering his right arm and is dressed in simple, black carpenter jeans with an extra long, black dress shirt. His blue eyes are filled with hatred and he has long, dark hair that is pulled back into a tight ponytail and he is holding an AK-47 across his chest. There is a redheaded man standing next to him of about the same age, dressed in similar fashion, but without the piercings and tattoos. He is holding a pump shotgun, crouching and leaning against it to support his weight. In the corner of the video frame, two other pair of legs can be seen clad in the same carpenter jeans and what looks like combat boots.

"Who are they?" Rory asks with confusion, feeling relieved not to see Chinese soldiers, or worse, standing at the gate.

"That's Eli The Whisper," Pezzloni answers in a subdued voice. "Also known as Eli Pezzloni; my son."

"Your son?" Rory asks with confusion, looking down at the monitor again in earnest.

"Yes, my son, the drug dealer; you got a problem with that?" Pezzloni snaps, glaring at Rory for half a second before putting the animal back into its cage.

"What does he want?" Rory inquires as he sees Anthony relax a bit.

"He wants you," Teddy replies softly. "Someone out there has told Eli that The Golden Goose of Los Angeles is here, and he says he won't leave until he has you."

An explosive shot shatters the silence in the office as Dimitri fires the .50 Caliber Rifle at the front gate. There is a rush of energy that flows in through the balcony doors as the blowback from the rifle sends a bullet down to the gate below at a speed that breaks the sound barrier.

"Jesus Christ, Dimitri!" Pezzloni shouts as he turns and steps out to the balcony.

Rory's ears are ringing from the piercing blast of gunfire, and he instinctively covers his right ear for a moment, looking down at the video monitor to see the report of the rifle. However, by the time he recovers from the initial shock of the rifle going off, the men are nowhere to been seen on the large, colorful monitor.

"Could you fucking warn us next time?" Pezzloni asks, shaking his head a bit from the intense ringing sound. "Did you get anything?" He asks Dimitri.

"No, it hit too high." Dimitri admits as he pulls back the bolt to release the empty round from the chamber, before chambering another round in the same motion.

"No shit it hit too high," Pezzloni replies, "the rounds aren't going to drop at this distance; not with that velocity. I can't believe you missed him... with a Barrett. Did you put the body armor on the dogs and let them into the tunnels?"

"Yeah, the dogs are out in their Dragon Skin;" Dimitri says patiently, "I put their headgear on too."

"Your dogs have body armor?" Teddy asks, turning a bit in his chair with an amazed expression.

"Yeah, my dogs have body armor and protective headgear." Pezzloni says, turning a bit on the balcony, "It would take a fuckin' bazooka to kill one of my dogs. Dimitri let them out into the tunnels. They can go in and out of the security gate with the electronic fobs on their collars, and each dog has a GPS chip, so we can track their movements. We also have tunnels inside the property so if Eli and his crew get over the fence, and start hefting their way up the hill, a dog can come out of nowhere and rip them to pieces. I hope they do, because my boys are hungry. Those dogs can eat like twenty pounds of meat in one sitting, between six of them."

"Have you tried talking to the kid?" Teddy asks sarcastically. "Or are you just going to feed him to the dogs?"

"Easy, Teddy, you're a guest here," Pezzloni reminds him, pointing at the older man with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. "The kid has been trying to find the guy who killed his mother for years; I think it's made him a little nuts."

"I'm just sayin' that an uncomfortable conversation for an hour might, ya' know," he raises his hand a bit as if pleading for reason, "prevent five years of bloodshed and misery. C'mon, I mean this is Eli, we used to bounce him on our knees."

Their conversation is cut short as shots are fired one after another, and a bullet strikes the roof of the balcony above Anthony's head.

"This is bullshit!" Pezzloni shouts as he ducks behind the thick steel railing. "Those shots came from the driveway," he says immediately, "Teddy, check the camera in the driveway and tell me where he's at."

Teddy clicks on the laptop mouse pad a few times and brings up the view of the main courtyard showing the statue of Atlas under bright security lights.

"There he is!" Teddy exclaims with excitement as he points to a figure in dark clothing, holding a pistol in front of him as if he were using it to pray. "He's dug in behind the statue, sticking his head out the right side every second or two. We got you, you little fuckin' fly- with your popgun." He says with vengeful fervor and a deliberate smile.

"Give me the fuckin' Barrett!" Pezzloni demands in a whisper at Dimitri.

In response to this order, Dimitri surrenders the large Barrett rifle to Anthony who holds it close to his chest, still crouched behind the railing and leaning back against the cold steel. He grips the rifle tight; his eyes filled with wild energy, and then stands proudly to his full height, turns calmly, and takes aim at the man in the courtyard.

From inside the office, Rory watches the video monitor as the man exposes his head for a second. Rory's face transforms to a look of surprise as the man's features appear to be Chinese. A few seconds go by and the man's head does not show up from behind the statue, but Pezzloni takes patient aim at his exposed leg and fires a shot that rips through the air again, shaking the office with a powerful boom. Rory keeps his hands over his ears as he watches the bottom of the man's left leg disappear from behind the right side of the statue. This sight is sudden and gruesome, which causes him to turn away. When he recovers from the visual of instant mutilation, he looks back at the laptop and sees the man limping. However, a German Shepherd is sneaking up on him from his right side. As the shepherd's body enters the light, Rory is amazed at how it looks similar to a hockey player with the black and white Dragon Skin padding and carbon fiber helmet. The dog doesn't waste any time as it lunges and grabs the man's right hand at the wrist, towing him to the ground and forcing him to drop the .45 caliber pistol. Another shepherd charges in with grace and stealth, putting its jaws over his throat and biting the jugular vein. Rory closes his eyes as the man's body goes limp and the dogs continue to feast on him.

"Got you." Pezzloni says with a look of satisfaction, setting the rifle down where the railing meets to form a corner.

"What the hell is that?" Rory asks with a confused expression as he steps out onto the balcony next to Anthony, staring down at a bright yellow flicker in the distance.

"Motherfuck!" Pezzloni says with disgust as the yellow flicker becomes brighter and he can clearly see that it is a person running around, engulfed in flames, just inside the gate of his property. "Dammit, son, we don't set people on fire; that's just crossing the line," he says with remorse, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his index and middle fingers. "Who did we send to the gate?" He asks Dimitri as he continues watching the man run and flail his arms.

"Jackie. He was Vincent's cousin," Dimitri answers, swallowing hard and looking away.

"You brutal little sonofabitch," Pezzloni says in a flare of rage. "Where are you, Eli?" After a short pause, he turns toward Rory. "You're welcome to leave if you want," he begins, giving Rory a stern look, "but if you go beyond the safety of my gates, what happens to you from there is not my problem. As you can see," he holds out his right hand toward the burning body, "there is a lot of crazy shit that happens outside my gates." He turns his attention back to Dimitri, speaking with him in a manner of severe importance. "Let's go down to the front of the property with the dogs and do a sweep. I want these assholes off my land in five minutes."

The two men take the sniper rifle and move hastily out of the room on their way to the ground floor. Rory turns to Teddy, who simply holds his hands out to his sides and shrugs his shoulders. After a minute or two of staring into the distance, Rory retreats back to his bedroom to wait out whatever happens during the rest of the night.

As night turns to morning, the men settle their differences during a hearty breakfast that becomes an all day party. Anthony has his personal physician draw a pint of blood from Rory before allowing him to drink. Then he stays true to his word by telling Rory that he is free to leave anytime. But he offers a warning of unmistakable severity: that there are at least two groups trying to obtain him through violent means. Anthony explains that the man in the courtyard had been a Chinese enforcer, sent to repay them for the bombing on the road a few days earlier.

After Rory weighs out the dangers of the groups that are looking for him, he determines that it is safer to accept Mr. Pezzloni's offer. After talking it over, he is excited by the terms that are laid out. In exchange for one pint of blood per month, he will get: free room and board, twenty-four hour protection, and twenty thousand dollars to spend on a credit card each month. This also includes the freedom to party as much as he wants except for three days during the month when he will have to be sober for a clean blood draw. Anthony's other stipulation is that Rory stay away from his secure building on the east side of the property where the dogs are housed. Since Rory is not a big fan of man-eating dogs, and has no desire to find out about Anthony's business dealings inside the fortified facility, this condition is not a problem. The two men have an understanding that the building is off limits and for employees only.

Over the next fifteen months, Rory lets himself go wild. He starts off his day with a hard workout in the private gym on the second floor. Then he goes for a shower and steam in the basement, before enjoying a lavish breakfast near the pool. By this time, the girls are starting to arrive for the day, and they begin with some strong drinks, which leads to some intensive clean and dirty play in the pool. Once he has had his fill of pleasure for the morning, he goes up to his room to do some shopping on the Internet for: books, movies, music, games; every form of entertainment he can find. As the girls become more comfortable with him, they start invading his schedule during odd hours of the day, and their sensual attacks are enticing. It begins one morning in the gym at 5 am. A gorgeous brunette starts working out right in front of him while he is using the cabled weights to strengthen his core. He soon realizes that she is teasing him, stretching on her back with her legs wide open, pouring water on her stomach, and staring at him with bedroom eyes as she rubs it into her beautiful skin. Soon he is peeling off her workout tights and shoving himself inside her with aggressive desire, and to his astonishment, she demands that he remain inside the entire time.

These encounters become bolder as time goes on, especially when Rory has been drinking. He doesn't realize how wild his love life has become until he is getting a beautiful, young Japanese girl from behind as she holds onto the edge of the travertine table beneath the clear gazebo. Meanwhile, Anthony and Dimitri stroll casually past and wish them both a good morning. He responds with a smile, and drunken thumbs up, as he continues thrusting inside her. The women are constantly coming and going in this extravagant paradise, and Rory develops a world palette for his sexual desires. He plays dangerous games and tries to push his threshold every day to something even more spontaneous and naughty. At his pique, Rory has as many as five women in a day, and he vaguely remembers the life that was his before he became the goose. He sets a goal to have sex on every surface within the house outside of Anthony's bedroom, and within just forty-five days, he is able to achieve that goal.

His desire for entertainment leads him to begin experimenting with different forms of art and he tries everything: watercolors, pottery, body painting, graphic design, video editing, and so much more. Just like a young, spoiled teenager, he soon finds himself wanting to do everything, and thanks to the alcohol, he feels that he is talented as well.

The Pezzloni private physician soon advises that drinking is bad for Rory's health, and since he has become an alcoholic, they must provide him with a cocktail of anti-anxiety medications. These medications make him paranoid at times and cause insomnia. Pezzloni has a surefire cure for alcohol abuse, as he simply beats Rory until he cannot get up from the floor every time he catches him drinking. After a concussion and a few broken ribs, he soon prefers the cocktail of medications over the savage beatings.

During this fifteen month transformation, Rory becomes more a force of nature than just a man, and his typical outgoing, tenacious attitude, has been replaced by a set of compulsions, and a haunted paranoia. His grasp on reality shrinks with every passing hour, and at times he can simply lie next to the pool, watching the patterns of light dancing across the surface of the water as if it were his own private lightshow.

His hobbies turn from activities of inspiration and creation to pathologies of destruction. Soon his library of videos is replaced by every type of martial arts training he can find. He begins to read books on: weapons, traps, explosives, and war tactics. When Anthony catches him ordering real weapons on the Internet, those weapons are taken away, and he instead brings in a personal trainer to teach Rory karate. On some level, both men know that this drastic change of course is unhealthy, and Dimitri reinforces this theory after he discovers Rory nearly getting into a battle with one of the German Shepherds. But Pezzloni is far too amused by his changing behavior to restrict Rory beyond what is necessary for good business, and shrugs off Dimitri's warning.

One evening when they are having a guys only football party, Rory and Anthony get into an argument about his son Eli, which enrages Anthony enough to break Rory's nose. In the chaos that follows, they both scramble to locate a container for the blood, and Anthony finds himself holding Rory's head over an ashtray, allowing the blood to drain into the dirty burned tobacco and paper. Both men laugh maniacally when Dimitri and Teddy tell them 'how fucking crazy they look.'

As Rory's paranoia grows worse, he catches glimpses of a beautiful brunette woman in a blue designer dress and sheer black scarf, wandering through the house late at night. He has dreams about being pistol whipped and tied down naked, with cold water being poured over his body. In this dream, his mouth is covered with a towel, and cold water is poured over the towel, while he is punched in the stomach as he gasps for air. One night he even sees Eli The Whisper standing at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at him with his facial piercings, ponytail, and unmerciful blue eyes. In another dream, he sees flashes of a German Shepherd's mouth growling and biting at the air a few inches in front of his face, as he lies naked against a cement wall. These dreams are all too frequent, but with the cocktail of medications, he has a hard time knowing what is real.

At this fifteen month juncture, Anthony steps into Rory's room quietly, carrying a pistol in his right hand. He looks down at the younger man, a muscular and highly volatile creature, ready to lash out at the world at any minute. He strokes Rory's hair softly with a bit of affection, realizing that he cares almost as much about him now as the German Shepherds. Rory's hands are seized up near his stomach in tight fists, and he is muttering aggressively in his sleep. He is clad only in boxer shorts with the blankets draped over the end of the bed, leaving him bare.

"The friend of my friend is my enemy-" Rory says in an energetic burst of speech. "The enemy of my enemy's enemy- My friend is the enemy's enemy- My friend is my enemy, is my enemy."

Anthony glances over at the nightstand next to Rory's bed. It is covered with various pills from the cocktail of prescription drugs his doctor created to keep Rory away from alcohol, allowing him to party without damaging his body. Pezzloni shakes his head after a moment, sets the pistol down next to Rory on the bed, then picks up the trash can and slides all of the prescription pills inside. Once the pills are all gone, he removes the trash bag, tying it off neatly before holding it close to his waist. Then he picks up the pistol from the bed and smiles at Rory.

"Rory, wake up," Anthony orders, smiling at first, but then becoming frustrated and impatient. "Rory, WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

"Morning!?" Rory announces opening his eyes wide; not so much a greeting, but a rhetorical question.

"No it isn't morning, my friend," Pezzloni replies with a smirk. "Hey, I have some good news for you this afternoon. You've kicked your drinking habit; now you don't need the pills anymore." He says with genuine pride, holding the small garbage bag in the air.

"Well, that's good," Rory says still in a half animal state, rubbing his left thigh from the pain caused by a recent muscle spasm.

"Yeah, you did good," Pezzloni agrees, "and I have a gift for you." He says with a smile, handing the pistol to Rory and watching with intrigue as the younger man grips it for the first time. "This is your very own forty-five automatic, to help protect you from the Chinese."

"Oh, sweet!" Rory exclaims with elation, pointing the gun at the blank wall near his feet. "When can I shoot at something?"

"We'll try it out later. For now, just put it somewhere out of sight, and get some rest."

Anthony steps out of the room like a proud father, watching Rory aim the pistol at the wall and pretend to fire. His exchange of the pistol for the drugs brings him a feeling of relief as he carries them toward the main trash.

A few hours later, Anthony and Dimitri are seated at the travertine table beneath the gazebo, near the pool. It is a serene, quiet evening, and the pool area is empty, save for the men at the table. Above their heads, the waterfall splashes a clean, consistent stream into the chilly waters. Dimitri is dressed in a lime green, button down silk shirt with a black and red striped tie, and a dark tan Armani Suit with matching wingtips. Anthony is dressed less formal in a black fitness shirt with blue jeans and gray cowboy boots. He is wearing a gold chain around his neck and his salt and pepper hair is neatly spiked for this occasion.

Herb Christos, the younger brother of New York syndicate boss Chandler Christos, sits at the table across from the two men. He is dressed in a purple mock, black slacks, and a pair of cheap, worn basketball sneakers. Herb's olive skin is a natural Italian hue like Dimitri, but he is heavyset with brown hair that hangs just past his shoulders. He also sports a poorly groomed goatee.

"What the fuck is happening?" Herb asks with pleading eyes and an entitled tone of voice. "I know that I screwed up, and the shipment didn't make it to L.A., but if you look at my track record over the past year and a half, I've had thirty-four successful shipments and only two failures. That's a good average, right?"

"Not in this business," Pezzloni replies with a forced smile, "your first mistake cost us over six million. This last shipment took down two mules and cost over fourteen million. This is not a job delivering cupcakes where you can get it right most of the time, Herb; it only takes one wrong shipment to bring the DEA to all of our doors... Now you've lost two... to the Feds."

"Yeah, but you're doing good, right?" Herb asks with a charming smile. "Dimitri here is wearing Armani, you're living in a palace in Southern Cali. Somewhere the business has to have a hedge fund for something like this, right?"

"Excuse me?" Pezzloni asks indignantly. "A hedge fund; in organized crime? No, we don't have them. We take our losses on the chin."

"Right, but you don't pay any taxes, not like all these other fags. There's got to be some room in the bank for a few mistakes."

"Are you smoking what you're supposed to be shipping?" Pezzloni mocks sarcastically. "We have to pay more than just taxes; it costs a fortune to clean our money. Paying taxes would be a hell of a profit increase."

"Well, I fucked up, and I've already admitted that, but I want to stay in the business."

"I would love to help you on this one," Pezzloni says slowly with another fake smile, "your brother and I have a lot of respect for each other, and I promised him I would do everything I could."

"Great, so you have good news for me?" Herbert says with a cocky grin, leaning back in the padded seat and putting his hands behind his head.

"Unfortunately, no," Pezzloni says, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I've got this pain in the ass rep from The Cartel staying in my house, as we speak. When he heard the chatter about this latest drug bust, he flipped out and threatened to cut off our supply. The Cartel gets spooked about The DEA having a reason to look for them in Mexico."

"So did you put in a good word for me with this guy?" Herb asks with a hopeful gaze.

"Put in what word?" Anthony begins. "The guy flipped out and called the leaders back in Mexico. Then he comes down looking all strung out and talking about how they are going to impose their own form of affirmative action, and only Mexicans will be allowed to mule the product across the border to L.A."

"Are you fucking kidding me, he wants Mexicans to do my job? You'll be missing a lot more than a few shipments a year." Herb declares, scratching underneath his goatee a bit as his face turns red with frustration. "I'll kill the motherfucker. Where is he?" Herb asks, pulling a nickel-plated pistol from the back of his pants.

"No!" Anthony demands with fierce eyes, holding his hands up with his palms out. "We can't kill a cartel guy in my house; you know that isn't gonna' fly. Look, I'm as frustrated as you are, you're my guy, and you've been my guy. I know we can't kill him, but I think we can scare him."

"How?" Herb asks, leaning forward as Pezzloni continues to whisper.

"First, give me the clip and get rid of the one in the chamber so I know you won't do something stupid."

Herb stops to think for a minute, then with a heavy sigh, he removes the clip from his pistol, ejects the round from the chamber, and gives them to Anthony.

"Great, I just need to know we won't have any Cartel blowback on this." Anthony begins with serious eyes. "This guy has been seeing some chick named Kelly, and she lives in L.A. If you go up to his room and tell him that you're going to kill Kelly because of what he has cost you, then he'll probably be scared enough where I can talk him into keeping you on as our mule. Otherwise, I'm afraid it's a done deal."

"So he loves this girl Kelly?" Herb asks with a thoughtful stare.

"Yeah, he talks about her all the time. The guy reminds me of Edgar Alan Poe... Lost his poor Lenore and shit."

"Does he have a gun?"

"No, but he has..."

"He has what?" Herb demands eagerly.

"It's kinda' sick, but he has a machete under his mattress. If you push your knee down hard on the bed, he won't be able to get to it in time."

"I'm sorry, Herb," Pezzloni says slowly with genuine eyes, "this is all I can do for you."

Herb stares at the travertine table for a moment, and then looks up at the house, jutting his chin out in a cocky fashion.

"This is my job, I'm not losing it to Mexicans," Herb announces finally as he gets up from the table with his empty pistol in hand. "I'm going to scare the shit out of that cartel boy. Which room is he in?"

"It's the second floor, down the hall to your right, and the first door on your left."

"Thanks..." Herb says coolly as he starts walking toward the house.

"My pleasure," Pezzloni replies, looking down at the bullets in his hand with a winning smile.

Rory is immersed in a deep sleep, remembering visions of Kelly at the Academy Awards; one of the best nights and worst nights of their long relationship. He smiles wide, having peaceful dreams for the first time in a long while. His lips purse in the air as he remembers that last kiss in the hallway, her amazing smile and sad eyes wanting to be with him, but having to let him go-

"WAKE UP, YOU FUCK!" A man's voice yells as something hard and metal hits Rory in the head.

His right eye begins to trickle blood and he sees a glimpse of a large man with a goatee hovering over him, but his eyes haven't adjusted to the light yet.

"You took my life away from me, you little shit." The man shouts. "Who do you think you are to decide whether I'm in or out?"

"What?" Rory asks as his eyes start adjusting to the light.

"I'm going to kill Kelly," he threatens, hitting Rory with the pistol again. "I'm going to L.A., and I'm gonna' kill Kelly; maybe that will help you to make a better decision. Why don't you think on that for a bit and get back to me?" He says with a cocky smile, smacking Rory with his pistol a third time.

Herb gets up from the bed and steps out of Rory's bedroom, walking away with an arrogant grin that forms through his goatee.

Out in the hallway, Anthony and Dimitri are listening to the events taking place in Rory's bedroom. Anthony is stunned when he sees Herb emerge unharmed, stepping toward them with a smartass look on his face.

"That was easy-" Herb begins to say.

Rory sprints out of the bedroom like a warrior. His face is dripping blood and the pistol is clutched tightly in his right hand. As soon as the barrel is near the small of Herb's back, Rory begins to fire, raising the gun a few inches before firing again.

"Oh shit!" Anthony exclaims as he lunges backward from the gunfire and blood spray, watching a bullet strike the wall where his head was a moment ago. He looks on with a helpless, horrified expression as more bullets easily tear through Herb's body and traverse the hallway at 1,000 feet per second. He winces in pain and turns away as a piece of bullet or bone strikes his right cheek. After the chaos settles and he hears the dry firing of an empty pistol, Anthony gets to his feet, holding his right cheek and feeling the searing pain of heat and warm blood streaming down his face.

"Rory, it's okay," Pezzloni says with a hushed fury, "he's dead, you can stop firing." After the gun goes silent, he watches Rory pull himself out from under Herb's body, covered from head to toe in blood and small pieces of flesh. "Are you guys okay?" He asks, turning to look at both Rory and Dimitri, before reaching down to help Dimitri to his feet.

"He was trying to hurt Kelly!" Rory shouts helplessly, as he curls up in a ball on the floor with the pistol still in his hand. "He was going to kill Kelly."

"Are you okay?" Anthony asks Dimitri again.

"Yes, I'm fine." Dimitri says with a stunned expression, looking at the mess in the hallway, and then turning his attention to Anthony's face. "Your face; you took a hit!" Dimitri observes frantically.

"Don't worry about me" Anthony orders with an angry gaze, "just get this cleaned up while I help him to the shower."

Anthony and Dimitri immediately go into damage control mode. Teddy would be home from his short golf vacation by morning, and it will take a lot of work to button up the details so that the story flows in their favor.

In the hallway, Dimitri begins by wrapping up the body in plastic and setting down dozens of towels to soak up the pools of blood. Meanwhile, Anthony helps Rory into the shower with his boxers still on, being a bit a forceful, as the younger man is still emotional from having killed someone so intimately. Once Rory is in the shower, Anthony cranks on the warm water and hands him a bar of soap. Then he fishes frantically in the cupboards for a moment, and comes back up with: cotton balls, alcohol, and a sewing kit. He quickly feeds some thread through the eye of the needle and ties it off, then sets it on the white marble bathroom vanity. Next, he leans closer to the bathroom mirror, using the cotton balls and alcohol to clean the wound, simultaneously annoyed and thrilled at the pain.

"Make sure you wash all the blood off, Rory," Pezzloni instructs as he pushes the head of the needle through the bottom of his wound.

He moves the needle in and out of his skin with military precision, sewing up the three inch gash that resembles the forked tongue of a snake, before cutting the thread and tying it off at the end. At this point he applies a gauze bandage to his face, then hands Rory a towel and moves to the downstairs living room to pour himself a drink. Anthony carries the drink to his expensive Italian leather sofa and sits back with his eyes closed, taking a manly swig of alcohol as he starts working on a way to control the narrative for this incident. Chandler will have more than a few questions about how his brother died in the Pezzloni Estate.

The following morning, Anthony wakes Rory up early and insists that he join him in the gym for some exercise. After a bit of arguing, Rory finally agrees to join him in the gym on the second floor.

A few minutes later, the two men are starting their cardio workouts. Rory is running on the treadmill in blue shorts and a black tank top and Anthony is right behind him on the cross trainer wearing black shorts and a white tank top.

"How are you feeling today?" Pezzloni asks as beads of sweat run down from his salt and pepper hair.

"I'm doing." Rory says, clearly not wanting to talk.

"Look, you know what happened last night was self-defense, right?" Pezzloni asks with somewhat shallow breath, wiping his face with a clean white towel.

"How was that self-defense? I shot him in the back while he was walking away." As they begin discussing the murder like a football game, Rory feels his stomach becoming sick.

"Some men would say that defending your family is a matter of self-defense. You thought he was going to kill Kelly, and you defended yourself." Pezzloni states with fervent pride.

On the treadmill, Rory begins to feel dizzy and he hits the emergency stop button, dropping to his knees as soon as the rubber conveyor stops moving. He holds himself up on all fours, hovering over the rubber surface of the treadmill with an open mouth, and then he vomits mostly water. In response to this, Anthony shuts down the cross trainer and moves over by Rory's side to help him up from the treadmill.

"I want you to have some fun tonight; like you did when you first got here," Pezzloni says in a friendly tone as he pulls Rory up and pats him on the back. "Tina was saying that she wanted to see you tonight when I saw her at the pool yesterday. She said that she misses your personality and is down to do whatever you feel like." He stops speaking and grabs Rory by the shoulders. "That's one hell of an offer if you ask me... I want you to shake off this depressing shit and chalk it up as self-defense. You won, he lost, end of story. Understood?"

"How did he know about Kelly?" Rory asks with confusion. "Who the hell was that guy?"

"He was an enforcer for our New York syndicate," Pezzloni says slowly. "The guy must have been infected with some disease and decided to try and force you to cure him. You know, like all the others?"

Rory nods his head reluctantly, then turns and grabs his towel as he prepares to clean up the vomit.

"What the hell are you doing? Just leave it," Pezzloni orders, "I've got people for that. But before you go, promise me one thing," Anthony demands, standing in front of Rory blocking his way out of the private gym. "Promise me that you will spend tonight with Tina and that you'll have fun!? You're still a young man; get a piece of ass, and SHAKE THIS SHIT OFF!"

Rory forces a smile and nods, still feeling sick from what took place less than twelve hours ago. Despite how he is feeling, the idea of using a date to help put the nightmare behind him sounds good, and he gives Tina a call as soon as he gets to his room.

Later that evening, Rory finds himself lying in bed with Tina. His door is locked and they are both naked, drinking from a bottle of Grey Goose that she bought for this occasion. He smiles up at her perfect face and high cheekbones, wondering how he could be so lucky. Tina's blonde hair is pulled up in a fashionable loop around her head, delicately styled to perfection. Her bright blue eyes are looking down at him with an intense desire, and she bites her lower lip, indicating that she is ready. As they begin to kiss, he starts feeling aroused, using his hands to explore the curves of her soft body.

"Thank you for coming over," Rory says with a relaxed smile.

"I'm glad you called, my Sister's husband died last week, and the only memory she has of him is their last fight because they hadn't made love in between. I thought that was awful." Tina says with a sweet, girly voice, looking down at his body.

"That is awful," Rory says with sincerity, and more than a hint of ulterior motivation.

"Do you think we can make up for their lost time?" Tina asks, reaching under the blanket and delicately stroking his member.

"Yes," he replies in an eager voice.

"Yessss," she agrees moving aggressively forward, pushing his head down on the pillow.

As his head gets jolted a bit, he instantly remembers a flash of being struck by a gun the other night. His stomach suddenly feels sick as visions of being awakened from his sleep with violent blows to the head become fresh and real again. He freezes up and his face turns a pale color as he stares off into the distance, remembering how he ran out into the hallway wearing only his boxer shorts and fired the pistol into the man's back over and over again.

"Whoa, what's wrong, baby?" She asks as she reaches between his legs.

"It's just the Vodka. Don't worry about it. Just give me a second." He closes his eyes, trying to take more relaxing breaths so he can put these visceral images out of his mind.

Tina suddenly dives below the covers like a woman on a mission, putting her head between his legs and using her mouth and tongue with great enthusiasm.

"Stop, stop! Please stop," he says, pulling her mouth off of him and sliding down the bed so he can look her in the eye. "I can't do this tonight. This just isn't a good night for sex, but we can lay here together and relax... or I can take care of you?"

"No, it has to be tonight!" she exclaims, feeling suddenly anxious as she reaches down and starts stroking his flaccid member. "Shit, baby, it has to be tonight, come on and do this for momma'. I need that money!"

"Whoa, timeout!" Rory says with his eyes staring directly into hers as he pulls her hand away from his member. "What do you mean you need the money? What money?"

"That's not what I said," she lies to him with a plastic smile. "I said I need that cock!"

"No you didn't." Rory disagrees with a suspicious sneer. "You need the money for what?"

"You're acting kind of weird and aggressive, I think maybe I should go?" She tries to play stupid and moves toward the edge of the bed.

"You're not going anywhere," Rory orders as he climbs on top of her, clutching her wrists with a steel grip and pushing her tight against the bed. "Why is tonight the perfect night? What money do you need so bad? How much is he paying you to kill me?"

"I'm not killing anyone," she says with sincerity. "Tonight is the perfect night because... I'm ovulating."

"Holy shit!" He says with a sudden, intense level of understanding as if a commercial jet just flew three feet over his head. "Holy fucking shit!" He repeats in amazement as so many things start to become clear. "How much did he offer you to get pregnant?"

"I'm Type O Negative, so I would get a million dollars." She says with a soft smile as she removes the blanket and opens her legs, trying to convince him to finish the job.

"You need to leave now!" Rory demands as he jumps off of the bed and reaches for a pair of boxer shorts. "Leave now, and keep your mouth shut unless you want me to tell Anthony it was you who spilled the beans on his little secret."

As these words hit her perfectly formed ears, she jumps out of bed and starts to get dressed; begging him not to tell Anthony all the way up until she is fully dressed and Rory sends her out the door of his bedroom. After she has left, he breathes in heavy gasps, putting his right hand against his face. Rory swallows hard and shakes his head, trying to understand what's really going on with Pezzloni. When a few moments have passed, he looks out the window of his bedroom down at the heavily secured, two story concrete building. At this moment, he is wishing that Anthony hadn't taken away his pistol from the previous night. He closes his eyes briefly, knowing that the truth is less than a hundred yards away.

A few minutes later, Rory is dressed in black sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, and dark brown hiking shoes. He moves stealthy in the blind spots of the security cameras, which he had seen Dimitri do on several occasions. Soon he reaches the familiar chain link fence of the security building and removes a fresh steak from his pocket. Almost immediately, one of the bigger dogs comes trotting over to the fence to meet him, its Pavlovian response kicking in with the smell of the meat.

When the dog dips its head to feast, Rory reaches for the collar around its neck, but the dog snaps its jaws immediately forcing him to pull his hand out of the fence. His hand trembles and he swallows hard as he realizes that the shepherd nearly took it from him. He looks down carefully, surmising that the holes in the fence are too small for his hands and the dog would never stay long enough for him to get the collar. In desperation, he searches the ground and finds a long stick which he snaps off at the end to create a sharp point. Rory then pierces the steak with the sharp end of the stick and pulls it away from the large dog. The German Shepherd growls menacingly, and Rory's heart starts pounding as he realizes this dog has killed and ate people before.

Over the past few months, the dogs have become friendly to him, but when it comes to their meals, they will kill anyone for trying to take their food. He continues pulling the steak away until it is wedged halfway inside the fence. The big shepherd snarls in frustration, turning its body prone against the fence to get better leverage. Now with the collar pressed against the chain link, Rory delicately slides it around the dog's neck in a clockwise motion, looking for the spring that releases the collar. The powerful dog growls from deep inside its body, and Rory can feel the vibrations from its powerful throat on its skin and fur. This growling grows louder and more threatening as he continues to look for the spring. When he sees the little black release, he grabs the dog's collar with his left hand and undoes the lock with his right thumb before yanking the undone collar out of the fence. The dog immediately lunges at the fence, snarling and biting at the steel chain link with more intensity than a wild animal. Rory uses the stick to push the steak into the fence and the dog snatches it from the ground, running to eat it somewhere in peace.

With the collar in hand, he moves quietly along the grounds where the cameras are blind until he finds the first tunnel door that is closest to the security compound. When he passes the collar in front of the large dog door, he notices that the red light turns to green. Rory immediately pulls the door up allowing it to rest on his head as he peers inside. To his dismay, the tunnel is pitch black, and crawling inside would mean not being able to turn around. His heart starts pounding again and droplets of sweat are forming all over his body as his adrenaline is flowing heavier by the second. He belly crawls through the open dog door and into the darkness of the tunnel, feeling cold cement under his arms and through his sweat pants.

After about ten feet, he smells something awful and realizes there is a large pile of dog feces right in front of his face. His stomach churns with disgust as he uses his upper body to methodically maneuver over the feces, but just as he thinks he is free of them, he feels a disgusting, warm smoosh against his right hip, and is instantly greeted by the stench of freshly broken dogshit. Rory's fingers cringe and he swallows hard at the disgusting feeling of something being wiped on his body that is typically wiped off. He puts it out of his mind and keeps moving forward in the darkness, trying to count how many feet he has traversed from when he first entered the tunnel. After what seems like an hour, he can finally see a bit of light less than twenty feet from his position. But this little victory is cut short as he hears an ominous growl from only four feet in front of his face. Rory stops and remains still, feeling terrified to even breathe. One of the large German Shepherds has been waiting for him in the tunnel. The dog growls again, and goes silent. It seems to know who he is, but also that he is not supposed to be here. Rory's mind is suddenly overloaded with thoughts, wishing he had brought something to protect himself or at least his face. In this tunnel, with him lying on his belly, the shepherd has every advantage. The dog growls a third time, snarling as it senses his fear and smells his perspiration. Rory tries to think of something he might have in his pocket to defend himself: a knife, a screwdriver, a set of car keys, but he has nothing except his chubby little fingers. Suddenly he recalls a phrase that Dimitri and Anthony would use on the dogs when they got too aggressive, but he can't remember exactly how it goes. His body is instantly trembling with fright as the dog growls louder, but this time from only two feet away. Rory clears his head thinking hard on that phrase he had heard so many times...

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE BEFORE I SPLINTER YOUR ASS!" He shouts just as the dog is about to strike.

The large dog wines suddenly, feeling it is being confronted by its master, and scampers backwards as fast as its legs will go until it is safely out of the tunnel. Rory breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and with renewed fervor, he belly crawls quickly until he reaches the end of the tunnel.

When he finally pulls himself out of the tunnel, he sees more dog excrement and a network of eight other tunnels all joining together at a hub in this concrete pit that is sunken into the floor. He moves quietly over to the corner of the pit, leaping a bit to make his body easier to lift as he uses his hands to climb up onto the main floor. As he begins to emerge from the pit, he is immediately frozen in horror. All six German Shepherds are in this main area, and his blood goes cold when he sees the body of the man he shot the previous night just twenty-five feet from his face. He grimaces in disgust as he notices that three of the shepherds are devouring the body, starting with the soft, meaty sections of the upper body and various parts of the legs. Rory instantly turns away as the macabre is more than he can bear; those malicious, huge fur covered heads dining on a man. The room has a copper odor and there is the smell of rot everywhere. In the evening heat, the place looks like a theater of death with incandescent lights shining down a pale yellow, and the hounds of hell feasting heartily in this twisted kennel.

He begins to look around this dimly lit dog compound that resembles a small warehouse for some means of escape. Rory's arms are beginning to shake from the effort of holding his body suspended on the edge of the large cement pit. In the east corner of the room, behind where he is standing, he notices a pale green door just fifteen-feet away from him on the left. Wasting no time in his urgency to escape, he silently pulls himself out of the large concrete hole onto the flat cement surface of the main floor. His body remains prone until he is all the way out, then he gets to his feet slowly, moving cautiously toward the door, but after only two steps, he hears a snarl. Rory turns to see one of the shepherds standing near the right side of the man's body, growling at him; the fur around its mouth covered in blood.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE BEFORE I SPLINTER YOUR ASS!" Rory shouts in desperation, but the shepherds don't respond as they can see in this lighting that he is not Anthony or Dimitri.

His shouting awakens the dogs that were sleeping and he is soon facing a room filled with snarling, black and brown faces, each of them stepping toward him with murderous eyes. Out of instinct, Rory's legs begin sprinting for the door before he even realizes the decision was made. The dogs immediately charge him, barking and snarling their way toward the soft, fleshy parts of his body. He reaches for the door handle praying to God it isn't locked, and it turns a bit, but his hand slips off as the round handle is covered with some type of grease. He frantically uses his shirt to grip the door handle, turning it all the way clockwise, then he pushes inward, and to his relief, it opens up to the next room. Rory swings his body behind the door and uses his weight to push it closed, but one of the larger dogs is able to wedge its head and part of its chest through before the door and frame tighten around its body. When he sees the dog trying to use its strength to push past the door, he panics and kicks the door as hard as he can, hearing the dog yelp in agony as the blow must have broken a rib or shoulder bone. The pain causes the dog to retreat, and he pulls the door back half an inch, then slams it shut as the dog gets out of the way. He breathes heavily now, alone in the hallway, leaning against the door, sweat dripping from his brow as he grabs the handle to ensure it is shut tight before moving forward. The shepherds are barking and snarling wildly on the other side, pushing at the solid door with their massive bodies and sniffing at the floor where he is standing.

Rory searches through the lonely dark corridors of Anthony's security building for a few minutes, trying to get a feel for how the facility is organized. As his eyes adjust, he is able to walk through the hallways with just the moonlight. This part of the building has cold cement, bare electrical conduits, pipes running along the walls, and no sign of anything of comfort save for the occasional leather swivel chair. He steps up to a locked door and peers through a small window with wire mesh squares embedded in the glass. There are six large LCD surveillance monitors showing video from various sections of the property. The room is empty except for a black steel computer desk and matching padded swivel chair. As he explores the rest of the first floor, Rory finds it to be unremarkable, with empty offices, storage for cleaning supplies, and a large bathroom that is equipped with showers.

When he doesn't find anything of value on the ground floor, he makes his way up to the second floor. Rory climbs the two flights of bare concrete stairs, peering cautiously around the corners, feeling suspicious of even the shadows as the thought of the shepherds attacking him from behind creates a cold shiver in the base of his neck. At the top of the stairs, he finds a glass security door with a magnetic lock similar to the dog doors out on the property. The glass is tinted and appears to be extremely thick. On the right side there is a small, rectangular security reader that is encased in stainless steel to match the door frame. When he passes the dog collar over the magnetic fob reader, nothing happens. He reaches down and grabs that handle in vain, trying to figure out a way into this area, and to his surprise, the door opens despite the red light showing near the locking mechanism.

Rory steps slowly through the glass security door, his heart beating at jackhammer pressure as he wonders what lies ahead. When he closes the door behind him, he tries to push it open and realizes that this area is designed to let you in easily, but not out. As he steps forward a few feet and turns his head to the right he sees a medical prep station with a few white uniforms, a sink, and two stainless steel examination tables. This area of the building is by far cleaner and warmer than the rest of the facility. It has the appearance of a hospital with white tiles on the floor, and a medical cart with various supplies such as: scalpels, gloves, cotton balls, medical tape, and bandages. There are two large white cupboards above the stainless steel sink; both secured by combination padlocks. There is a white medical curtain leading to the next room and Rory stares at it with curiosity, listening to the light hum of a humidifier nearby.

He approaches the medical curtain with caution, grabbing the left side of it slowly as he peeks in at the next room. To his relief, nobody is standing guard, which gives him the confidence to slide the curtain back and slowly move forward. This room is cut off from another room by a second medical curtain. His gaze lowers to six, small stainless steel tables in the center of the room and Rory's heart drops when he looks at the top of each table. There are six cribs covered in Plexiglas that are each protecting a small, newborn baby. Rory looks down at these little faces and he is immediately in shock; opening and closing his eyes with disbelief. The tiny babies are sleeping peacefully in their cribs, each of them having facial features similar to Rory, including cheekbones and hair color. With the thought that most of his life he had been too busy or selfish to ever be a father, this revelation is like a spear through his gut. He swallows hard, feeling sick all over, as if he had been dragged into the house of Satan himself fifteen months ago. He puts his hand over his forehead, simultaneously feeling shocked, ashamed, betrayed, and wounded; a sickening array of emotions smashing down upon him like dominos made of stainless steel.

"It's okay, Daddy's here." He says slowly, swallowing hard while he starts thinking of a way to rescue his children.

As he looks around the room, Rory doesn't see anything large enough to safely transport the babies; only a few sanitized bottles and some equipment for checking blood pressure and temperature. He steps up to the next curtain and slides it back slowly, peering inside with hopes of finding something to save them. When he gazes into the next room, Rory falls to his knees. He puts his head down feeling the most awful shame of his life as he sees over fifty more cribs in the massive room; most of them holding babies at various stages of growth from one to six months. His body shakes with rage as he tries to hold himself still on all fours. He breathes in heavy gasps from his nose like an angry bull, and his body is convulsing inside with something that is between a panic attack and a heart attack. Rory grabs at his right side as he feels physical, stabbing pain from all of the stress. In this state of shame, he is beyond suicidal, beyond vomiting, and beyond counsel; there are no words for this feeling.

"I see you found the nursery." Anthony says from behind him standing in front of the newborns and looking down with admiration at his own work.

As Rory turns, he sees Anthony Pezzloni staring at him with wicked affection, dangling a black semi-automatic pistol near his right leg. The older gangster is dressed in a black sport shirt and a pair of loose fitting carpenter jeans. He is wearing a thick gold chain and a pair of black running shoes. His gaze is sickly sweet as he looks at Rory with a disturbed fondness; almost as though this is a beautiful family moment for him.

"I never knew how much work went into keeping a baby healthy; there are so many products, and most of them are shit! Did you know that without the proper amount of Zinc, a kid can have an underdeveloped brain? There are so many vitamins and minerals a baby needs in their first few months to ensure health and optimal growth; it's stressful finding the right mix, to be honest. We spent a lot of time on planning and research to find the best humidifiers, climate control- you name it."

"What the fuck is this?" Rory asks with tears streaming down his face, still hovering over the concrete floor on his hands and knees.

"You know what this is, Rory," Anthony begins with dark eyes, "this is you- paying me back... by any means necessary." The muscular man nods his head slowly as he finishes his sentence, staring right through Rory.

"How many are there?" Rory asks, clenching his fists hard against the floor as if preparing to do knuckle pushups.

"We've delivered about forty-two healthy babies. Six of them have been sold to international buyers for five million each." Anthony says in a dry voice. "Some of those buyers were at the silent auction a few months back. In order for me to get you safely away from that auction, I had to promise to take care of everyone who had a seat at the table. This is how I can fulfill my promise and everybody wins." He says, tapping the side of a crib with his free hand and not breaking his line of vision with Rory. "I make some new allies overseas, and build up enough cash so that I can take control of business in Miami and New York."

"How the fuck do you do something like this and still look at yourself in the mirror?" Rory asks with a face full of anguish, seeking some type of humanity in his captor.

"Look, Rory, you're the one who stuck your dick in all of those women. I just offered them an incentive to a better life and they took that incentive." Anthony replies in a vindicated tone. "This isn't so bad if you look at it from the right perspective. A lot of these kids will be treated like kings when they go overseas to start saving lives in other countries." He speaks with a self-righteous smile, showing that he truly believes what he just said.

"But most of them will be treated like fucking cattle! And you know that! I've seen what they do to kids in Guam, and what they do to kids in the Philippines, and other hellish places of the world."

From the far end of the large room Dimitri and Vincent file in through a side door; each of them pointing a pistol at Rory. Dimitri circles to the right stepping close to the row of cribs with his sleek black dress shoes. He is dressed in a formal, burgundy button-down shirt and a pair of black slacks with a noticeable hem. Vincent is far less elaborate, wearing a white tank top and blue jeans; his messy hair showing that he was roused from bed a short time ago. With a threatening gaze, Vincent circles left and stops when he has a straight line of sight with Rory, pointing the black pistol at Rory's head. To his right, Dimitri is pointing a nickel plated pistol at him, but with far less intensity than Vincent. Rory looks up from the floor to assess his situation, unarmed and surrounded by vicious thugs.

"Stop trying to guilt me into your way of thinking, Rory," Anthony commands in a hateful voice, changing his tone to something more bombastic as his men enter the room. "Goddamn, you are such a fucking woman sometimes. Look at you sitting on the floor weeping your eyes out over these babies that you didn't even know about or give a shit about less than ten minutes ago." Anthony stops for a minute, rubbing the bridge of his nose deep in thought. "Do you want to know the whole truth, Rory? I have been playing you since the beginning. I was watching TV that night you were on the first talk show after the press conference, and I said to myself, why do they call him The Golden Goose? He doesn't have any kids. Then a genius thought occurred to me, but it wasn't until you started doing the public relations tour, that I found out how much money we could really make in this market. You want to know the full truth? I sent that mutilated goose to the L.A. Times... I threatened to mutilate Kelly in the same way because I wanted you to hire my security guys; not Jack's. It was my guys who arranged the silent auction, and it was me who personally cherry-picked the players. Oh, and my son, the drug dealer, whom I love and respect; you know, the one that you insulted? I have been paying him to attack the front gates since the day you told me you wanted to leave. What the fuck did you think happened that day after I told you I was going to make a phone call? I called my son and told him to scare the shit out of you. All I needed was the right amount of pussy, some alcohol, and a few barbarians at the gates to take control of your pathetic life. Both of those guys who died in my yard a few months back; were Chinese enforcers, looking for revenge after we bombed them on the highway... or wherever the fuck you were."

"You're not selling these kids," Rory says with conviction as he gets up from the floor, both of his hands forming tight, white knuckle fists.

"Everything you see here is my merchandise; it all belongs to me. You're welcome to buy one or two if you want, for sentimental reasons, but the rest are getting shipped off to the highest bidder. You know, Rory, you're really a weak bitch because what you're seeing here isn't even the worst part of all this. Think of all the mothers. What about the maternity ward next door? Do you know how many of these women refuse to part with their kids? Have you ever heard that story of King Solomon and the two women fighting over ownership of the baby..? He threatens to cut the baby in half so he can learn who the real mother is and she gives up the baby to save its life. I've had to do shit like that. And if you think selling babies is hard; try taking babies away from their mothers, even when you pay good money for them. How many of these women do you think I had to put in the ground because they threatened to get California State involved?"

"Those are women you're talking about; you sick fuck! These are people, they're not inventory for you to sell or dispose of when you feel the need. You're not selling MY CHILDREN!" Rory shouts and several babies begin to cry from the loud noise.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Anthony says sarcastically. "Who do we have right here? What is this little fucker's name?" He asks as he pulls a newborn baby from one of the Plexiglas cribs. "Should I shake him, Rory? Should I turn this kid into a retard for the rest of his life with just a little shake?"

Rory holds his breath as more tears stream down his face, watching helplessly as the monster threatens him in the worst way. Anthony gently puts the baby down, closing the crib above him.

"Don't you fucking threaten me! These kids are my property. I think you said it best at the Academy Awards; it's not up to you to play God. So I'll give you two options here, Rory. Option 1: you go back to the house, drink, party, and fuck your brains out, and keep making babies for me without saying a word. Or Option 2: tonight becomes the saddest night of your life as Anthony Pezzloni shows you something so disturbing it will eat at you until the day you die. Then you go back to my house, drink, party, and fuck your brains out, and still keep making babies for me without a word. Do you understand, Rory? You can choose ignorant bliss or you can choose pain, and more pain, because I assure you, my young friend, there are dark corners of hell that you never conceived of in your life! So which option do you prefer: ignorance and bliss, or pain and suffering?"

"You are not selling these kids!" Rory says with white hot fury, curling his hands into tighter fists as he tilts his head forward with a stare that threatens Anthony.

"It looks like you picked option 2," Pezzloni begins with sincere shame and sadness in his voice. "Fair enough, Rory, now I'm going to show you something so horrible, it will leave a stain on your soul, and you will never sleep another decent night in your life. I know this... because, I live with it every day..."

Rory feels a static pulse of fear reverberate through his center as he gazes into Pezzloni's cold, dark eyes. The man bears a demeanor that proclaims self-induced tragedy; something he would expect to see from a father who had killed one of their own children. Rory feels the pressure of his breath escaping from his body in uncomfortable gasps, surprised by the notion that he could feel more anxiety than with the revelation of his many forsaken children.

"Dimitri. Vincent." Pezzloni harkens at his two enforcers. "Go tune up the rat... I'm going to give Rory a tour of our collection..."

The two men lower their weapons with some hesitation, not wanting to leave Pezzloni alone with someone so volatile. But as the brooding gangster flicks his pistol toward them impatiently, they follow his orders without question.

"Let's take a walk to the maternity ward, Rory." Anthony evokes with a twisted smirk, feeling an instant connection to his unwanted houseguest. "I promised you a stain on your soul, and before tonight is over, you'll have one."

Pezzloni walks past Rory as he speaks, stepping through the rows of cribs like a farmer admiring his crops. The unyielding gangster gestures with his pistol for the younger man to follow as he makes his way to a door in the larger part of the nursery at the far side of the area. Every ounce of Rory wishes to launch away from this situation, like a spacecraft from the mothership, sensing that the worst moments of his life may be just a few minutes from now. He shuffles along in silence at the behest of the rigid madman, driven forward by guilt as he glances down at all the little faces that might have grown up to call him 'Daddy.' This solemn march is more of a sting to his soul than the initial shock, since Rory can now see neatly printed shipping addresses on a few of the cribs.

As he raises his head, the young man stares fiercely at Pezzloni's neck, and the gold chain hanging therewith, fantasizing with vindictive ambition.

When the tall gangster gets to the security door, he reaches into his left pocket with his free hand and retrieves a set of keys. Pezzloni looks back at Rory as his fingers locate a familiar black fob on his keychain, and he passes it over the reader. The aging brute smiles as if invoking a wicked premonition, pushing his way into the next room while simultaneously clutching the steel door handle and keys.

With a hollow, metallic creak, the door opens into a new hallway, and the motion sensors automatically turn on a series of fluorescent lights above wide clear panels in the ceiling. When Rory looks to his right, he sees a large room with darkly tinted windows, each bearing steel mesh wire, preventing anyone from seeing in or out. The young man rubs his tongue over his upper teeth nervously, noticing that his insides are churning at the onset of too much stress.

Both men continue to traverse the hallway in slow silence, and Rory notices that there are only two doors on the right. As he peers further down the hall, the space ends at a darkly lit concrete wall with no window. They walk past the first door, which has the letter 'M' marked in distinctive black paint on its pale green surface. Unlike the nursery, these doors are solid steel, and seem much older.

As Pezzloni steps up to the second door, he turns around and looks upon his companion with a seedy satisfaction in his eyes. The gangster is almost boyish in his excitement, like a proud, young psychopath about to show off his collection of small animal corpses.

He continues to stare at Rory, and a maniacal grin grows on his face as the seconds pass. Pezzloni glances at the door, and then back at Rory, raising his eyebrows somewhat as if warning him that hell awaits them. He does this several more times, until it seems to be losing its effect on his younger companion.

After a final glance of warning, the gangster finds a small key on his keychain, turns it upside-down, and unlocks the solid, steel deadbolt. The lock opens with a surprisingly audible click, and every part of Rory wishes that it could be reengaged. He finds himself in a dizzying world that is far from the paradise of his lavish California home. The young man's knees are swaying a bit from the mental exhaustion, and his entire body is blitzed by a tension he has never before known. All of his organs feel as though they are going to spasm and seize over and over again, leaving him in a state of unmistakable terror.

Pezzloni opens the door slowly to reveal a moderate security office. There are two wall-mounted, sixty-inch LCD displays in the front right corner of the room. The displays are nearly touching as they meet at the corner. Immediately below these displays, there is a security desk made from cheap polyurethane material, which bears two fairly modern computers atop its surface.

Anthony steps into the office and grabs one of two short, black swivel chairs fashioned with padded cloth seats. He smiles with synthetic hospitality at Rory, gesturing for him to take a seat. The younger man steps into the office next to the gangster, ignoring his offer to have a seat, and deciding instead to observe the activity on the LCD displays.

Anthony immediately slams the chair against the desk, and Rory watches it bounce somewhat from the corner of his eye, refusing to even flinch.

As Rory watches the LCD displays, his level of concern grows substantially. There are at least a dozen women in various states of pregnancy, almost all of them sleeping in what could only be described as a makeshift prison. His insides are beginning to burn with instant guilt as he recognizes their beautiful faces, and recalls all the passionate moments that they spent together. The young man can feel his hands starting to tremble as he contemplates what the gangster is trying to say with this silent presentation. His anger for a lack of explanation is almost equal to his fear for what has transpired these past few months.

"We call this the 'found and lost.'" Pezzloni states after a few minutes of silence.

The sadistic gangster flips a light switch above the desk, and a bright light turns on directly behind his body. Rory cannot immediately see anything since the man is blocking his view, standing before him with a look of satisfied contempt.

When Rory steps to his left to see what is behind Pezzloni's body, the man darts toward his face, glaring at him fiercely with his nose only half an inch from Rory's. Their eyes remain deadlocked for a few seconds, neither man willing to yield to the other. As Rory looks into his captor's eyes, he realizes that the man doesn't just want him to know that he is dangerous; Pezzloni wants him to acknowledge that an unforgiving wrath is coming.

After a few seconds in this dance of machismo, the gangster stands aside with a refreshing stoicism, and Rory glimpses a large shelf at the back corner of the room.

"Welcome to the 'found and lost,'" Pezzloni says with contempt, "you've created a good sized collection."

The young man's throat begins to convulse as he sees several items on the shelf, and recognizes them immediately. Among the many items, the first to catch his eye is a flower print hair clip that was worn by Jessica. Rory remembers her brilliant smile when she talked about going to Hawaii someday, and how wonderfully optimistic she had seemed. To the right of that, he focuses on a wooden bracelet that was worn by Anguila; a women who had crossed the sea from Africa to the United States, searching for a better life. He recalls her dignified appearance, and subtle grace, when she spoke about rescuing her sisters from the militants of their village.

A tear emerges from his right eye as he spots a gold necklace that was worn by Destiny, an Italian woman who had her eighteenth birthday party at the Pezzloni mansion. Rory places his right hand on his forehead and begins to cry openly for her, no longer concerned with maintaining his composure. He recollects how full of life she had been, and her tenacious banter as they played games with a group of women in the swimming pool.

Tears begin to drip from his face and splash in a sloppy mess on the unkempt concrete flooring of the security office, and he shakes his head from side-to-side, as if to free himself from the knowledge of her death. He gets a glimpse of Pezzloni from his right eye, seeing the gangster's smile of delight from this horrific display. Despite Rory's vigorous efforts to avoid giving this psychopath the satisfaction of breaking him, he is unable to contain his agony.

"Did they die quickly?" Rory asks in a shaky voice that is nearly inaudible.

"No." Pezzloni answers without hesitation, as if talking about a group of laboratory test subjects. "I beat them... It was good exercise... good for the heart."

Rory turns his back to Pezzloni, now facing the blank wall near the door, and the only area of the room that is not reminiscent of the horrors within this place.

"Did any of them get paid what you promised?" Rory asks with a dry rhetoric, already certain that he knows the answer to this question. "Or was getting pregnant by me just a death sentence for these girls?" He adds with disdain, clenching his fists in bitter hatred for the perversions that were taking place just a hundred yards from his bedroom.

In answer to his question, Rory feels a foot come down hard on the back of his leg, forcing him to the cement on his knees. The young man feels a penetrating blow that drives into his kneecaps with the force of a steel drill bit. He cries out from the intensity of the pain, and feels himself sinking lower than ever before in his life. Rory rolls his hands into tight fists, and uses them to stabilize his body on the dusty cement, not wanting to risk further damage.

"Yes, Rory," Pezzloni begins in a callous tone just behind his left ear, "getting pregnant by you is a death sentence for these girls... I promise them a better life... I take away their baby, and I... beat them until... they stop moving."

"I'm going to kill...you!" Rory blurts out immediately without a thought, as the mental and physical pain force tears down his face. "I'm going to... you... I'm going to..." The young man mutters, having trouble forming the words for revenge.

"You know what's funny, Rory?" Pezzloni asks with a bit of reflection. "I've been around long enough to know that it's possible for someone like you to kill someone like me. But even if you do... I've already put a stain on your soul... I've already killed part of you tonight, and you'll never be the same." His captor states with more than a bit of wry humor. "Oh, and there are thirty-seven items on the shelf, by the way..."

"You'll never get away with killing that many people." Rory states despite the dry soreness of his throat. "Nobody ever gets away with killing that many people. Their families will come looking for them." He adds with bitter malcontent.

"Nobody is looking for these girls, Rory." Pezzloni replies with snobbish arrogance. "As far as their families are concerned, each of these girls has become rich, and they are off traveling the world. I made them call their families from a phone number out of Florida, and we sent letters and postcards while they were pregnant. When the postcards stop coming, three to five years from now; that's when they'll start looking. But they won't be looking here. I sold their passports to illegal immigrants who like to travel, and I did it through a fence. By the time they start investigating, the last stamp on each passport will be a thousand miles from here."

Rory doesn't say anything, but his mind is a turbine engine of vengeance. The pain in his knees is fading enough for him to get a grip on reality, and he realizes that his captor has no intention of ever letting him leave the property alive. 'I've been so stupid,' he thinks to himself in the shadow of his misery. The young man holds his breath for a few seconds, ignoring the gangster who is still speaking with pride about covering his tracks. Rory bows his head and gives the dead women over sixty seconds of silence, saying a prayer to honor them.

Pezzloni stops talking after a while, realizing that his prisoner isn't paying attention. He leans to his left as a sneer of disappointment grows across his face, and the gangster notices that the young man has somehow found solace.

"Get on your feet!" Pezzloni demands, kicking at the bottom of Rory's left sneaker. "We're leaving the maternity ward."

Rory responds to this command with some hesitation, no longer afraid of being shot by his captor. He moves his legs slowly and painfully, adjusting his weight to cope with the throbbing in his knees until he is upright. With a gaze of superiority, the gangster steps out of the small security office, gesturing with the pistol for Rory to follow.

The two men walk through the hallway in silence, making their way from the maternity ward, through the nursery, and down the concrete stairs to the first floor. When they reach the first floor, Pezzloni steps dutifully toward the indoor enclosure where the German Shepherds are housed, and Rory notices that Vincent and Dimitri are waiting there for them.

Pezzloni turns to face Rory with a wicked sneer to demonstrate his dominance, causing the younger man to shudder. 'The night couldn't be any worse,' Rory thinks as they move through the dark hallway. He immediately recognizes the greasy door handle that had saved him from the pack of dogs earlier, and recalls the foul sights and smells on the other side of the door.

"I have another surprise for you, Rory." Anthony states with caustic emphasis, gesturing for his men to open the door. "When I showed you our 'found and lost,' you probably thought that was the stain I was going to leave on your soul... but it was only a preview..."

Vincent reaches out and opens the door as Dimitri stands with his arms folded, bearing a victorious smile. Rory notices that the back of Vincent's white tank top has some blood stains lined up in a row of three, almost in the shape of small fingers. Pezzloni gestures with his pistol for Rory to step through the door as he smiles with anticipation.

Rory stares at the door, not wanting to move, his body shaking all over, and his right side beginning to ache again from the emotional strain.

"If you don't step inside now," Pezzloni threatens with an authoritative gaze, "then I'll make this ten times worse. Trust me, as bad as it is, I can always make it ten times worse..."

Rory inhales briskly, as though this one action will bring him strength and courage, but his nose is instantly penetrated by the odors of rotting flesh and dog feces. He winces with disgust and forces his legs to march forward robotically, comforted only by the knowledge that his life may soon be over.

As he crosses the threshold into the familiar dog compound Rory notices a woman lying on the cement. She has been recently beaten, and her face is for the worse. Her left eye is swollen shut, and her skin is covered in lacerations and bruises. She has a broken nose that is surrounded by dried blood, and is laying on right her side, favoring her left arm. Rory's eyes open wide with shock when he recognizes the dress that Tina was wearing in his bedroom earlier that evening.

"Tina!" Rory exclaims with an expression of remorse and fear. "Oh my God! What the hell have they done to you!?" He asks he dashes across the concrete to join her on the floor.

When Rory gets closer to Tina the sting of his heartbreak is finalized. He can hear that she's having trouble breathing, and assumes that her ribs may be broken. With slow, gentle movements, he wraps his arms around her injured body, helping to support her as she struggles to breathe. This movement causes her to cry out somewhat as her left arm is shifted onto the cement.

"I told you that we were gonna' tune up the rat." Pezzloni says with a satisfied expression as he enters the room. "Do you have a stain on your soul yet, Rory? Are you glad that you had the balls to challenge me upstairs?" The gangster kneels down next to Tina's right leg as Dimitri and Vincent enter the room. "Well, this is going to be a very hard night for you, my friend. After tonight, you won't deny me again; not unless you want to go through this repeatedly."

"No, I won't..." Rory says with overflowing anguish, trying to steady Tina so that she can breathe in comfort. "I'll do what you want. I'll make more babies."

"Yeah, you will," Pezzloni begins as he presses down on Tina's bloody leg with his fist, "and you'll prove it tonight... If she's not pregnant by morning..." The gangster instructs, pointing at Tina's head with two fingers. "Then she's dead."

"Are you crazy!?" Rory half-shouts in disgust. "She can barely breathe! We need to get her to a doctor!" He adds with contempt, glancing at the pistol in Anthony's right hand.

"She'll get a doctor... if she's pregnant by morning." Pezzloni declares with a grim smirk. "If she's not pregnant by morning, then we'll give her to the dogs... I warned you, Rory. When you kick at a shark in the water enough times, he's eventually going to take your legs off."

"Look, I fucked up!" Rory pleads in desperation, looking Pezzloni directly in the eyes. "I broke the rules. I shouldn't have come here. Please get her a doctor, and I'll do anything you want."

"You'll do anything I want?" Pezzloni challenges with satisfaction as he gets to his feet.

"Yes, I'll do anything." Rory concedes with a humble gaze.

"Good. Then stop talking and get her pregnant by morning. You're going to have a stain on your soul; one way or another." The gangster orders without flinching as he turns to walk toward the door. "Oh, and I wouldn't worry so much about Tina here. If you screw me again, it will be the same scenario, but the half-dead girl in your arms... will be Kelly."

"Anthony-" Rory calls out with a voice that cracks.

"Not another fuckin' word, or I make this all ten times worse." The gangster promises with a fierce gaze. "If you want to save her, then get making that baby. The dog shit and dead body are compliments of the house. Don't screw me again, Rory, or the next thing we'll be doing is tossing babies in the pool to see how many you can catch." Pezzloni lowers his eyebrows to show that he is serious, and steps out of the room with his men in tow.

The door is slammed shut, sending the entire room into darkness. Rory holds Tina close to him, feeling her blood sticking to his skin as she fights for every breath.

"I'm so sorry, girl. Oh my God! Oh my God!" Rory presses his forehead against Tina's golden hair; both of them sprawled on the cold cement floor. "Breathe. Just breathe. We'll get through this. I promise!" The young man proclaims, noticing that his own breathing has become elevated.

Rory is infused with a sense of shame for all of the hedonistic sex and drinking he's done over the past few months. He thinks about the body of the man he shot that was half-eaten by dogs, and is now wasting away just twenty feet from their position on the floor. The nauseating smell of dog feces and urine are a constant reminder of his surroundings, and the darkness completes the hell. He laughs and cries simultaneously, realizing that this would be the ideal time for self-pity, but the strained breathing of the woman in his arms makes it impossible. Never before in his life has Rory had so much to regret, and such a strong desire to escape from his own mind.
X. Long Night

'What if the dogs can get in here?' Rory thinks to himself, trying not to reveal his fear to Tina through his body language. The young man remembers the tunnels leading into this room, and knows that the dogs are being held in the fenced area just behind the home. For the past few hours, he has been suspicious that Dimitri might unleash the shepherds, and allow them to tear Rory and Tina apart while his boss is sleeping.

Rory feels slightly uncomfortable with Tina's head resting on his stomach at an angle, and his arms are getting stiff from supporting her head. However, he is grateful that she has been able to get some sleep, and that her breathing has become less labored in this position. Throughout the night, his mind has been going over every inch of the home, trying to figure out a way to exploit a weakness that would free him and Tina from this nightmare. Rory has worked out a few points of weakness that had been apparent during more peaceful days, but all of them are useless without his freedom.

He thinks back to the night that he refused to pay extra for armed security guards, realizing that in one selfish moment, he was able to set off the implosion of his life. Rory recalls his lovely brunette girlfriend, and is thankful that Kelly was able to exit his life before everything turned to dust.

The moonlight looks peaceful as it passes in through the security windows, each of them containing the same mesh of steel wire that is found in every window of the compound. Rory remembers the shelf in the security office upstairs, and all of the horrid souvenirs that Pezzloni has kept. After a few seconds, he endeavors to put this out of his mind, deciding instead to focus on their survival and potential escape. While he is certain that food and water are not a concern, Rory is worried about Tina having internal bleeding.

He looks up at her mangled face in the moonlight, grateful that the room is too dark for him to see extensive details. Just the sight of her badly beaten face is enough to make Rory want to cry. His mind is suddenly awash with thoughts of vengeance, and violence against Dimitri and Vincent.

As the night carries on, despite his passion, Rory notices that he is getting fatigued, feeling the weight of so many dark revelations pinning him down ten times harder than Tina's sleeping body. It has been three hours since Pezzloni departed the room, and Rory is still no closer to figuring out a way to escape from this place and free the woman next to him.

"I have to pee." Tina says aloud in a weak voice that almost startles Rory.

"Okay..." Rory answers back immediately, trying to figure out how to move her without causing further injury to her ribs. "One second..."

Rory looks back to the pit in the floor where all of the tunnels converge, remembering that it is already filled with dog excrement.

"Can you lie flat on your back?" Rory asks in earnest, knowing that this didn't work earlier.

"I can't breathe on my back." Tina announces helplessly. "Can you bring me something... I can use?"

"What if I help you over to the pit?" Rory proposes thoughtfully, nodding to his left. "You can pee off the edge."

"How far away is it?" Tina asks in a doubtful tone, turning her head to the left. "That big, open area in the floor? There's no way in hell I'm moving that far."

"Hold on." Rory replies as he starts to slide out from underneath her body. "I'll go find something."

"No!" Tina pleads, grabbing him by the leg with her right hand. "Don't move! I can't breathe if you move."

"Okay. Let me think..." Rory begins to look around the room, but decides that finding a makeshift bedpan is useless if he can't move. "Here, let's do this." He says after a few seconds of thought.

The young man pushes her body up slightly and pulls his shirt up around his chest. He then allows Tina's head and torso to rest on his bare stomach as he pulls his sweatshirt off.

"Soak it up with this, and we'll toss it in the corner of the room." Rory advises as he passes the shirt to his companion.

Tina takes the shirt in her right hand and gazes at Rory as if he is a madman. However, her modesty soon fades as the need for relief is reinforced by her bladder. The young woman places the sweatshirt on her stomach and slowly uses her right hand to pull down her panties.

"Close your eyes." Tina demands as she places the sweatshirt between her legs.

Rory shuts his eyes and turns his head away, allowing the young blonde to have a moment in their improvised bathroom. After a few seconds, Rory hears the sound of a wet garment falling in a sloppy heap on the cement. He immediately turns his head and opens his eyes to see Tina staring at him.

"Thank you." She says with a more relaxed face. "So how are we going to do this?" Tina asks gently, looking at Rory with her right eye.

"How are we going to do what?" Rory responds slowly, pretending he doesn't know what she means.

"Anthony said that I need to be pregnant by morning. He said that he would feed me to the dogs if I wasn't." Tina says slowly. "It's almost morning, Rory."

"Sweetheart, he's just bluffing." Rory reassures her with a bit of hesitation. "I'm sure he just put us in here tonight to teach me a lesson-"

"Don't be an idiot!" Tina interrupts immediately. "I'm just... a play toy. I don't mean anything to these men."

"Tina, there's no way..." Rory begins, trying to think of an eloquent argument. "He's just trying to bring us down to his level."

"We don't need to have sex. You just need to get yourself ready and finish inside me." Tina says slowly, trying to make it sound like a noble deed.

"Even if I got you pregnant tonight," Rory states, "it would take over a week for them to see it on a pregnancy test."

"So either I die in the morning, or I die in seven days? Those are my choices?" Tina asks as a tear streams from her right eye. "Rory, I want to live!"

"You can live... I promise." Rory announces with a soothing voice. "Just help me get through the night, and...you'll live."

"Just be a man and do it!" Tina orders in a desperate tone, being careful not to disturb her broken ribs. "You always want to do it... until we need you to... just don't think about it. Please, Rory."

"I can't, Tina!" Rory erupts with frustration. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. Do you think I can perform with you in serious pain, dog shit in the corner, and the smell of a dead body in the room? He put us in this situation knowing that it was impossible. I know what he wants, and he's not going to get it from me. I'm sorry, but we need to find another way."

"This isn't romantic for me either, but I'm willing to do what I need to survive!" Tina responds with disenchanted rage. "My body hurts like hell, and I'm scared to death, but I'm not ready to give up on this life. There is so much I still want to do."

Tina rolls over onto her right side, feeling terrified at the thought of not meeting Anthony's demands. She begins to sob quietly, and Rory reaches out to comfort her, but she nudges his hand away with her body.

"Tina, he's going to kill us anyway." Rory finally admits. "Let's not give him the satisfaction of taking away our dignity. We have one shot to survive... that means we'll have to escape." He looks toward her for a moment, and realizes that she doesn't believe him. "Tina, Pezzloni has murdered every woman that I've gotten pregnant. Do you really think that he's going to pay you a million dollars after you have the baby..? No, he's going to use you as a punching bag, and dump your body in the lake."

"Just stop talking!" Tina says in a defeated tone. "If I'm going to die- I'd rather not know..."

"We'll tell him that we had sex, Tina." Rory offers in an optimistic tone. "That will give me seven days to get us the hell out of here. Please just give me that much time."

"I hope you're right..." Tina says slowly, fighting back a torrent of tears.

"We'll get through this." Rory says with a comforting voice. "Let's just play the game by our rules; not his."

The young man reaches out for her slowly, feeling her soft hair on his stomach. She shifts slightly to her left, allowing his strong hands to caress her face, shoulders, and neck.

"Don't let me die tomorrow, Rory." Tina states boldly.

"I won't let you die. We'll make it through this." Rory says with certainty, praying silently to himself that he is right.
XI. Brave

"Why is this damn thing covered in grease?" Pezzloni's muffled voice beckons from just beyond the steel door. "Well, use your shirt to clean it off... I don't care, you fucking peacock. I'll buy you a new one; just open the door!"

Rory is awakened by the disturbance at the door, and as he looks around the filthy room, all signs indicate that it is morning. When he raises his head a bit, Tina is startled out of her slumber by his movements, and her face rapidly turns pale. She still appears ghastly with her left eye swollen shut, and the swelling apparently increased during the night. Despite her best efforts to clean her face, the young blonde still has a residual pattern of dried blood on her upper lip from a broken nose.

Tina's breathing becomes panicked as the door opens and Dimitri enters the room followed closely by Anthony Pezzloni. The older gangster looks rugged in the morning light that is shone through small windows at the far end of the room. His face is covered in scruffy, salt and pepper stubble, but his hair appears clean and styled. The tall man looks like a soccer player in his solid gray track suit and black sneakers. Despite the casual sports attire, the gold chain around his neck gives off more than a hint that he is a violent criminal.

Dimitri has dolled himself up as usual, wearing a lime green, button-down shirt that is smudged with grease at the bottom right. His designer slacks are beige, and he wears a turquoise belt with a gold buckle that fits snugly around his waist. The criminal diva is well-groomed, and his shoes are made from expensive, black Italian leather with a nice sheen.

"So, lovebirds; are we pregnant, or are we dead?" Pezzloni inquires with a suspicious gaze. "Last night you told me that you'd do anything, Rory. I hope by now you realize how dangerous it could be if you say one thing, and do another."

"She's pregnant." Rory says with disgust, looking down and away in shame.

"Is that true, my dear?" Anthony asks with a deranged smile. "Are you going to have a little Rory?"

"Yeah, we did it last night." Tina answers with a frustrated gaze, obviously tired of the persecution. "He played with it for a few minutes, and shoved the tip in me."

"What do you think, Dimitri?" Pezzloni asks, turning to his colleague.

"I believe him, but she's full of shit..." Dimitri says with a smile. "So I guess he's a good liar, and they're both full of shit."

"I agree." Pezzloni states with his hands at his hips. "Tina, women never give a lot of detail when a man finishes inside of them. Most women won't even acknowledge that it happened. Get on your feet!" Anthony says with sudden aggression, sticking out his chest at the terrified woman.

Tina pulls away from the large gangster, moving feverishly toward Rory for protection, but Pezzloni grabs her firmly by the right arm, and yanks her up from the floor.

There is an earsplitting shriek of pain as the young woman's broken ribs and arm are jolted by the aggressive gangster's movements.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Rory shouts as he leaps up from the floor wearing just his sweat pants and shoes. "We gave you what you wanted; now let her go!"

"Look, you little douche," Dimitri begins with his index finger pointed at Rory's chest, "we're taking the girl, and if you're not careful, we'll make you watch."

The smell of dog feces and rotting flesh still lingers in Rory's nostrils, and the night of emotional trauma and captivity have left him feeling raw all over. His eyes are bloodshot and wild, like that of an ancient soldier, and as Dimitri threatens him, he lashes out immediately. Rory snatches the Italian's right hand and twists it around at the wrist in a clockwise motion, locking it in place. Now standing in a position slightly behind the gangster, he tweaks the arm until it is ready to snap. With Dimitri restrained, Rory delivers three fierce uppercuts to his kidneys, and then pushes him to the ground with both hands. The moment Dimitri is on all fours, Rory darts across the concrete and uses his right foot to deliver a mighty kick underneath the Italian's jaw.

"Oh, WOW!" Pezzloni shouts with instant approval as he sees his colleague drop to the concrete from the ferocious blow. "That was worth watching... Guess we shouldn't have let you order all of those martial arts videos."

Rory glances back to see the same black, semi-automatic pistol that Pezzloni was pointing at him the previous evening. He looks at Tina for a moment, as if asking her what he should do, but she puts her head down in defeat, causing him to rethink his attack, and step away from the fallen gangster.

"Dimitri, are you okay?" Anthony asks with mild concern, leaning forward a bit to get a better look at his colleague. "You know the rules, soldier... If you can't handle them, then we'll handle you!"

Dimitri gets to his feet slowly, holding his jaw and staring at Pezzloni with marked fury. He keeps his glare steady for a moment, and then spits toward Rory's feet.

"Let's finish this bullshit!" Dimitri announces with a macho strut, as he moves toward Tina, and grips her by the arm. "I want this to be over in time for breakfast." The angry Italian adds, glancing back at Rory, and jutting his chin out slightly in an upward motion.

Dimitri grabs Tina by the hair with his left hand, and wraps his right hand around her right bicep. He then drags her out the door of the dog compound, seeming to enjoy her protests and screams of pain.

"You need to come and watch this," Pezzloni begins solemnly, "and as you see the dogs tear into her, remember that it could just as easily be Kelly." He looks at Rory with fatherly disappointment, lowers his eyes to the floor, and then gestures for him to exit the building.

When they reach the yard outside of the compound, Rory notices that all six German Shepherds are frenzied. Two of the dogs walk straight up to Tina's left arm, sniffing hungrily in the air, and Dimitri has to shout to get them away from her.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE BEFORE I SPLINTER YOUR ASS!" The fierce Italian belays them, forcing the dogs to run away.

The dogs retreat away from Dimitri, and immediately begin to harass Rory while Anthony is escorting him toward the gate that leads to the yard behind the home. As the dogs snarl like greedy lions, Anthony has a less gentle approach to dispersal, and fires his pistol at the ground near them. Rory closes his eyes as dust is kicked up by the shattered cement, and he hears the dogs whimper as they run to the far end of the enclosure.

"Jesus, Pezzloni..." Dimitri says as he helps Tina through the gate where Vincent is waiting. "Let's just get this over with." He says slowly, shaking his head and shifting his jaw around to relieve the fresh sting of Rory's kick.

Pezzloni's bombastic laughter carries over the group as they exit the chain-link fence. Vincent is wearing an orange and white striped shirt with a pair of faded jeans and black hiking boots. His bloated face bears an expression of boredom, and the man appears more upscale today with a white beret atop his head.

Rory and Tina feel like prisoners of war being marched to their death. From the time they exit the darkness of the compound into the blinding light of day, everything is chaos. They are pushed forward by their captors with a casual vindication that is haunting. For the gangsters, this business of feeding a woman to their dogs is just as much fun as fishing or hiking. It is their calm demeanors that make Rory tremble with fear, as if this were a safari vacation on some remote African plain.

Once they have moved from the concrete enclosure to the yard outside, Vincent secures the gate with the ravenous dogs inside. Rory stares at their furry muzzles, watching them bare their teeth every few seconds as they bark at the captives.

"I'll bet a thousand that she makes it five minutes." Dimitri says with a callous stare as he releases Tina in the yard, pushing her slightly forward.

"Four minutes." Pezzloni says with a serious expression, looking up and down at Tina's injured body.

"Three minutes." Vincent says slowly as he watches her restrained gait. "She's got a broken arm and a few broken ribs. Let's give her a two minute head-start before we run the timer."

"Okay, my dear. You've got two minutes to get ahead of the dogs!" Pezzloni states with self-righteous satisfaction. "I'm sorry you have to go this way, but we warned you when you first came here to party – not to be a rat! Because... we send the dogs after the rats." He stares at her for a moment, watching her weep in a panic as his words shatter all hope of her survival. "So now you need to run, or you can walk. I don't give a shit! In... THREE! TWO! ONE!"

The gangster fires his pistol in the air, and Tina winces from the sound, turning immediately away from the dog run. She hobbles painfully forward, holding the broken ribs in the left side of her chest with her right arm.

Rory is ablaze with fury as he watches the fragile blonde making her way up the grass toward the courtyard. He shakes his head in silent protest, knowing that, at best, she'll only make it fifty yards before the dogs are upon her. The young man turns slightly to his left, noticing that Dimitri is staring at him with complete satisfaction. In this moment of terror, the Italian has the audacity to mouth the words 'fuck you' at Rory, his eyes lighting up with a wicked grin.

"Hey, Vincent," Dimitri begins, "we only need to release two dogs. She's so broken that it won't take very long. We really did a number on her." He says with malice, speaking to his colleague, but maintaining his gaze at Rory.

"Sounds good." Vincent says with a nod. "I'll go let two dogs into the pit." The heavyset gangster opens the gate in the chain-link fence, and closes it behind him as he steps inside.

"Well hell, Rory." Pezzloni says with casual frustration. "Do you want to see it happen live, or should we show it to you on the security camera footage? Either way, it's going to be... horrifying... Even for me... it's fuckin' horrifying."

"Oh yeah?" Rory responds back in a casual yet reptilian manner. "Was it horrifying when you killed your wife?" He asks boldly, staring Pezzloni in the face. "Was it horrifying to know that you turned your son into a fruitcake because he knows you beat his mother to death?"

"You ARROGANT BITCH!" Pezzloni shouts with explosive rage, raising his pistol in the air to strike Rory.

"No, Anthony! DON'T!" Dimitri protests from a few feet away. "THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT HE WANTS!" The young Italian cries out as though trying to stop a raft from going over a waterfall.

Rory loops his forearms around Anthony's right wrist, twisting with the momentum of the gangster's striking motion, and using the energy to free the pistol from his fingers. The 9mm Beretta easily falls from the older man's hands, and Rory reaches for it with a fierce instinct for survival. Despite his aggressive maneuvers, the gangster is able to slam him sideways, causing the weapon to drop toward the ground where it is kicked by Rory's left shoe.

As the pistol slides across the grass, Rory stays focused on its familiar black shape. Dimitri notices that Rory is dipping down for the pistol, and intercepts quickly by kicking it again with a swipe from his right foot. This motion sends the pistol bouncing ten feet across the grass, but as Dimitri steps in the way of Pezzloni, the older gangster bowls him over, sending them both crashing to the ground.

Rory glances over his left shoulder to see his two captors rolling on the grass, and realizes that he has a small window of opportunity. Wasting no time, he sprints forward with his mighty legs, and scoops up the pistol from the ground. He then turns and aims carefully at Dimitri while running backwards up the grassy slope.

A single shot drowns out all the other sounds of nature, ripping chunks of dirt out of the grass just a few feet from Anthony and Dimitri. This causes both gangsters to flatten themselves out on the grass. They are as expert at their maneuvers as trained military veterans, and Dimitri is able to draw his own pistol once he is face down with his chest in the grass.

Rory aims carefully as he continues to run backwards. His legs are gaining momentum, and the adrenaline is propelling him up the slope like a desert critter being pursued by a rattlesnake. When he nears the crest of the hill, Rory fires a second shot, and then turns to sprint toward Tina in the courtyard.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Pezzloni shouts with misdirected rage. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, DIMITRI!?" He asks with a bit of spittle dripping from the right side of his mouth.

"I'M KEEPING YOU FROM GETTING YOUR ASS SHOT OFF!" Dimitri shouts back, unafraid of his psychotic boss; now that the man is disarmed.

"SHIT! We need to call off the dogs." Pezzloni says calmly, rising to his feet with authority. "Go get on the Barrett! I'll call Vincent and tell him to hold back the dogs."

Dimitri nods sharply and tosses his pistol to Pezzloni, winking at him in a cocky manner as he rushes toward the home. Anthony catches the pistol and returns a respectful nod to his enforcer. He then reaches into his left pocket for a cell phone. After inspecting the cell phone to ensure that it's still working, Pezzloni dials Vincent, and listens for him to answer as he makes his way up the grassy slope.

"Yeah, boss." Vincent answers in a friendly tone. "Did she get it already?"

"Don't release the dogs!" Pezzloni commands through the speaker of his cellular phone. "Repeat. Don't release the shepherds. The goose is in the yard!"

"Shit, Hefe, I'm sorry!" Vincent replies with disappointment. "I already sent two Shepherds into the pit. They should be popping up from anywhere on the grounds sometime soon. You'll need to go out and stop them. I'll come and help you."

"Dammit!" Pezzloni shouts to himself as he tosses the cell phone aside and checks the action on his pistol to ensure that it's ready to fire.

In the courtyard, Rory has caught up with Tina, and he urges her to climb onto his back with her legs wrapped around his stomach. After a few adjustments, Rory finds himself jogging closer to the steep driveway with a pistol in his right hand, and a badly beaten woman riding on his back.

"WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO!?" Tina shouts into Rory's ear as they begin their descent of the steep driveway.

"If I see gangsters... I'll shoot the gangsters." Rory answers through labored breaths, watching carefully for any dogs that may be approaching. "If I see dogs... I'll shoot the dogs."

Tina is already feeling heavy on his thighs and calves, and despite the downhill grade, Rory is having a difficult time conserving his strength. The driveway is so steep that every step threatens to topple them both over and send them sprawling down the side of the man-made mountain.

Pezzloni runs after the wayward couple in desperation, making his way through the courtyard. Although he hasn't visually confirmed their course, the tall gangster assumes that Rory is heading for the front gate. As he runs through his courtyard, Anthony cannot remember there being a more beautiful day at his home. He chuckles to himself at the thought of having a manhunt during one of the best barbecue days of the year.

The fierce gangster immediately changes his thought process when he sees movement to his left. About three-hundred yards down the property, close to the gate; he glimpses one of the shepherds sprinting up the terraced hill. Unfortunately, it disappears beneath his line of sight before he can determine in which direction it is running. The man is amazed at the speed of his dogs, noticing that they traversed nearly four-hundred yards in the time it took him to run fifty.

He continues to gain ground, enjoying the cool breeze as he passes beneath the shadow of the statue of Atlas. Pezzloni hopes that Dimitri has the Barrett ready, thinking to himself that the dogs may be too fast to hit with a .50 caliber rifle.

Halfway down the driveway, Rory feels his thigh muscles burning from the intense strain of trying to maneuver the steep grade. The bones in his legs are stifled by the sheer impact of each step. He feels as though his body is trying to carry a moose down a two-hundred yard cement ramp.

"I can't..." Rory says quietly to the young woman on his back. "We need to stop."

"We're halfway there." Tina replies in a frightened tone, uncertain of their ability to survive if they slow down. "Just another football field to go. You can make it!"

Rory starts maneuvering to the right side of the concrete driveway, slowing his pace as much as possible. The young man is shocked that slowing his momentum is much more difficult than he thought, and his legs buckle, sending him and Tina down hard onto the rough cement.

"Oh God!" Tina exclaims as she feels Rory crumbling beneath her. "Ow! Ow!" Her initial cries of pain are further amplified as they both tumble onto the tiered landscaping to the right of the driveway.

The cobblestones feel oddly cool and comforting under Rory's bare chest, and he pushes himself upward with his forearms in an effort to locate Tina. As droplets of sweat pour down from his face in the mid-morning sun, Rory looks fondly at his companion who landed safely on the grass just one terrace below where he had fallen. She is a mere three feet from his face, laying on her right side, and gripping her left rib cage with her right hand.

"I'm sorry-" Rory begins softly, but is immediately cutoff by the sound of a snarling German Shepherd.

The young man is horrified as he watches the large dog stampede over Tina's neck and chest to grapple her left arm with its powerful jaws.

A shriek of tortuous pain is heard from Tina as the dog bites down on her already wounded forearm. The dog snarls in response to her scream, digging into the grass with its hind legs, and pulling at her flesh with all of its strength.

Just four feet above the dog, Rory pushes himself up with his forearms to a standing position, and begins to search for the pistol that he stole from Pezzloni. Every second that passes is defeating as he hears the dog tearing into his friend with its unforgiving jaws.

"RORY, HELP ME!" Tina screams in vain, using her right arm to cover her throat as the dog does more damage to her left arm. "PLEASE, GOD, MAKE IT STOP!"

The young man is now in a full panic as he watches the dog release its grip from Tina's left arm, and moves closer to her face. His stomach turns at the sight of the dog snarling just above Tina's vulnerable soft, white skin. Rory looks around again for the pistol, but it is nowhere in sight. The dog darts its head inward at Tina's neck and bites around her elbow, as if to prevent the arm from protecting her throat. Rory clenches his hands into fists and looks at the large cobblestones beneath his feet. He lifts one up that is twice the size of a baseball, and heaves it at the dog.

The stone glances off the dog's left hind leg, forcing it to stop and assess the situation for a moment, but it is unhindered, and resumes its attack on Tina.

Rory reaches down for a smaller stone, and hurls it down with more precision at the shepherd. This stone hits the dog between the shoulder blades, and it reacts violently, exploding up from the woman's body to where Rory is standing on the rocks. The weight of the dog's body knocks the young man over, and he finds himself almost pinned beneath the German Shepherd with it vying for a bite into his windpipe. Rory is stunned by the strength of the animal as its paws push down onto his exposed chest.

As the dog gets closer to his throat, Rory can see the murderous rage in its eyes; a once loving animal forced to do her master's bidding. Rory straightens his left arm into the dog's throat, using it like a pole to separate the jaws from his face. He then grips a heavy stone that is barely small enough for his entire hand, and uses it to batter the beast on the left side of its head. The two are deadlocked in a battle of wills as Rory coordinates the movements of his left arm against the dog's throat so that his right arm will find a better target.

During this ferocious defense, Rory feels himself smash one or two of the fingers of his left hand with the stone when they get trapped between it and the dog's stout body. The dog is forcing herself closer to Rory's throat by digging her hind legs into his body and the cobblestones, and he knows that subduing her will only be an option for a short time. After more than eight strikes from the heavy stone, Rory hears the crack of a rock smacking into skull bone. The shepherd whimpers immediately, and the young man feels a few drops of blood on his chest. Without hesitation, he follows through in the same swinging motion, and hears the report of another vicious strike to the hound's head.

This time the dog leaps off of his body in a frenzy, terrified at the damage being done to her head. She vaults across the cobblestones, and sprints past the pine trees, fleeing back to the shelter of the compound.

Rory sits upright on the uncomfortable rocks, feeling several scratched areas of his abdomen that will no doubt be bruised where the dog stomped on him. He looks down at Tina in the grass, badly wounded, and although breathing in panicked gasps, she manages to smile at him. The young man gets to his feet, still clutching the stone like a victorious caveman. For the first time in months, he feels independent and in control; a man who can take care of himself and others.

"Rory!" A raucous voice calls out from the cement just twenty feet above his position. "Let's stop this so that we can get everything back under control." Pezzloni suggests as he steps down the steep cement with a pistol pointed at his captive.

"What's wrong, Pezzloni?" Rory asks through labored breaths, his chest smudged with blood and covered in scratches. "Are you feeling guilty for letting the genie out of the bottle? Well too bad! You can't live a life of chaos without consequences." He states with fearless pride, dropping the stone to the pile beneath his sneakers. "You wanted to leave a stain on my soul? Well guess what, you did that when you sent the mutilated goose to my house!" Rory says with a gaze of betrayal as he steps briskly forward to join his captor at the driveway.

Pezzloni stops to consider his proposition, peering deep into Rory's eyes to see if he really does have a stain on his soul. He gazes off into the distance to think about everything that has transpired over the past twenty-four hours.

"We've got company!" Anthony finally says as he raises his right hand and points at the front gate. "Shit!" He exclaims with deep frustration while removing his cell phone from his left pocket. "Yeah, Vincent... Who is that at the front gate? Is it Chandler..? Chandler and Teddy The Suit..? Okay... Goddammit! Give me a minute. Okay, bye..."

Rory looks down at the front gate and sees two black limousines waiting to enter the property. His heart is immediately ignited with fresh fear as he realizes that the brother of a man he shot and killed only a few days ago is a mere one-hundred-and-fifty yards from his position.

In his peripheral vision, Rory sees a flash of something, and consciously dismisses it as irrelevant, but his instincts urge him to look closer. He turns his head slightly to see a second German Shepherd barreling toward him across the grass. He has only enough time to step forward onto the cement between himself and Tina before the dog is upon him.

To his relief, the dog slows down when realizing that it has been discovered, and begins to growl with hypnotic bloodlust as it comes to a full stop on the driveway. Rory opens his arms wide, flexing his muscles to prepare for another primal battle. At first he feels that intimidation might work, but the man-eater isn't fazed by his posturing.

Rory looks up to Pezzloni for help, staring at the pistol in his right hand, but the man is captivated by the limousines at the front gate, and the potential wrath that lies beyond. The dog begins to snarl and strut forward, sensing that it has the advantage. Rory closes his eyes in disbelief, shocked that Pezzloni's Attention Deficit Disorder will be the end of him.

A sound like thunder cracks through the morning sky, and Rory opens his eyes, wondering if Pezzloni has come to his defense. The snarling dog is standing just eight feet away from Rory with its head facing to the right, toward the sound. In a moment of terrifying power, the dog's body flies ten feet down the driveway, leaving a wake of blood in mid-air, and a streak of viscera along the cement.

Rory is perplexed for a moment by the God-like power of the sniper rifle that just took down the German Shepherd. He breathes out in relief, but continues to scan the area for more dogs.

"Do you still need to leave a stain on my soul, or is that enough?" Rory asks, holding his arms outward at Pezzloni.

"That's enough," Anthony agrees coolly, " but if things go badly with Chandler, you'll be wishing to God that you didn't survive the morning." Pezzloni turns on his heel and begins to march back to the house, giving orders into his cell phone. "Tell our guests that we're clearing up a dog problem and will let them in shortly." He then stops walking and hollers over his shoulder to Rory. "Bring the girl in the house. We'll take care of her. If the next few hours play out the way I want, then I'll take care of you too."

Rory hesitates for a moment, determining whether he can trust the words of his unstable captor. He looks down at the black limousines beyond the gate, wondering if there is something worse yet to come.
XII. Hell on Earth

Tina's body weighs heavy on Rory's shoulders as he carries her back to the Pezzloni Estate. He feels wasted for all of his efforts these past few months, like a commodity that has been drained for the profits of a faceless corporation. As he makes his way into the courtyard, the black limousines drive slowly past him, none of them bothering to stop and assist, or to ask questions. When the second car passes them by, Rory can see his reflection in the window and the shiny, black paint of the body. His reflection is a haunting reminder of how far he has descended these past few months.

'I'm doing the wrong thing,' he thinks to himself as he observes his bare upper body touting an innocent girl back to her would-be killers. Rory sighs with the heavier burden of knowing that Tina's life is outside of his control – for now. After seeing the dog torn apart from such a great distance, he realizes that even getting past the dogs isn't enough for a happy ending.

The young man watches the black limousines as they circle the courtyard slowly, and come to a stop in front of the main door, allowing their passengers to exit with as little effort as possible. While observing these new guests, Rory feels a shiver of fear pulse down his back, watching them emerge from their cars like Greek Gods. Here is a group of strangers that sees a bloody young woman being carried atop a man's shoulders, and none of them bother to pause and ask why. Further, as they get out of their limousines, none of the passengers look back at the young woman. It's obvious to Rory that they don't concern themselves with the pain of others. He decides that on some level this is human nature, but ignoring someone who needs gas money, versus a battered young woman, is altogether cold and ruthless.

Rory decides to take the longer route at the backside of the house to the pool. Despite the silent protests from his strained leg muscles, he pushes himself forward to the poolside tables. He wants a moment to make sure that Tina is all right, and to get her cleaned up properly so that she can be comfortable.

When he reaches the pool area, Rory realizes that he and Tina are not alone. Pezzloni and Dimitri are having a heated discussion near the sliding doors that lead to the basement showers.

"No!" Pezzloni says with a muffled voice, trying to maintain secrecy. "The first thing Chandler will want is to see his fucking brother's body, but that's going to be a problem... because the body is half-eaten." Anthony states quickly, shoving Dimitri slightly in the chest for his lack of follow through.

"You're the one who wanted to lock the lovebirds in the hub of the dog tunnels. Remember!?" Dimitri replies immediately, exhibiting about half the intensity of his employer. "If those two weren't in the compound last night, the dogs would have finished off all of the remains."

"I can't believe you would do this to me!" Pezzloni sounds off with building rage. "It was your idea to use the dogs... Now find a way to get rid of that body within the next five minutes, or we'll be spending the next twenty years as party favors for a prison gang... or with our heads as paperweights in the New York office."

"Okay, Vince and I will find a way..." Dimitri says peacefully, regaining his composure. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll do what I can to get this target off my back." Pezzloni announces cryptically. "Just follow my lead when things start to come together. Remember that we have two goals tonight: Chandler doesn't see his brother's body, and when he leaves here, we don't get the blame for the murder."

"So who are you going to hang the murder on?" Dimitri asks in a whisper, glancing over his shoulder toward Rory.

"We'll figure that out in a little while." Pezzloni says thoughtfully, also glancing back at Rory. "I'm gonna' go inside and make things look friendly. When you come back here – be ready to follow my lead. They probably won't do anything despite the close family connection with Chandler, but let's be ready. Get the dogs into their headgear and Dragon Skin... Then wait for my order." The aging gangster states in a voice filled with stress, looking around cautiously for any signs of his new houseguests.

At the side of the pool, Rory is kneeling next to Tina, helping her to get more comfortable. She is resting in a comfy, gray lounge chair, still holding her left side in severe discomfort. Her right arm has bite marks here and there, and there are lacerations all over her upper torso. Tina's left arm is a mess, and although the forearm seems to be the only break, the deep bite wounds have left her at a high risk for infection.

Rory stands up straight and walks briskly around the pool area, collecting fresh towels that have been left out by the cleaning staff. He wraps one towel around Tina's left arm, and dips the other in the pool water so that he can wash the dried blood from her body.

"Don't use this on your open wounds." Rory instructs as he hands Tina a damp towel. "This water is from the pool."

Rory watches Tina as she begins to clean her face, and decides that this is a good time to survey the area. As he raises his head, he notices that both Dimitri and Pezzloni have gone in opposite directions. Dimitri has set out for the compound at the rear of the property, while his employer disappeared into the large estate home.

"What's happening?" Tina asks slowly, trying to make sense of their surroundings in her state of shock. "Are we still here? Why didn't we make it out the front gate?"

"Because Herb's brother Chandler has arrived... and I... killed Herb a few days ago." Rory admits with an expression haunted by guilt. "He came at me in the middle of the night, and started pistol whipping me... and threatening my girlfriend..." A sudden revelation reverberates through Rory's spine, and he finally understands why the man had been trying to hurt him.

"How did he know your girlfriend?" Tina asks in a dry voice, drifting in and out of consciousness.

"He didn't." Rory says with severe discomfort, realizing that this is the last place on earth he should be at the moment. "Anthony set me up... He wanted me to kill Herb so that Chandler would blame..."

Pezzloni returns to pool area from within the house, appearing paranoid and stoic. He steps over to the bar near the far end of the pool, squatting down behind the serving area where there are clean glasses and drink garnishments.

Rory bolts upright and steps quickly over to the bar, bending around the serving area to talk with his captor.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Rory demands impatiently, trying to make sense of his involvement in Herb's murder.

"We, Rory." Pezzloni says feverishly as he drains one container of liquid into another. "We are stepping into a shit-storm together, and I need you to be ready." The aging gangster states without breaking focus on his secret project behind the bar.

"I need to know what my involvement is here with Chandler's brother." Rory begins; feeling betrayed that Pezzloni is not giving an explanation of anything.

"Look, Rory, there's something happening here that is extremely vital to our survival today..." Pezzloni states with trepidation. "I don't have a lot of time, but the one thing I need to make sure you don't do-"

"Anthony! How are you?" A deep male voice calls out from just outside the sliding doors of the basement showers.

"Doin' okay, Chandler." Pezzloni responds with a friendly voice despite his frustrated demeanor that is concealed by the bar. "I'll be right there."

Rory turns to see Chandler standing near the gazebo with a group of six security guards in black tactical gear. He is further alarmed when he notices that more men are coming down from the upstairs portion of the home, some of them carrying submachine guns.

Chandler is clad in an outfit that emanates devilish charm. His black suit is crafted from a tailor-made Italian material with gray and white pinstripes. He is wearing a yellow vest beneath the jacket, and a white tie with a black silhouette of the figure Zeus from Greek mythology embroidered on the front. His hair is neatly styled in wavy layers, allowing it to conform generously to his narrow head, and he bears a goatee that has been neatly groomed. Although his olive skin and black hair are similar to his brother Herb, he is the polar opposite in almost every other way. Chandler is fit, clean, unyielding, and ready to do business at the snap of his fingers.

"I'd like to talk with my brother." Chandler demands as Pezzloni approaches from the pool.

Anthony receives this command as a calculated risk, and waits until he is within a few inches of Chandler to answer.

"Good to see you, Teddy!" Pezzloni says abruptly, smiling at the older gentleman who is seated at the edge of his gazebo.

Teddy The Suit nods with an obligatory grin and holds up his right hand with the palm facing Anthony. The elderly mobster is dressed in his familiar canary yellow suit and a black tie, enjoying a cool orange juice as he observes from behind the safety of Chandler's guards.

"I WANT TO SPEAK TO MY FUCKING BROTHER!" Chandler shouts with a rage that seems to explode up from his toes as he steps up into Pezzloni's face.

"YOUR BROTHER IS DEAD!" Anthony admits with a bit of hostility. "I confirmed it myself!"

"I know that my brother is dead, Pezzloni." Chandler fires back with a dignity that exacerbates vengeance. "All nine of these armed men... know that my brother is dead. He died under your roof, and in your care... But make no mistake, you mutt, when I say that I want to talk with my brother...the fact that he is alive or dead - doesn't matter. So, I'll tell you one more time... I want to speak to my brother." He finishes this last sentence with a piercing stare, as though trying to eviscerate his colleague with his eyes.

"Your brother was killed in the upstairs hallway of my house." Pezzloni announces without remorse or hesitation. "He attacked a man on my staff who was going through drug withdrawals, and was shot in self-defense."

"Self-defense?" Chandler asks with a wide smile, nodding quickly to Teddy at his left as he begins to laugh. "There is no such thing as self-defense against the brother of a boss... If my brother was giving one of your men a beating... or worse... then they deserved it!" The flustered gangster states with reckless ambition.

"Your brother... was a fat, scruffy loser." Pezzloni states without a hint of shame. "He cost us over twenty-million in profits with his stupidity and laziness... We're earning six percent better profits without him. So self-defense or not... I'm sorry for your loss, but this is better for business."

"Do you think that running the mules was his only job, Pezzloni?" Chandler asks, casting a dark glare in Anthony's direction. "Herb was down here to keep an eye on you. His main function was to act as my eyes and ears, and now thanks to one of your men, I am deaf and blind in California."

"I killed your brother." Rory says in an awkward fashion, taking a step forward to enter the conversation.

"Are you Rory?" Chandler inquires, raising his eyebrows as he sizes up his new enemy.

"That's The Goose." Teddy hollers from his table, watching the events unfold like a twelve-year-old child, with both hands beneath his chin.

"You killed my brother in self-defense?" Chandler asks with suspicious eyes.

"Yeah, he whipped me with a pistol and threatened to kill my girlfriend." Rory reports in a shaky voice, trying to maintain his composure as beads of sweat form at the back of his neck.

"Why was my brother whipping you with his pistol?" Chandler asks with a solid stare, turning slightly to face Pezzloni. "What would send my brother into that bad of a rage?" He wonders aloud, turning his back to the two men. "No matter... You've done your crime, Rory, and now you're going to make payments... I've taken the liberty of collecting a deposit from you..."

Chandler steps over to one of his senior security enforcers, and Rory notices that the man is holding a black backpack with the straps slung over his forearm. The middle-aged security guard twists his head, displaying a rich Jewish heritage amidst the calming reflections of the swimming pool. He has a graying beard and thick, weathered skin. The man reaches into the backpack and retrieves an iPad®, which Chandler procures from him with eccentric finesse.

The gangster then silently carries the iPad® over to where Rory is standing, and holds it out to him.

Rory slowly takes the digital tablet with his left hand, noticing that his arms are shaking, and his knees are feeling weak. The screen of the iPad® has a video queued up, and there is a large play button at its center.

"Kelly Preston, thirty-two-years-old, single, attractive, and former girlfriend of Rory Chambers..." Chandler states with a smile as he turns to face Rory again. "This is the woman that you killed my brother to protect, right? He was threatening to hurt your beloved Kelly..? Someone who is now engaged to a douchebag news anchor, and clearly wants nothing to do with you. This woman... is the reason my brother died, right?" He asks with a sinister gaze as he inspects the scratches and blood on Rory's torso. "Well, go ahead and hit play..."

The iPad® screen has become something wicked in Rory's hands. There is a truth behind the play button that he can't bear to witness at the moment, but he surmises that there is no other choice, and reluctantly takes his medicine.

When Rory presses the play button, he immediately hears the sound of his former girlfriend crying in terror. Two men have her bound to a chair with her right arm outstretched on a solid, walnut table. One of the men holds her down in the chair while the other uses a long plank of heavy pinewood to bludgeon her arm. The tablet shakes in Rory's hands as he hears her scream, each painful cry scraping his insides, and leaving almost nothing behind. Although the clip is short, it ends with her broken arm being displayed for the camera, and the two thugs smiling triumphantly. Rory tips the screen away from his face as the reality becomes too bitter, and a flood of tears stream forth from his sorrow-filled eyes.

"So you killed my brother for threatening to hurt Kelly?" Chandler says proudly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Well, I did hurt Kelly, so what are you going to do to me..? Like I said, that's just a down payment; we're also going to break one of your mother's legs. If her hip gets broken in the process... it's all good... Rory, I'm going to revisit this pain on you over and over again, until I feel whole for the loss of my brother." He gazes into the younger man's eyes to show his resolve. "Also, when we have all of the money from selling these kids of yours... we're going to put a bullet in your head. Or to be more accurate, I'M going to put a bullet in your head."

"I WAS SLEEPING WHEN YOUR BROTHER ATTACKED ME!" Rory shouts, unable to contain his rage due to the events from the past twenty-four hours. "I had never seen him before... He was just... pissed off at me, like I was a threat to him... I didn't even know his name, until after he was dead. We never met! He just came into my room and started hitting me over the head with his pistol... I thought that he worked for Pezzloni!" The young man finishes passionately, turning to watch Anthony's face transform from silent reverence to enraged betrayal.

"What about the girl over there?" Pezzloni suggests to Chandler, gesturing toward Tina with a slight nod of his head. "You got the down payment with his bitch Kelly, but he's been trying to protect Tina all night... He stopped me from feeding her to the dogs before you got here. Why don't we drown her in the pool..? You know, as a nice tribute to your brother's memory." The rough gangster says in jest, staring at Chandler as if he owns the man.

"You've always had a mouth on you, Pezzloni." Chandler responds with a frigid gaze, tormented by the inconsistent facts surrounding his brother's demise. "So one of you tells me that my brother attacked The Goose out of nowhere, and the other says that they had words earlier in the day, and got into a fight. Which tells me that one of you... is a fucking liar... or both of you?" The New York syndicate boss rubs his upper teeth across his bottom lip, deep in thought. "I want to talk to my brother!" He says with unyielding conviction, glaring at Pezzloni in a display of calculated distrust.

"We have your brother almost ready, but I need help getting him out of the pit." Dimitri responds immediately, stepping over to rejoin the group after his journey to the compound at the rear of the home. "If you and one other guy can come with me, then we'll be able to lift him up-"

"What the fuck do you mean my brother's in the pit!?" Chandler demands incredulously. "What pit!? How the fuck did he get in there!?" The man asks with eyes full of rage, amplified by loss and brotherly love. "Tell you what, why don't I execute all three of you lying fucks, and then Teddy and I can sift through the ashes to find out the truth!?" The frustrated gangster turns away from Dimitri, trying to make sense of everything he has been told. "How did my brother end up in a pit?" He asks with a hateful sneer as he draws a nickel-plated, semi-automatic .45 caliber pistol from a leather holster under his jacket. "Dimitri, tell me how my brother wound up in a pit... IN YOUR FUCKING FACILITY, and ON YOUR WATCH!...If I don't like your answer, you'll be in the pit next to him." The man growls with earnest conviction, appearing wild and increasingly unpredictable.

There is a short silence as Dimitri considers this demand, cautiously pondering how to disclose the details to the fountain of confused anger standing before him. As the seconds pass, Chandler's face becomes more intense, and the resulting discomfort is felt by the entire group. Rory looks over at Dimitri in awe, wondering why he won't at least say something. When he turns his gaze back to Chandler, Rory notices that the man's right index finger is nervously clutching and releasing the trigger of his pistol, trying to decide the fate of his Italian colleague. The group of men soon find themselves looking around at one another, wondering why no one is speaking. The tension of this moment escalates into a surreal feeling for everyone involved. Rory wonders for a moment if he's dreaming as the time passes, and the intensity in Chandler's face continues to evolve, until his entire head is shaking with contempt. The syndicate boss' face is sweating and reddening with rage, shaking every few seconds as if a powerful quake is about to escape from his body, and tear open the earth beneath the group of men.

The tension of this silence is soon broken by ghastly choking sounds, and Rory glances at the screen on the iPad®, hoping that it's not coming from another video of Kelly. A thick hand grabs Rory on his bare left shoulder, and when he looks in that direction, he notices that Anthony Pezzloni is gesturing desperately toward his throat. There is a stream of blue and white foam exiting the left corner of the middle-aged gangster's mouth.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH HIM!?" Chandler explodes in a fury, far too intelligent to believe what he is seeing and hearing from the men around him. "This is bullshit! He's not poisoned..." The syndicate leader states with authority, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

Anthony Pezzloni drops to his knees on the concrete, slamming them down hard on the surface as he doubles over, clutching his abdomen in pain. The blue and white foam drips from his mouth onto the concrete, and in the morning sun, Rory can clearly see blood mixed in with the strange fluid.

Chandler gazes at the mixture of blood and foam exiting the mouth of his fellow syndicate leader. He turns to Teddy with his hands outstretched at either side of his body. In reply the older gangster simply shrugs, and nods back to Chandler, unwilling to take responsibility.

"Fuck!" Chandler says in a bitter tone as he watches Pezzloni gasping for breath near the pavement. "Marco. Trevor. Take Pezzloni into the house, and keep an eye on him. Try to get him to puke up the poison." He orders with some hesitation, cautious about being played by a veteran criminal. "Go! Move your ass! Get him inside!" The confused gangster demands quickly with a snap of his fingers. "Just keep an eye on him!"

Chandler turns his attention back to Dimitri, glaring at him like a polar bear that is ready to dine on a seal. As he waits for an answer, Pezzloni's body is dragged through the double doors into the basement showers of the home. The middle-aged gangster is growing increasingly short of breath, and his face is turning pale.

"We put him in a... big box... a cardboard box." Dimitri replies immediately, seeming lost for words at the sight of his employer being dragged inside the house by Chandler's men. "Somehow the dogs ripped it open, and dragged him into the pit-"

"Did you feed MY FUCKING BROTHER TO YOUR DOGS!?" Chandler inquires with renewed rage, holding his pistol higher in the air. "I'll bet that's the truth... you killed him, and just left him there to be ripped apart." The syndicate leader announces as the pistol begins to shake in his trembling right hand.

Rory is shocked to see tears streaming from the man's eyes as his gaze burns into Dimitri like molten steel injected into an ingot.

"Just give me fifteen minutes, and I'll have him ready for you." Dimitri pleads with sincerity, holding his palms up in a nonthreatening manner. "Nobody would feed him to the dogs... That would be suicide for everyone here. Just let me take two guys, and we'll get him cleaned up for you... You don't want to see him the way he is now..." Dimitri suggests with a humble gaze, trembling a bit himself.

"Ten minutes..." Chandler says in a low voice, feeling anguish throughout his body. "If I find that you have disrespected my baby brother in ANY WAY... I'll make sure it takes two years for you to die!" The enraged gangster looks at Rory, and then glances toward the house where Pezzloni was taken for medical assistance. "Bart. Gary. Todd. Take your submachine guns to the compound and help Dimitri clean up my brother's body. If you seen ANYTHING... that you don't like, go ahead and cut him in half... If they've done anything to my brother's body, call me right away." He instructs with experience and poise, wiping the tears from his face before nodding to his men with a confirmation of his orders. "I'll be there in ten minutes... after I sort some shit out here."

The men return their employer's nod, and move with tenacious authority as they escort Dimitri toward the compound at the rear of the property. Each of them is carrying a submachine gun, several clips of ammunition, and wearing a bulletproof vest.

"Rory," Chandler begins with a wicked smile, "join me by the pool." He gestures meagerly with his pistol, displaying a forceful gaze that indicates the request is not optional.

Inside the Pezzloni mansion, the two guards have managed to carry the gangster to a bathroom stall that is adjacent to the showers in the basement. Anthony's breathing has become weaker, and the foam continues to bubble from his mouth in a steady stream of white and blue. Although there was blood initially, it seems to have faded over the past two minutes.

Trevor looks at Marco as they position their colleague over the toilet bowl, cautious of any quick movements from the devious career criminal. Pezzloni inserts the index and middle fingers of his right hand into his throat, forcing himself to gag, and he abruptly spews more of the contents from his stomach into the toilet bowl.

Trevor turns away in disgust, but Marco looks on with dutiful cynicism. Marco is an edgy Samoan with a long ponytail and a barrel chest. He has a submachine gun clenched against the body armor on his chest, which is fixed to his neck with a vinyl strap. Trevor is a bit thinner and taller than his counterpart, exhibiting a less hulking upper body, but appearing sturdy nonetheless. The lanky mercenary from South Africa was an odd choice for the Italian Mob, but the group became more diversified under Chandler's leadership in an effort to throw off the authorities.

"I need water!" Pezzloni pleads from his position on the floor, clawing with his hands at the smooth, white tiles as a result of the pain in his stomach. "Give me some-" The middle-aged gangster coughs for a moment, and chokes on something viscous in his throat, producing a sloppy stream of thick, red blood from between his lips.

"Yo, brudder, he's dyin'!" Trevor announces to his colleague, gawking at the massive Samoan for any signs of wisdom or words of guidance. "What we goin' do? I don't think the big boss gonna' be happy with us if this white boy here dies..."

"Who cares? We didn't poison him." Marco responds with a shrug, continuing to watch Pezzloni on the floor with interest. "Chandler said that he wants him to puke, so he puked... He didn't say for us to fetch him water and read him a story." The muscular man declares, displaying his intention to wait for further instructions.

"Someone poisoned me, you dumb fuck!" Pezzloni spews forth with blood still dribbling out of his lips. "Whose house do you think you're in? When Chandler and I get this straightened out, I'll feed you both to my God dammed dogs. Now go GET ME A GLASS OF WATER TO WASH THIS BURNING SHIT OUT OF MY THROAT!" Anthony finishes by gagging a bit, and spitting more blood into the toilet water.

"Where do I goin' get da water?" Trevor asks immediately, showing fear from the threat of a gangster that holds power over so much of the western United States. "I bring you a glass, but nothin' else." He adds, ignoring the disgusted look of shame on Marco's face.

"Kitchen!" Pezzloni exclaims through shallow breaths. "Upstairs and to the right-" He conveys through the tears that are streaming from his eyes, his voice cracking as he finishes speaking.

"Stand back 'ere, Marco." Trevor instructs with a bit of paranoia, gesturing to the tiles just outside of the bathroom stall. "If he tries anythin', you can shoot him in da back. I get the water." The young enforcer says with the voice of a seasoned leader as he steps toward the exit of the bathroom. "I will come back." He states with two fingers pointed towards his eyes before disappearing into the basement.

"So who poisoned you?" Marco asks as he takes a new position three feet behind Pezzloni, pointing the submachine gun at his back as instructed. "Huh, who would poison you here? It was none of us."

"Oh my God! I can't see!" Anthony declares with a voice of genuine shock. "I can't see!"

The gangster begins to rub his eyes feverishly, reaching for the walls of the bathroom stall. After rubbing his eyes thoroughly with his shirtsleeves, he cries out as though his pupils are burning, and turns to face Marco with his eyes clenched tightly.

"Don't move, Pezzloni!" Marco orders, taking a fighting stance as he aims his weapon at the gangster's head. "I know who you are. I know the bullshit you pull!" The enforcer surmises with a spooked expression, releasing the safety on his submachine gun.

Pezzloni ignores these words, reaching out more feverishly with his right hand as he grabs his throat in pain with his left.

"I'm right here!" Marco says impatiently, pointing the weapon at his adversary's chest. "He's getting the water, just stop touching your eyes... I'M RIGHT HERE!" The enforcer repeats, shouting in a manner that echoes through the bathroom.

The moment he hears these words, Pezzloni raises up for a second, opens his eyes, and spits a blue and white mixture into Marco's eyes. He then steps sideways and lunges under the man's arms to grab the strap of his submachine gun.

"Ow, my fucking eyes!" Marco announces as the bleach mixture soaks the surface of his pupils. "You've poisoned me, bastard!" He reports in disgust, shaking his head from side-to-side.

The experienced gangster wastes no time, gripping the back of Marco's submachine gun with his left hand as he slides his left elbow up between the man's outstretched arms. Without hesitation, he jolts upward from the floor, driving his elbow into the man's nose with all of his might. This elbow glances under the tip of Marco's nose, hitting with most of its force in his mouth. Pezzloni winces as he feels one of the man's teeth cut through the skin on the outside of his elbow.

Despite the miscalculation, the blow is delivered with tremendous force, allowing Anthony to strip the submachine gun from Marco's thick hands. He then uses the hardened steel of the gun to strike the enforcer in the back of the head twice. As the man reaches up with both arms to protect his head, Pezzloni grips the back of his neck with his free hand, and steps down hard on the back of his right calf with his left foot. This causes his opponent to drop on his knees, and Anthony uses the momentum to smash Marco's head into the rim of the toilet.

"Harmful if swallowed, but not fatal...you stupid fuck!" Pezzloni says in an aggressive manner, pausing suddenly to vomit more blue and white foam onto the back of the man's shirt, gripping his stomach with authentic discomfort. "Avoid contact with eyes... May cause blindness..." He announces with satisfaction, wiping the foamy vomit from his lower lip as he makes his way into the basement with conviction.

In the kitchen, Trevor hears a muffled sound coming from the basement, and immediately dismisses it as natural. He takes another swig from the bottle of Vodka on the counter before picking up the glass of water to return downstairs. As he steps around the kitchen counter, the young, South African enforcer is shocked when he sees Pezzloni standing in the living room just opposite him, with a black pistol held expertly in the air. Trevor reacts immediately by trying to shield himself behind the glass of water, holding it up in front of his face without a second thought.

The silenced, Walther PPK feels balanced and simple in Pezzloni's hands. In an odd, last-minute thought, he notices that storing it in the downstairs safe has kept it relatively dust free. The gangster smiles with bizarre enjoyment and fires three shots from the silenced weapon at Trevor, watching the water glass explode in the young man's hands as the bullets travel easily through them, and into his face.

The pistol spits out its lethal payload like a fiery beetle from prehistoric times, destroying the young man's brain with a quick and deadly projectile attack. Anthony's senses are immediately heightened as the sounds of broken glass, and splashing water bring his enemy down instantly, leaving him sprawled out near the kitchen counter with his eyes open. Pezzloni feels an intense and manly rush of pride, knowing that his adversaries were aware that he might try to harm them.

Anthony looks around the room for a moment, and checks the windows at the back of the home before proceeding up the stairs to the second floor. He carries the silenced Walther PPK in his right hand, and has the submachine gun slung over his left shoulder.

Near the side of the pool, Trevor is looking down at Tina with malcontent. He glances up at Rory, noticing that the young man seems to have strong feelings for her.

"So you went through hell to save her?" Chandler asks with a fierce stare, using his left hand to stroke Tina's hair while keeping his pistol trained on Rory with his right. "They were going to feed her to the dogs? She must have done something very naughty." He states in a frustrated fashion, gripping her hair tightly with his left hand.

Tina is jolted up from her sleep, coming out of shock at the onset of this new pain. She pushes against Chandler's left wrist with her wounded right hand; trying to stop the pain in any manner she is able.

"Pezzloni fed your brother to the dogs!" Rory says impulsively, wanting Chandler to stop hurting Tina. "That's why they can't show him to you!" The young man confesses with sadness in his eyes, feeling naked and vulnerable with only his sweat pants and shoes.

Chandler's face becomes a mixture of queasy anguish, taking in the visual of his baby brother being eaten by German Shepherds. He releases Tina's hair and places his left hand against his brow, still aiming the pistol at Rory's torso.

"This is a fucking nightmare!" Chandler exclaims after a moment of silence as tears begin to stream from his eyes. "I never agreed with that! It was never something we did as kids – feeding people to dogs..." His tears become more frequent as his gaze drifts to the surface of the large, deep swimming pool.

The syndicate boss looks pale for the first time since they met, and his eyes are staring at nothing, as though he is considering ending it all in this moment. Rory lowers his head in shame, feeling disturbed at his part in killing the man's younger brother. During this pure moment of sadness he wants to put his hand on Chandler's shoulder, but decides against it, for fear of the veritable firing squad of four guards standing at his back.

"Did you really shoot my brother in the back!?" Chandler finally asks through gritted teeth, turning to stare at Rory like a wounded bull selecting his first target. "How did that feel..? Attacking him from behind? Was that manly? Did it feel something like this!?"

The enraged syndicate boss reaches down and grabs Tina by the neck with his left hand, and batters her with the pistol in his right. Before Rory can say or do anything, the gangster strikes her twice on the head, and then kicks at the back of her lounge chair with his right foot, forcing the young, unconscious woman into the swimming pool.

"DID IT FEEL SOMETHING LIKE THAT!?" Chandler shouts at Rory with a reddening face, pointing the pistol directly between his eyes.

Fear and urgency hit Rory like a block of wood smashing against his chest, and splintering throughout his body. His mind is unable to process everything that just happened as the blood-soaked handgun is pointed at his face. He weighs out the fierceness of Chandler's stare, knowing that he is enraged, but trying to remind himself of something more important. In a fraction of a second, he looks at the blood on the butt of the pistol, and forces himself to remember that Tina is drowning in the pool.

This moment serves Rory well, allowing him to turn off all of his senses and dive in after her, ignoring the fit of rage from the savage murderer at his side. As his body hits the cool water, Rory feels a sense of intense purpose, seeing Tina just a few feet from his grasp.

Within the compound, Dimitri walks with a somber gaze as he escorts the three men to the room where Herb's body has been stored these past few days. He appears nervous in his stylish clothing, like a small boy being forced to show his latest act of vandalism to his mother. With a degree of sheepish hesitation, Dimitri unfurls his shirt from his jeans, and uses the bottom to twist the greasy door handle, allowing the group access to the room. The three men push past him, entering the space with their weapons at the ready. As the first two enforcers spread out to ensure the room is clear, the third man waits patiently just inside the door, turning his head toward Dimitri every few seconds.

After a quick sweep of the room, both men hold up their right hands to signal that everything is 'okay,' and the area is secure.

"Where is the body?" Bart asks impatiently, looking at Dimitri with contempt as he guards the doorway.

"It's in the pit over there." Dimitri replies, pointing at a large gap in the floor just twenty feet to their left. "We prepped it for-"

"I don't give a shit!" Bart responds instantly, interrupting Dimitri without a care. "It fucking stinks in here. Let's get in and get out! We've got less than five minutes, so move your ass down into the hole." He finishes with a callous stare, gesturing with his barrel for Dimitri to enter first.

"Okay. No problem." Dimitri agrees, raising his hands as he steps rapidly toward the yellow, steel ladder at the edge of opening.

"If I see any dogs, I'll cut them in half." Bart adds, glancing at the feces and water dishes at the far end of the room. "In fact, if a dog comes anywhere near me or my team, you're done. Are they locked up?" Bart asks with sadistic flair, pointing his gun at Dimitri's chest as he watches him descend the ladder.

"Yes, the dogs are locked up!" Dimitri confesses as he drops further down into the pit, his feet clanking a bit against the steel.

"Gary... Todd," Bart begins in an almost whisper, turning to face his fellow enforcers, "go ahead and help him bring up the body while I cover you." The young Italian instructs in an uncertain voice, grabbing nervously at his goatee.

The two men laugh and exchange amused glances, shaking their heads as they follow Dimitri down the solid ladder into the pit. Bart looks down at the floor as he is mocked by his colleagues for an apparent phobia of dogs.

Todd is the last to descend the ladder, and as he looks to his left, he sees Gary and Dimitri standing over a body that is wrapped in a blue tarp. His face is flush with disgust and his large belly nearly touches the steel ladder as he takes his last step from its surface. The moment his feet touch the filthy cement, he hears the ominous sound of growling coming from the network of tunnels behind him.

"GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I SPLINTER YOUR ASS!" Dimitri yells down the tunnel, turning to ensure his command is heard completely. "DO YOU HEAR ME!? LAVITICUS! HANNS! HIMLER!" The young Italian shouts at the dogs, nodding toward his colleagues as if to ensure their safety.

"You told me the fucking dogs were locked up!" Bart states with paranoid rage, moving to the edge of the pit with his weapon pointed at Dimitri.

The sound of growling resumes from a few yards down the tunnels, and it grows steadily closer. Todd feels his heartbeat increasing as panic sets in, and he hears the growling now coming from three of the tunnels behind him.

"I had them calmed down!" Dimitri calls out over the snarling of his deadly pets. "But if you keep pointing that gun at me, they'll get agitated!"

A burst of gunfire erupts from Bart's barrel, hitting Dimitri five times in the chest, and sending his body sprawling to the filthy pavement. Todd steps backward nervously as a few rounds ricochet off pieces of steel surrounding the opening of each tunnel.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Todd exclaims with fiery disdain as the bullets fly past him and his colleague. "Gary, are you okay?" The thirty-two-year-old Norwegian man asks, pulling up his submachine gun in a panic. "Bart, if you shoot down here again, you're gonna' get some friendly fire. That's a fuckin' promise!" The enforcer says without reservation, pointing his left index and middle finger toward his colleague.

"Let's just get the body out of here so that we can call Chandler." Gary states with a spooked expression, gesturing at the figure wrapped in a blue tarp just two feet from him.

"What are we gonna' say to Anthony about taking out his guy?" Todd asks with a bit of alarm, looking at the body that is just to his left.

There is a sudden and sharp high-pitched whine from within the tunnels, this time just a few feet from their position. Todd stands up straight and puts his back against the cement, immediately terrified by the uncommon canine sounds. Gary is also concerned, looking grim with his yellow hair, and pale Irish complexion. All three men now have their weapons prepped to fire, each of them aiming into the tunnels, and listening for the predatory dogs.

From less than twenty feet away, the attack dogs respond to these aggressive movements by growling louder. Near the tunnels, the sound is fearsome; a sustained echo of German Shepherd might, coming toward the men with perfect acoustics. Amidst the hub of the tunnels, and with the amount of adrenaline each man is feeling, it's as though the earth is vibrating beneath them from the ferocity of the dogs.

A burst of gunfire once again leaves the barrel of Bart's weapon, but this time he aims carefully down the tunnels, attempting to frighten away the bloodthirsty beasts.

Todd and Gary also open fire on the tunnels, spraying a few rounds down each passage at the average height of a dog's head or lower. The two men squat as they shoot, attempting to get as low to the ground as possible.

Behind them, the blue tarp unfolds slowly, and Vincent rises up from within the material, placing his back against the wall. The heavyset limo driver is wearing a plain gray T-shirt and a pair of black slacks with dress shoes, reminiscent of Herb Christos. His arms and legs are stained here and there with a mixture of ketchup and water to make him appear as a corpse. The simple Italian bears a look of determination as he draws a semi-automatic, .45 caliber pistol from the back of his slacks. He gazes at Dimitri's mutilated body with sorrow and betrayal, shaking his head slightly as he checks the action of his pistol to ensure there is a round in the chamber.

Todd and Gary stop firing, no longer hearing the sound of the dogs, just over a dozen feet from their faces. They keep their guns trained on the tunnels as they remove their spent magazines, and prepare to reload. A shot explodes just to the right of Todd, in the corner, and as he raises his head to look right, a second shot immediately sends him to darkness.

Vincent is fast to dispatch the two men, feeling the adrenaline flowing through him as his ears are still ringing from the sound of gunfire. He glances down at the three bodies of his mob brothers, shaking his head momentarily at such an awful waste.

From his position atop the pit, Bart watches a body disappear as Todd's head explodes to the left. Bart jumps backward instantly, and slams the loose clip of ammunition into his gun before opening fire on the pit. After a few short bursts, he stares down toward his target, seeking out any signs of a confirmed hit.

There is a subtle growling in the room, and Bart spins around wildly to see the origin of this sound. His motion is odd and exhibits fear, a man halfway wishing to know what is in the room with him, and half not. As he turns to face the door, Bart's mouth opens in terror. There is a large, two-hundred-pound German Shepherd standing just a foot behind him. The dog is crouched in a position with its front legs dipped down, and hind legs tensed, clearly ready to strike.

Despite the ominous presence of the dog, it only scratches the surface of Bart's fear. The animal is wearing black and white Dragon Skin Armor around its body. Bart twists his head to the side in disbelief, noticing that the dog is also wearing a carbon fiber helmet, but unlike the body armor, this has a custom design. Its face is indeed a wretched thing. The helmet has satanic horns protruding from the ears, completely red and wicked, pointing forward with the dog's line of vision. There are red LEDs within the helmet that cover the dog's eyes, making it look like a hound of hell. Bart's hands begin to tremble as he sees the Satanic, dragon-like design that covers the snout and head of the dog.

He feels himself getting ill, gradually inspecting the dog's armor for vulnerabilities that might afford him a kill...and finding none. The animal is protected by the helmet at its snout and head, while the black and white body armor protects its throat and other vital organs.

The voracious beast moves forward gradually, growling louder as if it knows that the armor makes it impervious to harm. Bart backs up steadily, aiming his submachine gun at the dog carefully, attempting to find the slightest weakness in the armor. He selects the legs as his target, but the dog begins to trot forward, forcing him to back up faster, and recalculate his shot. Just when Bart is reaching for the trigger, he hears a gunshot from behind him, and feels a terrible heat in his right leg. The enforcer extends his arms out to the sides, and finds himself falling, wondering for a moment if he has died.

Within a moment, his body crashes hard on the cement in the pit ten feet below the surface. The wounded enforcer finds himself on his back with a middle-aged Italian man pointing a pistol at his face. He closes his eyes, waiting for the end to come. Then, as if in response to his surrender, the growling rises up again from the tunnels behind him.

"PLEASE! PLEASE!" Bart cries out to Vincent, not wanting to be killed by the dogs. "Mercy! SHOW MERCY!" He begs as his body lies with his legs draped halfway across Todd's unmoving corpse.

"Sorry, man." Vincent states with a blank stare. "You pissed them off! Now you'll have to deal with them." He shuffles to the left and uses his foot to slide the submachine gun out of Bart's reach, and then immediately ascends the ladder, allowing the dogs to take care of business.

When Bart looks up, all he sees are three satanic faces with snarling mouths, coming to finish him in their ritualistic manner.

Rory reaches down into the water and delicately grips Tina's slender shoulder, attempting to haul her up to the surface of the pool. He soon realizes that he will need to grapple her entire abdomen to perform a proper rescue. Upon maneuvering deeper into the water, Rory notices a red trail at the back of her head, diluting itself slowly through osmosis. He ignores the fresh blood and wraps his arm gently around the young woman, being careful of her recently broken ribs.

With a few quick strokes, he is able to bring her to the surface, and is pleased when he hears the young woman take a deep breath. Rory tries to maintain his grip close to her abdomen so that he can avoid the pain of constricting her chest.

From his seat in the gazebo, Teddy The Suit feels that something is off. He gets to his feet slowly and steps a few paces closer to Chandler, who is scanning the surface of the water with his pistol.

"Don't shoot The Goose!" Teddy orders like a scornful father. "We haven't even made enough profit to break even on him yet! Let's think about this for a minute, Chandler." The older gangster says in a magnanimous tone, holding his hands out to his sides.

Chandler turns back to Teddy and gives him a look of disbelief, raising his eyebrows as though asking if he is serious. An explosive burst of blood shoots forth from Teddy's right nipple as the foreboding sound of a sniper rifle once again shatters the silence of the morning. Teddy's body jolts forward and to the left as the .50 caliber round strikes his upper right shoulder, pushing everything through the right side of his chest at one-thousand feet per second. Chandler jumps backwards as Teddy's body slams into the side of gazebo from the velocity of the bullet.

"Pezzloni's not fuckin' poisoned!" Chandler yells to his enforcers as he scrambles toward the house. "He's up on the roof with a Barrett! Call back the rest of the team, we're at war!"

Chandler and his men move to the safety of the house behind the gazebo, flattening themselves against the wall to avoid sniper rifle fire from the house above.

Rory is stunned to see Teddy torn apart by the sniper rifle, and he shudders from head to toe at the thought of dying in that manner. He turns away from the body, and looks toward the front of the estate, noticing that there are no guards standing between them and freedom. The window of opportunity seems so impossible that he feels himself reacting immediately, kicking toward the side of the pool with Tina in tow, so that they can make a run for the limousines.

When they reach the ledge at the far side of the pool, Rory hears a horrid thud just ten feet from their position. He turns and recognizes the body of a South African man that he'd seen earlier. The lifeless man now lies in a heap on the opposite side of the gazebo, having been tossed off the diving board to the cement below by Pezzloni or one of his enforcers.

The sight of this body causes Rory to panic somewhat, and he unintentionally squeezes Tina around her broken ribs, causing her to cry out in pain.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Rory apologizes immediately, releasing his grip, and adjusting it to clutch her abdomen.

Despite her cries of pain, Rory remains in a mode of action, first pulling himself out of the pool, and then dragging Tina immediately behind him by her right arm. Once they are on solid ground, he wraps her right arm around his neck, and begins to carry her to the safety of the limousines.

Rory feels blessed with each step away from the feuding gangsters, seeing freedom on the horizon, but his hopes are immediately shattered by an evil presence. Three German Shepherds approach from around the corner of the house, each of them clad in black and white, Dragon Skin Body Armor. The young man feels squeamish as he notices that their helmets have satanic horns and dragon faces. Their eyes seem faintly red from the LEDs on each mask, but the effect is dissipated by the bright sunlight.

The dogs form a tight pack as Rory and Tina approach, showing that they have no intention of letting anyone past them. Rory inspects their armor for a moment, trying to find any weaknesses or openings. After a quick glance, he determines that the dogs are only vulnerable at the legs, and that a submachine gun would be his best defense. The young man feels unprotected and weak with his bare torso exposed to the dogs, and searches the area for any signs of a firearm. This inspection is short-lived as the dogs begin to charge, and Rory instinctively moves back toward the safety of the pool. He scoops up Tina by the legs and shoulders, and sprints at top speed for the pool like a young man trying to prank his girlfriend with an unexpected cannonball. The dogs give chase immediately, but stop when they near the edge of the water, watching Rory and Tina as they dive to safety.

Rory is filled with dread when they reenter the pool, assuming that he will have to battle the dogs as they swim after their quarry. He immediately treads water to the center of the pool with Tina and stops to look at the dogs.

To his surprise, two of the German Shepherds have elected instead to pursue Chandler and his men near the side of the home. The one dog that remains seems terrified of entering the water. As Rory looks over its body armor, he realizes that the dogs have been trained to stay out of the water when they are equipped with their protective gear. He immediately begins to swim with Tina toward the dog, listening to it snarl as they get closer. When they are within a foot of the powerful animal, Rory begins to splash water on its face, and the dog begins growl, bounding back and forth along the edge of the pool.

In a moment of inspiration, he lets go of Tina, and throws two successive waves of water in the dog's face, causing it to bite in the air. When the dog lurches for him, Rory leaps upward from the water and grabs the horn at the right side of its helmet. He then twists the helmet to the right, and pulls the dog into the pool.

The shepherd tries to break free of his grip, but as the armor is immersed in the water, it pulls the dog down to the bottom like a stone. Rory watches with a mixture of guilt and relief as the dog attempts to free itself from the bottom of the pool, leaping and running as hard as it can in the heavy body suit. With all of its strenuous efforts, the dog quickly suffocates, and stops moving at the bottom of the pool. Rory immediately swims back to Tina, and pulls her up so that she can get some much needed oxygen.

"Here, baby." Rory says to her through excited breaths. "We need to cling to the edge, but when the dogs come, push back to the middle of the pool." He instructs with urgency, knowing that their opportunity is fast disappearing.

Rory hears screams coming from Chandler's men and turns right to view a gruesome scene. Two dogs have taken down one man, and are proceeding to tear him up as the other two shepherds slowly circle the gazebo. Chandler and his men are shooting at the dogs every few seconds, but their bullets are no match for the body armor. Some of the dogs are moving slowly, having been hit in the lower legs by gunfire, but they still seem lethal despite having only three working legs. Rory finds the entire battle to be shocking: two corpses next to the pool, men getting torn apart by ferocious dogs, and he with his wounded lady, trapped in limbo in the water.

In a flight of panic, one of Chandler's men begins to run toward the swimming pool. The dogs immediately converge on him as he fires backwards at them; aiming poorly, and not even coming close to his targets.

Rory feels himself moving quickly toward the edge of the pool again. When the man tries to maneuver past the pool to escape the dogs, Rory leaps out like a crocodile and latches onto his left leg, dragging the lower part of the enforcer's body below the surface. The gangster is startled, and begins to fire behind his back, causing Rory to let go and swim away. However, this barrage of gunfire is soon stopped by the ferocious jaws of the dogs when they attack the enforcer from the front, tearing into his throat with their merciless killer instinct.

As he recognizes this amazing opportunity, Rory swims back to the gangster's legs and begins to pull him into the water slowly. He is relieved to see that the dogs are aggressive in protecting their food, and greet this tug-o-war with snarls and growls. When Rory has the body submerged almost all the way in the water, one of the dogs surprises him by trotting across the man's back and leaping at his chest. The weight of this dog immediately begins to drag Rory to the bottom, and to his dismay, a second dog enters the pool on top of him. The weight of two German Shepherds is alarming, and Rory struggles underneath them as they snap at his bare chest and stomach in the water. Within seconds he finds himself at the bottom of the pool with one dog atop his legs and the other on his chest, biting at his neck. He finds himself draped in the body armor of both dogs, and looks up in a panic to see the surface several feet above his head. In a fit of rage, Rory grips both horns on the dog's satanic helmet, and uses them to pull his body out from beneath its heavy body. In his haste, he kicks at its chest and snout, causing the dog to bite his right calf muscle. With a quick shake of his leg, he is able to get the animal to release him.

Rory can feel the shallow wound bleeding in the water as he ascends to the surface, panicking at the urgent need he feels for oxygen after fighting off the dogs, and nearly being smothered underwater. When he breaches the surface of the pool, he takes in a mighty breath of fresh air, hearing the familiar sounds of men shouting, and sporadic gunfire. He looks down with a heartless satisfaction as the dogs struggle for air at the bottom of the pool, and soon stop moving. During the past forty-eight hours, they have gone from being seemingly loyal pets in Rory's mind, to ferocious killers, much the same as Pezzloni.

Tina is hanging onto the edge of the pool with her right arm like an abandoned sailor, appearing to be in shock, and not wanting to move. Her dress is completely saturated, weighing her down heavily. With her broken ribs, fractured forearm, and swollen eye, Rory begins to doubt that he'll ever be able to get her off the property.

"Hang on, girl; we're going to get you out of here." Rory says with a soft tone into Tina's right ear. "They've been killing one another this whole time, and whenever they fall, it's just a better chance for us to escape." He adds with confidence, trying to inspire himself amidst the chaos.

Rory climbs out of the pool quickly, feeling uneasy with the dog and human corpses in the water. His right calf is burning as he gets to his feet, and is immediately greeting by the sight of Chandler being pursued by a German Shepherd. The gangster is running in a panic, fidgeting with a submachine gun in his hands that seems to be jammed. His left hand is covered in blood all the way up to the forearm, and appears badly wounded. The dog in pursuit of him is limping noticeably, having been shot in the rear right leg. Despite this injury, the animal seems angry, and ready to exact vengeance.

Chandler barely notices Rory as he jogs alongside the pool, attempting to make use of the submachine gun. Rory breathes out in a heavy gasp, feeling the hatred building within him as he watches his enemy fleeing. Without another thought, he sidesteps into Chandler's path and uses his right hand to deliver a punishing haymaker to the left side of his face. The syndicate boss stops in his tracks as the blow dazes him for a moment. He looks at Rory in terror, and glances back at the dog in pursuit of him. Chandler wheels around with all of his strength, and pulls up the submachine gun to fire at the dog, but it merely clicks with a hollow failure.

"I don't want to die this way..." Chandler says aloud, barely realizing that the words have left his mouth.

The syndicate boss begins to back away quickly as the vicious animal continues its pursuit, but Rory kicks the back of his left thigh muscle, and pulls his shoulders backwards, sending his body to the cement. To Rory's dismay, Chandler's body drops at an odd angle and both men stumble to the concrete, knocking over tables and lounge chairs. Rory freezes in place as the large German Shepherd is soon upon them, confused by the sight of two perpetrators. Chandler makes another impulsive movement, trying to fire his submachine gun one last time. This causes the dog to defend itself, leaping onto the syndicate leader with tenacious aggression.

Rory slinks away slowly, not wishing to alarm the dog. He gradually gets to his feet and returns to where Tina is clutching the side of the pool. Once again, he reaches down for her right arm, and gently pulls her from the water. The young woman looks haggard, still in shock from the events of the day, but alert enough to follow Rory's instructions. With a rush of fresh adrenaline, Rory picks up the petite woman from the ground, carrying her with his right arm under her knees, and the other supporting her back.

As he glances to the right, he notices that Chandler's remaining enforcers have holed up in the gazebo, firing their weapons at a dog that runs past every few seconds. The wounded animal looks persistent, and the blood around its legs makes it seem all the more demonic, when combined with the satanic helmet. Chandler is trapped beneath the other vicious shepherd, which has latched onto his throat, and he doesn't appear to be moving.

Rory picks up his pace as he moves around the corner of the large mansion with Tina in his arms. When they reach the courtyard, he immediately focuses on the two limousines parked in front of the home. A tall, bald driver from Chandler's crew is using his cellular phone next to the car. He is of Turkish descent, and is as stout and strong as any of the other enforcers who arrived with him. When he sees Rory, he sets the cellular phone atop the car, and reaches into his jacket to retrieve a nickel-plated, semi-automatic 9 millimeter pistol.

The sight of this weapon is daunting to Rory, and he instantly considers his options. Returning to the corner of the house would be too far for safety, but the passenger side of the car is only a few steps away. Rory moves rapidly toward the rear wheel on the passenger side of the car, feeling the strain on his body under the weight of Tina.

"I'm gonna' have to set you down on your right side..." Rory mutters under his breath to Tina, feeling instant remorse at the thought of having to do so.

"Please, God, don't!" She pleads to no avail, terrified at the thought of more pain in her ribs and left arm.

When they reach the car, Rory slides Tina gently up against the rear right wheel, ducking his head behind the thick steel and bulletproof glass. She grabs immediately at her left side as the stinging pain returns, feeling helpless and scared. The driver steps aggressively around the rear of the car as Rory moves toward shelter at the front. His maneuvers are amusing to the driver who begins to smirk at the sight of a shirtless, unarmed man trying to escape him. Rory is kneeling between the two cars when he hears the driver door of the second limousine open. He clenches his hand into a fist and shakes his head, realizing that he is now trapped between the two gunmen.

The second driver is a tall, Austrian man with blonde hair and blue eyes. Rory has only a second to glance back at him before his body drops to the ground, spinning slightly to the right in a bloody mess. The familiar report of a sniper rifle echoes through the air, and Rory looks up at the second floor balcony to see Pezzloni aiming down at the courtyard.

In a moment of panic, the bald enforcer ducks behind the driver side of his limousine, intimidated by the sound of the powerful Barrett rifle. To Rory's surprise, the gangster rises up with his hands atop the limousine and begins to fire his pistol at Anthony Pezzloni. While the enforcer is distracted, Rory slides around the driver side of the car, sprinting methodically with all of his strength. When he reaches the door, Rory throws it open and immediately dives inside the car, as if jumping from an exploding plane. Once inside the vehicle, he begins to move his body close to the open driver door, reaching out to pull it closed. However, he snatches his hand back as a volley of gunfire pelts the inner door from the bald driver that is guarding the car. Rory watches in fear as the man strafes around to his left to get a better shot at his enemy. Before he can get lined up with his target, a .50 caliber round rips through his left leg, and the sniper rifle breaks the air as if beckoning another kill. Rory gazes at the wound on the driver's leg with disgust. A large piece of flesh has been torn from his thigh as though he had been bitten by a Great White Shark.

Rory senses the urgency of the situation, knowing that Pezzloni likely has the sniper rifle trained on Tina. He looks at the ignition of the car, and is relieved to see the keys already in place. The passenger window is immediately struck with intense force, causing Rory to dive over the divider and into the back seat of the limousine. He protects his head behind the driver seat, slowly raising his eyes to see the damage caused to the window by the powerful rifle. To his delight, the window is still intact, completely shattered on the outside, as if hit by the force of a charging rhinoceros.

The young man scrambles to the rear of the car, knowing that if he can get Tina inside, they'll have a chance of escape. When he throws open the rear passenger door, Rory is immediately greeted by gunfire. This shot comes dangerously close, and tears through the leather of the rear seat like a cannonball through cardboard. Rory jumps back, watching his hands tremble as the shot nearly tears them off.

His breathing intensifies as he realizes that Pezzloni intends to play a game with him for Tina's life. He moves toward the open door, keeping his legs on the floorboard, and shielding himself behind the bulletproof armor. Rory breathes heavily for a moment, knowing that his plan is reckless, and wondering if there is another option. He shakes his head after a bit of reflection, and exposes his left hand from behind the door for a half-second before hiding it again. His blood pressure spikes as he puts his hand in the open again, this time for a full second before bringing it back inside the car. With a bit more tenacity, he stretches his arm out a third time, exposing it for a full two seconds before pulling it back. The rear of the car rocks on its chassis as it is struck a second time by the sniper rifle, and Rory freezes as the bullet strikes the open door that is shielding him with the raw power of a car crash. Despite his fear, he leaps from the car, knowing that Pezzloni needs to reload the massive weapon.

He immediately covers the ground between himself and Tina, reaching down to grab her right arm. She screams in protest as Rory drags her toward the open door. Rory ignores her agony, and presses forward, feeling a sense of hope as they get closer to shelter. An earsplitting shot crashes into the earth just inches from Tina's right leg, kicking up sharp pieces of rock that leave small cuts on the two victims. The deafening blast of the sniper rifle causes Rory to move frantically, and he pulls Tina inside the safety of the car, shielding her body with the door. Another shot hammers down near his head, forcing Rory to dive into the car next to Tina, feeling his body flop hard against the floorboards. Once inside the vehicle, he leans back and pulls the door shut, feeling empowered for the first time since he stepped into the nursery.

"Hang on tight," Rory warns the young woman with a cavalier tone, "we're going to smash through the gate!"

The car is struck by sniper rifle fire again, just above where Rory is kneeling. He ducks instinctively, amazed that the round didn't penetrate the armor. With a new desire to live, he clambers over the rear seats back to the front of the car. The vehicle continues to take punishment from the sniper rifle, getting pelted here and there by the powerful weapon. Rory starts the engine and pulls around the statue of Atlas in a hurry, driving rapidly out of the courtyard and down the steep driveway. He smiles wide as the car takes another round from the sniper rifle, knowing that they will soon be around the corner, and out of range.

The front gate appears foreboding as he approaches it rapidly at the end of the downhill grade. Rory is uncertain if his speed is too high or too low for an effective breach, and he elects to drive faster, hoping that the armor is strong enough to sustain the impact. Within seconds, the car crashes wildly through the steel gate, bursting forward with amazing power, and pushing the gate out of the way like another car in traffic.

Rory feels a powerful jolt as the gate is snapped open, and he grips the steering wheel with all of his strength, delighted by the resilience of the limousine. He slows the car down as they move through the dip outside the gate, watching carefully for Eli The Whisper and his crew. The young man is ablaze with satisfaction as they make it through the ravine without further resistance. He looks back to see Tina gripping her left ribs with her right arm, appearing badly broken, but not dead. Rory presses the accelerator of the powerful car as tears begin to stream down his cheeks. For the first time in months, he knows that his life will again be his own.
XIII. Mothers & Dogs

The black limousine comes to a halt in front of a modern gray building labeled 'Lake Wohlford Resort.' An older couple is sightseeing nearby, and they gaze upon the mangled, black car with suspicion, noticing the apparent damage from gunfire. The couple is dressed in casual cotton jogging clothing, and wearing sunglasses as they enjoy a light afternoon walk.

"Call the police!" Rory exclaims as he opens the driver door of the vehicle, displaying signs of exhaustion. "Call the FBI, the paramedics. Just...call everyone...hurry." He says in a weak voice as he stumbles out of the car.

"Oh my God! Are you okay!?" The woman asks as she and her husband step closer to Rory, looking empathetic. "What happened to you!?" She asks with a stunned expression as she removes her sunglasses.

The husband begins to dial on his cellular phone as his wife leans down to speak with Rory.

"There's a woman in the back seat. She's badly hurt." Rory states with his eyes straining to stay open, feeling dehydrated and nauseous. "Make sure they take care of her first. I'll be okay..."

FIVE HOURS LATER

"When will they arrest him?" Rory asks from his hospital bed, grabbing at a mug of water with a shaky right hand.

"We're still processing the warrant, but the surveillance teams have been up there for a few hours." Agent Khrakum of the FBI responds with a pleasant smile. "When our teams arrived at the front gate, or what used to be the front gate, everything was deathly quiet. It had obviously been smashed by that beast limo you drove, but they managed to create another gate by parking a limo in front of the opening. Since the property is secured, we can't enter without just cause. Right now, all I have is your word... since Tina's still in surgery." The middle-aged man brings forth a smile as a façade of his real feelings, attempting to befriend his witness.

Orson Khrakum stands next to Rory's hospital bed wearing an unassuming gray suit. His face is clean shaven, along with the top of his bald head. The man is tall and extremely fit for his age, looking austere with his blue eyes and Norwegian heritage.

In the hospital bed, Rory is having difficulty relaxing. His eyelids are dropping every few seconds, and closing unintentionally, forcing him to shake his head a bit to stay awake. The young man is ragged despite having been cleaned up by the nurses when they applied his bandages. His hair is a flighty mass, and the stubble along his jaw line and neck is fast becoming a full beard. He looks down at the plain blue diamonds on his white hospital gown, feeling vulnerable and naked with only his boxer shorts beneath this modern day toga. Despite the police officers in the hallway, and the FBI agent standing near his bed, he doesn't feel safe. His mind returns to the courtyard just a few hours ago, where one of the most powerful gangsters in the world was firing upon him.

"You're safe now, Rory." Khrakum reassures him with a subtle wink. "We've got plenty of guys in this building, and none of them are on Pezzloni's payroll." These words resonate rather condescending with Rory, regardless of the agent's efforts to convey them in a friendly manner.

"How does a guy like that exist for so long without getting arrested?" Rory asks with a defiant gaze, looking upon his protector with humble acceptance. "I mean- You tell me that you know what you're doing, but you don't... These wolves roam free across our country, and it takes you... decades to bring them down. Why is that?" The young man asks with conviction as if agent Khrakum is on trial.

"Rory, what we do isn't as easy as you think..." Orson responds with a soft voice and a wise smile. "There are hard men in this world, and there are brilliant men. There are ruthless men, and there are innovators... But when you get a combination of all those characteristics... It's like the human race has produced an apex predator." The older man states with a heroic gaze as he places his right hand on Rory's left shoulder to comfort him.

"Please keep her safe..." Rory replies in a vulnerable tone that surprises even himself. "If Pezzloni is able to get to me; that's fine, but I don't want to lose Tina."

Khrakum nods his head slowly, releasing his hand from Rory's shoulder as he senses that the young man has more to say.

"She's not just some woman that I pulled out of a dangerous situation." Rory continues as tears begin to flow from his eyes. "She's my salvation... She's... proof... that I want to be better. I don't know... When he told me that he was murdering them... killing mothers for having my children, because their love was a nuisance – a liability... There's so much pain in that compound behind the house... If we don't get them all out safely, then we've failed... I can't live with the things that have been done – I caused." He looks down at the hospital gown and the blanket that is covering him, feeling cowardly to be in such a warm and comforting place.

"Rory, you just saved the princess from the dragon, and it's much harder than it looks in the fairytales..." Khrakum states with a distant stare, reflecting on his own experiences with the same. "As for what you can live with... You'd be amazed. I've seen kids come out of total hell... and become everything they ever wanted... Somehow they bury their nightmares, and march on like some type of super resilient race of people." Orson tips his head back as another thought occurs to him. "Hell, I suppose if there are apex predators, then there are apex survivors."

Rory smiles wide beneath his tired eyes, feeling an amazing connection to his FBI companion. This smile soon fades, however, as the thought of apex predators resurfaces a memory of the awful video he watched on Chandler's iPad®.

"Oh my God! Is Kelly safe!?" Rory asks suddenly, looking up at agent Khrakum with renewed anxiety. "They busted her arm! I need to know if she's okay."

"She's fine, Rory." The tall agent states with a nod, seeming like his patience for coddling is waning. "Kelly will probably be down here to see you when we finish up with questions, evidence, and-"

An officer appears in the doorframe, and urgently taps the black steel with a set of keys, interrupting Orson. The FBI agent turns around and immediately steps over to talk with the policeman. Their conversation is animated as the short, Italian police officer stares up at the hulking FBI agent.

Rory sits pensively on the bed, trying to determine whether good or bad news is being delivered. His right hand instinctively grips the blanket that is draped over his bed as the tension on the men's faces displays anything but good news. After a few minutes of quiet conversation, the police offer exits the room, and leaves Khrakum to provide Rory the information.

"What's going on!?" Rory asks with a fearful gaze, suddenly feeling more alert as Orson turns back around to face him. "Did they get Pezzloni?"

"Rory, you should try to rest." Khrakum states with some hesitation, glancing momentarily at the floor. "This isn't the type of thing you should be involving yourself in at this stage." He manages to force a smile, but can already tell by Rory's demeanor that he will demand the truth.

"I just fucking went through-" Rory begins with a great deal of passion, rising up in the bed to challenge the agent.

"Okay. Okay. I get it!" Orson responds with a tough exterior, raising the palm of his hand to silence Rory's protests. "We breached the grounds at the Pezzloni estate, and our team has seized the house... but the men have barricaded themselves into the compound with dozens of hostages." The seasoned agent states with a tired look, surmising the potential outcome of this situation. "Pezzloni is in a standoff with the FBI and the ATF. He's threatening to feed the kids to the dogs if we don't leave the estate grounds." Khrakum reports as he looks toward the floor in silent frustration.

"What are you going to do?" Rory asks with a shocked expression, amazed that Pezzloni still has the upper hand.

"We're gonna' buy some time." The agent responds with a shrug of his muscular shoulders, turning to look his witness in the eyes. "Also, Rory, there's something I need to tell you... It's not gonna' be easy to hear."

Rory mashes his lips together with a grimace of disdain, wondering how much worse this will get, and when it will ever end.

"You mother is missing from her Boston home." Khrakum conveys empathetically while maintaining eye contact with the younger man. "We don't know how long it's been, but the last time anyone saw her was two days ago..."

Rory stares at the wall in shock, hoping for a moment that he will wake up from just having a bad nightmare. He blinks his tired eyes a few times, noticing that tears are already beginning to flow down his cheeks. His feet begin to shift nervously below the covers, and his insides are a tempest of misfortune.

"It was Chandler." Rory says immediately after giving the situation some thought. "He said that I needed to pay, and my mother was next on the list." His body begins to shake at the thought of not knowing whether his mother is safe, and Rory simultaneously recalls another tragedy – the premature death of his father. "I need to get to Boston!" Rory proclaims after some consideration, staring with conviction toward agent Khrakum.

"I can't do that, Rory." The agent responds immediately, shaking his head from side-to-side.

"Why the fuck not!?" Rory asks incredulously. "There's nothing else I can do to help you here!"

"Because the local cops just told me that Pezzloni is demanding to speak with you." The agent states in a callous voice, lowering his eyebrows in a serious manner.

"Well, I'm not fucking talking to him – ever again!" Rory announces with bold certainty, gesturing defensively with his hands. "The only time we'll see each other is in court."

"I don't think... you get my meaning..." Orson says in a strangely aggressive voice as he bends closer to Rory's face. "Pezzloni wants to fuckin' talk to you! He gets... what he wants..."

Rory's face goes pale as these words are delivered like a care package from Satan himself. He looks up at the leering agent in total disbelief, observing every facial expression, and listening to the minute inflections of his voice. In his dismay, Rory stops breathing as he comes to the horrid conclusion that his enemy is much closer than he ever believed possible.

THE END.

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Other books by this author

Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by T. C. Clover:

Shots Fired in the Melting Pot

Dividers

She is Risen

Isiah's Skirmish

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