 
The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

by

Paul J. Bagnell

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published By

Paul J. Bagnell on Smashwords

The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

This ebook-in-publication data/copy is on file with the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978-0-9866159-2-4

Copyright 2013.TM by Paul J. Bagnell

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 person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

*****

The Last Nukyi

Book One

Fear Cosmic Annihilation

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SEGMENT ONE: THE MIND-CRASH AFFLICTION

C1: CONNECT TO EARTH

C2: CARRAVECKY & SONS

C3: ROPED INTO A MIND-CRASH

C4: HOT YET FROSTY

C5: UNLOCK THE NUKYI

C6: BAD CORPORATE FUNDAMENTALS

C7: HOT WAR UNLEASHED

C8: YOUR SECRET IS TOLD

C9: SUIT ME UP 'N SEND ME OUT

C10: ACCEPT OR SUBMIT

C11: KISS ME I'M BAD

C12: A ROOF OF FRIGHT

C13: MET YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN

C14: DON'T MOVE - YOUR HEAD'S NEXT

C15: WAKE UP I'M DYING

C16: WORLD OF INFERNO

C17: DATA DRIVE ME IN

C18: PACK ME SOME CASH

C19: SHOT OF REALITY

C20: I'M WATCHING YOU

C21: KNOCKED INTO A DREAM

SEGMENT ONE: THE MIND-CRASH AFFLICTION

Chapter 1: CONNECT TO EARTH

A punishing blast of energy smashed through the roof of Tom Bronze's house as he lay in a dead sleep. The ghastly explosion showered incinerated debris throughout his bedroom as an aggressive light wave pulsated with coded bursts of radiation, which, seemingly, emitted a murky haze that crawled from the ceiling and settled on the floor like a thick, grey, woolen blanket.

This beyond-world beam, apparently, paralyzed Tom's human physiology while this unknown cosmic invader probed the fragmented depths of the earthling's mind, a proficient technology which triggered a genetic transformation that instantly hyper-altered every cell in Tom's mortal matrix. His feeble body grew strong as strands of sinuous, steel-like muscles swelled beneath the skin.

Imprisoned by his reconfigured neural network, he was mentally bombarded with unexplainable images of himself transported beyond his mortal existence as he stood by a hellish fire of peat encased in a pit of crumbling mortar and burnt stone. Heat and smoke rose into the stagnant atmosphere. He wiped the clammy sweat from his brow and whispered, "How can this be? These flames are burning hot."

Suddenly, Tom was startled by a shrill voice that made his skin shiver. He shifted his eyes from the fire to the darkness. He tried to grasp reality; however he realized this was just another unspeakable nightmare. Was it a dream or was it real? Did an angel or a demon or an unknown force from beyond induce this hideous voice? He felt desperately insecure.

In the near distance, Tom saw an immense figure that idled in a wall of fog. He tried to back away, but his muscles seemed frozen. Then, out of the murky hold, the massive body drew closer. In a big, crunchy voice it said, "I come searching for a great champion."

A warm breeze crossed Tom's face like a cloud of sour-tasting vapour that left a weakness in the pit of his stomach, partially restricting his vocal cords. "What do you want with me?" he replied cowardly.

"I am The Be-Ing. I am an interdimensional life form sent to search for you, the powerful space soldier you were in your previous existence."

Tom was speechless. The only movement came from the whites of his eyes as he gazed into the fire and searched for an answer. He saw nothing but glowing cinders and spiking flames. Its warmth radiated from the burn, the true link between the forces of good and evil--forces which constantly battle in equalizing clashes, in constant conflict in the universe, yet restrained by the world of Line-Cross, a dimensional void which separates the pure from the impure.

A soupy knee-high mist settled on the ground and created an eeriness that further shrouded the landscape. Tom retched to inhale but almost choked on his dry, swollen tongue while the thick fog hung in the air and clung to his skin like a rotten carcass.

The sky grumbled as smoke spewed from the pit and discharged a fine dusting of ash that filtered down like grey snowflakes. The Be-Ing's voice rumbled with the powers of the unholy, yet it gracefully extended its hands upward, and a beautiful spectrum beamed out from the tips of its fingers.

Tom was awed as he watched the energy flow into the darkness momentarily illuminating the dead sky, which revealed the dead landscape and its lanky trees with wiry limbs, which knotted into a demonic bulk but seemed to embrace him like his mother's cradling arms. Immediately, the deprived atmosphere reminded him of when he was lost in the dark, northern forest of Washington State during his early childhood but remembered he wasn't frightened.

Tom blinked hard, an attempt to force the imagery from his eyes. The darkness receded like a clap of thunder and brought forth the clarity of this strange world. He collapsed to one knee and instinctively cupped a handful of soil and felt the damp texture of the loam between his fingers. This convinced him that this was no psychotic illusion. He stood and sifted the dirt from his palm to the ground. His eyes were fixed on The Be-Ing's seven-foot-plus, two-ton mass as it hunched in front of him. Its body was sheathed with a jagged, rock-like exterior, which obviously served as protective armour.

Tom observed the creature's mountainous head and torso, shouldered with thick tube-like arms capped with solid hands. Its fingers measured as big around as a man's wrist, which, apparently, could mangle steel or gingerly crack an egg and were stretched out like sticks of potent TNT. Its powerful pipe-like legs with oval cupped feet impressively secured its immovable footing. The Be-Ing's overall demeanour appeared evil, yet it seemed to possess a virtuous elegance.

"Fem-Be-Kyi," The Be-Ing called in the form of a mystic spell; then it revealed its ultimate purpose for contacting the new arrival. "You must concentrate. I come from a place where mortals do not exist. Immortality is beyond the comprehension of humans. What I seek is your soul's capacity for life and the inter-powers of your mind. It is this which must be rediscovered and nurtured within you."

"Yes," Tom mouthed willingly, as if chemically entranced.

"There is a world inhabited with life forms in a distant galaxy, billions of light years from planet earth. They are the ones who need the mighty space soldier hailed a Nukyi Salient. The Galaxy of Voge and God of Hege is the place of your Armageddon.

"Your preparation will be rigorous and will require every ounce of strength your mind, body and soul can sustain. You must endure pain and fight the destructive forces of evil if you are to save yourself from annihilation."

Tom gulped hard. "Why do you call me a Nukyi?"

"The honour has been bestowed, it cannot be withdrawn."

"Why?"

The Be-Ing shifted its mass to one side. "You are who you are: a Nukyi Salient; and that cannot be changed."

"Then, if so, how do you propose to send me on this infinite journey?" Tom asked inquisitively.

"The journey of a soul begins where infinity ends."

"I don't understand your mystic logic."

"You must open your mind to the impossible."

"How is that done in this world?"

"I shall teach you what is required."

"This is just a mental hoax; none of this is real, just a dream--not to worry."

"I am real and you are real, and there is no escaping your destiny. It is the way it is."

"If you're real, like you say you are, then convince me and tell me more."

"Soon your quest shall be defined. For now, close your eyes and return. Soon we will meet again, in another dream."

"I must know! When will that be?" Tom shouted into the dead sky.

"Soon!" The Be-Ing roared, as a cloud of vapour sealed it in a whirling vortex and carried its massive body through an energy portal and into the abnormal beyond.

*****

Frantically, Tom sprang upright in bed, soaked in sweat and breathing like an asthmatic madman. "Man, that was one bad-tasting fantasy!" he sputtered out of breath, before he focused and saw the nasty aperture in the roof. There were wood fragments and plaster bits from the ceiling distributed about the floor. The dresser doors were flopped opened, and his clothes were heaped and scattered in an alien-looking formation. The bedside table was tipped over, a gifted porcelain lamp was smashed to pieces; and his cellular phone was crumpled into a mangled mess. He rubbed his eyes to help clear his vision. "I must be sicker than diagnosed," he whimpered as he dozed off on the pillow.

Chapter 2: CARRAVECKY & SONS

The alarm clock struck 5:50 a.m. and rang with the sound of another dreadful Monday. Tom's hands were clasped tight around the pillow; and without realizing his undiscovered strength, he separated the cloth, and a sack of feathers floated in the unsettled air.

He finally reactivated from a dull state of consciousness and lifted a weary eye, which strained looking at the clock, resting dial up, and calling on the floor. He sat up, brushed the chalky ceiling dust off the chard sheets, and balanced his infected body weight on the edge of the bed. He mumbled lethargically, "It's going to be another brutal week digesting my unflavoured employment obligations."

Cool breezes bleed in through the wound in the roof. He surveyed the circular damage and questioned, "What the hell went through here last night?" His sense of perception was blank. He reached over and slipped his robe from beneath an unnaturally formed jumble of clothes, and proceeded from the bedroom down the stairs into the living room.

The front picture window, which seemed wider than standard builder's dimensions, captured the light of the morning sun. He paused to feel the warm rays on his unshaved face. "Five days of cold rain--at least it's bright, dry, and warm today," he whined, as he seriously debated whether to go to work or call in sick, however, he continued toward the kitchen.

Fresh coffee dripped from the automatic dispenser and filled the room with an aroma of strong hazelnut. He poured a hefty cup of brew, a simple chore he found difficult each morning, thanks to his constant state of over exhaustion and negative financial position.

He returned to the living room and eased into his housebroken recliner, like an 80-year-old man. His aching finger stretched for the remote. The television flashed on, another typical morning of news, weather, and sports. He clicked through the available channels with every morning news broadcaster reporting the same globe bleakness in different, phony smiles. Bored, he switched them off.

A peaceful sensation cleansed his mind with a feeling of profound serenity. Strangely, it felt foreign to him. He sighted to his right and sipped the hot drink. His wife and two young children posed in the colourful photograph. They gleamed so happily. It was a joyful picture of better times. A year ago, she left with the girls. He knew they were healthy, living with her folks up north, but he was afraid to call. He was drowning in regret, mental pain killing him. He regretted not spending more quality time with them, but his noble accounting career got in his way. He couldn't change his past although he wished he could. There were too many useless excuses handcuffing his stubbornness, and due time would determine if their untied marriage arrangement was best for the family.

A fond memory splashed in his teary eye. It was the day of the firm's annual summer picnic that she told him she was leaving. That was a bad time in his life--a day he'd never forget, even if he lived a thousand years.

He levered forward in his worn-in recliner and gulped the remaining mouthful of warm fluid and retired the mug next to the family picture as he did every weekday morning.

*****

Tom stepped from the hot shower and steadied dripping wet in front of the vanity mirror. A film of steam clouded his view. He cleared the moisture with the palm of his hand with his refined torso reflected back at him. Immediately, he noticed the difference in his muscular classification. Only days ago, he estimated that he was losing a chest and gaining a gut. Now, he looked lean and inhumanly vascular with an overly developed physique that defied a logical explanation. His muscles bulged from beneath his taut skin in mounds and dips that crossed his pecs, abs and thighs. He pulled his dirty-brown hair away from his blue-stressed eyes and slanted closer to his detached duplicate, as if to study his transformed symmetry. "I need to get my vision tested and my hair trimmed," he promised, and scuffed from the bath.

Luckily, his many suits still hung in the closet. Each appeared worn and tattered, but he, particularly, liked the dark-blue one--the one he'd purchased at a local discount clothing store and the one he'd always worn on Mondays. Today was no exception to his predictable obsession.

He hurried to get ready and left the house. He jumped into his pre-millennium import economy model, parked in the driveway. The vehicle was rusted. Oil leaks and spot-filler indicated that it should be put to rest at the nearest junkyard, but he prayed that tomorrow would bring prosperity into his life and medicate his revolving anxiety. He slapped his vinyl briefcase on the backseat, fumbled the car keys between his swollen fingers, and then clumsily started the vehicle. The smell of burnt oil and trail of blue smoke polluted the morning air. He had never gotten a fine, even though the government strictly enforced the automotive pollution control laws.

The drive to his office job usually lasted a good thirty-five minutes. "I should arrive at my monkey-cage door with a clean 60 seconds to boot," he moaned and glanced (a force of habit) at his damaged fifty-cent watch.

The inner city was a beehive of business activities. Skyscrapers stilted high into the Seattle skyline; and with each new construction, the structures got more obnoxious and intimidating. It was a magnificent sight but a constant reminder of the unforgiving jungle where he earned his modest living. There, built high into the clouds, the Belk Tower stood structurally invincible and ruled over the ongoing construction like a king wearing reflective gold.

Tom rolled up to the tower's underground entrance. Today, Joey, the gate attendant, spied into his vehicle for some unknown reason before he lifted the entry barrier, then waved him past. Tom claimed his paid monthly billet and hurried from his vehicle with briefcase in hand in pursuit of the elevator before the doors sealed.

An English gentleman, who worked on floor fifty-four, saw Tom approaching and held open the doors.

"Thanks," Tom said apologetically.

"You're welcome, young Bronze," the older executive said and pushed the button for floor fifty-one, Tom's floor.

Tom could only guess what numerically scrambled reports Selly required reworked this week while he stared up at the floor level indicator lights to avoid small talk conversation with other office acquaintances.

The elevator doors unsealed at L51 and exposed the hallway. Its oak grain walls lined the entire length of the corridor, which led to his current place of employment.

He made his way toward the etched glass doors that read: LANKENBURY, MACKENZIE & MCBRIDLE--ACCOUNTING, AUDITING & TAXATION which spanned the entire width of the office frontage with an abundance of posh and prestige.

Stella, the office receptionist, a well-spoken African American woman with over three decades of business administration expertise, was seated at the frontline workstation, organizing paperwork and weekend voice messages. She noticed Tom and smiled as he entered the office.

The clock that hung on the wall behind her indicated it was exactly eight o'clock.

He was cutting it really close today, he thought, while he greeted her with a cheerful "good morning;" but he had to force a natural smile.

She returned his good-will cheer and continued sorting the messages.

He strode to the right of her control post and headed toward the centre offices; a drone of voices and computer equipment originated from beyond the temporary partitions. His fellow employees, a new breed of young accounting grads, who were attempting to make their mark in the corporate world, anxiously rushed to finish a year-end consolidation deadline for a high-profile multinational organization.

Tom squeezed into his tiny area, a six-by-six cubicle of compressed workspace. His station was adjacent to the computer lab; and from his standard plot, the digital buzz always seemed sharper than anywhere else in the office. He stretched back and gazed up at the ceiling tiles. He counted the number of squares hundreds of times, bringing back a lost memory or an idea, but not today.

Minutes passed as Tom scrutinized the seconds. He hadn't yet seen Selly this morning. He usually arrived at 8:01 carrying an armload of auditing reports and business outlines for revisions. Maybe he got tied up in the morning traffic or something, Tom thought.

He rested his sober eyes, and complained, "I never slept a wink last night." The words seemed to roll off his cankered tongue. "Last night had to be the worst sleep I experienced in months," he mumbled, desperate for sympathy. His self-bitterness was elevated by an indescribable itch that he felt from head to toe.

Selly arrived a few minutes late.

"How's it going?" Tom asked in a tone to appease his departmental supervisor.

"I'll need these by the end of the day. If there's a problem, call me," Selly said bluntly, as he unloaded the bundle of work on Tom's desk.

"Sure. I'll get cracking on them right away," he replied, and daydreamed in the direction of the papers.

As quickly as Selly had appeared, he vanished - no thank you, no goodbye.

Every day it was the same thankless objective--crank out pounds of client reports, which meant squat. He smelled displeasure all around him--a big, rich firm with little appreciation for his number-crunching talents. He controlled his growing temper by inhaling and exhaling. This technique usually worked; but, today, it was ineffective. A rage was burning within. With clenched jaw, he seethed boyishly. "I destroyed my wonderful marriage for this bland daily grind. Maybe if I slave harder, I'll be someone important within these walls of hierarchy," he said, as he chewed the words in his mouth. It was always the same. He was chasing that golden carrot but was always just a hair short of a success.

Again, he stretched back, his head tilted, his eyes locked on the ceiling tiles. This strange ailment, he suspected, was brought on by the dream. What does it mean? The answer was there. He was sure of it. To find it was another matter, but there was something mysterious about this mental imagery--that amplified voice. Who did that voice belong to, and what does it or he or whatever want?

A flood of emotions created a memory flashback from last night's dream and revealed some sketchy mental details. He remembered the contained fire. The tall trees that meshed together to architect a barricade against the damp wind, the cool soil; and, of course, that blurry figure. It all seemed so strange and out of place with bits of pieces that didn't fit into any equation. He could feel it. It was calling him, seeking his help. He was mentally baffled.

The untidy stack of financial reports on his desk brought him back to a dismal reality. He hopelessly eyed the two inches of rough textured paper bound in coloured file folders. He retrieved the first on the schedule and stared uncomfortably at it. The force of last night's alien wave still mentally distressed him.

The telephone rang. He snapped up the receiver. "Bronze speaking."

"Tom, how are you? It's Jack Mackenzie," said the voice with an Americanized Scottish accent.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but I haven't completed your client's file," Tom said, as he searched through the mountain of work in progress.

"That's perfectly all right," he said politely. "This morning call concerns another matter."

"Then, what can I do for you, sir?" Tom replied verbally crippled and defenseless.

"Tom, can you please come to my office? There's an important matter that I would like to discuss with you," Mackenzie instructed.

"Yes, sir," Tom replied slowly. In all the years he'd been there, he was never exclusively called to the founding partner's office. "I'll be right there, sir." He broke his uninterested daze from an unaudited statement and hung up the phone. Then, he forced himself from the chair, afraid of the grim news to follow.

He heard Stella laughing as he rounded the corner of her comfortable perch. She appeared to know how to enjoy her stressful environment. Even when things heated up around her, she remained cool and calm.

Mackenzie was the second-most powerful man in the firm. He was one of the three names etched on the glass doors; and he could make or break any employee with just one word, yet he seldom used his gold pen to slay the common dragon. Tom forged onward, barely able to stomach the early-morning stress and annoying butterflies in the pit of his stomach, en route to Mackenzie's quarters.

The partners' offices were lavishly installed along the west-side and restricted the spectacular view of the city's architecture and the hierarchy who dwelled there.

Maybe one day he could have his name assigned to one of those privileged office domains, but Tom wasn't convinced. He stalled in front of Mackenzie's place, gulped a mouthful of air, and tapped.

"Come in," the voice said cheerfully.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" Tom said in a mousy voice.

"Yes, Tom," Mackenzie ordered as he moved around to the front of his desk. His motion was strong, like that of a man in his early thirties. In fact, Tom knew that Mackenzie was about fifty-eight years of age and healthy as a horse. The boss stood straight and commanding, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His face was smoothly shaved, and he measured more than six-feet-three from head to toe. He brushed his hand across his thick brown hair, an attempt to flatten the mane to one side. "Please, come in. Close the door. Tom, help yourself to a coffee," he offered in a fatherly tone, and pointed to the credenza.

Tom poured a medium, and sat down. He secretly surveyed the handsome settings, especially Mackenzie's imperialistic desk. It was genuine Asian mahogany, graced with a hand-carved sculpture, a figurehead mounted on the bow of a seventeen-century warship. The designer walls were dressed with contemporary paintings. Each canvas looked pricey and probably cost more than the average annual income of a typical blue-collar worker.

"Tom, do you like working for our firm?," Mackenzie asked, in a tone demanding the truth.

"Yes, sir, I'm very happy here," he replied cocksure, but swallowed his true feelings.

Mackenzie was seated like an emperor behind his desk. He bent forward (his eyes seemed to cut through Tom). "You're presently working under Selly's supervision, correct?"

Tom nodded a weak 'yes' response.

Mackenzie paused. He seemed to be waiting for a detailed explanation and then continued. "I respect your professional abilities and that's why I'd appreciate your efforts if you'd accept an assignment working under Celia McBridle's authority." He donned his eyeglasses and, seemingly, paged through Tom's employment history. "One of our largest clients has a major complication." He removed his wire-rimmed glasses. "They need a keen forensic auditor, like you; but I'm sorry this placement would only be a temporary position."

"That's fine with me," Tom replied convincingly.

"I was considering Steve or Doug, but I figured you and Ms. McBridle would make a better combination."

"Yes sir." Tom forced down the chief executive's bull with a mouthful of hot coffee.

The telephone interrupted their developing conversation.

"Excuse me," Mackenzie apologized, and fielded the call.

Tom relaxed his puffy eyes and viewed the impressive collection of fine artifacts shelved around the office, including a small but detailed-looking stone sculpture. The configuration consisted of what looked to be men and women huddled together and kneeling at the feet of their male leader. Each appeared to be entranced by the powers of hypnosis, fully under their master's command. Tom reckoned skilled hands crafted the piece, as it appeared intricately flawless and a one-of-a-kind design.

"Our firm will be contacting you in the near future," Mackenzie concluded, then hung up the phone. He noticed Tom's curious interest in the artwork and commented. "I imported it from Central America."

"Then, I guess it's a long way from home."

"Yes, very. Between us, it was illegally excavated from a burial ground near Orange Walk."

"Belize, Maya civilization once populated those lands."

"That's right," Mackenzie's eyes brightened, "you know your history and geography."

Tom sat straighter, an attempt to relax. "It's a tortured-looking chunk of art."

"Yes, it is, dark and mysterious. An old, retired fieldworker who sold it to me swore the art piece was dated eight-hundred-plus years, yet it doesn't look a day over fifty."

Tom shifted his tense weight in the hard leather chair and got mentally comfortable.

"The old fella babbled on about its cryptic origins and its tribal significance."

"So, what did the old guy tell you?" Tom asked before putting the coffee mug to his lips and gulping a mouthful.

Mackenzie bent back with disbelieving eyes. "It was said: every thousand years an entity emerges from the outer ridges of existence and possesses a worldly soul. The people of the Svenungo tribe, who roamed Brazil's rain forests, believed their great leader was the recipient of this special power. Although this man, whose name is undocumented, saved his people from the wrath of death and disease brought on by conflict, was said to be everlasting. Then he disappeared without a trace into the unknown once his work was fully accomplished. Mind you, it's just an old man's mental illusion of a cheap wine-induced fairy tale and cast iron sales pitch."

"It's a very interesting story, but still, disturbingly haunting for such a tribal hero to remain undiscovered for such a long time–-such a waste."

"I kind of thought so. But I never purchased the rock based on what the old guy conjured up."

"Then what influenced such, I can only assume, a risky purchase?"

Mackenzie explained calmly: "We were on our honeymoon cruise, and we came ashore; and I wanted to buy my third wife a nice gift to remember our magic moment together. I saw it, negotiated a cash price; and brought it back to America," he admitted proudly, "and gave it a home, right there on the shelf," and pointed to it with a cross finger.

"Your wife must have despised it," Tom assumed bravely.

"It gave her the sleeping creeps. Now, getting back to the task \- the reason I want you for this assignment." Mackenzie ran his hand across his chin. "Truthfully, Tom, your performance evaluations indicate you perform extremely well under pressure."

Tom sensed Mackenzie was beating the rug with the cat's meow or leading to something very distasteful.

"How long have you been employed with our firm - three, four years?" Mackenzie assumed impatiently.

"Five years," Tom replied unassertively.

Mackenzie rolled full steam ahead. "Well, Tom, do you think you can work with Celia McBridle?"

Tom sat nervously still; then he replied, "Yes sir, I believe that this working relationship can be very productive."

Mackenzie smiled concerned. "Good, Tom, let's cut to the chase. Carravecky and Sons Aviation and Space Technologies is our firm's biggest and most lucrative client." He was interrupted by another telephone call. "Excuse me, Tom. Hello." He paused for a moment, just long enough to place his hand over the phone and direct his attention back to Tom. "We'll talk Tuesday about getting our auditing investigation underway. In the meantime, I'll inform Selly that you'll be working with Ms. McBridle until our objectives are accomplished."

"Yes sir," Tom replied, and motioned to shake Mackenzie's hand; but there was no reciprocated response. He vacated the office and eased the door closed behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief and expelled, "My big break." At that point it dawned on him as if a light flashed on in his brain that the one thing he was chasing that eluded him for so many years was a successful job, which was now at his fingertips; and he wasn't about to let it go.

A short walk back and Tom settled behind his wood-grain laminated desk. He fumbled for a pen with one hand and flipped open a file folder with the other.

The fragmented images of last night's dream raced uncontrollably through his mind. A force ripped at him internally screaming for his undivided attention while it nudged him from his state of depression and toward a state of relief. He wasn't sure if the feeling was due to Mackenzie's confidence in his work abilities or the dream. But he knew that he must discover the reason for himself.

The working day was nearing an end, and the reports Selly had requested were completed.

Selly was like a perfectly timed clock. He arrived at five o'clock and picked up the jobs.

"Tommy Bronzers," Jant said with an exaggerated tone, and ducked into the cubicle.

Tom straightened up when he heard Jant's voice; the guy's tone was so annoying.

"The company's bowling night changed to Wednesday. Are 'ya' going or what?" Jant demanded.

"I don't know," Tom replied, shrugging his shoulders and pausing in thought, "maybe, but don't count me in."

"Be there. Bronzers, you're the best damn bowler in the office," Jant praised, then reacted jumpy. "I 'gotta' go. I 'gotta' beauty queen waiting downstairs. I'll see 'ya' later, buddy."

"Yeah sure," Tom sat back and chilled out, a failed attempt to clear his mind.

The distorted dream imagery still confused him even after twelve hours, a soggy bag lunch, two rolls of antacid tablets, and six cups of black coffee. Something deep in his subconscious was calling him. He felt it. The voice that he had heard was like an extraordinary, thunderous rumble that carried a storm cloud that called: "We will meet again." The voice was mentally refreshing, but it caused him sadness that emerged from the deepest shadows of his darkest thoughts. He was somehow blessed to be alive, knowing that there was something out there protecting him.

At 5:30 p.m., the dutiful associates leaving the office sounded like that of a drill-march exercise. The brisk flow of loyal foot soles confirmed another day had expired, and it was time to go. Tom straightened up his desk, handled his briefcase, and left for home.

Chapter 3: ROPED INTO A MIND-CRASH

The full moon hung brightly in the celestial night sky like a giant ball of yellow wax as if moonlighting for the sun. Tom stretched in bed, visually charting the heavenly constellations through the charred ring in the building code and wondered about this assigned investigation. The Carravecky auditing task impressed him more so than Selly's redundant list of trivial daily chores; and, in a good way, McBridle frightened him. He heard she was very moody and professionally demanding. This was probably the reason why Steve and Doug graciously declined the invitation to rub elbows with her.

After he mentally prioritized the day's activities, his body and mind fell into a bottomless sleep. A day in the life of a biologically augmented human, his lash-tight, striated Nukyi muscles seemed like they were ready to burst with an involuntary, unnatural response.

The earthly galactic hero was transfixed by the powers of the mind-crash, an energy that desegregated Tom's body from mind and hurled his soul across the boundaries of infinity through a vortex of energy to another dimensional place and time to a world beyond where he heard his name called repeatedly in a timbre voice. He roamed there alone--his eyes impaired by drift smoke, his vision blurred by exhaustion. He realized this was the exact same mystic world where he first encountered The Be-Ing.

From the dark shadows, a controlled surge of light escaped into the darkness some twenty arm lengths away. Surely, this halo of energy would reveal its bleak altar of obscured secrets. He forged onward. His shoeless feet pounded the ground and riddled eyes pried into the depths of the holy, as the sacred drew him into an awakened void. There was no retreat as he surrendered to The Be-Ing's world, a pure world where clear blue sky seemed to extend forever and healthy green scenery fanned in a blissful breeze.

"My friend, you have arrived under your own wilful desire."

Tom twisted around with great speed. "Couldn't you just email me a friendly invite? 'Cause that was one sick belly up in the mouth stomach ride you carried me here on."

The Be-Ing offered no apologies. "You are the key selection, and it is imperative that you are unconditionally successful."

"Selected and successful... for what?" he replied inquisitively.

"I am obligated to restoring you to your former identity; then you will understand all that I teach." The Be-Ing humped closer. The lofty soil quivered beneath its massive oval-shaped feet.

Tom felt uneasy and curious as he watched it plow and hunch a few steps away from him.

"Nukyi, your destiny must be fulfilled. Only then can the truth of your existence mesh with your special matrix." It was close enough to touch, and its deep tone had mellowed as it circled Tom, like a powerful lion circling a weaker prey until it once again crouched eye to eye with the rediscovered Nukyi.

Their eyes locked. Tom had a profound craving to learn everything about the unworldly creature.

The Be-Ing's active motion froze like ice. It crunched back from its apprentice intending to exhibit a montage of its powers. "I can transfigure my aggregate into any creation known to your world and beyond," it said, as it commenced to demonstrate its uncanny abilities.

First, it morphed from its rock-like-battle mass into a ferocious lion. Then, it grew into an upright reptilian-like, spike-tailed creature with a broad snout and razor-sharp teeth. Finally, it took the form of an ancient prophet that measured at least six foot and wore a neatly trimmed beard and long, dry ruffled hair. His swarthy skin matched the lustrous tan-coloured robe that was pulled tightly with a braided gold belt around the waist. Tom noticed the entity's physical characteristics resembled that of the holy man carved in that anonymous stone piece displayed in Mackenzie's office.

"This can't be happening," Tom mumbled in disbelief. He was unable to pry his eyes away because he wished to witness again.

"Wearing this mould, my epithet is Exsorbo," The Be-Ing admitted once the transformation was complete.

Tom felt somewhat humbled by the infinite wisdom cast upon Exsorbo's mature face.

Exsorbo projected a strong voice. "Do not be alarmed. You must focus your mind and open your sensory to my dominance and intricate experience," he demanded. "You are mortal and you will die." He held his palms outstretched. "It is for me to unlock the secrets of your life and to save you from this death."

"You make it sound simple."

"It is your opportunity," Exsorbo exclaimed.

"For what?" Tom sounded unconvinced.

"To reclaim your supreme mortality and denounce the evildoer who demands your Nukyi purity upon expiration. He will stop at nothing and will use every trick to manipulate time and distort the truth."

"When you're dead, the breathing game is over," he confessed.

"You must seek the answers beyond your intellectual belief," Exsorbo bellowed wisdomly.

"As a human, I don't believe that's possible so just forget about converting me--can't be done," Tom resisted the truth.

"Believe or die, the truth is there, grab it and survive."

Tom straightened away, fearful of his future quest.

Exsorbo stepped closer. "Now, there is much to do and it is imperative we start immediately." He continued to circle the human. "The exact purpose of your life is locked deep inside your mind. It holds the power of truth and wrath. We must harvest these powers, and only then can we fully manipulate your earthly world's dimensional fabric," Exsorbo admitted forcefully.

Tom interrupted, "Time travel is a 19th century novel fantasy. You can't break the hourglass and step inside without spilling the world's present reality."

Exsorbo's facial expression radiated with anger. "Inside your mind there is a map sealed behind restraining barricades that house all of what you are and all of what you have been. This map is the internal drive for life. It makes us what we are and who we will become. There you will find the valid answers to my teachings." In a rejoicing voice, Exsorbo commanded, "Nukyi, come, see and experience."

A stone pathway followed a maze of smart hedge work. They arrived at an aromatic garden with a courtyard and an angelic fountain, which spurted bursts of water that misted into vibrant colours overhead. It was a place of peace and beauty. Tom's sight waded into the water pool. He identified his humanly image in the semi-distorted glossy surface, but observed that Exsorbo cast no physical reflection. "How do I attain what you have spoken about?"

Exsorbo captured a handful of wetness. "I am sworn to teach you; but, first, you must believe: All you seek is mortally obtainable." He observed Tom absorbing the scenic grandeur. "Come." He extended his hand and guided Tom down another stone path that led from the courtyard to a point beyond an ancient wall, arriving at a place where time melded with the powers of light and darkness.

"Whose spell dumped me here?," Tom bellowed over the sounds of escaping energy whips, sparking lively flames, and paused at the mouth of the opening, alongside Exsorbo.

"The Messengers," Exsorbo replied softly, and motioned to enter the rift.

Tom touched the master's robed shoulder, and asked cautiously, "Who are they?"

"A council of higher entities," he reported truthfully, and leaped forward. His voice echoed from out of the dimensional tunnel. "They are the ones who employed me to seek Tom Bronze, Thrond, an elusive Nukyi Salient and the only space soldier capable of battling the Supreme Commander of Hell."

"That's quite a tongue-biting mouthful," Tom replied into the void; nevertheless, he was beginning to believe Exsorbo's unhinged expedition as he lunged into the opening, ignoring the presence of danger.

Within seconds they stepped from the vortex and forged onward until they warmed in front of the enclosed flames.

"Look into the Fire of Hope," Exsorbo instructed. "There you will see your lost achievements."

Tom stared into the glowing hearth as instructed.

"Concentrate," Exsorbo coached. "You see a world similar to earth, a place where violence and destruction was, and is an accepted way of life. This civilization is far superior to that of man--a world greatly advanced in space technology and greater than all the surrounding planets combined. The Voge galaxy, it was the Nukyis' battleground. The blood of many was spilled onto its soil, and death became a sport for the Merless Dynasty and its merciless king. You are the last of your breed."

"Where are the others?"

"They are exiled... unlike you."

"And where would this place called "in exile" be?"

"That is beyond your earthly comprehension."

"And that is?"

"A place of hell locked in time. Your fateful battlers are waiting for you to reactivate and prevail over their captor."

Tom ran his fingers through his untidy hair, as if deathly worried.

Exsorbo disturbed the hot cinders with the crash of his hand. "It was the Ancient Ones who first experimented with genetic science and biological manipulation of creation. They fabricated the many life forms that presently inhabit the universe."

"Where's that written in the big, thick, holy-shit cookbook?" Tom said sarcastically.

Exsorbo intensified his tone of voice. "The sacrosanct of scriptures recorded that the Ancient Ones discarded their undesirables into uncharted space where such species prospered on habitable planets of the many clusters of galaxies. There were two such species superior to the others--the Nukyi Salients and the Merless Knight Warriors."

"The knights... Were they good or bad?"

"There is no good or bad. There just is."

"Tell me the truth, no mind games," he insisted.

Exsorbo nodded, "Truly dedicated, then desperately wasted."

"How is that possible?"

"Both were a genetic breed of fighter designed to maintain and preserve galactic harmony. Conceived by the same life giving substance that ignited the cosmos; it is the most unpredictable element next to existence itself. For this reason, your destiny is so imperative to all life, and there can be no time to waste."

"And you want me to believe all hell is 'gonna' break loose if I run from your creepy challenge?"

"Believe or not. The truth cannot be altered, and you cannot hide," Exsorbo roared.

"I'm not trying to hide."

"You cannot fight your true existence by pretending ignorance."

Tom accepted Exsorbo's infinite wisdom. "Then, what's next?"

"The flames have grown weak. We must not extinguish them or he will come." He placed his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Who will come?"

Exsorbo avoided an explanation. "It's time; you must return."

"No, tell me, who will come?," Tom demanded; but without another word, Exsorbo dissipated into energy particles, and was gone.

Beyond world forces ate at Tom's flesh, and the air grew heavy and bitterly cold. His short breath froze with each long gasp. "Exsorbo, come back," he demanded. "I must know who will come."

The force escalated and flushed him back into the realities of his own misery. The elements of Exsorbo's world faded, leaving behind a feeling of emptiness. "Exsorbo, come back!" He shouted again, but his words were lost in the timeless void; and he was forced to return to his own dimension.

*****

"Another nightmare," he moaned, and massaged the tension from his exhausted muscles. He pondered over Exsorbo's persistent vision. He'd been thinking about warriors and salients all morning with a ferocious appetite to attain more details about his future conquest.

Chapter 4: HOT YET FROSTY

Tom clutched up to the Belk Tower's underground parking entry. Joey, the gatekeeper appeared less nosey, which was a minor but positive way to start the day; and Tom couldn't help notice that Celia McBridle (in his rear-view mirror) inched, assertively closer to his rear bumper.

Tuesday morning was just another typical business day as she sat unbuckled and elegant behind the exotic steering wheel, like a spoiled Egyptian goddess capable of summonsing her circus of menservants with her magnetic authority. Far from ancient, McBridle was a modern woman of the new millennium and exploited her many God-given assets to manipulate the opposite gender and to acquire monetary fulfilment.

He suspected that she detested him. Sixty-two months ago, his initial interview with her was extremely uncomfortable; her sharp tongue outmatched her earnest poise; but, much to his surprise, he won the job.

With minutes to spare, Tom claimed his billet and bailed out. He rushed toward the elevator with one objective: avoid McBridle. From the corner of his strained eye he spotted her as she high-heeled at a brisk pace toward the doors. He tried to deviate off course to avoid her, but it was too late. They stood at opposite sides of the elevator and waited for the doors to open. Tom gestured good morning, something he seldom did.

She replied with a reserved smile while her cunning eyes scanned the length of his athletic frame.

The lift system disengaged, and they entered.

The interior boxcar was an ample space with highly reflective panelling and McBridle's elegance radiated at him from all angles.

He could sense an uncomfortable awkwardness building between them as he secretly dissected her refined reflection and tried to conceal his probing eyes.

She ignored his lowly presence and proceeded to text with her smart phone.

"It's a treat--no rain," he said cautiously.

"Yes, it is," she replied, and snapped the phone shut and stored it in her stylistic leather purse.

The elevator's polished chrome walls amplified the contour of her infectious figure, enhanced by her dark-blue business wear, which was high-cut and tailored to a perfect fit. She wore a long cream-colored coat over her arm and suspended an exquisite briefcase from her jewelled hand, like money was no object.

They waited silently for the lift to reach their floor.

A barracuda, he thought. She could definitely devour any man with one chomp. He felt extremely threatened just standing next to her, but he had nowhere to escape.

At floor fifty-one, the mechanical jaws separated. Tom was relieved. He paused for a moment and admired her lengthy legs, curvy hips and shoulder-length, soft blond hair that bounced from side to side as she strutted toward the office ahead of him.

Today, McBridle's name seemed to leap out at him from the glass entrance. It made his slow pulse race, and it moistened the palms of his dehydrated hands. Just thinking about working after hours with her was enough to give him a stress-induced heart attack. Exactly at 7:58 a.m. he parted the heavy, glass office doors and entered.

"Good morning, Stella," he said, smiling and alert.

"And good morning to you, Tom," she replied in a friendly voice and warm smile. "You're in a chipper mood this morning."

"It must be the fall weather."

"Or something like, a new relationship?"

"No, I can't afford that double-barrel luxury," he said, and laughed within as he proceeded to his cubicle. Two steps into his trek he noticed that today the office atmosphere was calmer. Strangely, he had become accustomed to hearing the document printers spitting out reams of bond-twenty and the preppy associates chattering about their late-night drinking contests. He slid his briefcase on top his simulated wood-grained desk, stretched back in his squatty chair, and studied the temporary enclosure that fortified his work world.

Last night's crazy delusion was still fresh in his memory. The lifelike visitation preoccupied his weakened mind, and muscled out all other thoughts. Perhaps, another calling from Exsorbo would melt away more brain fat and set his spinal nerve acid levels at ease. He took a deep breath and thought--what was it going to be like working with McBridle--Tedious? Half the office feared her because her professional actions could be so painfully quick yet so desirably addictive. He could eat her with one bite but knew her regal blood was highly poisonous.

Jant hurried past Tom's cubicle.

"Hey, Jant," Tom blurted out and vaulted from the chair.

Jant was a likeable fellow, yet a professional ass-kisser when he wanted to be friendly toward everyone in the office. Tom was itching to tell him about his new work assignment but barely sounded a word from his lips when Jant said hurried: "Sorry, pal, I've gotta get going. Lankenbury's coming back from Hong Kong on Thursday, and I gotta finish preparing an asset transfer for his client or my butt's in a cast."

"Don't worry; he's taken a liking to you."

"Yeah, maybe so, but he needs it pronto for some Asian banking group doing business on this coast; and if I don't get it done on time, I'm out the door with my pants down. I gotta go. I'll catch ya later, buddy, Wednesday night bowling?"

"Yeah, sure, I've got no special plans," Tom mumbled, and deflated in the wobbly-wheeled chair and continued to sort out a client's financial jumble of paperwork.

Before Tom knew it, it was 11:20 a.m. Selly should be arriving any minute to pick up a report that he had dropped off early this morning. Tom peeked at his watch. Selly was right on time, just as he indicated.

"Do you have that case study polished up and finished?" Selly inquired.

"Yeah, it's completed but...," Tom was interrupted by the telephone. He let it ring a few times, but eyed it with interest while his hand inched closer. He snatched up the receiver. "Tom Bronze."

"How's my favourite new office-pro today?," Mackenzie inquired.

"I'm fine sir."

"Tom," Mackenzie's voice was strong. "Can you come to my office if you're not too busy?," he demanded politely.

"Yes sir," Tom replied. "I'll be there shortly, sir."

"I'll take the file," Selly said; "and if there's a problem, I'll have a senior auditor take care of any revisions."

He waited till Selly left the zone before he put the phone to his ear. "Sir, I'll be there directly," he confirmed, and hung up.

Moments later he fretted in front of Mackenzie's office with moistened palms, debating whether to knock once, twice, or not at all. He tapped once on the door and entered.

"We're waiting for you," McBridle scolded. "Time is money."

Tom nodded, as if to apologize.

"Good to see you, Thomas," Mackenzie said. "Have a seat and relax your feet."

How could he relax? Just sitting next to her, especially when she crossed her legs with such authority, gave him an unjust impression that she was the judge and jury; and he was the guilty monkey.

"Tom, you know Ms. McBridle," Mackenzie said. "So there's no need for a winded introduction. As I indicated yesterday, you'll be working alongside Celia, whom, we all know, was the firm's top investigative auditor before obtaining a full partnership."

Tom glanced over at McBridle and noticed the frosty expression on her sealed mouth, which gave him cold chills that ran up and down his spine; but he would endure this working arrangement if it meant advancing up the corporate ladder, even one rung. Although he hoped their relationship would become more informal, he anticipated working with her on this project; and he prayed that a financial promotion would follow.

"Our client, Carravecky and Sons, has a problem," Mackenzie explained. "Their information security was breached and we're uncertain of the severity." He tangled his hands together like he needed a cigarette. "This technology conglomerate recently installed an advance site protection system, which cost millions to design and implement. So far, their new technology has been in operation for the last eighteen months without any significant malfunctions, but it's a mystery who or what could have penetrated their solid defences." His eyes narrowed. "Folks, what I'm about to tell you must not be leaked to anyone outside this office. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir, perfectly," Tom promised.

McBridle just rolled her pretty blue eyes.

"Over the last decade, influential organizations with monetary clout invested vast amounts of development capital into prototyping special pieces of military finesse. These projects are classified, for our information only, as miscategorised black budget." He breathed worrisomely deep. "There were two breaches in the system, both occurring roughly thirty days apart. The last breach occurred about a month ago. Right now, that's all we have to go on so we'll have to wing it one step at a time."

"Their chief information officer, that person didn't report any technical anomalies?," Tom asked.

"Carravecky's CIO left town six weeks ago without notice and can't be reached. It's my gut feeling that things could get rough."

"How do you figure that?" Tom asked.

McBridle mildly lashed out, "Every time Jack senses industrial peepers he gets heartburn. It's all in his head."

"Celia, maybe so, but promise me, guys, follow good common sense and work smartly together." Mackenzie focused on the dial of his gold watch. "I got to go; I've got an important meeting uptown. Bill Parker, who was released last week from his employment contract, screwed up one of our important accounts. I'm lunching with Vancouver Steel's new VP of Internal Operations and, hopefully, save us some valuable business."

"Happy bull shitting," she said, as if to poke fun at the situation.

"They pay us plenty in fees so I shovel their load and wheel it where they want." He rose from his firmly planted leather-back chair with his cell phone hooked to his hand as he donned his topcoat and left the room.

McBridle assumed control and captained from behind Mackenzie's desk and eyed her new recruit. She heaved forward and bluntly said, "We've got a month's worth of auditing procedures crammed into several days."

"That's a tight squeeze," he estimated.

"We'll make it. Now, let's get down to business."

Tom followed her up the hallway. "What did Mackenzie mean by 'things could get rough'? Heartburn is hardly a symptom for break and entry."

She broke hard and looked him straight in the eyes. "Of course, Mackenzie was kidding," she said in a half-serious and half-joking manner as she held her coat over her arm and flung her long, beautiful blond hair back away from her modelled face, as if flirting with him.

Tom was surprised with her softened demeanour; she seemed to be warming up toward him. Perhaps that icy cold bitch Jant had described was her protective shield she wore in the office toward her subordinates.

"Tom, hurry, get your coat, Carravecky's waiting."

They rode the elevator in silence; then they entered the underground lot.

"The drive to Carravecky's will take about thirty minutes," McBridle said, as she deactivated her vehicle's security and unlocked the doors with the remote.

They travelled with the sun in their eyes. The strong rays beamed through the windshield and warmed the cool leather interior of the German luxury sedan.

The scenery was colourful this time of the year as the leaves had changed to yellow and red and crumpled brown ones collected at the roadside and scattered in a swirling motion with every passing transport. Tom stared blankly at the trees that grew a windbreak along the highway. Again, he reflected on Exsorbo's infinite wisdom but was distracted by McBridle's alluring features.

Tom noticed that she was unable to fully conceal her shapely legs beneath her belted coat. He also observed that her neutral-coloured stockings only reached midpoint up her silky thighs, which revealed her milky skin, even though she overtly tried to close her coat over her executive lap without success. It seemed apparent she was toying with him, allowing him an opportunity to voyeur; but he didn't participate since she commanded the utmost corporate authority and could terminate him with any fabricated cause. Sexually tortured, he tilted back and surmised about the nature of Carravecky's contaminated security.

"The complex is about a mile from here," she noted.

Her softened tone of voice had made him more comfortable; and for some unknown reason, he sensed something suspicious about her behaviour.

"So, Celia, how did we get so lucky as to be dealing with this billion-dollar man?" he asked.

Her eyes twitched from the pavement; the sun shone on her pure skin. "It was during a government investigation about fifteen-years ago."

"Oh yeah, I didn't know about that," he replied.

"At that time Carravecky was manufacturing standard military bits and bites and dabbling in highly sensitive research projects, which, I assume, were jointly funded by the U.S. government and, quite possibly, an undisclosed European organization."

"That's quite an industrious undertaking," he replied, fully impressed.

"Back then it was called technological progression for the future. Now it's called Anti-American."

"So where do we fit into this mega-manufacturer's food chain?"

"Simply put, Lankenbury has fateful allies in Washington, DC. Our firm was silently appointed to perform its financial magic and to determine if any U.S. misclassified money was being injected into any of Carravecky's government dealings."

"I remember seeing a magazine article a few years ago about a classified flight system in development at that place, you know--Area 51, that place that only exists in the minds of UFO buffs, not realizing the possibility that Carravecky's company could be involved in any of their secret goings on." He looked over at her. "But I'm sure any truth to the good old doctor's involvement with this famously secret Nevada facility was squashed by the military's highly polished and efficient propaganda machine as crazy thinking," he said calmly. "So, in reality, whom do we trust when it comes to love, war, aliens, and everything else that snaps you in the butt?"

She twitched another glance at him and added, "It's not as bad as you think."

"Sorry, I have a habit of exaggerating the truth surrounding the government's invisible activities," he admitted seriously.

She reassured him with a dull expression and continued, "For months we investigated Carravecky's tangled maze of operations; then handed over our findings to a special congressional subcommittee. Their conclusion was that Carravecky was clean, but if they planned to partner and secretly develop any such advanced weapons technology, then they're obligated to disclose all developments related to any such new developments to the appropriate government agencies."

"So, what's another friendly neighbourhood killing device waiting to blast through town--amongst a party of well-compensated, senile politicians who can't agree on the time of day and don't really give a damn about the general public?"

She replied sympathetically, "It goes well beyond your friendly neighbourhood politician."

"And I'm sure you know how high this rock climbs."

"All the way to the top, and you never heard this from me, understand."

He stared at her with growing concern.

"The Oval Office feared, if a weapon of such magnitude was created and fell into the wrong hands, World War Three would soon be on the horizon. This was the President's biggest concern when this suspected weapons project first came to light. Now, here we are, caught in the middle with nowhere to run."

Tom sat back and exhaled, "Sounds like a real cesspool of lies and deception created to whitewash the truth from us, unsuspecting taxpayers."

"I'm sure we'll get through it. It's not as bad as you think it is, but I'd suggest, holding your breath till the stench blows over. That way, if we're dealing with trouble, it won't kill us as fast."

Carravecky's compound was visible in the distance; and by its defensive appearance, Fort Knox wouldn't have tighter security for its gold vaults.

They approached the main gate at a controlled speed. "I'll do the talking," she said, and powered down her window. "You just sit there. I've been here plenty of times; and, believe me, these goons at the gate could eat a zoo at break time--so, mind your p's and q's."

They stopped at the main steel barricade. Two armed guards immediately appeared. One approached the driver's side window; the other one blocked the gate about ten paces away. Each guard was equipped with flak jackets, side arms and automatic weapons slung over their combat-ready, blocky shoulders.

"Ma'am, what's the nature of your visit?" the female guard asked with a masculine grunt.

"I'm Celia McBridle, and this is Tom Bronze. We have an appointment with Doctor Carravecky," she said politely.

"Ma'am, one moment please. Entry-one to post-control, McBridle and Bronze for Doctor Carravecky, verify," she called into a handheld communications device. Then she hulked in a manly pose while waiting for a reply.

Seconds lapsed, "Confirmed, cleared for access," a distorted voice crackled.

The thick-legged guard trudged back to the guardhouse and issued two security passes. Then she directed the other guard to activate the barrier and allow the visitors passage.

Carravecky's was visible--a massive industrial empire. The main office tower stood twenty floors, the tallest structure under Carravecky's control. They turned into the lot where a sign indicated: VISITORS PARKING. McBridle ignored the signage and parked in a section marked: EXTERNAL ~ LEGAL & FINANCIAL REPRESENTATIVES.

They vacated the vehicle and teamed toward the main entrance. The polished glass doors of Carravecky's seemed to extend a warm welcome to registered visitors.

Tom pictured the complex to be more threatening as he viewed his own distorted reflection in the black marble steps and followed McBridle's graceful advance from the corner of his eye as she entered the complex ahead of him, but he hurried to catch up.

Two security officers in a visitors-reception area manned the main guard post.

In her elegant tone, McBridle said, "Will you please inform Doctor Carravecky that Celia McBridle and Tom Bronze are on the way up," and proceeded toward the executives' elevator.

"Yes, of course, Ms. McBridle," the guard immediately acknowledged and sent the message upstairs.

The elevator doors opened and revealed the poshness that only excessive wealth could produce. Tom scanned the interior, especially the intricate hand-knotted Persian floor decor and the mahogany Native American wall designs. Tom stood still as he and McBridle ascended to the penthouse.

They stepped from the private lift compartment.

Doctor Carravecky was there to greet McBridle with a fatherly hug; he immediately noticed the well-mannered gentleman standing behind her.

"Excuse me," she said. "Doctor Carravecky, this is Tom Bronze. We'll be working together until we resolve your dilemma."

The corporate doctor approved. Then he greeted Tom with a firm handshake. "Celia, I'm extremely pleased you'll be delving into this matter, but how long do you expect this probe to last?"

She ignored the question, clutched his suited arm and escorted him to his stately suite.

The Doctor's corporate domain was bright with thick, milky-coloured carpet and an old western motif-styled desk that stretched more than fifteen feet--ten times more elaborate than Mackenzie's--complemented the decor. Additional pieces of antique art, which sat on their marble pedestals, were positioned at various placements surrounding the professionally arranged interior.

There were also other artworks shelved around the suite, but the piece that caught Tom's eye was a modest-size blackened ironwork, which depicted two futuristic-type fighters engaged in outland combat. One long-haired soldier was impaled through the chest by a long sword while the bigger and more stronger-looking fighter triumphed over his opponent's death.

Tom could imagine the ferocity of such combat and brute strength of each battler. The thought of such brutality sent an unpleasant shiver through his body and a taste of the victor's blood in his mouth.

After all the friendly chitchat was exhausted, they settled into the meeting with McBridle doing most of the talking. "This breach of security could have a substantially negative effect on your company's share price. I think if any of your shareholders, especially your European ones, get wind of this security dilemma, we could have an irreversible problem."

Doctor Carravecky scribbled some notes on a pad. "None of us want that headache."

She locked her hands out front. "Your classified project security system cost plenty of dollars and was designed to be impenetrable, so we definitely have a cancer growing here. And we'll have to work quickly to cure this decease before it spreads."

"I want this sickness eradicated, silently," the doctor stressed.

"Yes exactly. We definitely don't want front-page press, do we?" she said, fully committed to the cause.

"I heard recently, the Starp Corporation was in really deep water with the Federal Securities Exchange Commission?"

"Up to their armpits and still sinking, and we don't want to be dealing with that crew. They'll definitely expose our bad manners and Carravecky will be left standing with rotten egg on its historically clean face."

"That's what concerns me the most," Carravecky admitted.

"Well then, we'll keep the investigation under lock and key until we determine the nature of the intrusion; then we'll work toward the appropriate actions."

"Then our mission objective is mutual," the doctor agreed.

Tom's mind was zoned out of the conversation but was freed when the telephone rang.

"Pardon me, folks," the doctor said before accepting the call.

McBridle swung around toward Tom who appeared to be studying the doctor's art collection. Mackenzie said: "You were interested in his antiquities?"

"Yeah, it's a secret hobby of mine. I don't reveal that little part of my life to many people."

She looked surprised, "I didn't know that."

"Oh yeah, my father was the same, an antiquarian in private," he admitted.

"So where's he today?"

"He passed away four-years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear."

"Don't be, he died somewhat happy," he surmised. "He lived a good life and made money as fast as he spent it. Just over six years ago we travelled to Egypt with a team of American Egyptologists. It was his last goodbye to the world; and I suppose to me, his only son."

She sensed his pain, "I'm sorry I brought up old memories; I didn't mean to do that."

His mind was lost as if in thought. "It's quite all right. I've recovered from any loss. Anyway, he gambled and racked up too much useless debt, had a bad heart, high blood pressure and sometimes a weak hand for the bottle," he concluded regretfully.

Doctor Carravecky finished the call and refocused on McBridle.

She touched Tom's knee, and offered her emotional support, then swung back to face the doctor and continued with the meeting.

"Whatever you require, just ask my personal assistant, Sandra," the doctor said. "She's very good; she'll make any arrangements you so require." He rose from his antique wooden chair and accompanied them to the private elevator. "Celia, keep me posted on your progress;" and he gave her a big hug.

They descended in the elevator; the doors withdrew at the main level.

"Well Tom, what do you think of Doctor Carravecky?" she asked.

"His expensive taste for worldly possessions is as stiff as his corn-starched corporate demeanour," Tom said bravely.

She paused, as if in thought. "Hmm, that reminds me, I want to tour you around some of the facilities to make you feel more at home." McBridle now seemed more pleasant. She escorted him to one of the fabrication lines, where sheet metal stamping and assembly was being performed. An overhead sign instructed: ALL VISITORS MUST WEAR HARD HATS.

She smiled playfully, "Here, pop this on," and tossed him one.

He caught it like a top hat, a show of confidence.

They proceeded to an open area where production workers and automation machinery could be viewed. The work in process moved down conveyors and robotic arms assembled and welded seams. An overhead sign indicated: FOR MILITARY VEHICLES TO BE SHIPPED ABROAD.

"An interesting fabrication exhibit," Tom said, and observed her well-defined mounds of womanhood peeking from her blouse.

She was unaware of his casual line of vision since she was explaining the details of the production process. "A computer system controls the automatic functions," she laughed like a schoolgirl, "and even with all this advanced technology, humans are still necessary."

He looked over at her, "The two hairy goons standing down there amongst the robotic limbs don't look too happy."

Her expression turned overly defensive. "Doctor Carravecky respects his workers and compensates them very graciously."

"I'm sure he does," he said, and defused an argument.

She casually fastened the top two buttons of her blouse. "Tom, if you look down the line, you can see robotic equipment loading the machines with rolls of steel."

He leaned closer to the safety rail's edge.

"Once the raw material falls below the programmed feed and inventory levels, the system reloads or places the order either by conventional technology or by way of the company's own satellite sky terminal although I believe that system is used mostly for ordering special classified goods, rarely for ordering standard materials."

"It all sounds fascinating," Tom commented. He was beginning to see her in a slightly different light. She wasn't that cold arrogant bitch he envisioned working with. She had a gentler, more tamed personality.

She surveyed the time. "We'd better be leaving. They close down this observation area at two-thirty for security purposes, and it's just about that time." She buttoned her long coat and then led the way out.

Chapter 5: UNLOCK THE NUKYI

Tom sped homebound. His front door was visible at the end of the drive. The porch light glowed like a beacon in the dreary night. His old wreck overheated and stalled in the driveway. He yanked on the emergency brake lever and was grateful that he survived another work day.

He took a few deep breaths to cool his anxiety and readjusted his rear-view mirror. On the opposite side of the road, an animated couple hissed at him while exercising their dogs. They appeared un-neighbourly due to the excessive amount of tailpipe wheezing and ugly pollutants his rusted clunker choked out before dying in the driveway.

Tom hopped out and waved and barely noticed their womanish reactions as he advanced up the walk. He fumbled with the door keys in one hand, the briefcase in the other and finally unbolted the lock. His free hand fondled the wall while he searched for the light switch. He unavoidably tripped over a pair of hiking boots, seldom worn. "Man, the days are getting short," he mumbled, and ruminated at the moon that seemed to hover overhead as if close enough to reach out and touch.

He sought the living room, turned on the television, went into the kitchen, and fixed a microwave box dinner.

The hours flew by until it was 11:15 p.m. He was unable to stargaze on the couch so he climbed up to his bed. Today, he felt mentally drained, but he realized he was growing physically stronger with each passing day. He also realized that he was unable to tap off the metamorphic nerve tonic the dimensional entity somehow was administering.

Tom could taste Exsorbo's mystic concoction and smell his exotic world, the world he touched in his splintered dreams. The mind pill dissolved and he drifted into lullaby.

The echoes of the night peppered the electrified air as he was unruffled by the mishmash of noises, as service vehicles raced past his window, as cats scavenged fallen garbage cans, and as chained dogs barked at the ghostly shadows. Still, he crashed.

Early morning, he was thrust into the dream mode. The insane potency of the mind-crash transported his soul to a land of unknown origins where he cropped up in a deprived cornfield. He cautiously manoeuvred through the scrawny stocks and dry husks and followed the dirt scented air and dark clouds that warned of a storm, not knowing where he was headed, which didn't matter as he walked onwards anyway.

Exsorbo appeared in the distorted sky as he cleared his throat with a thundering roar.

Tom jolted around, spooked by the boundless entity that radiated all godly and wrapped in a glory of overwhelming purity--a flood of life energy poured forth like a waterfall and penetrated the lifeless harvest and revitalized the dead landscape.

"The complexity of your mind depends upon the simplicity of your internal belief," Exsorbo said with an echoing voice.

"You make poetic quotes from your book of nonsense rimes," he called, "it's driving me crazy just trying to understand what you say."

Exsorbo floated weightlessly. He appeared to be reading Tom's puzzled comportment and sizing him up and evaluating the amount of training required to rupture the crypt and awaken the Nukyi Salient. "You are the end to the beginning."

"And what does that alien scripture mean?" He stood tall and confused.

"Believe not with your humanly eyes but with your inhumanly mind; it means just what it means," Exsorbo commanded. He flexed his energised fist and nabbed Tom skyward; then they vanished into the clouds.

They emerged from a vortex and arrived at a magnificent estate. The well-maintained scenery indicated that there was a devoted community of workers tending to the grounds surrounding a typical, old-fashion English-styled manor with heavy oak doors and a traditionally polished brass knocker--all displayed like a historic museum.

Exsorbo guided Tom through the main foyer and into the study where countless books lined the wall shelves behind the scholar's wooden desk. The room decor was old-looking; it appeared as if each piece of furniture was crafted by master woodworkers who lived centuries ago.

"Please, feel at home," Exsorbo said, and gestured to a comfortable-looking armchair positioned in front of his desk.

Tom was in awe of the endless pool of knowledge, wealth and power Exsorbo controlled; and, from his hospitality, Tom sensed this was the master's private sanctuary.

Exsorbo's behaviour was like an old, country-style doctor examining a patient's documented medical history for the first time. Then, suddenly, he clapped his strong, magical hands together and created a sphere of lambent energy that burned in the palms of his extended hands. "Thrond, see into the future and focus upon my power."

The discharge of warmth masked Tom's face; the soft light soothed his bloodshot eyes.

Exsorbo said hypnotically, "Purge your mind of all disbelieving thoughts and listen only to the sound of my voice," (his tone was addictive) "and believe as the great Nukyi believes."

Tom was defenseless against the mystic forces that weakened his postural muscles; his mind felt as malleable as red-hot steel.

Exsorbo leaned closer to his disbelieving student. "Your true identity is what you have been since eternity," (his voice grew more dominant) "it is your previous life I am interested in. You were the most elusive of all the defenders, and it is he you must seek. Search your mind for the secrets of life that are bound in thoughts of who and what you are. There you will find the strength that will help you in your journey and, ultimately, your future quest."

"I'm afraid of where it will transport me."

"Afraid be not," he bellowed, "search your mind for Kyi."

"What's Kyi?" he inquired, his voice lacked Nukyi strength.

"Not What but Who, the father Ancient One, he is known as Power-Kyi, the one who sourced your bloodline."

"If he formulated the Nukyi, then he can reformulate others; and, therefore, my resurrection isn't required."

"That scenario is impossible."

"Why is my suggestion impossible?" Tom replied sarcastically.

"Because the Ancient Ones constructed only ten such space heroes who were created for the purpose of defeating evils that crossed into this universe, but these soldiers of righteousness were considered a successful experiment that went horribly wrong; and no more can be conceived."

"I'm sorry; I can't be a part of this toxic insanity."

"You have no choice."

"There's always an alternative solution."

"That is correct, but not this time."

Tom surrendered to the truth.

"You, like the others, were born from the womb of a B.R.I.P."

"What kind of contraption is that?" He forced the voice from his lungs.

"A Breed Rack Interlocking Press, a technology employed to genetically select and assemble superior elements from two such extinct species. The Cralisk, a beastly creature that provided the enormous genetic strength the Ancient Ones sought, and the Krons, an extremely dextrous species, physically similar to human form, yet, intellectually superior; that and the exhausted magic of Kyi and you must be resurrected."

"You called me Thrond. Why?"

"Yes. It was your desired identity."

"And what does it mean?"

"To run from no challenge and to fight for what you are, a Nukyi Salient, an integral member of an invincible genetically engineered military squad."

"Well then, don't be shy; tell me more of your beyond world fantasy."

Exsorbo complied graciously. "Hundreds of space years lapsed, and there was no stopping the Nukyi once they became infected with the war bug. It was genocide; they helped the Dynasty rape and plunder the galaxies, spreading the wrath of death into the deepest reaches of space. Soon the Nukyi Salients' quest to promote a united galaxy and intergalactic world was converted to deeds of evil. Their great goodness died, and it was the wicked that became strong and possessed their souls.

"There is only one entity capable of this task; and that is you, the most elusive of the squad. This great soldier is our final hope. Tom, Thrond, we must find this power deep in your mind and unlock it."

"How can this be?" he replied with a tortured expression, "I'm just a nothing accountant teetering on a brain implosion."

"Seek and you shall find the truth of your existence," Exsorbo demanded forcefully. "Search your mind for the powers of Kyi and call them from the depths of your soul. You are the only one who can save space, time and this universal existence," Exsorbo admitted before he parted his hands.

Tom was freed from the spell and collapsed further back, immediately observing that the glowing sphere of energy dissipated into mist that permeated his moistened skin.

The strain upon Exsorbo's face was great when he looked deep into Tom's eyes. "I was sent to aid your success, and that I shall do," he said with a heavy breath, an expression of relief upon his well-travelled face. "It is almost time to go."

"But I don't want to go; you must teach me more, everything you know about this beyond world."

"Go, search, and rediscover," Exsorbo said. "I must inform you that your body and mind is experiencing a conversion. You are in a state of alteration; do not fight it. It is part of your transformation that the true powers of the Nukyi will be unleashed." He thrust his powerful hands together. "Now, close your eyes as I've instructed."

Tom obeyed willingly; a force shot him through the vortex like a ball of minced meat and into his world of unkind realities. He wasn't ready to go, and he resisted; but the dimensional cannon dethroned him. "Exsorbo, there's so much I must know about this crazy journey," his words echoed and echoed, but there was no response to his demands as he lay awake in his bed.

Chapter 6: BAD CORPORATE FUNDAMENTALS

It was another mild autumn day. The clock face glowed: WEDNESDAY, 5:50 a.m. Tom slipped from beneath an entanglement of blankets and stretched the fresh soreness from his flush muscles and heard tubular bones snap back into aliment as he stood in bare feet.

Last night's dream lingered pungently in his cracked mind, a condition aggravated by the metamorphic virus that was growing wild in his unsettled body. He followed the wooden banister down the long staircase and entered the living room where the sun was peeping through the partially-closed curtains, and he tossed them open with a quick snap. The morning rays caressed his face like the tender touch of his wife's sweet lips, but that sensation was of a broken memory. He felt desperately alone.

The neighbourhood was usually quiet at this time of the hour, but today a city maintenance crew cleared road debris produced by a diesel guzzling hydraulic-powered bucket that clawed a hole into the pavement. Tom watched the laborious activity for a moment and straightened alertly when the phone rang.

"Yeah, hello," he said with a morning hoarseness in his throat.

"I didn't wake you--did I?"

He immediately recognized McBridle's voice, "Am I late for work; what time you got?" as he pressed his swollen fingers over his inflamed eyes.

She ignored his drowsy request. "Be waiting outside. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."

"Why so early?"

"We're going to Carravecky's."

"So what's going on there?"

"Just be ready, and don't make me wait."

"Yeah, okay," he rubbed his droopy eyes, "I'll be ready?"

"Good," she replied. "'Cause, there're a few important issues I want you familiar with before this meeting."

He tried to focus. "And what are they?"

"I'll explain the issues on our way to the complex then you'll have a fresh understanding of what I'm talking about," and abruptly ended the conversation and disconnected without saying another word.

*****

Tom planted his feet on the curb in front of his house and didn't move. The cool morning air rushed into his overexerted lungs; and with each nervous breath, he exhausted Exsorbo's spent phantom fuel; it felt like a burning irritation pestering his vertebral canal.

McBridle pulled up to the curb, and flung open the passenger's door. "Quick, get in!" she demanded. "We haven't got all day."

He climbed into the seat in an awkward manner and positioned his shabby briefcase on top of his wrinkled lap. "Two in a row; another crisp beautiful day," Tom said, and secretly glanced at her curvaceous thighs that were visibly fashioned in snow-white stockings.

"Yes, and, hopefully, we'll receive a painless winter," she replied with a cute smile, catching his eyes as he glanced from her legs.

Tom could obviously detect a change in her stormy personality; she seemed aroused by his wide eyes and attention. He thought that maybe the boss-lady's icy armour was melting. He set his briefcase down by his feet. "What's the reason for starting the day so early?"

"We've got lots to do, and there aren't enough hours in the day. In all likelihood, we'll probably be working into the night," she replied.

The thought of working an all-nighter with her was somewhat appealing to him; the scent of her exotic perfume sealed his hearty commitment.

She pulled a file folder from the beneath the seat and handed it to him. "Have a quick look, but don't mess up the pages."

His dry fingertips touched her moisturized hand as he received the file.

"Doctor Carravecky's a busy man so he requested this meeting at eight-fifteen."

He watched her green eyes trace the contour of the pavement.

"We'll be sitting in with him and his two sons, along with a few close, yet silent investors, with whom I'm not familiar."

Tom started to thumb through the ten or so pages of crisp documentation. It seemed too early to absorb the facts so he merely scanned over the highlighted details until he realized most of the information revolved around Carravecky's security breach.

One particular item of interest was: THE SECURITY SYSTEMS EVALUATION AND PROTECTION OF CLASSIFIED PROJECTS CONTAINMENT...

He got serious and viewed the content. A few minutes later, he completed his examination and handed the file back to her.

"Learn anything?" she inquired.

"Carravecky's a tight-knit business," he replied.

"Hungarian-American family blood--they'd do anything to keep their name pure of unnecessary sin."

Tom observed her corporate-style business suit, which gave her the deportment of a highly successful professional, except when she slightly twisted around with the file folder, her thighs ever so parted and revealed her queenly panties as she slid the paperwork on the backseat near her bag. He became sexually exhilarated by her actions, but waited a moment to tame his erect mind. "So this new security system bombed," he determined, "and now there's a possibility Carravecky's sensitive research and development was exposed."

"I'm impressed," McBridle said, and glanced over. "You learn fast," as she directed her attention back to the wheel.

From the off ramp, the gates to the complex were in sight. They pulled up to the barricade; a guard approached with his hand on his side arm and followed standard entrance procedures.

The drive to the main complex entrance seemed longer than a few minutes as several pieces of heavy excavation equipment were being towed at a turtle's pace and partially choked off the road. They pulled into the alternative parking area and into a reserved billet.

Tom was again mesmerized by the immensity of the super-modern production facility. He stood at the bottom of the marble entrance and took each step with an increased tension as he followed McBridle.

A security guard sprang up from the control monitors and offered assistance. "Ms. McBridle, fifth floor," the guard directed. "Doctor Carravecky and others are waiting."

"Thank you ever so much," she replied, then motioned with a hooked finger for Tom to follow. She eagerly paced the ten strides to the elevator like a feisty woman on a hotplate.

Tom stopped a few feet behind her and watched the graceful stride of her feminine motion. He had a bizarre mental image about her new behaviour that he just couldn't decipher. His mind was preoccupied with the needling thought.

She snapped about. "Come on, Tom, catch up."

He doubled up his pace until he marched alongside.

The elevator's upward motion created a calming effect that helped soothe his fatigued senses. The blossomy scent of her sweet perfume was uplifting and made him even more relaxed. He leaned against the panel and looked up at the floor indicator, which was: five.

McBridle led the way to one of the company's meeting areas located on this floor. She knocked on the boardroom door ever so gently.

Robert, Doctor Carravecky's eldest son, opened the door and welcomed them. He was a well-groomed man of thirty-six years, who stood six-feet tall with a slight receding hairline, square jaw and eyes that revealed intensity for inherited success. He stared curiously at Tom before offering a handshake.

The Doctor greeted McBridle with a corporate hug. "I assume we're all here?" he asked Robert.

"Yes, we're all present and accounted for," Robert replied, and locked the door.

"Well, let's get started," Doctor Carravecky instructed.

Tom surveyed the boardroom with an accumulating interest, careful not to make any noticeable eye contact and studied the array of sly poker faces. The Doctor sat at the head of the large oval board table and expressed his utmost satisfaction that all had arrived on time. He directed his attention toward McBridle, who was unpacking a leather satchel, and gave her a few moments to settle in as he watched her remove a sealed envelope and place the bag by her feet.

She handed Robert a package labelled: TOM BRONZE SECURITY DOSSIER.

Robert accepted the envelope and sat across from her.

"Oh, by the way, this is Tom Bronze. He'll be assisting me in this investigation," McBridle officially informed them.

Robert stared at Mr. Bronze, "I trust you've made the correct choice," and looked toward McBridle.

She smiled politely, "If any of this information concerning this security breach hits any of the media right now, there's going to be a lot of slippery explaining. The loyal Carravecky shareholders are going to be first to ask what's going on within these walls. If we can't logically explain that or at least come up with a presentable explanation, it's going to be tough sledding when they perceive us as story fabricators. Then, I'm sure, the Securities Exchange Commission will be standing at your doorstep with their knife and fork ready to dig in with a glorious appetite and eat the rich." She continued until interrupted by the Doctor's youngest son, Samuel, who was tapping his chewed up pencil on the table in a disturbing manner and constantly checking the time and uttering, "boring, boring," and probably wishing he were on the golf course.

She barely acknowledged him, even though she painfully played holes with Samuel a few times last year; he could barely crack the ball without breaking a club.

She continued, "A secret investigative audit could lead us to a plausible explanation. We know of two breaches in the system; the first, a few months ago; the second, four weeks later. It seems odd your system's data doesn't indicate the severity of the compromise; but it's obvious, I suspect, they were after military system designs and programming secrets housed in the main research computers."

The Doctor nodded. It was apparent that McBridle had professionally regurgitated what he had already assumed.

"It's a major problem," the Doctor said. "We'll need to determine exactly what type of damage was sustained and do whatever is required; but please handle this matter efficiently and without any unnecessary complications."

"Yes, of course, that's our employed duty," she replied.

"As always, Ms. McBridle," Robert concluded, "we appreciate your customary integrity, and we are confident that you will preserve our world-wide credibility so Celia, don't let us down," and then he closed the file.

*****

A little later on in the morning another meeting was scheduled, which Tom and McBridle attended. A classified memo indicated that the military was exploring the possibility of producing army fatigues fashioned from an extraordinary high-tech, lightweight, fire-resistant fabric capable of withstanding heavy weapons' impact. The expected completion date of this project was ninety days.

The Doctor was extremely cordial and introduced the five guests seated at the board table: L. T. Farms, Jack Per-Long, Doctor Beltmin and two other gentlemen, whose names Tom was unable to recall, but he knew they were high U.S. brass by their mowed hairdos and stiff postures. Robert indicated that the fabric project was still in the experimental stage and scheduled for further testing in the coming weeks.

Robert Carravecky controlled the meeting. "Our budget is right on target; and we're expecting our actual costs to come in around two hundred and fifty million, exactly as we forecasted. It's extremely important to you and to us that our world-wide research and developmental activities are imperviously protected and remain best-kept secrets. That commitment to you gentlemen, I can guarantee. So my friends, I turn the meeting over to Doctor Beltmin."

Beltmin rose to his feet. A petite man in stature, small-boned and frail in appearance, he appeared 65-years old, maybe 10-years older than he actually was; and he was dressed in a blue blazer and grey baggy flannels, which looked like he'd slept in them after a good night of boozing. He leaned over the table and viewed deep into each person's eyes, as if he was tapping into their deepest, darkest secrets. His voice didn't seem to match his body, as he spoke with a strong, youthful tone. "The first thing I would like to do is introduce this amazing discovery. I call it, Prime-X 18-2 Fabric Shield."

The room remained silent as each attendee listened intensely.

"The thing so unique about this discovery is its organic matrix, which rejuvenates just like a tree's foliage at springtime. It's durable, flexible, and fully able to withstand the force of practically anything." He walked around the table as he talked. "As my mother, God rest her soul, once said: luck has no boundaries." He looked at Tom. "Totally by accident, I discovered the formula while employed with a bioengineering firm in Europe several years back. I kept it my own private little secret until Carravecky came along with a bag of promises," and smiled with a full mouth of pearly teeth.

One of the named attendees seemed to clear his throat; this sound noticeably irritated Doctor Beltmin.

Beltmin's body tensed up, but he continued onward, "I am extremely convinced with further research and development that this technology will revolutionize the future and change military and law enforcement dress codes as we know it." He paused momentarily behind Tom with his eyes directed at McBridle. "Although, still in its infancy stage. I am concerned about protecting the formula and manufacturing process. Companies and countries or whoever is rich enough to buy an army would kill for Prime-X 18-2. Nothing can be compared to this shielding product, nothing now or ever."

Beltmin reached into a protective metal case and retrieved a small square patch of the material, wafer thin and grey in colour. Its texture resembled that of fibre paper. "This is just a one layer sample, but it can be fabricated into any layer configurations to create an optimum protective exterior for the aviation and space industry. So, gentlemen, you can imagine the possible applications of Prime-X 18-2. Not only is it light weight, strong and durable, but I believe it's indestructible."

"Doctor, what do you mean by indestructible? Nothing is indestructible," L. T. Farms inquired.

"With torturous impact, the shielding grows stronger, more resistant, more indestructible," Beltmin admitted diabolically.

Tom viewed the material sample until Beltmin locked it away.

Doctor Carravecky's eyes panned the length of the room before standing up, "A very worthy investment as this material could easily be incorporated into the U.S. defence arsenal. The nice thing about this product is that it's able to withstand hot and cold temperatures, which truly amazes me; and as Doctor Beltmin mentioned, it can also be used effectively in aeronautical airframes and space exploration applications."

There was a dead silence in the boardroom until Jack Per Long interjected asking Doctor Carravecky and Doctor Beltmin the same question, "The L-18 prototype missile carrier, will it incorporate this Prime-X shielding?"

Carravecky replied quickly, "From what I understand, the L-18 Sky Carrier hasn't left the computer drawing board, but I believe it could possibly incorporate this organic shield; however, putting a craft of such magnitude into the air is billions and decades away so your question is Who knows what the future holds?" Doctor Carravecky admitted proudly.

"I'm also concerned about the nature of my financing," Jack Per-Long assumed forcefully. "If such a system is created, it's probably intended to carry nuclear death seekers."

"Yes, Jack, that could be a futuristic military possibility," Carravecky admitted softly.

"You know, Carravecky, we go back a long way. That scenario worries me, worries me a lot," Per-Long expelled.

"I reassure you, Jack, the L-18 is still a figment of someone's technological imagination. To satisfy your anxiety and put your mind at ease, it's possible that special target seekers controlled by a sky carrier could only work effectively if they're equipped with technology intended to create destruction. If the enemy is hiding in the clouds, in or on the ground, or under the water, or wherever, our smart heat will smoke them out and show them a goodtime dying party. That's the nature of investing in weapons development."

"Then you're talking advanced stealth technology?" L. T. Farms inquired.

"Beyond advanced stealth, the most accurate technology delivered to enemy airspace by an unmanned flyer. So, gentlemen, as a matter of internal security and confidentiality, I can't elaborate any further on this futuristic, classified subject, which may or may not exist. So, Jack, I respect our long friendship and business arrangements; but the future continues to change and evolve. So must we. I'm hopeful that my shallow explanation will extinguish your concerns, at least for now."

"I somewhat feel relieved; but, you know I have heart-wrenching reservations about whether my hefty investment in the development of this 18-2 stuff is going to be used on a weapon system, which could potentially kill a lot of innocent people. I didn't sign up for that."

"I understand your humane concerns," Doctor Carravecky reassured his friend.

"You also know that my private involvement, if things go sour, could have a negative effect on my international relations with foreign governments that finance my good corporate deeds; that is, if it becomes known that I've supported such a killing project."

Tom gazed at the soft-blue wall coverings. Eventually, his eyes were drawn to Samuel, who appeared uninterested in the whole matter.

Tom noted that the time passed quickly. McBridle adjusted her silvery Swiss-made watch; and by the sound of Doctor Carravecky's voice, it seemed like he was ready to adjourn the meeting.

The contractual conditions were silently navigated. Robert escorted the project investors from the boardroom. Doctor Carravecky reassured each of them as they left, by saying: "This Prime-X is a financial winner, nothing to worry about. I'll arrange for a more comprehensive update pertaining to the project advancement in the coming weeks. Thank you for your support. We'll talk soon."

Doctor Carravecky returned, appearing pleased with the outcome. He addressed his concerns to Tom. "Mr. Bronze, I was a bit worried at first; but I'm glad you attended. You should be more informed as to what we do here, now that you sat in on one of our high-priority secrets. It's highly important we determine where this breach had originated and by whom. Celia, as you are aware, there are a number of sensitive developments in progress at this very moment; and if any one of them leaves the perimeters of this complex without authorization, we would definitely have a doomsday problem." He directed his voice and eyes around the room like he was issuing an executive warning.

Then the Doctor adjourned the meeting and left the room. Oddly, Samuel punted around; he appeared to be praying for time and eyed Tom as if he wanted to convey a secret message.

Tom just watched him nervously ponder as he left the area.

McBridle packed her papers into her carrying bag and snapped it shut. She held a page of rough notes in her hand. "Tom, are you ready?"

He nodded, "Yes, of course."

"Then let's get cracking," she said with eager anticipation, "the big-money clock is ticking."

Chapter 7: HOT WAR UNLEASHED

Just down the hall from the fifth floor boardroom, Doctor Carravecky's personal assistant was an attractive brunet who flaunted her round implants (like honeydew melons ripe for the picking) at every man who entered her executive workspace. She eyed Tom's strong stature; then she accepted the inked-up sheet of paper from McBridle's extended hand along with her security clearance card. The lady read the five lots in the data request column, keyed in the security code, accessed the main archives and tagged the authorized files. "I'll inform security and have your requisition order brought up from restricted resources room," the doctor's assistant said with a poorly removed European accent. She handed the identification card back to McBridle. "Tomorrow you can pick up the files at the ground level vault at the main lobby guard post."

"That'll be fine," McBridle replied as she folded her cream-coloured coat over her arm and left the office with Tom. Then the doctor's assistant closed the door silently behind them.

The elevator opened on the main floor. The guard patrol seemed to have increased its control activities. Each guard now wore his assigned sidearm in plain view, a small but lethal thirty-two shell, 9mm Tracer, one of a dozen weapons manufactured abroad by Carravecky and Sons.

The secured area behind the guard post was cluttered with sounds of combat boot formations and stuffed weapon magazines popping in and out of semiautomatics; it seemed less like a live exercise and more like a staging area for an attack.

McBridle and Tom left through the front entrance, got into the car, drove up to the gate, and waited patiently for a guard to check them out. Then they pulled onto the road and travelled back to the office.

*****

"Well, this concludes our working day," McBridle said as she pulled up in front of Tom's house. Her eyes perused his sharp face and sturdy torso. "Tom--"

He interrupted her breath, "Thanks for the lift home; I really appreciate it, greatly," and motioned out of the vehicle.

She fluffed her shiny hair and moistened her available lips. "I'll need your commitment on this assignment," she said in a hurry.

"I'm committed," he replied, half out of the car. "I'll see you tomorrow morning?"

"I need action and dedication," she said, and adjusted the rear view mirror and checked her perfect appearance, "and your diligent support tonight."

"Like I said, I'll do whatever I can; but tonight I have other plans," (without making direct eye contact.)

"I don't want any lame excuses; I'll be expecting you."

He looked at her, noticing that the late afternoon sunlight was radiating on her modelled face. He had fallen prey to her gentle demands. "All right then, whatever's required."

"Good, I'm glad you agree." She wet her lips. "I acquired some classified documentation that could be in jeopardy of falling into the wrong hands. I want you to have a look at them. A fresh set of eyes may be able to shed some new light on with whom we're really dealing with," she said, and handed him her business card.

He flipped it over. Her home address was scribbled on the blank side.

"I'll see you later and no excuses," she instructed with an authoritative finger.

"Don't worry, boss, I'll be on time," he replied hesitantly; then he closed the car door.

The house keys dangled from his hand as he watched her deluxe-model vehicle disappear into the distance. He advanced up the walk, unlocked the front door, and entered the living room where he collapsed on the couch like every spent working day.

The ceiling needed a fresh coat of paint he noticed, but it was McBridle's juicy succulence that flooded his droopy eyes. She was intelligent, rich, and hungry for grown-man parts, definitely a thriving woman who could snap her dextrous fingers and make legions of well-to-do men jump to eager sexual attention.

The last daylight shone through the begrimed windows. He blocked the obscured glare from his naked eyes with his bare hand. He was defenseless against McBridle's stimulating vision. She seemed even more desirable than ever before. Tranquillized by her maintained beauty, his eyelids fused; and he slipped into a sleep-mediation mode.

The awesome powers of the mind-crash encapsulated Tom's psyche and shuttled him into the irregular realm beyond, where he stood in a huge foyer; a branchy illuminated crystal chandelier hung down from the decorative ceiling and cast a brilliance of gold and emerald shades upon the smooth plastered walls. Hypnotically, he was drawn in the direction of beautiful music, a popular composition from the Baroque era that he heard many times before but couldn't quite identify the celebrated composer.

As he entered Exsorbo's parlour, he noticed a tarnished yet well-preserved decorative painting. The artwork depicted an ancient stone-block city peppered with mauled peasants. It was a dejected moment captured on canvas. The vivid imagery lured his puzzled eyes deep into the beaten cobblestone streets where the weak lay dying and high into the battered clouds where circling demons ruled the bleak sky; the realism was maddening.

Tom turned away from the hellion scene; he was startled, Exsorbo stood near.

"Thrond, it is a pleasure to see you," Exsorbo acknowledged.

Tom stepped closer, "Where is this world you talked about?"

"Soon it will be your infinite reality so have patience, my honoured guest and friend."

The winds howled and beat against the stained-glass windows.

Exsorbo ignored the shutters banging against the exterior and heavy wooden frames rattling. He stared into Tom's wide eyes. "How do you feel?"

He nodded, "I'm momentarily sane."

"Saying what you feel is not enough; you must believe what you feel." Exsorbo extended his hand and squeezed a masculine fist, and a ball of energy appeared, dissipating into Tom's body. A tingling sensation affected the Nukyi's mind, which soon spread throughout his rigid body. His legs failed and he collapsed to the couch.

"Now your inter-mind is open to absorb what I teach. Remember, all this earthly reality is not what it seems to project." Exsorbo paced back and forth like a master philosopher conducting a scripted lecture. His words echoed high into the room, the intensity of his demanding voice caused the lights to flicker.

"These things are simple," Exsorbo stated, "life forms must live and die yet do they really understand their ultimate purpose? The true nature of existence on earth is a mystery. It is inconceivably short, yet I am here to interrupt your simple life." He stared directly at Tom, "It is for one reason and one reason only you are here. You are the key to all reality."

Tom tried to comprehend but was confused.

Exsorbo's voice intensified, his facial expression became more powerful, his body language more defined. "Look into my eyes," Exsorbo commanded. "What do you see?"

"I see the flames of battle and war, senseless blood and death, and feel an unbearable pain and suffering. I hear the cries of torture mixed with the crashing of angry steel." He looked away. "Could this be my infinite destiny?"

"It was once your ruthless pleasure. This bloodshed has ended, but what is about to be unleashed into this universe has no comparison to what you have envisioned. If you fail your mission, there will be no existence for you to return."

"How can that be possible?"

Exsorbo flexed his mighty voice. "Your ultimate destiny is on the planet Rossinda where your archrival awaits you. He is a Merless Knight Warrior, a loyal follower of evil. His might is capable of destroying you. He hungers for senseless pain, and death. I come before you to show you who and what you are. Now there is no turning back until your ultimate objective has been absolutely accomplished."

"I believe and understand, but I don't think I'm the one you seek for this mind-crash mission," Tom replied truthfully.

"You are the last Nukyi, the one who escaped the dungeons of the most-wicked evildoer, ever. He is Ferronkus, Lord of Figure. Unimaginable darkness will be unleashed. You, and only you, can stop it. All that is or will be, is in your hands. You must believe that you are the only one capable of completing this impossible task, or there will be no stopping this evil force."

The words were profoundly etched in Tom's mind, and he could barely contain his mental strength and snapped free of the spell rendered upon him.

"It is time. You must leave."

"I need more knowledge about this galactic space war."

"That is beyond my duty of contract."

"You bring me here, I got to know."

"There is no defined explanation. It's just the way it is. Now go. These dreams can only last so long without damaging your earthly reflexes. You must leave, as I command." Exsorbo's presence vanished and with him the ills of war and death. A wave of darkness smothered the rich light, and the saintly music faded.

Tom opened his pasty eyes and realized he was sprawled out on the living room floor. He sat up, his heart pounded. He rose to his unstable feet and stretched his skeletal muscles in one continuous motion while breathing deep to clear the stale air from his healthy oxidizing lungs.

He entered the kitchen and filled a tall glass with water from the faucet and guzzled it, spilling half on his shirt and half on the floor. His watch hand chronically trembled as he looked at the dial. "Seven p.m., I got to get ready, McBridle's expecting me to be on time," he mumbled, mentally detached.

Soaked with sweat, he showered; then changed into jeans and a bland-looking T-shirt and donned his leather jacket.

The card with her home address was crumpled tightly in his hand. He took one last look at it before stuffing it into his pocket with a reserve of washed-up dollar bills and then got on his way.

Sty Street was about fifteen minutes from his place--closer than he realized. He turned the corner and stopped in front of number thirty-two. The homes in this neighbourhood were very roomy and very expensive. He saw her vehicle parked in the driveway so he was sure this was the correct house.

His knees seemed weak as he advanced up the front steps and rang the bell.

McBridle greeted him at the door with a big smile. "Come in; you're right on time," she said pleasantly. She accompanied him through the entrance and into the family room where she plopped down on a lofty Persian rug, her legs outstretched in front of the mounted digital television. "Tom, come and sit next to me," she said, and continued sorting a short pile of file folders.

Tom removed his jacket and tossed it over a chair.

"Can I get you anything--water, beer or maybe wine?"

"No, I'm fine, maybe something later," he said, and sat across from her and watched the syncopated motion of her hands as she arranged the work. It was obvious that she was schooled in the art of corporate diplomacy and majored in deceptive accounting.

As odd as her female behaviour, she was ill-fitted in a pair of worn-in track pants and a heavy sweater with a droopy, stretched-out neck that settled down into her natural cleavage. He never saw her in anything other than tailor made business suits nor had he ever seen her wear her hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail so her homey appearance seemed somewhat alien to him. He was, somewhat, confused by her closet personality.

McBridle handed Tom a document and said; "I'll be back in a second." She went into the kitchen; then she disappeared into another room.

The word "CLASSIFIED" was typed cross the plain-white covered page. Inside, a twenty-page report was accompanied by a secured memo signed by a senior government official. The paper referred to a missile system in the final stage of development titled: THE SKY TRACKING CARRIER SYSTEM. The opening paragraph described the system's purpose--far superior to any launch system created with military intentions that clearly outweighed its cost, although, secretively debated, congress could no longer support a weapon of such destructive potential.

He continued deeper into the report. Five years prior, congress had drafted a bill that suspended the construction of weapons of mass destruction. Clearly this system would be a direct violation of the law if the project continued. The last paragraph stated that if this technology fell into wrong hands, it would shift world power dominance from the United States to a foreign hostile regime.

After reading the document, Tom realized that the government was covertly involved. If this were the case, there would be more than the media to contend with as well as an army of Federal agents tracking his backside, looking to tear him a new butt.

From around the corner, McBridle peeked out, "Tom, there are others--just help yourself; I'll be back in a few minutes. I have to make a phone call." Again, she slipped out of sight.

When his eyes grew tired and his mind bulged with unanswered questions, he stood and worked the stiffness from his cramped legs; then he sat on the couch. The leather upholstery was soft, soothingly cool, and easy to touch.

"What did you think of this rotten jar of pickles?" McBridle said, as she emerged from the kitchen.

"I think we have our work cut out for us," he replied.

McBridle uncloaked her passionate personality. Her muscles were tight; and in one continuous motion, yawned her arms overhead, amplifying her strong, slender figure before she slithered on the couch next to him.

They sat observing each other.

"This investigation will get more complicated the deeper we get into it," she admitted, as she subconsciously twisted her earring.

Tom somewhat agreed. "I hope we're not in over our heads," he said as he stroked his chin in thought.

"Our task is simply to find the security leak--nothing more. As you can see, our government wanted this system suspended; but it's obvious someone else didn't."

"Are you saying the project may have continued at Carravecky's?"

"Perhaps," she replied. "We know there's classified activities inside Carravecky's; but Doctor Carravecky isn't about to tell us the particulars of his business. Our job is to plug up the leak any way we can and keep their information inside. We know Carravecky's security is like the Federal Reserve so we're dealing with a technology mastermind. The information I requested today may reveal some undiscovered clues and details that could lead us in the right direction."

Tom listened, but it was like he followed her lips but couldn't hear her tongue; the scent of her baited skin and her tasteful mouth caused his mind to wander beneath her clothes.

"Are you okay?" she asked. The sharpness of her voice broke his allure. "I suspect you were wondering why I provided Robert with a security file with your name on it."

"Yeah, a little," and stretched his chin.

"Robert Carravecky is a security "nut". He insists that we provide him with personal and confidential information regarding our employees each time new faces are introduced. He wants to know exactly who they are and where they come from."

"I understand his security concerns. I don't have a problem with that."

McBridle reached down and picked up a file folder. Her sweater bagged open and her breasts pushed forward. "Well, another day is over, a little less debt," she said, and bundled the file with the others.

"Well, I guess I'll be leaving; don't want to be late for work tomorrow," and motioned to get up without glancing in her direction.

"Stay, put your feet up, have a beer; and don't worry about tomorrow."

"No, I better get going," he insisted, half to his feet. "I got things to do at home."

"Just one beer, one small drink for the road," she said, as she eased him down into the couch. Then she went to the kitchen and returned with two bottles. "So, Tom, do you have any other secret hobbies other than digging in the sand for antiquities?" She passed him a cold one as she sat next to him.

Tom shrugged. "No, not really."

"What do you do in your free time, you know, like on the weekends?" she asked.

He sucked back a drinker's mouthful. "I haven't had any free time between work and sleep although I manage to bowl once or twice a month. Other than that, I'm your typical ho-hum, stay-at-home, boring guy with a cracked family life."

McBridle accepted his fake modesty and tilted the cold bottle to her warm lips. "I heard you're divorced."

"It hasn't been finalized yet. All that she requires is that I sign the papers and release her from my insanity," Tom admitted freely.

"I assume she's from Washington State?" she inquired.

"No. British Columbia. I met her up north at a village campground, about 12-years ago."

"Then she's a Canadian girl?"

"No. She's originally from Massachusetts. Her family moved from Cambridge when she was just a young girl."

She noticed the redness in his eyes. "You look sleepy."

He leaned into her breath. The tie that secured her ponytail had loosened and fallen down. He eased her golden hair away from her tantalizing eyes for a clearer view of her unmasked face.

She took no offense to his manly advance and seemed to welcome his gentle touch.

"Everything comes at the wrong time in my life. I'm sorry I have to leave," as he motioned to get up.

"No, no, it's early," she replied reassuringly and pressed him back down. She jumped up and turned the stereo on low volume. "Stay; just one more beer and enjoy a few songs." She tempted him with some twirling dance and strong drink. "Stay, it's early; no one will know."

Tom could sense her prowl for uncommitted sex, but he tried not to notice. Any other woman, any other time, and he'd leap at the trill; but tonight, one thing held him back--her unpredictable authority within the firm.

He took a few seconds to admire her leaning grace. She allowed him a view while he decided his pleasure. She sank close to him. His hand touched the contour of her youthful face. The mellow sounds of the eighties ignited the pent-up air. He knew he could take her at any moment, but he resisted and backed away. The stress of his failed marriage made him more conscious about destroying relationships, especially with the woman who signed his pay checks.

It seemed so strange to him that the entire time he worked for the company he never once saw her lose herself. She was all business and no play. He glanced at his bungled watch. His actions indicated he was getting ready to escape her touch.

Whether it was an accident, a coincidence, or an act of desperation, she spilled beer on the front of his shirt; then she ordered him to strip, but she didn't wait. She tugged the wet T-shirt over his head like she was undressing a man doll.

Tom didn't resist, but leaned forward to make her job easier.

Her eyes froze; she admired his muscular torso.

He noticed there was sexual gratification in her physical actions.

Her hand glided across his chest as she wiped the wetness from his skin; the sensation was provocative and created a jolt of womanly passion within her sweet love channel.

He stood before her like a heroic soldier who had return from battle. He fully realized his body had completely changed; it was Exsorbo who had enhanced his weak human performance. He grabbed his bundled up shirt, threw on his leather jacket, and said, "I have to leave," as he headed for the door.

McBridle stopped him. "Tom, tomorrow I have business in the office to take care of before we leave for Carravecky's," she said seriously.

"Do you need my help?" He zipped up his jacket.

"It's not required, but we'll see."

They stood at the door face-to-face and breath-to-breath.

McBridle arched forward and gave him a goodnight kiss.

It startled him; the intimate affection lasted seconds but seemed longer. He was at a loss for a descriptive explanation.

"We'll talk tomorrow morning; go home; get a good night's sleep," she said, and locked the door behind him.

*****

Tom selected some classic radio, buckled on his seatbelt, and pulled away from the curb en route for home. He entered the expressway; traffic was light. A car sped past, another raced up to his rear bumper as he attempted to change lanes to avoid a fatal incident; but he carelessly lost sight of the shoulder and veered off the slippery pavement and plunged down a grassy embankment; the vehicle rested on its roof; its wheels rotated to a full stop. Then there was a dead silence that hung in the misty air.

Chapter 8: YOUR SECRET IS TOLD

Tom trudged painfully to work and arrived at 7:45 a.m.

"Morning Tom," Stella said in a motherly tone.

"It would be if my body weren't so sore," he replied.

"Why, what's wrong?" she asked with concern.

"I experienced a bit of car trouble."

"Did it quit or stall out again?"

He massaged the back of his brawny neck. "No, I did."

"What's that mean?" Her eyes expressed wonder.

"Oh nothing, I'm just poking fun at a bad situation," he said with a negative hand gesture.

"You can always tell me your problems. What's on your mind? Maybe I can help," she insisted, and touched his arm.

"I know," he said, and nodded, as if to agree.

"So, what happened?"

He looked around to ensure no one else was listening, "I blacked out at the wheel last night and drove off the road."

"That's a great shame." (She seemed overly concerned.) "Are you okay? Were you hurt?"

"No broken bones... just crumpled up my rusted two-door death-trap into a bowling ball... climbed out of a finger hole," he laughed, as if it was funny, "and left the wreck in the gully."

"The important thing is that you're still alive and with us," she said. Her desk phone lit up.

"Go ahead, take the call," he insisted.

"I'll let the machine pickup." She squeezed her round bum into the seat, "So, did you report the incident to the police?"

"No, I didn't bother. I was going to sleep off the aggravation, then deal with it today." Tom clamped a curled-up newspaper under his arm, and said, "I'll call them later," as he continued onward to his cubicle.

He prepared his desk for another workload. A flush of bad thoughts spoiled his content mood. Why was he so anxious about this assignment? It seemed more unbalanced than him; and to top it off, his wife cursed him for being a money-junky, and now he had to contend with this overblown dimensional pain in the groin. Even so, one phone call was all it would take, and he'd be safe and warm in his wife's arms. He knew that wasn't the case; if she said no, his hope for a better future was gone--rejection stopped him cold in his tracks. He fought further back into the scrawny chair and prayed that Exsorbo would release him from these uncontrollable reality shifts, which seemed to be growing stronger with more punch and frequency, the prime cause of his auto accident last night.

The telephone rang.

"Bronze here," he said with a concealed depression.

"And good morning to you, Tom," McBridle said joyously.

He popped straight up in his chair, "Sorry, Celia, good morning."

"I've rearranged your schedule for next week," she said, "so all your investigative energies can be directed at our auditing task. Right now, I'll need you in my office in 10 minutes."

"I'll be there in two," he replied while counting the seconds and tugging at his tie as if it was strangling the last bit of life out of him.

*****

He soon reached her office. His hands were sweating buckets, his muscles were raw and stressed; and his fingers were cramped into a square knot as he tapped ever so faintly.

"Come in Tom," McBridle ordered.

He cracked open the door.

She fanned him in.

He eased into a chair in front of her desk. He felt like telling her that last night was enjoyable, and how he had barely escaped death on the way home but he wasn't sure how she'd react to the mixed news so he kept the story quiet. Anxiously, he walked the floor all night and wore the sleep monkey on his pale face. He looked like hell.

She looked at him for a moment. "I think you need some scheduled time off," she noticed.

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't look well today."

"No, I'm fine. I'm alive and ready to work. So let's get down to business."

"Just for the sake of it, I'll ask Human Resources to check the date of your last holiday; then they can get back to you." McBridle rose to her designer heels and crossed the office. Her motion was calculated long, lean strides designed to turn heads. She leaned close to him, her snowy-white blouse fluffed open in the front. "This security breach is a very sensitive matter so we'll have to be very careful about where and when we discuss it. I was talking to Doctor Carravecky this morning. He admitted the computer system did monitor some strange activities a few weeks prior to the second breach attempt.

"And he admitted that without falling over laughing as if he had a jackrabbit peeing on his head?"

"Yeah, it sounds fishy doesn't it?"

He rubbed his itchy eyes for some relief.

"House security investigated but found nothing. The cause was documented as ventilation problems, which triggered a series of malfunctions, recorded as oddities in the data control system. You might be interested in viewing them."

"No need. They're probably data fabrications; I'd just be wasting my time."

The telephone rang.

"I told Stella no interruptions. Excuse me," she said, and picked up the call. Her conversation was obviously professional, and she didn't seem trilled.

Tom scanned the office, which appeared to possess no executive design or feminine personality. There were no one-of-a-kind paintings on the walls, no cute knickknacks on the shelves, and no photos of family members on her plain oak desk. Her office was like an empty shell with a fantastic view of Seattle.

She hung up and sprang out of her chair, "Are you ready?" she asked.

He hesitated, "Yeah. Why? What's going on?"

"We're leaving for Carravecky's. Have you forgotten?"

*****

McBridle used the travel time to explain Carravecky's intricate security system to Tom.

"The technology cost millions," she said. "It was co-developed with the aid of a team of computer geeks from a European conglomerate. Complicated and simple, every employee has an activation-positioning data signature with a specifically programmed authorization security level. The code key can either be their hand or eye print; and higher the clearance, the more access, and more technology is involved."

"Sounds simple, I'm assuming it's all standard implemented technology."

"Believe me, there's nothing standard about this system."

"The person presses his hand to a data optimizing device, and opens a door, so what."

"That's easier said than done; there're also a few invisible layers of technology--some security features I don't even know about. Anyway, what little I do understand--a monitoring system tracks their movement using some developed method at all times and keeps track of all its employees. Just how that's accomplished, well, that's Carravecky's secret technology and he's not about to divulge that information to anybody, including me."

"So the system is complex. And what about this monitoring station? It must be set up somewhere within Carravecky's industrial empire."

"Yeah, I suspect it is; and from what I understand, some of these complex operations are automatically processed from sub-floor four."

"What's that area you mentioned?"

"It's the most secretive place in this complex sector."

"So can we get access?"

"No."

"Why?"

"There's a mountain of paperwork and a slew of security checks. By the time we gain permission, we'd be 10 years older."

"Carravecky can't get us in?"

"It's not up to him."

"So, who's it up to?"

"I don't know, but we can find out. The problem is with us snooping around this will only create suspicion and make our job even harder."

"Then, you suspect it's an inside job?" Tom asked.

"I suspect, but I'm not fully certain; and don't want to speculate at this present time."

"We'll start with those who have access to this computer area."

McBridle glanced at him. "That's like the bat biting off the giant's head then asking him for directions," she said convincingly.

The sun was high; the ride was smooth. Tom powered the window down a crack. The autumn air invigorated his senses. He breathed peacefully, but his haunting concern was staying awake. The mind-crash was near (he felt it), but he couldn't control where it would take him. The comfort of the leather seat and the warmth of the day amplified his desire to rest. He closed his eyes and dropped into a sleep episode.

Dimensional time expansion wasn't constant between this beyond world and earth as Tom fell through a rift that transported him to a lifeless desert environment. The sweltering sun burned down on him, but he was invulnerable to its deadly heat. He was garbed like the powerful Nukyi, suited up in jet-black body gear and knee-high boots that protected him from the unpleasant elements.

His hand mapped the contour of his hard torso and soon discovered the gun holster was void of the special duel-barrel, heat-firing equalizer. Maybe, Exsorbo didn't think he was confident enough to handle the blast weapon. He was probably correct with that assumption.

Tom walked the dunes until he came upon tracks in the sand. An assortment of footsteps confirmed that there was an abundance of life just ahead beyond a crest. High winds blew the granular grit into his exposed face, and heat waves distorted his vision; but he could determine the presence of a stone structure. It was that of an ancient fortress. He stormed the fort. The reinforced wooden gate was dislocated from its setting and propped open with huge timbers; it possessed no entry sentries.

The battered walls corralled a herd of weakened people who were clothed in rags and appeared beaten and tattered by repeated torture. They stood as if waiting for additional punishment. He circled around, curiously scanning for a logical explanation to this sick dementia; but there were only cries of misery.

A frail old man with a bent cane came before the Nukyi. He didn't say anything, just motioned with his disfigured, crippled-up finger for the special visitor to follow him to a pathway that led to a set of straight stairs that slopped down an arched tunnel to a cryptic chamber. An oil-fired lamp burned at the bottom step. The air was still and thick. It was an unwell place few sober men would dare venture.

At the bottom of the steps, the man angled his knobby hand toward a grouping of tumbled stones, which formed a gaping cavity in the block wall where the stench of fresh death and decay emanated.

Tom's mouth dried up as if he had swallowed a bag of cement mix, and the taste of rotten air was making him stomachically weak. "Tell me what's in there?"

"He is in there waiting to come out," the man replied frightfully.

"Who is he?" Tom demanded, but the guide shuttered with fear and scurried up the dusty stairs. "If this is just a dream, there's nothing to fear; but if it's real, then I got a real problem. What the hell! You only live once," Tom expelled in nervous babble.

An inhuman growl ripped through the darkness, an unearthly figure stepped from beyond the hole, just as a flicker of light captured its immense shadow. The foul-smelling beast was robed in a long, black, hooded cape; the lack of direct light threw a floating shadow into the heavy air as it approached the Nukyi.

Tom watched the creature thump across a path of flattened animal bones.

"I am Ferronkus, Lord of Figure - Master of the Evils." The arrogant servant of evil fanned his monstrous hand; his long, hard claws, sharp enough to sever his prey with one swipe, sliced through the morbid air. "Weak mortal, you shall fall to my demand," he bellowed. His mouth opened, his teeth looked like rusty railroad spikes that had been hammered once too many times. "There is no escaping my bite." He removed his hood and uncovered a menacing-looking ivory cranium appendage.

"That's quite a can opener," he said bravely.

"Silence, doomed spaceman," Ferronkus ordered, as he leaped forward. His body converted into flaming energy that passed through the Nukyi's body like a blast of nuclear heat.

Tom knew there was no escaping this hell master's reach; so if battle were required, then he'd flex his muscles and fight.

Ferronkus reconfigured to his naturally ugly, beastly form, a mischievous smirk crossed his wicked lips as he smashed his fist into his mammoth-sized hand and summoned a clap of thunder that sounded like the roar of a thousand wounded lions. "Nukyi, this could be yours if you will join my unwholesome cause." He held the power in his palm. There was total silence except for the ominous oscillation of the orb.

"I don't want your deadly disease," Tom resisted.

"It is good. It will make you strong."

"I am strong. I don't want what you're offering so give it to someone else who doesn't give a damn about the living."

"It is only a matter of time before you concede and see my truth," and absorbed the energy orb.

"There's no truth, only your deception."

"You are strong minded, stronger than all the others combined; but you cannot resist my delusional will." Ferronkus handled the two-handed sword sheathed from his waist belt; the razor edges shone in the light. "If you do not comply, you are doomed beyond my dimensional terror. And only my offering will spare you," he exhausted a fearless breath, "your continued existence." Then the hell-protector bellowed with a horrifying roar and crash of millennium forged steel. "It is simple, join me and prevail."

"Screw you and your worthless fight... stink-breath."

Ferronkus seemed amused, "Decide or fall and feel the pain of death," then he dematerialized into the darkness, and disappeared.

"I've decided; the answer is no; never will I side with you," Tom shouted into the hell-doer's dark blood nest.

Then, suddenly, with the explosive force of a cannon Tom was launched through an odyssey of space and time and back to mother earth.

McBridle turned off the industrial highway and headed toward Carravecky's; the change of direction snapped Tom's mind from its mental dormancy. He awoke in a panic and bashed his hands into the dash, his fists made two ugly impressions that were permanently detailed on the glove box.

She was startled by his troubled behaviour; overly concerned, she pulled onto the shoulder.

Tom was breathing hard; a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

"Are you okay?" she asked him with her hand on his side, "or should I take you to the hospital for medical attention?"

He seemed confused, "No, no, I'm fine," and held his forehead, "I must have eaten some bad gruel and freaked out. Sorry I frightened you," he apologized, and glanced at his watch. He was only gone about 10 or 15 seconds, at the most.

When she was convinced that he was healthy and recovered, she continued the drive and kept a watchful eye on him.

They soon reached Carravecky and Sons' complex and halted at the main gate. Security seemed even tighter than yesterday. A broad-shouldered guard requested their identification while looking into the vehicle like he was searching for weapons or contraband; a compact shoulder-mounted camera with voice communications allowed him to transmit and receive instructions from the main guard post.

They accessed the main gate and drove past Carravecky's massive manufacturing sector toward a secure research compound called Sector 2, which was isolated from the rest of Carravecky's production holdings. Once they arrived at the checkpoint, the duty officers verified the visitors' security clearance, and allowed them access.

McBridle drove a short distance. She pulled into a lot and parked adjacent to an elongated concrete structure that sat low to the ground. It was extremely plain looking by commercial architectural design standards yet specifically constructed to house special projects still in their early stages of development.

The front-desk guard recognized McBridle, but still he asked for her authorization documents. When post security was satisfied, an officer escorted them down a sterile-looking corridor to a holding area.

The stainless-steel containment doors opened and McBridle and Tom entered. Doctor Milnip, who was chief development officer for experimental projects, greeted them.

"It's always a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Celia," Milnip said, while holding her hand and kissing it like a sex maniac. "You remember my trusted and brainy assistant, Zeppic?"

She smiled at him, like a professional bitch, "Careful with those slippery fingers, wonder-boy if you want to keep them attached to the rest of your body."

He tensed up. "I'm sorry; I see your eyes and get all crazy, deep down inside."

"Give me a break with that soapy-mouth trash, verbal crap. I know you're not looking at my eyes," and presented her beautiful figure, hands off. McBridle turned on a dime. "Milnip, this is my friend and associate, Tom Bronze," she said sincerely.

Milnip shook hands with Tom. "That's a really strong grip you got there young lad."

"Tom's one of our firm's most-brilliant forensic auditors, and a rising star within the company," she said with praise.

Tom looked uncomfortably surprised.

"New blood always rejuvenates old blood," Milnip said jokingly.

"Then, Milnip, you're looking good, and fit as a two-dollar bottle of wine," she returned the compliment.

He looked at Tom. "It's the eyes that keep the mind strong and the pants that keep the body healthy, if ya get my drift," he said with a wink.

Tom was about to lob a friendly comment when McBridle interrupted, "There was an interesting article in the America Prototype Journal last month. Did you happen to read it?"

"No," Milnip said, "fill me in on the way to my office," and took her arm.

McBridle turned toward Tom, "We'll be a few minutes; wait for me here and don't think yourself to death."

Tom obeyed her command, "Yeah, sure, I'll wait; whatever you want."

She continued with Milnip. "This fascinating article concerns the fabrication of..." her voice faded as they disappeared inside Milnip's cubed office.

Zeppic concluded his do-nothing type of work and watched Tom, who just stared straight ahead, studying a hefty-looking white tarp that was sprawled out over a diamond-shaped body, which stood about twenty feet and extended back at least a hundred feet and sixty-five feet at its widest points. Although, cloaked, the object still looked unusual.

Tom zeroed in for a sneak peek beneath the spacious shroud.

"That's far enough my new-fangled friend," Zeppic warned.

Tom's feet froze--his forward curiosity stalled.

"If you really want to see what's under that tarp, (he was holding a chrome wrench in one hand and an oily cloth in the other) then you'll probably never live to see tomorrow," he admitted.

"What do you mean by that?" Tom demanded an explanation.

"What you know around here, can choke a horse."

"Are you saying you know something? Or are you saying you want to tell me something? If so, spit it out and don't waste my time with your employment complaints."

"People who get too close usually disappear," Zeppic wiped his hands with the cloth, "and I'm not going to be one of them."

"Am I to guess what that means, or should I just look beneath the cover, now?"

"I wouldn't advise that because there's a lot of hidden technology watching us," his eyes roamed the air. He eyed Tom with an immense curiosity. "My practise is simple--stay clean, watch your back, and trust no one." He placed the shiny wrench in his toolbox, sat at his workstation, and began fiddling with a broken computer touch-pad, as if trying to ignore the work at hand.

After an absence of about 10 minutes or so, McBridle returned. She completed her discussion with Doctor Milnip, who was concerned about breaking a project deadline scheduled for this coming Friday. "I saw you and Zeppic talking; were you guys having fun, or was he boring you into a coma?" she asked.

"No, he's a delight, a bundle of paranoid laughs," Tom admitted.

"Why? Was he talking mumbo-jumbo nonsense again?"

"Maybe he just needs to get out more often and talk with regular folks, like the kind you'd meet at a nuthouse," Tom said casually.

"Zeppic doesn't like anybody. That's why he's stuck here," and headed for the exit.

Tom straightened up his tie. "What's going on now?"

"A quick meeting with the old man; then we're on our way home," she admitted.

"That's fine with me. Let's get out of here and get on with our job," he replied, hot on her heels.

*****

"Talk, talk, talk--that's all Milnip wants to do, and stare at my bustline," McBridle said annoyed.

"Why not, you're a very attractive lady," he replied brotherly.

"Why Tom, that's a very gentlemanly thing to say," she replied smiling, girlishly. She unlocked the vehicle. Her hair was blowing in the southern breeze. It created the appearance that she was 10 years younger. Tom recognized a new personality evolving within her. She was now vibrant and exciting and little by little, she was losing her stiff business composure and gaining a sense of real-life compassion for the world around her. It was a discovery he liked, and he wished to explore more of her private personality.

Chapter 9: SUIT ME UP 'N SEND ME OUT

Shortly after McBridle and Tom vacated Sector 2, they returned to the main complex office tower for their prearranged meeting with Carravecky senior.

Tom mentally mulled over what Zeppic had said while McBridle parked. "How well do you know Milnip's sidekick?" he asked while getting out of the clean vehicle.

"Why do you ask me that?" McBridle replied with a blank expression.

"I'm just asking so don't take any offence to my prying into the unknown."

She walked fast, like she wanted to shake him off her scent.

"He said something strange," he revealed, almost running to catch up.

"Oh, what was that?" she stopped, and faced him.

"There was an odd-looking object covered up on the work deck. I'm sure you saw it."

She replied aggressively, "That's an old broken-down private jet Robert Carravecky bought a few years ago, and Zeppic is doing some restoration work on it."

"It didn't look like a plane."

"Why bother yourself with his bad manners and foolish behaviour."

"Because I was going to look beneath the white tarp; and he said that if I did, I'd be dead by morning or something like that."

"That half-baked idiot's dreaming in technicolor," as she continued toward the marble steps.

"Maybe so, but what do you think he meant by that?" he rushed to keep up.

McBridle shrugged with a who-cares type of attitude, "...a young unambitious IT technician who invents spy stories to spice up his drab existence. Don't believe a word he says, or you're just as stupid as he is."

"It's more than that."

"You're making it more than that." She was getting angry. "Let's just proceed with the facts and get on with our objective."

Tom tailed McBridle's sweet flowery scent and entered the front doors of the complex. His mission: investigate and analyse the muddled facts surrounding the case. Internal personnel was one of his main concerns, especially top-level executives who were hired within the last six months. External agents were also suspect. "What's your security clearance?" he asked McBridle as she cooled her pace.

"Why?" She resisted his inquiry.

"I'm just curious."

"Level three."

"And the highest security level is...level seven?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"So why doesn't Carravecky give you increased security clearance?"

"There's no need for my obtaining higher than level three; and if he gave it to me, I wouldn't take it."

"Why not?"

"As an outside consultant, I audit and report project advancement dates to him and the assigned finance committees; that's all I do. Why complicate my life with more information?"

"But you report directly to Doctor Carravecky."

"That's right, sometimes, but not always."

"Then you have information concerning Milnip's project?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, "You think I'm holding back? You think I have information concerning this security fiasco?"

"I'm just trying to understand your relationship with Carravecky."

"Okay," she gave in, just a bit. "I have scheduling information--no technical stuff, nothing anybody would kill for."

"Then who's responsible for managing the technical details?"

"I don't know. I can only guess; there's a very powerful organization festering within this conglomerate. That's why I had to visit Milnip, today."

"And what else did you discuss?"

"I mentioned that the project's main group of financiers were concerned that their system would fail to meet the specified deadline, which is this Friday. I just wanted to tell Milnip, personally, that all parties involved were pleased with his performance and to remind him about Carravecky's contractual commitment."

Tom was pumping her for information, and she obviously knew it.

They arrived at the front desk of the main complex building, and security acknowledged their presence.

"We have a meeting with Doctor Carravecky," McBridle informed the guard.

The guard accessed the computer system and linked into Carravecky's appointment schedule. Then he delivered them to the elevator and sent them to the proper floor.

When the doors retracted, the chairman's business office was right down the hall where Carravecky was waiting for them. It was obvious he loved her like a daughter he never had.

The Doctor gave her a cheeky kiss and shook Tom's hand. "Come on in," he said, and welcomed them into his spacious office; then, closed the door.

The boss sat behind his humble-looking desk while the sunlight shone through the partially opened blinds. The corner shadows made him appear weary. "Yesterday afternoon I got a call from The American News. It was some brash young journalist named Zell Smith. Have you heard of her?"

"Yeah, she reports everything but the truth, and people believe her," McBridle replied.

"A very persistent young lady with a big, ugly mouth," Carravecky said with a Hungarian temper.

"I'm sure the increased guard activity is stirring up a blizzard of suspicion, maybe tame down the security theatrics," McBridle suggested.

"That's impossible right now," Carravecky admitted, his eyebrows turned mean and cross.

"Then... don't sweat this news-pusher, 'cause, if need be, we have a bag of industrial-strength tricks up our sleeve. If push comes to shove, she'll learn who she's dealing with mighty darn fast."

"Let's hear some of them," Carravecky demanded, "and, hopefully, Celia, none of them are illegal," and smiled with a renewed calmness in his eyes.

McBridle had to rethink. "We can play stupid and baffle them with false information. If necessary we can try to fool the authorities; but I don't think that would be wise. We could prepare an external report to the shareholders explaining our dilemma and reassure them our security system is of the highest integrity and all technological developments are secure."

Doctor Carravecky leaned back in his chair with his hands hooked together in front of him. "I'm interested in telling the least amount of information possible but, get our message across to the shareholders and to the public."

"I fully understand your concerns," she said.

"Whatever details you want to disclose, I want Robert to screen the report before it's released," the Doctor ordered. Just then the telephone rang, and Carravecky answered it, talked for a second; then he hung up. He looked at McBridle. "There was a recent newspaper article that pertained to a company's information system. There was an alleged attempt to hack into their encrypted satellite relays; and according to the company's President, no security was breached. We all know what that means, the system bleed." He leaned forward with his hand fastened to a pen. "There're billions of dollars at stake. We need to resolve this matter with the least possible friction. I don't want anyone, either internally or externally, to know what we're up to. Worldwide we have over sixteen thousand employees, and this rotten seed could be any one of them. Be careful whose feet you walk on and good luck."

They ended the meeting when the telephone rang again; it was Robert Carravecky. The Doctor placed his hand over the receiver and waved goodbye.

Tom babied the door, due to his suspicions that the Doctor knew more than he was telling. Tom could tell by the tone of Carravecky's voice that he was becoming annoyed with Robert. The door was ajar; and if Tom was lucky, he'd hear some of the conversion.

"You can't find that memo," Carravecky said furiously, before Tom eased the door fully closed.

Outside Carravecky's office, McBridle was friendly with Sandra, the doctor's assistant, and passed her a note.

The beautiful lady assistant slid it into her blouse. "I'll take care of this," she said softly.

It was presumably a request for additional information. Tom thought it was strange; a matter of such importance would be silently deposited into this lady's pocket. It looked rather suspicious, but he waited patiently while McBridle concluded her business with the woman.

McBridle pulled the purse straps over her shoulder and held them tightly, as if she were protecting a bag of gold nuggets. She was startled when Tom touched her on the shoulder. "Don't do that." She held her chest, spooked.

"Don't do what?" he replied. He concealed his suspicions with a concerned, facial expression.

McBridle caught her breath. "It won't be until after lunch till we get the stuff I requested yesterday," she informed him. "We'll have some time to kill," and headed for the elevator; he followed behind her.

They walked apart in silence to the parking lot.

"About last night," McBridle said while touching Tom on the arm as they continued toward her vehicle, "it was fun, I enjoyed your company."

He didn't expect her to say that. It was obvious, it had become something more than just employer and employee relationship; it was becoming more play than pay.

McBridle toyed with her glittery watch. "We have an hour or so to burn before the documents are released. There's an excellent restaurant located a short drive from here. The Carravecky group operates a resort property. It's a wonderful place; you'll love it," she said convincingly.

Tom felt more confident and relaxed; this was the perfect opportunity to ask her about bowling night. "It's been a long time since I've seen you at the lanes."

"It's been a while."

"Are you interested in going?"

"Are you asking me on a date?" McBridle replied with a womanish chuckle.

"We're usually short a player," Tom replied calmly. "But maybe it's a date; maybe it isn't. If we go together, maybe we can find out for certain."

"All right," McBridle replied, "this might prove pleasantly interesting."

They drove up to the resort; the first thing visible through the tall trees was a long horizontal banner: WELCOME TO ROLLING HILLS. The establishment offered skiing in winter, golfing in summer; and hiking all year round, a quaint place for the invisible rich to escape. They pulled up to the entrance; a valet parked the car.

Tom stopped to admire the lodge and gazed up at the mountain that dwarfed the resort.

"It's quite a sight," she praised the natural view. "It's Doctor Carravecky's favourite place in the entire world," she said, as they entered the warm lobby.

The interior design was that of a typical ski lodge with an extra high ceiling and stone fireplace that radiated a cosy atmosphere. They entered the restaurant area (photos of motion picture celebrates lined the wall where the maitre d' greeted customers. He knew McBridle by name and seated them at the best table that overlooked the naked slopes.

"They seem to take good care of you here," Tom said observantly.

"They know who butters their bread and feeds their families," she replied while searching through her cluttered purse.

Tom glanced around the friendly surroundings and viewed the well-dressed regulars seated nearby--your typical well-fed, wealthy cats from the big city; but there within the room, he caught a faint voice coming from somewhere. "You hear that?" he asked McBridle.

"Hear what?" Her hand was at the bottom of her purse fishing around like a kid searching for the surprise at the bottom of the cereal box, "Me, grinding my teeth?" She found her company credit card and placed it on the table.

"That wasn't what I was taking about."

"Then what?" she asked unconcerned.

"It's nothing, just my acting strange."

"Yeah, I can see that," she noted.

He sat back and scanned the view until he heard the voice again; this time he realized the voice was in his head so he secretively tried to match the mouth with the mind. Three tables over he observed an elderly gentleman seated with a delightfully young brunet lady. The man was talking loudly without being obscene. The lady didn't say a word, although Tom heard her thoughts. She was having an affair with the old guy, and now she planned on killing him--tonight, a bullet through the temple while he slept--then dump the body and wait for the insurance money.

Then, there was another voice; it was that of a middle-aged man seated near the bar. He fantasized about romancing the blond lady a few seats over. Then there was another voice, then another and another. It was like a hundred digital recorders jammed on high-speed playback. Dozens of voices invaded his active mind. He gripped his face with his hands to crash the madness.

Then he envisioned McBridle, who was clothed scantily and sexier than he had ever experienced her before. She seduced him with her sweet olive eyes. Her hair was silky, wild and flowing, her lips fiery and waiting for human contact. Her plump purse swayed between her shapely naked legs like a clock pendulum, winding him into her love-zone trap. He mentally panicked and shook free of the erotic illusion.

She looked at him. "Tom, are you ready to order, or are you going to stare at the menu all day?"

"I'll have a double screwdriver and a cold beer to wash it down; and a bucket of ice for my throbbing head," he anxiously informed the cute waitress, then leaned into his cupped hand as an attempt to escape his misery.

McBridle didn't question his changed behaviour. She ordered Atlantic lobster for both of them; the most expensive seafood item on the menu.

*****

After lunch Tom sat alone in McBridle's vehicle. He knew he was going mad. There were no boundaries between this world and beyond. The mind-crash could occur at any moment. Now he was clinically afraid of what he had become and knew these interdimensional powers would eventually destroy him.

They returned to Carravecky's and picked up the information, then headed back to the office. The documentation requested was contained in three sealed storage boxes.

"Hopefully, something in these files will give us some clues as to exactly what occurred at Carravecky's," McBridle said.

"There're always clues; they just need to be discovered," Tom replied; but he knew the information wouldn't bear any sweet fruit. It was too old and too stale to be of any value, but he went along with her well-spoken act. The powers of the mind-crash had instilled in him a strong sense of curiosity, and he felt that she held a piece of the Carravecky puzzle so he must patiently play her leg-pulling game.

"I hope you now grasp the politics of big business," McBridle said. "I figure we have about a week to crack this case. Two days reviewing this information, two days questioning employees, and testing the security; that leaves us with a few days to write a report. Then on the seventh day, we rest."

"That's a pretty intense schedule for just you and me."

"Why, are you afraid, no pain no gain?"

"Yeah, something like that," he replied, and dummied up.

The Belk Tower was in full sight; they entered the underground parking.

"I don't see your car in the lot today," she inquired as she pulled around a bend where his car is usually parked. "I'm assuming it's in for more repairs?"

"Yeah, well, I don't know," and stretched his neck. "I had a little fender-bending trouble on the way home the other night, nothing serious."

"I'm glad to hear that. I wouldn't want you out of action and wearing a body cast." She parked; then they caught the elevator to floor fifty-one. She strode to her office; he tagged along.

He was anxious to explore the contents of the boxes. He sat at McBridle's desk and waited for security to bring them up from her trunk.

A minute later, Cliff, a huge lumbering man of over three hundred pounds, bullied open McBridle's office door; the three boxes were stacked in his hairy arms. "Where do you want them, Ma'am?" he said gruffly and out of breath.

"Put them beside my desk," McBridle ordered. She thanked him with a pat on the shoulder and twenty bucks in his pocket as he left the office.

"We'll start tomorrow examining the information, if that's all right with you," McBridle said, and partially closed the door.

"That's fine with me," Tom replied as if he didn't care.

The telephone on her desk was the focal point for his eyes. He wondered when the police would be contacting him about his auto accident. He forgot to call was his lame excuse. What would he say? He drove off the road because he was spaced-out in a mind-crash. It wouldn't be long before he'd be living amongst padded walls and wearing an employment straitjacket.

Mackenzie peeked into McBridle's office. "Celia, we need another player, you're bowling tonight, right?"

"Yeah and Bronze will also be joining in," she replied, somewhat focused on her messages.

"Tom, no late nights for you," Mackenzie said with a wink and looked at the boxes with the name Carravecky printed across the white security tape. "Three boxes of bad corporate medicine."

"I'll live," Tom replied with a smile.

"Of course you will. You're young, a strong chap," he said, and left the office.

"Do you have any plans for dinner?" McBridle asked.

"A jam sandwich and a glass of sour-tasting milk," Tom replied seriously.

"Not tonight. I'm cooking you a treat you won't easily forget," she said, while manoeuvring around her desk. "I forgot to tell you that there's a meeting scheduled at Carravecky's for Friday morning."

"A classified projects meeting?"

"No, just a shareholders meeting of some dull sort."

"Sounds fun, if you're a corporate clown."

"That's funny. Actually, they're really boring, and put you to sleep very fast." She slid into her coat. "Can you work tonight, after bowling?"

"Doing what?"

"I just want to go over a few small investigation details."

"I'm committed one hundred percent to this case. If you really need me; and if that's what you want, I can work," he replied, while following her out of the office and hot on her heels.

The day was over, and the workers began to vacate the hive; but Tom's day was just beginning to buzz.

They were jammed in like pickled freight as they descended in the elevator. The body compaction forced Tom's groin tight against McBridle's clothed spine. He felt the ripeness of her warm muscles, smelled the honey fragrance in her golden hair, and tasted the viscid sweetness in his craving mouth.

The doors separated like they were pressurized, and the people scrambled like trapped mice. McBridle and Tom left the underground parking and headed out of the business district.

"Have you ever been to the Side Cliffs?" she asked.

"The ones with the narrow parking look-offs?"

"That's the ones."

"Yeah, I've been there once or twice," he replied.

"They're stunning this time of the day, even more this time of the year. Just a few minutes of smelling the fresh salt air, my stress level will be back to normal." McBridle drove with a heavy foot; it seemed like the luxury sedan was floating on a buffer of air.

Tom wondered why she wanted to show him the Side Cliffs, especially now, but didn't question her ulterior motives.

They travelled beyond the city's core. The roadway paralleled the waterline; at one point, it appeared that the tide swells were splashing over the breaks.

McBridle pulled into the look-off and parked. She hesitated, "Well, this is it, the most beautiful view, I think, on the face of the planet." Then she got out of the vehicle.

Even though the sun was warm, the Pacific winds weren't friendly; she flipped her coat collar up over her ears. "I could watch this sunset every day of my life," she said, her eyes gesturing into the yonder.

"It's a beautiful sight which makes you wonder about the meaning of life here on planet earth," he replied, as if making trivial conversation.

They stood overlooking the cliff and the endless ocean of rippled tides that rolled in through the strait.

"Tom, we can't trust anybody," McBridle said out of the blue.

He stepped closer. "Why do you say that?"

"This breach of security goes far beyond what you could ever imagine."

"How far is that?"

"Very far; secret organizations are involved. I can't control what they do. I believe it's going to get dangerous."

"We'll keep it clean and get through it."

She dragged her blowing hair away from her face. "I'm being honest and telling you this so you'll fully understand what we're dealing with." She turned and faced him. "I believe we have an unsolvable problem."

"How unsolvable are we talking?" He stood strong yet concerned.

"If we tell the truth, there's a higher probability both of us could wash up on the shores of this water's edge."

"So you're saying we got to lie?"

She looked down from the look-off. The waves crashed hard against the shoreline where the rocks were sharp as knives. "No, I'm saying, you must decide. I want you to understand what you're up against because once the boxes are opened there's no turning back, not for you nor me."

He placed his hand on her shoulder to offer his reassurance and support.

"Are you willing to assume this amount of risk?"

"I'm a real sucker for corporate punishment. Don't worry about me."

She smiled affectionately. "Well, then, good, I'm glad." She seemingly wanted to hug him but turned away. "I'm hungry. Let's get out of here and get some dinner," she said, and started toward the car.

*****

After a half-hour or so, they drove into her driveway and entered the house through the side door.

She closed the family-room curtains for privacy. "I hope pre-processed meatloaf will ignite your deprived taste buds," she said, and tossed her coat over a chair; "how about a drink?" and yanked open the refrigerator door.

"Beer or whatever you got is fine," he replied, and sat into the couch.

*****

It was 5:45 p.m. and Tom's stomach growled like an angry Sasquatch. McBridle was in the kitchen fixing dinner. He slouched lazily on the couch and stared at the wall in front of him. He didn't know why; he just stared. His eyes were fixated on a small hole that appeared to have been damaged by a sharp object and was in need of repair. His immediate obsession was to fix it; yet for some unknown reason, he feared going near it. The mind-crash had lapped without penalty, and he felt relieved.

*****

After dinner McBridle went upstairs to change from business to casual. Tom stood at the bottom of the stairway and sipped on a glass of wine. He could hear her upstairs opening and closing the closet doors and walking back and forth. He entered the living room, picked up a tiny figurine and examined it; it was all glazed and colourful with an inscription: TO CELIA, LOVE DAD. When he turned, she was standing there. She was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans and a stretchy white top. Her choice of clothing accentuated her flawless figure. Every ounce of her exterior was mortally delectable.

"Well, I see you're fully ready," Tom said while checking her out as if she were a slice of juicy roast beef.

She slid her hands down her hips and thighs. "You like what you see?"

"Do birds nest in trees?" He placed the owl back on its perch.

She smiled as if she were sexually aroused. "Let's take off; or we'll be late," she said, and hooked his arm as they left for the bowling lanes.

Chapter 10: ACCEPT OR SUBMIT

A big, spherical roof ornament rotated in a fixed orbit; the glowing red neon sign was FANZ BOWL 24/7, and it could be seen from a great distance. Inside the ample structure dozens of busy rental lanes with chromed ball retrieval equipment systems laboured as evening athletes threw their drinking arms and light hearted barmaids delivered bottles of cold beer. It was a relaxed and cheerful atmosphere where everyone got along.

Mackenzie was in lane forty-seven practicing his game and bragging to a couple of female administrators, who worked on another floor, about how praiseworthy he was at firing perfect strikes down the shellacked floor planks; he was full of himself tonight.

Tom followed McBridle to lane forty-six; he carried a restrained smile and two pairs of rented bowling shoes.

"We're gonna mop you up and ring you out," Mackenzie said, the ball smothered in a damp hand towel.

"In your momma's dreams, cocky lady boy," McBridle shot back. "Tom, get ready; we'll show these bums who they're dealing with."

"You got it boss." He shouldered a ball and began to warm up his throwing arm.

*****

In the midst of the lively competition, Tom went to the men's room. Garbage cans overflowed and wads of crumpled paper towel littered the floor, and foul language clung to the walls like spit on a tongue; it was a real pigsty. "This place is a shambles of neglect," he mumbled, stepping over a puddle of wetness in front of the sink. He cracked open the leaky tap and splashed some cool water on his face. "I feel like a wet dog," he said, unable to escape his tired reflection, "that can't shake its bones of trouble." The mirror mocked his muscled clumsiness. "Things got to change for the better," he murmured, "or I'll be living in a pine box six feet under." Then the door banged open and in walked Jant.

"Those muffin-heads dropped the hard one," he said as he kicked open a stall door. Luckily, it was empty. He calmed his temper once he realized Bronze was watching him in the mirror.

"Having a bad night or what?" Tom asked.

"Yeah--and it's getting worse by the hour," he replied while relieving his urge in the pisser. "How's your night going?"

"The same as yours--only it's getting worse by the second," Tom admitted.

Jant turned his eyes away from the wall--spit and cheeky-graffiti--and toward Tom. "Heard you're working with that witch McBridle," he inquired impolitely.

"A week or two--then I go back to my regular routine."

"Then, you're a lucky donkey."

"Lucky! Why?" Tom seemed confused.

"I've worked with the ice-breathing, fire-spitting lady before; I know what that woman is like."

His eyes narrowed. "When was that?" he asked, and ripped an extra length of paper from the wall dispenser.

"It was six months before you started here."

"And what happened between you and her?" He tossed the towel into the trash; it fell on the floor.

"The absolute worst experience of my employment history; she was a lying, sneaky whore. She made me do every damn job imaginable except spit shine her tits," he jerked his zipper closed like a crazy daredevil, "and even that pleasure would have turned my stomach inside out."

"You're exaggerating. It couldn't have been that bad."

"It was. She'll eat you up and spit you out like a rotten cherry on a fast train to crap-land;" he stepped up to the sink and started to scrub his manicured hands.

"I think she's changed since then, but I'll keep a good eye on her."

"I tell ya, buddy, she's got zero, negative regard for anybody other than herself."

Tom didn't want to hear the truth but remained silent.

"Just don't turn your back on her, and you'll be okay, maybe," he said, and wiped his hands dry.

"I'll remember that," Tom replied, and watched Jant comb his hair and attempted to cover up his quarter-size bald spot until he left.

The interdimensional cogs of the mind-crash churned. Tom pushed through the washroom door and walked into another world.

The dead sky was blackened with a distant orangey glow; the charred, defiled ground smouldered and discharged flaming bursts. The air was dense with ash that continuously fluttered down from above and begrimed the Nukyi Salient's durable body suit. There, off in the far distance, Tom heard a faint echo and followed it.

His soles of his battle boots dug deep as he trucked through the smouldering cinders. He was at ease and in control, the duel-barrel equalizer was charged up and standby in the weapon holster power pack. He was mentally and physically prepared to confront this evildoer who summoned him. He gripped the gun handle and muscled onward.

There was an evil laugh that seemed to have come from the unsettled sky; then a thick voice rumbled from the darkness. "You will soon be empowered by my hatred," the entity bellowed.

Tom swung around, hard. "If you want me, show yourself, you big, ugly bag of nails," he shouted into the air as he moved in a defensive circle.

A ball of flaming energy shot from the dark clouds and crashed to the spent ground; a black, oily glob bubbled up and solidified into a gladiator-type battler. When it stepped forward, it divided; then there were two fighters. Their two handed swords hung from their girths with the steel dragging the smoky ground as they marched in cloned syncopation.

Tom aimed his weapon; the power indication meter read one-hundred-percent fully charged, but he was unable to activate the lock-fire triggering mechanism and holstered the weapon.

The gladiators stopped. They seemed to be awaiting the arrival of their king, and Tom knew their evil master was Ferronkus. Like a trapped animal, he had only one alternative: fight for his life.

The gladiators wove an attack and forced Tom in the direction where there was a cubicle prison cage that rose out of the baked crust. Cries of rage roared from inside the cell. Containment energy illuminated the confined space and exposed nine defeated heroes.

"Who in the blind-dog is that bunch of space-exploring wrist-benders?" Tom grunted while evading the gladiators' blades, and moved swiftly to avoid being struck down. His fighting style was unrefined yet his strength and quick thinking seemed to have given him a definite advantage.

The gladiators manoeuvred their steel in striking motion. Their hard blades crashed against Tom's torso without damage to the suit--the special active compound within the body shielding hardened like steel when struck, protecting him from mortal injury.

With his powerful, spry legs, Tom dodged the enemy's razor edges by flipping back and over top of them; and with one front kick, bolted one clone to the ground; the second competitor retreated, regrouped, and then attacked.

"Thrond, careful, behind you," a caged soldier warned.

The fallen gladiator sprung to its feet and rejoined the other in battle.

Tom needed to destroy these ancient twins before they destroyed him. The gladiators' blades chopped the burnt air, and their combat commotion disturbed the powdery grey trail. Tom seized the opportunity to strike. The first gladiator's blade smashed against the bars of the cage and sprayed energy across the air. Tom's torso was flexed strong, his hand hard like steel. With Nukyi precision, he hammered his fist on the blood gutter of the gladiator's sword and snapped it in two. With beyond-mortal speed, he grabbed the two-foot extension of blade as it dropped to the surface and rammed it in and through the battler's neck.

Its body dissolved into a pool of mucky coal tar. The remaining twin battled onward with eyes like fire and forward with determination blazing.

Tom had barely enough time to react as he delivered a flurry of pulverizing strikes and dropped the second fighter to the ground. Its facial wounds spurted a black, tar-like fluid. Tom staggered back. He wiped his grungy hair away from his disbelieving eyes and spit a mouthful of crud. "Stay down you bag of Texas sweet grass." The gladiator melted into a sticky fluid that evaporated into the ground.

"Nothing like a goodnight kiss to wake the dead," Tom joked to the soldiers who were held captive.

"Excellent display of skills my Nukyi brother," a soldier commented.

"And you are?" Tom asked inquisitively.

The bearded soldier stepped forward. "You don't know me?"

"I should, but I don't remember my past."

He raised a mighty fist. "Traymour - Battle Commander of this befallen space squad; you are like us."

"A Nukyi Salient, a genetically created space soldier from the Voge Galaxy?" Tom fished for the truth.

"Yes, of course," Traymour replied overjoyed.

"Then, you know I've changed--Classified: Earthling."

"There is no change of status amongst our kind," Traymour admitted.

Tom leaned closer to the cell, "Then, I guess I'm stuck with this odd life."

"Thrond, quit messing around and get us out of here," Gack snapped his energy whip at the energized bars; "We got galaxies to conquer and species to crack."

"How and with what?" He tensed up his broad shoulders. "If I could get you guys out, I would."

"Your fire-gun," Zizzer indicated, "it's powerful enough to blow this cage to space bits."

"I would if I could, but it doesn't work."

"Then you aren't Thrond," Grom acknowledged.

"Silence," Traymour snapped. He leaned closer to the suspected impostor. "That's correct; the weapon is activated by the nerve signature of Thrond's hand and can only be fired by him."

Tom handled the gun for them to observe. "I am Thrond. You must believe me."

"I believe we must be reunited," D-Stock said, coming from the back of the cage to the front. "I've scanned Thrond's matrix, and there are some biological alterations, which, even I cannot identify; but it is he, all one-hundred percent. I guarantee it."

"If D-Stock says it's Thrond; then it's Thrond," Thork acknowledged, backing up his friend's lost identify. "The Nukyi has risen beyond a world of battle and force and has been chosen to revive our galactic dominance."

"Thrond, do what you can. Our thoughts and wishes are behind you," Minka encouraged with a saddened voice.

He reached out his hand and touched her arm. "I'll do everything I possibly can; that's all I can do. I'm not making any promises I can't keep."

The huge soldier who stood idle began grunting and snorting, ripping at the cage, but to no avail.

"What's with the big-bang guy; did someone tie his shorts in a cranky-knot?" Tom asked.

Traymour turned, slightly. "As you should know, that's Wahl; he's a little rambunctious when he doesn't get his own way. We've all been here a long time and we're all getting peeved."

Tom holstered the weapon. "The bleached Nukyi with the red eyes; he's a tad bit quiet for being cooped up so long."

"That's Breedow. He's a telepathic albino who seldom speaks; he saves his words for the fight," Traymour admitted, "I sense he's reading your mind right now."

Tom peered deep into the space soldier's mysterious ruby eyes. "So, why have I been sent here?" He refocused on Traymour.

"It is an evil challenge. You must unleash Thrond's powers and exploit them like they've never been exploited before."

He nodded reassuringly. "I'll do my best to defend the Nukyis' honour."

"I've always known that one day our fallen ways would destroy us," Zizzer admitted. "Now our strength is with you. You must escape the bite of evil, free yourself, and achieve victory. Your victory will be ours, and we shall be reunited in the galactic lands we helped destroy."

"Thrond, watch your back and good luck," Traymour said.

Tom eyed each Nukyi with a sense of commitment.

"Weak, young Nukyi, there is no escape for you," Ferronkus bellowed. "You are doomed like your weak siblings." The evil pest stretched his eight-foot-plus frame seemingly to the sky. His hand was extended forward, his forearm muscles popped with tension as he squeezed a hammer-like fist; a ball of energy shot out and bowled through the air. The force of impact thumped Tom back and mystically transported him to the demon's nest.

Ferronkus's lair was a vast cave deep in the hollow ground. Heated gases spewed from the splintered rock and heavy mist floated over the untidy floor. Tom stepped over the mounds of bones and rotten carcasses, holding his breath from the vile stench of filth and followed a tunnel, which led to a broad canyon. Lord of Figure materialized on the opposite side.

"There is no place to hide, foolish young Nukyi," Ferronkus howled and laughed hideously.

"Give it up; release me from this mindless curse," Tom ordered.

"If that is your wish, then it shall never be." Ferronkus's body armour glistened like highly polished chrome. Suddenly, he leaped across the bottomless mouth of the opening and was in Tom's face. "You are in my world, and you will play by my forever-changing rules." He circled Tom. His armour clanged as he moved. The master drew his two-handed longsword that was shoved inside his belt and drove the tip into the rock floor. He unhooked another weapon from his belt and held it up. "It's my own devilish creation. I call it a power payly stick; it's used to discipline and tenderize my prey before I consume them."

Their eyes locked in a deadly showdown.

"You are in the middle of your preparation," Ferronkus fanned the stick outward; "but I have no alternative; I must tame your powers. If you do not accept my offer, I shall eat your soul," he admitted.

Tom pointed a commanding fist. "Tell me why I'm so important?"

"Your demands are of no concern," as Ferronkus held his muscular hand out and a ball of blue energy sparked in his palm. "This evil gift could be your every desire. Wealth of kingly proportions, powers beyond immortality--yours, if you submit," Ferronkus promised.

"That price is blackout death that I can't accept," Tom replied as he stood his ground.

Ferronkus removed his hood. He dragged his clawed finger the length of his thick leathery face. "If you wish to defy me, then it must begin." With a strained breath, his body bulged with muscles. His ivory horn crowned his evil authority. "You are my last component," he revealed. "Your powers will complete my objective. Then I will be able to harness," he laughed, "eternity."

"You know what? You're full of the cow's backend," Tom shouted. "Just release me and give up; you can never tame me or control my Nukyi powers."

The devil roared with laughter. "My truth is your reality and that cannot be concealed."

"None of this is my reality."

"It is as real as Exsorbo's reality."

Tom lashed out, "What do you know about him?"

"He has not told you."

"Told me what?"

He encroached in Tom's comfort zone. "That he's my brother, my equal, and my opposite."

"That's a load of bull, and you know it."

Ferronkus flexed his huge shoulders. "The Nukyi had one weakness."

"And what would that be... your breath?"

He laughed even harder, "The sweet deadly kiss of a Verrisean Mistress."

"What's that - an alien blow-up gender toy?" Tom bellowed.

"To you the Nukyi they are a female breed who offers pleasure in exchange for riches. To me, they are beasts of temptation delicious to eat."

"I don't believe your foul-mouth lies and the deception you're trying to inflict upon me."

"I used the Nukyi's addictions to my advantage and trapped all except you." He fanned the stick with an innovative pride, "Now, you must come, take my hand, and live forever under my ever-changing, beyond-world law."

"I could never submit to your insanity, allow you the opportunity to tramp all over me, or use my powers for your sick, parade of death."

This disobedience infuriated Ferronkus. His teeth protruded inches sharper from his watery mouth, yet he backed away from the Nukyi while chanting a strange incantation before converting into a swirling blue light that travelled high into the darkness and disappeared.

A cold, mystic, wind swooped down. Tom felt his body being ripped apart, limb by limb, as he was kicked back from the mind-crash. The pain was almost unbearable as he fell on one knee.

"Tom, are you all right?" McBridle said while holding him upright.

"Yeah, I just lost my balance. I must have slipped on a sack of devil's luck."

"Next time, be careful; you could have injured yourself."

"You're right; but I'm okay now," he indicated by rubbing the back of his neck, hoping that the pain would go away.

She helped him to a chair and got him a cold drink. "Just sit and relax, and don't move from here. You got that?"

*****

Later in the evening, Tom observed McBridle. She sat next to Mackenzie. They both appeared to be having a pleasant time. He always thought that they were more than just business partners. After a few minutes, he noticed their conversation turned inwards and serious. They conversed in a low suspicious tone that wasn't noticed by anybody except for him.

*****

The still night air was damp. It appeared as if rain were in the immediate forecast. Tom looked into the cloudy, starless sky and wondered where this far-away world was that Exsorbo had unveiled? He would have only known the answer to that question had he allowed his impossible mission to run its unbelievable course.

Chapter 11: KISS ME I'M BAD

After a well-behaved evening at the lanes, McBridle was en route to Tom's house.

"It's only early; and since we got our preliminary work up to date, I'm asking you to come back to my place for a nightcap, a gesture of friendship and to talk about the investigation," she said in a dominant breath.

He glanced at the dashboard--the clock's digital readout indicated: 10:45 p.m. "I know you want to go over details concerning the investigation, but I'm a bit tired; and it's late. I don't feel like a drink so just drop me anywhere here, and I'll catch a cab. I'll see you tomorrow morning if that's all right with you."

"It's not all right. Don't be a party-pooper; let your hair down and live a bit; keep yourself sane."

"Well, yeah, sure, then, okay, since you put it that way," he replied; but he was a little apprehensive about being alone with her, especially at this odd hour. "One drink over the case--then I'm heading out whether you like it or not. Got that?"

"That's up to you," she glanced over with a controlled smile.

He looked at her, suspiciously. He sensed she was up to no good.

McBridle drove into the driveway and parked in front of the big double-car garage. They entered the house. Tom got comfortable while she twisted a corkscrew into the neck of a wine bottle. He rested his weary bones on the couch. The cork popped, and he saw her standing in front of him holding two fancy stemmed glasses.

"Here," she passed him a glass, "a thank you present from the chairman of NT Corp," and filled the slender vessel to the top.

He tested the clear fermentation. "Sixty-four, tastes like a very expensive year."

She collapsed next to him. "What a long, strenuous day. I'm glad that it has come to an end."

"Maybe (he tasted the wine), tomorrow (and swirled the fluid in the glass) we'll uncover information as to what's going on at Carravecky's and use this discovery to solve their unaccountable dilemma pertaining to our case."

"Who knows; let's just enjoy this moment of peace and quiet," she replied, and rotated her stiff shoulders while complaining about muscle tension and asked him to massage the kink in her neck. He obeyed her intimate command and continued for several minutes. "That feels exquisite and heavenly gentle," she moaned exotically. "It's making my body melt deep inside," she moaned again; this time harder.

Tom tried not to notice her growing sensualness.

"Squeeze your fingers deeper and further down; don't stop, further, more." She shifted her heated body and pointed her nipple mountains like she was holding back a sinless flood of sexual release. She heaved all the way forward before pulling her breasts back. "I have to go upstairs and do something," she blurted out and cut him off.

"What?" he asked; "did I do something wrong?"

"Never mind, just keep your hands limbered up and ready," she demanded and jumped up. "I'll be back in a flash so stay parked." She hurried out of the room.

A minute later, she returned all clean and fresh.

"You weren't long," he said, popping forward from his dead, lazy position.

She smiled teasingly, posed in a skimpy, semi see-through satin and lace nighty, obviously the only thing covering her beautiful bare skin from his sex-starved, wide-alert eyes. She slithered on the couch next to him.

Like a flint spark to a blaze, they immediately became fiery in each other's arms. Their lips collided with heated passion, and they embraced each other as if engaged in hot combat or as if each love commander was jockeying for sexual advantage.

McBridle's skin was silky and smooth. Her body was athletic and strong. She tore open the front of his buttoned up shirt. His torso was hard and defined; his abs rippled like washboard ribs. She mouthed his chest with x-rated assault. He was defenseless against her lovebite and rode out the gratifying attack.

He surrendered the best he could; his hands tangled in her hair, his fingers knotted together in the fine strands, and pulled her face close and kissed her juicy, plump lips, and savoured every morsel of her wet, tasteful mouth.

She moaned deliciously, demanding his masculine touch. "I want you; I need you; I must have every ounce of you deep inside me." Her lips manoeuvred over his mouth, breathing lustful desire all over his face.

"It's not right; it's wrong; we can't; we must fight the urge," he resisted helplessly.

"It's good, you need it; I need it; there's no stopping it," as she easily convinced him once her lingerie slipped off and her perfect body rubbed all over him.

Their superheated passion exploded like a symphony of Fourth of July fireworks, igniting their senses with a pleasureful overdose of brain-joy sex hormones.

Their eyes were glossy and their breath heavy. They were pressed together provocatively tight. They shifted--again and again--from one lubricious motion to another until they collapsed in heat, dripping with sweat, and panting like exhausted hound dogs unable to continue the chase.

They nested in each other's arms and held each other as if neither wanted to retreat. Their sexual curiosity prevailed, an action, which had led them far beyond a working relationship. Now, they were officially secret lovers. They cooled their overheated joints and cuddled on the couch until McBridle guided Tom upstairs.

The hall nightlight was dim, but it illuminated the bedroom enough to reveal its vogue layout. It was tastefully furnished, a heavy-looking oak king-sized bed headed up against the back wall. Across the floor to the left, where an oval Persian rug lay, a small makeup table sat alone and tidy, except for an assortment of bottles and sprays and a dozen or so well-placed photos tucked in around its rectangular-shaped mirror. There was a tall armoire, which stood guard off to one side. In addition to that, everything in the room appeared to be in its fashionable placement.

He put her in bed and tucked her under the covers; she fell fast asleep.

"Tom, Tom, Tom, what kind of serious hoopla did I get myself into this time?" he whimpered while touching her soft hair and wondering how he allowed this accident to happen.

He got into bed but was unable to sleep so he snooped around the room. He went to the mirror and viewed the photos with whatever light there was; he paid special attention to the one with the two men, who were shaking hands. One of the men, Tom suspected, was McBridle's father; and if he wasn't mistaken, the other man looked like a younger Cecil Lankenbury. "I'd bet my little pay check that Lankenbury is her godfather or uncle or some rich relative," he said reassuringly to himself. He stood idle just thinking about work and was about to leave the room when he glanced back at McBridle, who was motionless beneath the thick duvet; Exsorbo was standing near the bed.

"You are not dreaming my Nukyi friend," Exsorbo said, and stepped forward.

"How is this possible? You can only exist in my sleep."

He stopped in front of the human. "Remember that all is possible. This dimensional realm has been distorted because of your mortal existence here on planet earth."

"So, all of this was never a dream?"

"It is your realty whether it is a dream or not; it is all your truth."

"So, tell me my truth."

"You already know."

"Then, tell me why you're here!" he insisted confidently.

Exsorbo paused; then offered an explanation. "I am here to warn you that there will be many evils bidding to test your skills. Ferronkus has been one."

"Yeah, we met; he's an unpleasant big, ugly fella."

He placed his hand on Tom's shoulder. "You must succeed over this force, or there will be no tomorrow. Ferronkus's power is much greater than mine, and I cannot help you anymore."

"Why is that?"

"My mission obligation has been completed."

"You have to help me; I can't succeed alone."

"I have granted you the ability which will enable you to develop into the skilled soldier that is trapped inside you. Find that power and defend yourself against Ferronkus. This evil representative will stop at nothing to devour you." Exsorbo continued, "It has been thirty-four years since your inception upon this planet, just a grain of sand in time. You must succeed. If you fail, all will be lost to the jaws of evil."

Tom was barely able to accept Exsorbo's nail-biting explanation. "If I succeed," he asked, "I will save the world; but if I fail, all good will be consumed?"

"The outcome is uncertain," the dimensional traveller explained. "The forces of evil are unpredictable. I can only tell you that they are growing impatient and fuelled by a dark weapon created from the most powerful element ever to exist."

"And what would this mystic element be?" Tom asked with a disbelieving tone.

"Those within the Voge galaxy--and those who seek it, called it Tucriney. It is the same element that flows through the veins of the Nukyi Salients and the Merless Knight Warriors. And this is why Ferronkus needs you. With such power, he will be able to harness all that is and build a new, dark eternity, one of pure living hell where all goodness would be enslaved. My friend, this is it; this will be the last time that I will see you until your journey begins."

"This reality is screwing my head up; when will this journey begin?" Tom asked mystified.

Exsorbo shook his head with uncertainty. "Whether you like it or not, it is you who will decide that particular moment in your life, and I cannot change that."

"So, then, the nine Nukyi trapped in Ferronkus's world, can they be saved?" he asked.

"Save yourself," Exsorbo replied, "their adventurous journeys are suspended. You must forget them. When your time arrives, you will be reunited with your destiny; but for now, keep yourself alive and well." Exsorbo extended his hands and created a whirling vortex.

"What do you mean, keep myself alive? Am I going to die?"

"Use what you've learned and be true to who and what you are," he said before he disappeared through the tunnel.

Tom saw a grey planet at the opposite side of the wormhole. Its hazy atmosphere was thick with electrical storm clouds and looked similar to planet earth, but then the vortex snapped shut.

The room grew silent. He stood partially naked. Exsorbo's words had caused him to shiver. He wrapped himself in McBridle's bathrobe. There was an immoral taste in his mouth, a taste that made him feel like he had smoked the Book of Revelations; and he needed a strong drink to extinguish his singed nerves. "What a joke," he mumbled, "the last hope for saving the universe. I'd be lucky to be alive after all this nonsense regurgitated my soul."

A few moments later, Tom entered the kitchen and reached for a half-empty beer that he had stored in the refrigerator earlier in the evening; then he planted himself on the couch. He sipped on the flat ale like it had to last him all night. It was quiet, and he closed his eyes. He felt alone knowing that he wouldn't see Exsorbo for a long while. This confused him as he had become accustomed to following Exsorbo's infinite wisdom. The empty bottle slipped from his limp hand and dropped onto the hardwood floor with a thud. The mind-crash had attacked. He shot open his eyes when he heard a low-pitched hum coming from the wall in front of him. It was the exact same spot where he had previously viewed the damage to the plaster. The blemish was growing larger and it emitted a sound similar to angry waves crashing over rocks.

Tom stood up to investigate the mysterious disturbance. It looked like a shield of fluid; an energy wake pulsated from it. "This can't be. It's just an illusion," he said, fully convinced as to what he was witnessing and submersed his hand into the anomaly to prove that this was just a figment of his whacked imagination,; but his hand was lost and he was swallowed into the portal.

The undertow sucked Tom down to another level of reality, a world obviously controlled by Ferronkus. There, he saw a morning sunrise cast shadows upon an ancient city in a forgotten valley below.

The structures were pathetic, constructed of sandstone blocks that appeared to be in a state of decay, crumbling apart, collapsing under the pressures of time. Along the main road, shackled human livestock were herded up like feed cattle while nonhuman slaves diligently pulled carts weighted down with bales of hay. The lucky few loyal hard-lifers, the drunken bums who roamed the dowdy neighbourhood, were the ones who monitored the incoming foot traffic from the side sewers.

Tom warmed under the rising sun. The Nukyi stood there overlooking the misplaced world as if he ruled over it. He felt strong until he realized the persuader wasn't clipped in the holster.

The voice of a man startled him. He spun around. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" he demanded interrogatively.

"Please, you must help me." His hands were outstretched as if he was seeking forgiveness.

"Help you! Why? Who are you?"

The man was clothed in tattered duds covered with patches; a rope pulled tightly about the waist held his pants from falling down. "You don't know me, but my name is Shane McBridle."

"But you're..."--he got a dry lump in his throat.

"Yes, I know--seven years now."

"Then, what is it you want from me?"

"I have been granted one chance to redeem myself," Shane admitted.

Tom stepped closer, his eyes studied the man. "What is this place?"

"Just follow me; you don't need to know the details of this world," Shane insisted.

"Why should I follow you? This could be a trap."

"There's no time for a song-and-dance explanation. Just, please," he extended his hand, "follow me."

"I don't know where I am or where you expect me to go; but if you know what's best for you," his voice was stressed, "you'll start explaining why I should follow a dead man?"

"It's the devil's daily trouble."

"That doesn't sound like a happy cake-eating party."

"Listen, galactic muscleman, you're right about that; and if you bring me to the party late, you'll have some unhappy explaining to do so just follow and shut up."

He tossed up his hands, "Okay, let's go. If there's going to be a party, I might as well be on time for the evildoer's dinner."

Shane led Tom down the trail to the bottom of the hill. They travelled by foot across a rough cobblestone lane that ran between the dilapidated elevations and headed toward the inner city, a heavily fortified battle zone.

"Hey," Tom called, "slow down."

"Hurry," the dead man replied without a glance.

"McBridle, at least explain how you know of me and my powers."

"Just hurry; I don't have that much time," Shane stressed rudely.

Tom grabbed the man's arm and stopped him. "Tell me what the hell's going on? You're leading me around like a stupid blind dog, and I don't have the patience for that kind of treatment today."

"I can't explain why or how," Shane admitted with, a frightened look in his eyes. "I only know you've been sent to help me break free of this horrible madness."

"To escape this world, and free yourself?"

"Yes... you're my ticket out, and I can't waste a second of this opportunity explaining what I don't understand."

A scruffy villager, who was as drunk as a skunk, approached the Nukyi. "I'm betting on you to lead us out of his shit-hole," he slurred, his lips pressed against the rim of the booze crock. He mouthed a huge swig; then passed out on the road.

"Well, if we're going, get us there," as he stepped over the bum.

Shane rushed toward the appointed area--an angry amassment of grimy villagers watched from the upper balconies and shouted down obscenities.

"So, McBridle, how did you get yourself into such a pot of stink?" Tom asked between steps.

"A long story with a short version," Shane quickened his pace.

"Well, spit it out."

"I was a young, stupid fool, who drank too much at the wrong time, drove with one eye open, ran over somebody's kid, and didn't pay the price for that life," Shane replied remorsefully; "so, now, the payment is past due."

"Well that explains everything in a nutshell," the Nukyi concluded.

The inner city was corralled by a large stone wall. The entrance was guarded with a heavily fortified timbered door and would require at least twenty healthy servants to open and shut it. Inside, hundreds of menacing-looking characters stood waiting in the gallery and some fought amongst themselves for the best view of the fighting circle.

Tom and Shane approached the fighting arena. The closer they got to the ring, the more hostile the inhuman spectators behaved. And when the Nukyi stepped inside the circle, the prison-rats were anxious for the match to begin. Their deranged aggressions echoed off the walls of stone.

"Stay clear." Tom grasped Shane's arm, and pulled him away from the hard-lifers' grubby paws. "It appears that they won't enter the circle; so we're safe for now."

A perfectly timed syncopation of solid march steps caused the hell savages to turn and look toward the entrance. Ferronkus entered with an entourage of eight armoured gladiators. The cowardly servants bowed to the Evil One as he paraded into the area. The faithful ones proved their loyalty and worthiness by cheering victoriously for their master. With one flickering finger motion, Ferronkus silenced the doomed spectators; no man or beast would dare disturb Lord of Figure before he gave the signal for a challenge to begin.

"That Hell-dude is one ugly-looking beast," Tom noted silently with a doomed breath.

Ferronkus carried a two-handed sword with evil pride. "It's a pleasure to see you again, my young, foolish Nukyi." He scratched the steel tip across the cobblestone to distract his opponent's concentration.

Shane stood behind Tom for protection.

"What is it you want with him?" Tom shouted demandingly.

Ferronkus smiled, as if amused; then he walked closer with the two-handed sword held outstretched. "He is mine. I have laid claim to his flesh," the devil said with a thunderous voice.

"He's worthless," Tom bellowed.

"As worthless as the others, but I must have my feast." He smiled with a mean bite. He snapped his thick fingers, and two gladiators removed his golden crown. The sight of his noxious ivory horn caused the lifers to chant for the challenge to commence.

Lord of Figure and Tom Bronze stood in the middle of the fighting circle. The clone fighters stood guard outside the ring.

"If I win, what shall I gain?" Tom cried out while shielding Shane McBridle from the devil's armoured reach.

"There has never been a winner. So you also belong to me."

Tom had no weapon, but Ferronkus had two. "I'm defenceless. How can this match be equal?"

"That makes it all the more challenging for you," Ferronkus roared; then he attacked with his sword drawn. His blade was much heavier than the blades used by the gladiators and many times more deadly.

Tom pushed Shane out of the way and avoided the evil master's striking motion as Ferronkus backed away while wielding the special steel with all his evil skill. He attacked again with a fury that drew cheers from the gallery. With his jaws snapped shut and nostrils flared, Ferronkus snorted like a charging bull ready to devour the matador.

Tom could only move away from the evil guy's deadly blade for so long, and it was becoming harder to protect Shane McBridle; he needed a weapon. He rolled across the stone surface to evade the stomping actions of Ferronkus's enormous feet. The memories of the Nukyi's fighting styles were coming back to him. "You call that a fight?" he sprang up and shouted. "You want me... not him."

Ferronkus turned the blade away from McBridle as if calculating the larger and more-worthy victory.

"I'm still waiting; come get me, you big, fat-headed ass."

They thundered into battle. The master of evils was equipped with a fighting arsenal from some hundred-thousand millenniums and he was no stranger to battle. Tom clenched his fists and adapted the Nu-Yak fighting style, the most elusive fighting method used by the Nukyi. Tom took every advantage using whatever skills he commanded. He leaped up and over Ferronkus. His motive was to subdue the giant in a lock-arm chokehold and strangle the horned beast. There was no margin for error, and time for him was running thin.

Ferronkus straightened up. He towered over Tom by a healthy foot and a half or more and outweighed him by a meaty two tons. The extra weight was exhausting the beast as he chased Tom from one area of the circle to the other.

"Stand still so I may carve you limb from limb," the evil one ordered.

"If you can catch me, then you can eat me," Tom shouted. He saw an opportunity to strike and leaped across the circle and flipped over backwards and landed on his feet. His attack caught Ferronkus off guard, and Tom was able to capture the power payly stick from hellbender's belt.

Their bodies clashed together in furious battle. The steel of the longsword and the energy of the stick met with equal force. Tom jammed the power stick into Ferronkus's forearm. It sent a surge of energy into the beast's hand that almost caused the devil to fumble the blade.

The devil counterattacked and pounded his heavy foot into Tom's mid-section, sending him across the circle and to the stone in pain. "It is my evil pleasure to flatten you like dimensional time," the master demon laughed, as he attacked with his foot ready to crush the Nukyi's chest; but Tom escaped and rolled to safety, at least for the moment.

The blade and stick collided. The sharpness of the steel had severed the weapon's energy-release prong. The containment mechanism began to heat up and could possibly malfunction or fully discharge at any second.

Ferronkus pulled back and rested the tip of the blade on the ground. He seemed to be enjoying the match. "There is only one way out; that is by way of my fist."

"Then try this Nukyi beating on for size, crab-breath," Tom shouted and flipped backwards across the circle; he rammed the energy poker into Ferronkus's spine.

Lord of Figure dropped to one knee but only for a blink of an evil eye. When he arose, he appeared twice as angry. His nostrils flared wider, his teeth jutted out sharper, and strands of muscle tightened like braided cords of steel in his neck. Ferronkus swung the two-handed sword with his last remaining might. The blade ripped across Tom's arms and torso and sliced through the impervious protective body suit shielding. A small amount of blood was drawn from the two wounds before the suit miraculously healed itself.

Tom dropped to the ground from the force of Ferronkus's attack but soon recovered.

"Weak, mortal creature, this will be your bloody end-life." Ferronkus thrust the steel down at the Nukyi but missed the body target. The resonating blade sunk deep into the stone surface and fused there.

Tom rammed his foot on the flat of the steel and shattered the blade into a dozen pieces. The Nukyi's unearthly strength shocked the evildoer.

"This is not possible; I am strong; you are weak." Ferronkus held up the bladeless sword. "You will pay with your soul."

The power stick rested on the stone floor and was going to blow, but Ferronkus didn't seem to care; he was anxious to finish the Nukyi once and for all and claim his victory.

They charged toward each other and collided in a blaze of fist-to-bigger-fist combat.

Tom was no match for the strength of this bad-breath pest, but he had only one option: survive. He slipped free and pestered onto the bull's back. "This is for you, round-neck," the Nukyi growled out and grasped hold of Ferronkus's horn and snapped the beast's head back and locked his arms into an inescapable chokehold.

The evil master weakened as Tom ripped the bone from the beast's skull. The giant collapsed to the ground. Black tar gushed from the gaping hole, and Tom held the horn in his gooey grip as if it were a first-place finish bowling trophy.

The evildoer's faithful servants were dead silent with disbelief. The clones waited for a command from their master.

Tom dropped ten pounds of ivory next to Ferronkus's massive body; then he strode toward Shane. "It's over; we're getting out of here right now," Tom indicated, pointing the way out.

"I don't think so," Shane said, and noticed that the demon had gotten to his feet, "the beast is still alive."

"This dance is finished, and so are you," Tom bellowed; and dove across the circle and grabbed the payly stick. It sounded like it was going to pop as he aimed it toward Ferronkus. Like a ball of cosmic fire, the energy exploded from the tip of the stick and struck the large timbers and stone blocks overhead that crashed down on the beast.

And when the dust settled, Tom cautiously inspected the pile of rubble for any sign of abnormal life. The prisoners were motionless until they saw Ferronkus reform from a black gel to a solid body.

"The battle is not over yet, young Nukyi," Ferronkus insisted as he spit a mouthful of coal tar. The gladiators motioned to attack, but the master demon ordered them back. He grabbed a sword from one of the clones, but he was too weak to continue. "Tomorrow, there shall be a new day--a new battle, my young Nukyi," Lord of Figure spewed, "then it will be a different conclusion."

"I'll be waiting," Tom replied, "anytime, anywhere."

Ferronkus tossed the blade back to the battle clone, "I'm sure you will be, foolish Nukyi," then reached down to the ground and retrieved the hilt. "You are apparently more elusive than I've anticipated. Exsorbo has trained you well, but you have only prolonged your demise. Soon you will be painfully reunited with your fellow Nukyi; and then you won't be so brave," as he used the ultimate command of his evil mind--the gladiators melted into him just before he converted into an energy funnel and disappeared into the sky.

"It's over," Tom said convincingly. "You're free to vacate this god-ugly, death-filled world."

"I don't know how to thank you," Shane said, and motioned to hug him.

Tom repelled him with an angry expression, "Just stay out of trouble and don't ever bother me again," he said with a serious tone.

"That's a deal. I owe you and, I won't forget what you've done for me."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard that story before; don't make promises a rat like you can't keep," Tom said, and escorted Shane from the circle. The prisoners cleared a path that led to the large timbered doors. They exited and travelled by cart down the cobblestone lane to the edge of the city where the tree line formed an impassable wall.

"Go, get, before I change my mind and throw you back to the wolves," Tom commanded.

"My daughter--tell her that I love her."

"Yeah, I'm sure she knows," Tom said without feeling.

"Please."

"Whatever; just get going and don't come back," he said, and watched Shane McBridle disappear into the thicket.

*****

Tom could hear Celia calling for him as he squeezed out from the portal. She was coming down the stairs; it was morning and she was ready for work.

"What happened to you last night?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he replied, and pulled her robe tight around his shoulders.

"I woke up, and you weren't there."

"I was here, downstairs."

"I came down; I didn't see you."

"Well," he paused, "I was there," and pointed to the couch.

"Oh," she replied unsure.

"I came down for a snack and must have fallen asleep watching the news," he easily explained, as he went upstairs to get dressed.

Chapter 12: A ROOF OF FRIGHT

It was Thursday morning, and McBridle stopped at Tom's house so he could change clothes; they continued on their way to the office.

The drive was quiet as neither talked much. He thought about last night. Exsorbo could no longer fight his interdimensional battles.

Tom tried to unscramble his probed mind without a hope in hell. Today his muscles were sore (sorer than yesterday), and it felt as if he were caught in a tug of war between the forces of good and evil. He was breaking apart at the seams.

He glanced over at McBridle; she smiled tenderly at him. He considered telling her about his late-night, strange-world encounter, and how he saved her slimy father from the devil's belly; but he couldn't think how he could explain that pile of bull. His nerves were tested. No sensible explanation could explain that rude adventure. She'd think he was high on morphine salt, and she wouldn't understand what the hell he was mumbling out.

The dewy autumn leaves blew across the wet pavement; the morning air was chilled. Tom turned up the radio volume to soothe his familiar torment. Dancing with the devil was taking an unwelcome toll on his skewed sanity; he needed a release.

She broke the sustained silence and commented about his car, which hadn't been parked in his driveway, and asked if it was still in the shop for major repairs.

He cleared his stumped throat and powered the window halfway down, debating whether to explain the details of how he wrecked it; then he confessed. He told her that he drove off the road Tuesday night on the way home from her place.

She was somewhat sympathetic but didn't fish around for the end of the story. The Belk Tower was in plain view as they entered the financial district. There was an automobile accident ahead of them. An ambulance was at the scene with an emergency rescue unit and a couple of flashing police cruisers. The unlucky vehicle was flattened, apparently nobody survived.

Tom viewed the wreckage as traffic moved slowly past the site. A flash of light blurred the present, and Tom's sight dropped into the past. There, he saw a young lady park in front of the high-rise fixed for renovations. She vacated her vehicle and entered what appeared to be an Italian bakery located at ground level. Moments later the lady emerged with a bag of goods and stood at the curb. She looked up and down the avenue as if waiting for somebody. A long vehicle pulled up in front of her, and a hefty man got out. They argued in a foreign language.

He pushed her against the car. She was crying heavily. The man shouted louder--this time in English: "Don't bother me with your financial wants. I paid you once; there are no seconds," he released her; then he climbed back into the limo. She wiped away her tears and got into her vehicle. She was about to drive off when an overhead crane cable snapped and dropped a ton of building materials on her soft-top, killing her instantly.

Tom was there in his bent mind; however he could do nothing to avert the tragic event. He took a deep breath and put the vision to rest. It was the powers of the mind-crash. Exsorbo was right! These irregular powers were uncertain and served no master so he'd better be careful not to rattle any empty meat hooks.

McBridle and Tom entered the tower and rode the elevator to their floor. Mackenzie stood near the office entrance; he was questioning Stella about a particular telephone message that had somehow been misplaced and mysteriously turned up on his desk a week late. He saw McBridle and alertly asked if she was available for lunch.

"I'll need to confirm my to-do list; call me later this morning," she replied, and hurried past. "Tom, I have another matter to attend to; I'll see you later."

"When you need me, give me a shout," as he went off and hid in his cubicle. Death seemed to stink all around him; he couldn't shake the mind-crash or the bad vision of that young lady who died a crushing death; it haunted his emotionally numbed mind.

Jant peeked in, extremely pissed off. "Thanks, buddy, I'm your replacement. I'll be working under Selly's dictatorship; it's not gonna be friendly days."

"Sorry pal for the unexpected inconvenience."

"I bet you are," he replied softly with a bitter grin. "So, really, how long will this assignment last with you and that slave driver?"

"Next week, maybe the week after," Tom replied. He diverted his attention to clearing off the top of his desk.

"Thank holy shit for that," Jant said, and stormed off.

The telephone rang. "Tom Bronze."

"I need you here in my office--right now," McBridle said mischievously before she hung up.

When Tom entered her office, she was conducting a telephone interview and pointed to the seat. He positioned it closer to her side.

McBridle finished the call and rocked back in her chair. She looked into his cloudy eyes, "Wherever you want to start this investigation will be fine with me."

Tom sized up the three boxes stacked beside her desk. "With all these files and stuff, I'm sure we can create a technically convincing report," he said.

"That theme shouldn't be difficult to get across; after all, they have a strong, worldwide reputation; and I'm sure the majority of shareholders will believe whatever the company wants them to believe," she replied.

"I somewhat believe that yet I believe our main focus should be directed at the integrity of Carravecky's name."

She opened her desk drawer and withdrew a plastic ballpoint pen and standard writing pad. "They've been in business for over forty years and never once had a known breach of security. If we can sell this rock-solid track record to the shareholders, I'm sure we can maintain their confidence in the company."

Tom placed a box on top of McBridle's desk and ripped off the tamper-proof seal. The box contained file folders that were organized by colour code. Red was security, blue was internal operation; and green was system malfunctions. Tom pulled an assortment of folders from the box and viewed them. In combination, there must have been at least fifty reports in total; and it would, surely, take them more than two days to review all of the material, even if they both worked non-stop, twenty-four hours a day.

He got busy and examined a file, but he had a sneaky feeling that McBridle was searching for something extremely important to her in one of the other two boxes.

The telephone rang, and she answered it. Her conversation lasted a second or two; then she hung up and said: "Tom, I have to go. I'll be back later. It looks like you'll have enough work to keep busy until I return so have fun and don't pull a groin."

"Lots of fun--enough to last six months of royal shindigs--and that's no information fabrication," Tom replied with a smile. He helped her on with her coat and out the door; then he continued to browse the reports. He knew the stuff was smothered with deceitfully flavoured accounting methods. Most of the information was prepared internally and was probably, at best, unreliable. He leaned back in the chair to rest his overtaxed eyes. The smell of McBridle's perfume filled the office as if she were still there. The feminine bouquet seemed to pull a horrible thought from the bottom of his mindscape, he remembered her saying that things could get dangerous. Now, he kind of believed her.

*****

When McBridle returned about an hour or so later, she said something about Lankenbury returning from China today.

Tom didn't want to delve into the business dealings surrounding the head-honcho, so he continued to explore the abundance of print information. He was beginning to understand the hierarchy of the Carravecky group. They were extremely powerful and very professional in obscuring the truth and maintaining their secrecy.

He broke from a report and smiled at her. She sat across from him, unknowingly flirting with her hair, twisting it around her index finger like she was practising the art of sexual manipulation; but he remained focused and worked the best he could.

The mind-crash struck without warning. It skewed all reality like a blink of a bloodshot eye and transported his present sight to a luxurious hotel suite with all the amenities fit for a fussy queen.

He walked the richly endowed, spacious room and gazed at the outside view. He saw labyrinthian garden trails and huge leafy palm trees bending in the direction of a flaming sunset that burned into the calm ocean. He reckoned that he was somewhere in the central Pacific Ocean. The mind-crash episode seemed to bring him into the future and not the past.

Tom was startled as the door swung open. McBridle, followed by a blond-haired lady with an active figure, entered the suite. They appeared as if they were returning from an evening swim. Tom had seen this busty woman before but couldn't remember where.

The two women were acting girlish and friendly and joked about as if he were invisible (even though he was standing right in front of them).

"That mindless sponge-head never knew what hit him," McBridle said to her lady friend.

"He was like liquid soap on a hot-wired rope," the breasted partner replied while towelling off her wet hair and laughing as if it were a big joke.

"Let's just hope he stays down until the crime flames burn out."

"If you're concerned about him, don't be; he's down and counted out."

"And what about Remmie Take?" McBridle inquired while slipping into a white hotel-supplied robe.

"What about him?"

"Has he left the country with his share of the loot?"

"Yeah, I'd say he's gone and forgotten."

The two women embraced each other like long-lost sisters.

Then the vision dematerialized; and Tom's sight was restored to the present planet, earth time. He was puzzled.

"Are you feeling all right?" McBridle asked. She was trying to get his attention by fanning her ring hand in front of his face.

He snapped to attention. "It's OK, I'm fine, I was just daydreaming about the Tropic of Cancer," Tom replied while loosening his knotted tie. Now he was highly suspicious of her future loyalty. "I need to get some fresh air," he said, and motioned to get up from the chair.

She mocked his actions and said, "It's lunchtime. Tom, have you ever been to the Galleon's?"

"No. But I heard the pasta dishes are cheap and good."

"Not just cheap and good—it's the best Italian food in town. Since you've earned your daily bonus, I'm taking you there for lunch" as she led him from the office.

The restaurant was a short jaunt from the Belk Tower. Droves of clean day workers occupied the wide sidewalk and hurried to their regular lunchtime destinations. It was one of the busiest noon hours he'd seen in a long time yet he felt out of place. His current situation was a hard pill to swallow; he felt strange being seen in public with his boss, and he knew that the office population was beginning to notice and talk about them.

There was a smell of diesel fuel floating in the air that only he could detect. From the distance, Tom spotted an older man walking toward him. The man was immaculately dressed, about sixty years of age, and cursed with a bad case of premature baldness. The diesel scent seemed to be getting stronger as the man approached.

Like a wall of vapour, Tom felt the combustible fumes wash over his face. He tasted the oil burning in his mouth; the sensation was followed by an unsavoury vision, which caused him to stop and stare. He saw a steel drum brimmed with murky seawater and submersed was a woman's waterlogged body; the young lady's eyes were swollen open as if she died an abrupt death. Tom just eyed the man as he strode past without a guilty care.

*****

Later at Galleon's they were enjoying their lunch when Tom thought he heard a cry for help. "Celia, did you hear that?"

"Did I hear what?" she said annoyed and directed her attention about the restaurant.

"I think it was a lady's voice."

"Yeah I did," she replied, and silently directed her eyes across the busy floor, "that plump-butt accounting snob over there cursed me last week while I was trying to exit the parking garage. I think she's talking about me right now."

"No, I don't mean that," he said, fully irritated.

"What then?" she replied while picking through her salad, as if uninterested.

"I'm certain it sounded like a woman crying for help."

"That's strange; I didn't hear anything like that. Maybe it's all in your head, and you're just hearing things," McBridle replied sarcastically and continued with her lunch.

"Maybe so; lately I've been hearing a lot of wishy-washy things, and they're making me a bit crazy." He momentarily rested his fatigued eyes. The mind-crash returned his sight frequency to a previous vision. There he saw two men; one was that fancy-dressed bald guy. The other man wore a roly-poly gut and a rotten, dishonest smile. He forcefully held the woman while the bald guy whacked the barrel lid over her pretty head multiple times and rendered her defenceless and unconscious. The woman sank into the drum like a charmed cobra; then baldy sealed the rim. They boarded a small craft and drove out into the bay and offloaded the sealed cargo to its watery grave.

Tom was an obedient servant to the powers of the mind-crash. They were growing more frequent, realistic, and horrifyingly demanding.

"Tom, what's wrong with you?" McBridle asked and placed her fork by her plate. "You're acting very strange today."

He looked straight at her. "I want to get back to work. It's getting late, and I don't want to be counting pages all night." He wiped his saucy mouth with the cloth napkin; then tossed it on the empty plate. "I need to stretch my legs," and rose to leave.

*****

McBridle and Tom were on their walk back to the office to continue their investigation.

"I'll just be a minute," she said, and ducked inside a ladies' designer boutique. Tom followed, and waited.

He stood at the front window and watched the skirt show from between the security bars. He heard McBridle's voice floating out from the back of the shop and assumed she'd soon finish her transaction. He was getting bored and rubbed his sleepy eyes; when he withdrew his clumped hands, he was back at that posh hotel room.

Again, he saw McBridle and the other woman; they were nesting on the bed. He stepped closer like a shy ghost; they couldn't see nor hear him. They were talking about some spent-minded guy who couldn't calculate the sum of two-plus-two without the aid of a supercomputer--also a crime and how clever they were at fooling everybody, including the acting authorities.

Tom grew more paranoid; they could have been talking about him. He walked over to the foot of the bed and saw a suitcase that contained a lot of cash. Hundred dollar bills were bundled together with U.S. Federal Bank seals; the notes were crisp and authentic-looking. "What in tarnation is my boss-lady up to?" Tom muttered.

McBridle slammed the case shut and slid it under the bed and switched off the bedside light.

Tom snapped from the dream when he heard McBridle's voice.

"I'm ready to go," she indicated with a snappy, impatient set of fingers.

She had concluded her personal business, but he didn't inquire what she bought. It may not have been intended for his curious x-ray-like eyes. After what he experienced in those visions, he wasn't sure that he wanted to extend his relationship beyond the office.

McBridle and Tom entered Belk Tower's front lobby. The front desk information clerk held the elevator doors open for them. Tom felt like telling her last night was a hasty mistake, but he needed her. She held a piece of the case puzzle, a key piece that he required if he were to solve this axed mystery. If he told her what he truly felt, he'd probably be out searching for another crummy replacement job, and he didn't want that, not yet.

The elevator doors slid open at floor fifty-one, and they continued onward to the office.

"Stella, are there any new messages for me?" McBridle asked as she entered through the door.

"Two." Stella handed them to her. "Your daughter called and said that she wants to come home because she misses you."

"Stella... thanks for your concern," McBridle replied. "Come on, Tom, we've got plenty of work ahead of us; and there's no time to stand around chitchatting when there's bills to pay and money to earn," she scolded him as she continued onward to her office.

A good fifteen minutes later, Tom sat across from her desk. He settled into the investigation. Yet he couldn't help notice her flipping through the pages of a recently published Carravecky shareholders' statement as if it were a trendy fashion magazine.

She saw him watching her as she looked up and smiled in a friendly way. "Anything you want to say?"

"No," he replied quickly and continued to explore the files for any inconclusive data malfunction information, or so he thought.

The afternoon was slipping away. McBridle noticed Tom eyeing his cracked watch dial; she realized that she had scheduled an appointment for 3:00 p.m. "I have to go," she said, and got ready to leave. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Wait for me?"

"Yeah, I'll wait, but don't be all night." He closed the door behind her, and he selected another folder, one - about a hundred pages; it was very elaborate with lots of colourful charts and graphs, something that would surely entertain a graphic designer. He flipped through it but wasn't too interested in testing any of the glossy numbers. He knew it didn't relate to what he was searching for. Instead he viewed the diagrams and tangled graphs with little or no job-related interest until a group of plain pages fell out from its slick content. It was obviously a dubious filing error.

The opening page was titled: SECURITY RESOURCES AND OPERATION CONCERNS RELATED TO THE TR-110 SECURITY SYSTEM. The second page revealed a totally different report. This report was titled: SPECIAL INVESTIGATION CONDUCTED BY PRIVATE SECURITY SERVICE INC. Below that: PREPARED BY KEN SANDLE. Perhaps, Tom thought, this was the mystery item McBridle, seemingly, had been searching for and didn't find.

The first line of print read: PRIVATE SECURITY SERVICES CONDUCTED AN EXTERNAL INVESTIGATION. ALL CASE FACTS WERE COMPILED WITHOUT DIRECT AUTHORIZATION FROM CARRAVECKY AND SONS...

The author made it quite clear that an inside informant had disclosed top-secret information. The evidence indicated that the leak was traced to several persons. The report also acknowledged that Ken Sandle was the prime investigator, who operated in secrecy; and according to his findings, four suspected personnel could have been responsible for the security breaches.

The first person was transferred from the company's European division six months earlier. The second person had scientific information technology, and he was also one of the chief scientists assigned to a family of classified projects. The third person in question was in charge of internal security matters. The fourth person's identity was a mystery. Although, external sources confirmed that a fourth person was involved, the details were excluded from the report. The reason given was that there wasn't any concrete evidence that could positively identify the alleged suspect to the security breach. The closing paragraph indicated that Mr. Sandle highly recommended further investigation be carried out in deeper secrecy.

Tom felt ghostly chills crawling on his skin after reading the short piece of lost documentation. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. He digested the theory that it couldn't have been too difficult discovering the first three people; however, locating the fourth, would be like contacting the dead to call the living. Tom placed the report inside a folder and unconsciously fanned himself with it. He swivelled around in the leatherback chair and gazed out the high-flown windows as he tried to assemble each piece of the bizarre puzzle into their rightful places. He began to slide into a mind-crash and couldn't pull out of it.

Tom's mind was shot through a fiery barrel with the force of an explosive device that sent him through space and time. He fell from a gloomy sky onto an earthly soil where he landed face down in front of a rickety, old two-story structure with a kicked-in wooden-panel door and cracked glass window caked with years of haunting grime, enough to keep the local kids away and frighten off the curious visitors. He could barely see his own miserable reflection in it. He pushed open the slanted door and went inside.

The interior was uninhabitable and smelled like dead rats. In the main foyer there was a long, straight stairway that led to the second level. The steps didn't look safe, but Tom walked them anyway. The front door slammed shut, and he felt a cold wind on his back, which didn't deter him from climbing on. "It's just a dream; the evils of this world are not real; there's no turning back now," he repeated.

The boards cracked beneath his feet, but he was driven to find the reason why he was here. He reached the top of the stairs and looked out through a broken window, which overlooked a small community. "I wish I were home in bed sleeping off a bad case of wine," he muttered, and advanced in the direction of the two sealed rooms at the end of the long hallway. With one forceful thump of Tom's foot, he shattered the door on the right; the room was stripped empty. Then he repeated the same vandalizing process with the door on the left. The room was also emptied except for a party of rats that scurried back into their hole.

He entered the rodent-sweet area; the floor felt soft under his feet as if it could collapse at any moment; somehow that dangerous probability didn't matter. A large amount of moonlight shone through the square hole in the roof that used to be an attractive skylight. The night ambience drew his eyes upward as he heard clumping footsteps above him. He started to climb and grabbed hold of the decayed rafters. The wood was brittle and weak; it practically crumbled in his fisted hands, but he still managed to lift himself through the unstable opening to the roof.

Tom stood there alone. Weathered patchwork indicated the roof was unsafe in places so he didn't want to wander too far from his safe footing, but he defied his sound instincts and walked to the opposite side anyway. His senses were keen, like that of a Nukyi Salient. He heard a small squeak and spun around. "Who is it?" he demanded.

A figure stepped forward. "I brought you here so don't be alarmed."

Tom looked closer. "You brought me here for what reason?"

"I need your help and your powers."

"Why, what's the problem?"

"A major problem that only you can command; you must finish my investigation at Carravecky's lie factory," the man said as he limped into a path of moonlight and revealed his gruesome appearance.

The suit that he wore upon his last days of life still clung to his cold, lifeless body. The dead man pointed toward Tom with his fish-eaten, bony finger. "Our active time is short so you must listen to what I speak; then you will understand what it is you will have to do."

The man walked with a stiff foot and stopped a couple of steps from the edge of the roof and looked across the way. "Oh, how I long for this place."

"So, you're from this area or, like me, just visiting?"

The dead man crunched back his head, "I was born, raised; and lived in Fall City all my breathing life."

"That's where we are right now?"

"Yes."

"So this isn't a dream?"

"I cannot say whether it's a dream or not. I only know my reality is hell bent and growing worse."

"Let me guess that you asked the forces of evil to bring you here."

"Evil or good was my only way of seeking your help."

"Then explain what it was that you were investigating at Carravecky's."

"The profession of unearthing corporate dirt was never easy. I pissed a lot of people off; and now I live, for the time being, in total seclusion."

"So the jest of it is that somebody whacked you, and now you're walking with the dead?"

"Yes, alone, with the shadows of others." The man's eyes were admiring the distant lights, but he turned away in sadness and approached Tom. "I must trust you to finish this case and get me out of here," he said hopefully. The light of the moon revealed the top of his lopsided skull, which appeared to have been bashed in with a heavy object. "You only know me in words--from a report you just read."

"The report I just read--how do you know that?" Tom was almost sickened by the wormy infestation, which was consuming the man's exposed temporal lobe.

"My name is Ken Sandle if you haven't already figured that out."

Tom's curiosity was affected; he seemed surprised.

"So, you believe who I am?"

"I believe all of this is a deceptive dream--nothing else, a façade created by the evil guy to screw my head on backwards."

Sandle struggled to remain vertical, "That's what he wants you to believe. My earthly friend, you must trust me as I trust you," and hunched forward. "My firm was hired by someone within the Carravecky group."

"So, tell me who."

"That person was never identified" as he choked up a mouthful of chewed seaweed, "but I suspected this person was a middle-aged man who has or had strong ties with the Carravecky name."

"Like a family friend or relative?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"What made you suspect that?" Tom inquired.

"He always sent cash, never questioned the cost. He just wanted the problem solved without being discovered."

"Didn't that make you suspicious?"

"I enjoyed the excitement so I never questioned where the money came from. I was only concerned with uncovering the truth; and, in the process, pleasing my client."

"What about this fourth person? What do you know about that guy?"

"I was supposed to meet in secrecy with him. Yet, I suspected people wanted him dead just like the others before him."

"There were others?"

"Yes, as I stated in my report."

"Well, refresh my mind; what did you report?"

"My initial objective was to investigate the disappearance of three top-level personnel who worked for Carravecky. Soon I realized that I was getting into something deeper than I could handle."

"Three men vanish, and no one questioned their disappearance?"

Ken Sandle hunched even closer to Tom. His fleshy mouth stunk like a fermenting sewer. "Silently, the police were called in but could do little. Doctor Carravecky invented some lame excuse about what happened to them, but I knew these men were murdered. Yet, at that time, there was no evidence to support my gut hunch. Corrupt people within Carravecky and Sons are up to no good, and you must stop them. Make them pay for their wrongdoings."

"I'll do what I can."

"That's not good enough" and extended his deformed hand. "I assume you know there was a long-term project that was nearing completion."

"Yeah, I've been hearing lots of scrambled, contradicting facts concerning an illicit weapon system."

"Carravecky's activities are extremely sensitive. Several days into my investigation, I was beaten and told to keep my nose out of it, but I kept my nose to the grindstone." Sandle straightened away from Tom's face. "The night of my death, I was confronted by four men--soldiers--big, heavy, mean-looking men. One man did all the talking. I could identify from the tone of his voice that he was Russian; his men called him Remmie Take. They beat me badly, and I ended up in the cold ocean depths. This East Slavic killer that I could identify by his sharp accent is the most vicious person I've ever encountered in my entire professional life. Barely alive and facing death, he grabbed me by my jacket and threw me into the Pacific waters. That's all I remember." Ken walked several feet closer to the un-railed edge and gazed into the night sky. "My body has yet to be discovered; it's lost forever."

"What about the three men who disappeared?"

"I only know what Remmie Take told me before he killed me."

"Tell me before the mind-crash dies."

Sandle wrenched his mouth; it was an unsightly jaw realignment procedure that produced a bone-crunching sound loud enough to wake the dead. "Ty Crowley was the European group's top consultant. He vanished about four months ago under strange conditions. It was assumed that he ran off with a dancing lady. Six weeks later, his body washed up on the shores of the Cross River. He was pulverized from head to toe; every bone in his body was snapped, cracked; and popped like he was rung and spun in a washing machine for a week. The other two, a security chief and a scientist, were buried together on a mountain."

"Which mountain is that?" Tom asked demandingly.

"Marsh's Peak as I recall," he said with a slow haunting voice.

"Where is this elevated part of earth?"

"It's in a place called Stamp Line County. I beg you not to let these deaths go unheard. Use your ignited powers and bring justice to the world. If not, we're all doomed."

"I promise; I'll do what I can."

Ken seemed emotionally relieved. "I remember when I was just a kid, I talked about haunted houses and ghosts," he said, as if his mental will to survive was restored, "yet, I never thought I'd become one." There was a beastly tone that was getting louder. "There's not much time left. I can only tell you to go to the mountain and search for the Rabbit," Ken said as he began to dematerialize.

"Rabbit--what does that mean?--you must tell me," Tom demanded, but it was too late. The ghostly investigator faded into the night air as he was kicked back to his own tormented world.

Moisture beads dropped from Tom's chin and formed a pool of sweat on McBridle's desktop. The glossy report was still in his heated possession; he was flipping the same page back and forth like a record needle skipping on a scratched forty-five.

"Tom, are you okay?" a man asked in a concerned voice.

Tom looked at the blurred figure. His eyes were adjusting to the fluorescent lights; and he could tell by the shape of the man's face that it was Mr. Lankenbury, the founding partner of the firm.

"You look as if you just saw a ghost," he said, his voice commanding concern.

"No, it's been a long week; and I'm about ready for a vacation," Tom replied as he dabbed the wetness from his chin with the tip of his tie. "So, sir, what can I do for you?"

Lankenbury stood manicured and pampered in front of Tom as if projecting his limitless wealth and success toward his lowly servant like he'd order Bronze to wash and wax his fleet of imported wheels.

Tom's immediate thoughts were focused on finding the Rabbit; this diluted his somewhat strict attention from Lankenbury's dominant personality.

"I called Celia on her cell phone, but there's not answer. Would you give her a message for me?" he instructed.

"Yes sir." Tom had to search for a pen but found one in McBridle's desk drawer.

Lankenbury dictated: "Got in from China earlier this morning. Negotiations went extremely well, but there's a small kink that needs to be adjusted. I'll be working late tonight and would like you here for a conference call with one of our Asian friends. I'll be in my office." Then he left without saying goodbye.

Tom placed the pen back in the desk drawer. A yellowish piece of paper caught his attention. He eased it out from beneath some light paperwork. Attached were two airline tickets. This seemed fishy. McBridle hadn't mentioned anything about taking an unscheduled excursion. The date for departure was this Friday evening for the Hawaiian Islands. Tom thought the tickets and the vision he had experienced earlier weren't coincidences. Now he was certain McBridle was involved in something other than forensic auditing. "The Rabbit--I must find this Rabbit--and make it dance for its carrot," he expelled, quietly deranged.

*****

When McBridle returned, she seemed cheerful and fresh. "How was your day?" she inquired.

"It was interesting. Lankenbury is back from China. He left you a message," Tom said, and handed it to her.

McBridle read the note, then folded it up, and slipped it into her pocket. "I'll be working late tonight so would you like to have dinner with me?" she said, and hung up her coat.

"Dinner." Tom seemed surprised.

"Yeah, I'm buying. You know I can afford it!"

"Well, then, I'd be delighted," he replied with a distrusting voice.

"Good, I'm really enjoying your company." She walked across the floor in front of him and sat on the edge of her desk with her legs crossed and showing a little more of her silky thigh. She was looking at him as if he were her boy-toy, and it was time to play "Mr. Feel Good."

Tom tried not to notice that false love deep in her wanting eyes and appeared busy by packing the reports back into the strong boxes. He knew she was trouble. If he wasn't careful, she would eventually lead to his sudden dismissal or to his untimely death.

McBridle leaned forward and grabbed Tom by his wrinkled shirt collar and pulled him closer to her moist lips. "I'm hungry; feed me well, 'Mr. Love Gun,'" as she whispered provocatively in his ear and devoured his mouth.

Chapter 13: MET YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN

They traded in the crammed downtown for the roomy uptown on their way to Poncho's Villa, McBridle's favourite cookhouse, which wasn't all that far from her home (just down the line).

Tom needed some real concrete proof that McBridle was somehow involved in Carravecky's security breach. He knew the internal investigation process was like pulling healthy teeth from a rotten mouth so he must be exceptionally patient and use a gentle, crowbar-like tactic to pry the answers from those who possessed the dirty truth. "So, Celia, are you doing anything special this weekend?" Tom probed casually.

"I've got nothing planned as of today," she replied with an unconcerned glance and turned a corner.

"Nothing planned, huh?"

She mentally paused for a moment; her eyes seemed fixed on the road, then replied; "Oh, yeah, I forgot that there's a meeting at Carravecky's Saturday morning."

"Then, you're not going out of town?"

"Out of town--are you blind with my attractive looks and good figure?"

He seemed more surprised.

"How can I go anywhere?" She looked over at him. "Right now we're too busy trying to please Carravecky. He snaps his fingers, and I'm there with a plastic grin."

He backed off and changed his tiptoeing-like strategy. "So, what's this meeting Saturday morning about?"

"It's a bunch of boring stuff, nothing that would interest you."

"Tell me, I'm interested," he said convincingly.

She weakened to his playful curiosity. "I'm," she started slow, "on an investors' committee, which meets once each quarter; but because this meeting falls on a Saturday, I'm not able to attend."

"How come you can't?"

She shot back, "How come what?"

"I mean how come you can't attend this meeting?"

"Personal matters, but why are you so interested?"

"No reason, I'm just making conversation with my secret lover."

She sighed irritatingly, "If you must know all the nitty-gritty, meetings like these are conducted before each financial quarter. They give the aggressive investors the opportunity to review auditing and accounting policies or discuss whatever's on their chests."

"Then shouldn't you be there?"

"It's not a necessity that I sit in on every meeting."

"Oh," he eyed her, carefully, "yeah."

"They're basically meetings put in place to persuade the unconvinced shareholders to remain financially rooted and reassure the convinced ones that Carravecky & Sons is a strong money machine, a group that will invest their funds wisely and make them happy at tax time; and Carravecky has more than me who is trying to do that." Then she focused her attention to the road.

They parked in front of the cookery and proceeded to go inside.

"Have you ever been here?" McBridle asked, and pulled the wooden door wide open.

"Yeah, I mean, no. I drove by the place a million times but never had an occasion to pop in," Tom replied.

"You'll love the food. They'll fix anything you want, anyway you want it; and if so, prepare it right in front of you."

"Sounds too good for my can-of-beans and back-bacon kind of belly," he replied in high spirits.

"The only disadvantage is that we'll have to wait awhile for a good table, but it'll be worth it," she said.

McBridle ordered a table for two; then she led him to the lounge area, which was sectioned off at the opposite side of the dining room.

They sat at the authentic western-styled bar, which stretched a good forty feet of thick antiqued oak, covered with a fresh hard-clear finish. They made themselves at home while at the far end stood the bartender, Cranky John, who was busy fussing with a rack of beer glasses.

"What does my little lady friend like to have besides my good looks and dashing charm?" the greasy fat man asked with a Tex-Mex tone as he approached.

"John, I'll have your best white wine and not that cheap stuff you keep under the floorboards," McBridle replied with a short smile. "For my friend, Tom, he'll have the same so serve 'em up fast before I start shooting you with a bad verbal lashing; you got that grease head?"

He surrendered his dignity like a drunken cowboy who just fell out of a whorehouse with his pants down. "I see you're still slinging that mouth poison, but it's always a pleasure to serve you, Lady McBridle;" and polished the bar in front of her. "Please stay and enjoy the evening." He gave her an enlarged wink as he pushed his sticky hair away from his beanie little eyes and smiled with a crooked mouth. "Two galloping waters for two special customers," he said as he placed two dainty stemmed glasses and a bottle in front of them; then he hustled to the other end of the bar to serve another patron.

Tom poured fast yet smooth; McBridle tested the fine wine, gave her approval; and reached into her purse and withdrew her compact. "I'll be back in a moment. I have to fix my smile and call the office," she said, already halfway toward the ladies room.

"Don't get lost in the mirror," Tom blurted out without an ounce of intimate shame. He watched her hips wave goodbye yet hello at the same time, and he knew that any hot-blooded male would die to have her at least once. She had it all: money, career, and now a new gullible lover wrapped around her pretty little finger like a deadly ring of death fastened to the sack in his pants that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried yanking at it. It gave him a bad stomach. He knew it wasn't brought on by the imported vintage and poured a brimming refill, hoping that another serving of fermented grape water would recharge his pointless life. He felt like a sitting mindless dummy who was unable to move and unable to control his bewildered existence. He watched Cranky John change the TV channel from political wrangling to knockout boxing. A welcomed change, he thought, and continued his stay.

An executive type, the kind with flowery-soft hands and a stone-hard voice, walked up to the bar. He had a newspaper in one hand and cash in the other. "John, I'm returning your daily rag in one piece this time," he said, and sat it near the cash register. John didn't reply; he just took the money and handed him a bag of beer; the man left once the sale was concluded.

Tom reached over and slid the paper closer. The headline was printed in bold letters 'WOMAN PUT TO REST.' Below the headline was a picture of a woman. The newspaper was folded like a sloppy mess, and the story wasn't completely visible so he opened it.

The first sentence was: 'Penny Dakar's body discovered. It is presumed she died a tragic death from blunt-force trauma to the head. Foul play is evident.'

Additional text was neatly columned below the picture:

'On a wintry spring Saturday morning an extensive search for Penny Dakar had begun. The search lasted two days until all rescue hopes and efforts were called off.

Yesterday, five months to the day, was a day for sadness and tears. The body of Mrs. Dakar was discovered near Sandy Cove. The body was entombed in a steel drum that washed up on a coastal beach.

Her husband, William De Bona, is currently under investigation by federal currency regulators for illegal offshore money transactions and income-tax violations. Federal investigators haven't ruled him out as a possible suspect. He has eminently denied any involvement in his wife's disappearance and death and is determined to find those involved in his wife's murder and to bring them to justice.

Mrs. Dakar was forty-five and the mother of two teenage children. She was also an heiress to a family fortune, which is estimated at four-point-eight billion dollars. The investigation is ongoing, and authorities are seeking the public's help in solving this crime.'

McBridle wrapped her hands over Tom's eyes. "Did you miss me?"

"Yeah, I did," he replied in a somewhat relieved voice.

"What's wrong? Is my makeup smudged, or have you been watching those single girls planted around you and now have become bored with me?" McBridle asked playfully.

Tom avoided a winless debate, "What time do you have to meet with Lankenbury?"

"Just talked with him--early evening, around six," she replied softly, and pulled her seat a bit closer to him. She sipped at the glass of wine. "Why do you ask?"

Tom's face was blank as if he were mentally calculating a complex solution to his simple problem and was about to explain his answer when a lady politely interrupted them.

"Sir, Madame," the young hostess said, "your booth is ready;" then she escorted her guests to their table.

*****

Stamp Line County and Marsh's Peak was all Tom could think about as he ate gravy steak and mashed potatoes, but there was no escaping that conversation with her. "So, Celia, what's this meeting about? Lankenbury seemed quite clear that it was extremely important and that you be there."

"It concerns renegotiating some contract clauses for an American banking group doing business with a Chinese organization in Hong Kong--nothing simple but standard stuff," McBridle replied.

"It sounds complicated, like chopsticks."

"This account could be complicated, but so far things have gone surprisingly well." She swirled the wine around in the glass in a hypnotic fashion. "Tom, you look a bit pale; maybe you should go home and go to bed early for a change."

"Yeah, that's an appealing suggestion," Tom replied, but he had an alternative motive. That was to borrow her vehicle and get to where he was going.

*****

Less than an hour later, Tom stood outside the cookhouse waiting for McBridle. It was a full moon, a perfectly round grey "eye" watched over him. He knew this was the night; if ever there was a time to search for the Rabbit, tonight was it. The years of self-pity were receding, and he felt as if he could climb Mount Everest so he must take a huge leap of faith. It was now or never.

McBridle pulled up to the front entrance and ordered Tom into the vehicle. Soon they were travelling along the expressway en route to Tom's house.

"Do you know the location of a place called Marsh's Peak, somewhere near Stamp Line County?" Tom asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"I don't exactly know for certain, but there's something I have to do; and I need to go there," Tom admitted.

"You have to go now? Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, everything is perfectly all right."

"Well, I'm not exactly sure where that mountain is, but there's a map in the document compartment," she admitted.

He found the map in the glove box; it was bent into a tight package. He ran his fingers over the folds. Marsh's Mountain was located of Pacific Highway #5, just as he thought. Once he found that northern region, he knew where to find the peak. According to the map, there once was an operating gold mine; and until five-years ago, it was used as a tourist attraction for the county. Because the ground had become too unstable, the area was now restricted to the public.

Tom was thinking about what he needed in case he did go--one shovel, one trusty spare, a good sharp pick, a reliable flashlight, a durable pair of leather gloves, and a hard slap across the face for being stupid enough to be suckered into this hair-brain excursion.

"You're awfully quiet; what are you thinking, other than a beautiful night of bliss with me?" McBridle inquired with a tender look, momentarily taking her eyes off the dark pavement.

Tom didn't hear her words and blurted out, "Can I borrow your car tonight?"

"What?" she replied immensely surprised.

"It'd be only for a couple of hours. I'll take care of it; and if you're worried about my careless driving, don't be."

"No, I'm not worried. I'm just not in the habit of lending my expensive things," she said, "to a man who already has had one accident this week and who has been acting strangely all day."

He touched her leg, "Just tonight and I'll never ask you again."

She pushed his hand from her leg, "You're not planning on going to Stamp Line County - are you?"

"Well, yeah, I need to go up to Marsh's Peak," Tom replied.

"You're going now? Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow this crazy urge will have lapsed, and you'll feel fine. I need you fresh for our assignment."

"A couple of hours, I promise. There's someone I need to find; I'll tell you what I discovered."

"I really don't care who you need to see or why you're going; just promise me that you will take good care of the car and not tell anyone that I lent it to you."

"Just like our lovemaking, it'll be our private little secret. I'll pamper it like a newborn donkey; you'll see."

"Bring it back in one piece or else your head's on the chopping block; and I don't mean the one that's talking foolish," she said, as if she were obligated; then changed her destination.

*****

Some minutes later, McBridle parked in front of the Belk Tower and left the engine running. The dashboard clock indicated the time was 6:55 p.m. Tom saw the evening security guard seated at the front-desk control monitors.

"I'll pick you up later," Tom said.

"Don't worry about getting me. I'll ask Lankenbury or Mackenzie to drive me home; if not, I'll take a cab," McBridle replied, "because these types of meetings could, possibly, last fifteen minutes or four hours so I might not be here when you return."

The night watchman opened the door for a few of the tower's regular workaholics. McBridle got out of the vehicle, and Tom slid over to the driver's side. She looked at him apparently concerned. "Be careful and don't disappoint me."

"Don't worry. I only wreck one car a week; so you're safe," Tom replied jokingly.

She straightened out her coat collar; "I'll see you at my place later on tonight?"

"Of course," he revved the engine with a heavy shot of gas, "have a warm smile and a cold beer waiting, and let's talk business," he replied, as he sped away.

Tom arrived home and got what he needed to complete the mountainous task. He was anxious to find Marsh's Peak. The dashboard clock now indicated it was 7:38 p.m.; he had to be back at McBridle's around eleven so there wasn't plenty of time to search for the Rabbit.

With each minute his heart pounded harder with excitement flowing through his Nukyi-enriched veins. The supernatural wasn't something he truly believed in; but he was into something unavoidable and could possibly find those missing bodies somewhere in the dirt, which frightened him the most.

The speed limit was 70 mph and traffic was moderately heavy. Tom was in a hurry to get ahead of three slow-moving rigs, but he'd have to excessively exceed the speed limit if he were to pass all three. He accelerated; his speed jumped to ninety in a matter of seconds. He momentarily occupied a portion of the oncoming traffic lane where a semi-rig was barrelling straight ahead. Its floodlights were aimed directly toward him, which complicated his bad luck. He wheeled to the right as hard as he could and was just able to avoid the deadly mistake.

"Man, that was too close for comfort; I'd better cool my foot," he regurgitated as if he had a catball stuck in his mouth.

The mountain region and the name Marsh's Peak were clearly marked for sightseers as they crossed the county line. ENJOY THE NORTHERN PEACE OF MIND - WELCOME TO STAMP-LINE COUNTY--POPULATION 5000 AND COUNTING was displayed on a sun-bleached billboard.

Tom slowed his speed as he pulled to the shoulder of the pavement. The area was sort of spooky, like the dead had staked a claim to these mountains. There was a faded sign about twenty car lengths ahead on the opposite side of the road that was partially covered with overgrowth and finger-like tree branches. It was leaning into the embankment but was readable--POSITIVELY NO TRESPASSING (the sign was barely legible except for the bottom) ABSOLUTELY NO DIGGING OR FIREARMS PERMITTED. He ignored the warning and pulled the vehicle into an abandoned service road and drove as far as he could toward the top and parked.

He entered the brush. The thick overhanging branches whipped in his determined face. The digging tools clanged together as he walked and created a sound that someone easily could have heard. He didn't know the exact direction, but he followed a twisty path that was filling in with young saplings. The wind howled and the loose leaves rustled, creating a ghostly atmosphere. Ghost or no ghost, he hiked onward and up the mountainside.

The narrow path was littered with old metal signs: GROUND UNSTABLE, FOLLOW THE MARKERS, KEEP TO THE LEFT, and WATCH YOUR FOOTING. This was a trail once used by mountain bikers and county maintenance crews and was thought to be safe.

When Tom finally reached the top, he was standing at the edge of a small clearing with a dilapidated old farmhouse and barn positioned in the middle of a weedy acreage. The years of neglect stared him in the face. Beyond the dead structures was the peak extending like an abnormal hand, which jutted out of the ground and overlooked the community and valley below.

There was a foul scent of decaying wood and manure in the air that seemed to come from the barn. Tom stood there and wondered if the Rabbit could be inside, but that would be too easy. A restless owl flew overhead, an omen he thought. His eyes followed its flight until it came to rest on an age-weakened fence post. He stepped over the entanglement of rusted herd wire and entered a clearing. The surroundings appeared like a forgotten graveyard with the remnants of unwanted farm equipment into the ground as if they hadn't been touched in a hundred and ten years. It was in that general vicinity where he felt the presence of something unearthly.

Tom dropped the digging utensils. A force was guiding him toward a tall cluster of weeds and dead growth. He pulled back the dry limbs and shone the light into the cavity. There was a statue of a man elevated upon a low pedestal. The figure appeared to be cast from blackened iron and stood about five feet in height. The likeness wore buckskins and matching hat and posed with one hand holding a rifle of some sort. The other hand was slung over its shoulder as if it were supporting something. Tom snapped off a handful of branches and looked behind the iron body. The man was holding a long-eared mammal by the hind legs.

"The Rabbit," Tom whispered as he experienced a head rush that almost caused him to topple and grabbed whatever was around him to keep from falling backwards. A voice warned him there was someone or something behind him, which sent him to the ground in a panic. He scrambled to one weak knee and called, "Who the hell's there?" He aimed the flashlight in the direction where the voice had originated.

"Don't be alarmed."

"And who are you?" Tom demanded while getting to his feet.

"The names Rab Bitter," he said, and extended a friendly hand.

"You scared the crud out of me."

"Wasn't my intentions," he admitted as he helped the visitor pluck the sticky burrs off his cloths.

Tom straightened up. "You live around here or just out for a night stroll carrying, what I suspect is, a loaded rifle?" he inquired while observing the man's awful teeth and weathered face, which matched the description of that iron obelisk hiding in the bushes.

"You okay with that, young fella? An old fella like me can't be too shy about protecting his worth," the old guy said with a growing hostility.

"I'm fine with the gun; just don't shoot me in the foot," Tom replied, and aimed the barrel toward a neutral direction. "That monument thing..." Tom mentioned as he pointed the light at the weeds, "you know who that was?"

"Why ya asking me that question like you're afraid of the truth?"

"Just that the iron-thing resembles you," Tom said lightly.

"That's because it is me; there in that darn thing," the man replied.

"Oh, you're telling me it's a family member from the past who looks like you," Tom said relieved.

"No, I mean it is me you darn see there."

Tom leaned inward for a closer look. "That can't be true," he said hopefully.

"Get used to it schoolboy. I've been trapped in this iron casket for over one-hundred and fourteen miserable years. Now that I'm out, I'm not jumping into that iron pot for nobody."

"What the hell are you, other than a figment of my warped imagination?" Tom asked. The man's appearance was obviously neglected, and he stunk like he'd been on a hundred-year drinking binge.

"Why, I'm a man just like ya except shorter height and taller on wisdom."

Tom estimated the man was about five-two, maybe five-three standing on his toes, and about eighty-nine pounds, if that, soaking wet. "So, you're telling me that you're the man in the statue, and you expect me to believe that?"

"That's what I said. Ya got a hearing problem or something?"

"I can hear you perfectly well, I just don't believe you're real," he said, fully convinced. "I've been manifesting some bad insanity, and this episode could be another mind-crash designed to drive me further into the grave."

The man spit a mouthful of ripe chewing tobacco. "In the years I've been imprisoned here, I've seen many people come and go. You've probably come searching for those graves." The man was acting more interested in polishing his rifle than telling Tom the whereabouts of the bodies.

"And what do you know about these graves?" Tom asked inquisitively.

"It's been a long time since I've felt this fire-stick in these hands." He eyed Tom with amazement. "This power ya possess has released me from the iron and has allowed me to walk upon the ground that I once called home." He pointed across the way. "I was fiddling happy and twenty-two when I built that there house and barn," the man said, as if he were proud of his forgotten accomplishments. "Now look at it; my work is gone to the soil."

Tom didn't care to look. "Who cares about your work--what about these graves?"

The man didn't reply, he just fired the weapon and severed a thick branch from a skinny tree. There was a streak of fire and an explosive noise but no posse around to record his excellent marksmanship.

"I was told I'd find the Rabbit up here."

"A high-minded city slicker comes prancing on my turf, I want ta know what's it to ya?"

"Listen, little man, I was told to find the Rabbit. Do you know what that means?" Tom inquired forcefully.

"Nope; I've never heard of such a hairy fable."

"If you can't help me, then get back into the iron."

"Don't be so quick; I'm trying my best."

"Then, you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes... of course I know. I know everything. I was known around these parts as... The Rabbit because I was the best shot in all these lands and got me the most rabbits in a season. That's how I got me name. I was good with a rifle, and my abilities to twist and turn in the deeps of the ground in search for gold made me a legend in these parts."

"So, then, make yourself useful; tell me where the bodies are resting?" Tom demanded.

The little man acknowledged Tom's request. "Over there," Rab said, and pointed to where the grassy land had recently been disturbed.

Tom walked over to inspect the flattened grass near a fallen wire fence. "Whereabouts?" he called to the short man.

"Dig directly below; I promise ya'll find those bodies four feet down."

He began to dig; the ground was soft at first. Then he began to cut into a layer of hard clay. He stopped. "Are you sure this is the place? The ground is like century-old concrete."

Rab tapped his whiskered chin. "I could be mistaken."

Tom jumped out of the shallow hole, angry as hell. "What do you mean? Don't play games." He pointed an angry finger. "Tell me exactly where the grave is or I'll turn that iron shell into a furnace dinner box. Now spit it out, shorty pants."

"Oh, of course, pardon me, it was a nervous mistake. I remember now," Rab said diplomatically; he had to rethink.

"Well, where?" Tom asked after a moment of silence.

"Now, I remember. Down the back trail, there's a mining shaft filled with rusty water. It's not far from there." He scampered through the dark over the slippery rocks and between the rooted trees, laughing like a drunken idiot.

"Slow down little man; you're losing me," Tom shouted across the darkness. When Tom caught up, Rab was nesting in a tree, adjusting his rifle.

"I promise this is the place," the little man said and jumped off his perch to the ground.

Tom was annoyed and grabbed the sawn-off runt by the neck. "This is hogwash; tell me where the bodies are buried, or I'll make sure the Devil eats your soul for a midnight snack?"

Rab began to laugh; the harder he laughed, the harder Tom squeezed Rab's juggler. When Tom's mind cleared, he realized he was strangling the handle of the shovel. "You little pipsqueak; tell me where the bodies are because I haven't got all night," he shouted into the wind; but he was alone and decided to make his way back to the farmhouse. When he reached there, he gathered up his tools and resumed his search when he heard a voice from behind.

"It was a humid summer night when a crew of big men dug a hole and dropped the tomb inside the ground."

Tom spun around, "You again; go find another playmate. I don't have time for your nonsense."

"I knew those men died a cruel and tormented death; I could smell it in the air."

"So you decided to tell me the truth?" Tom said as he looked in the direction to where Rab pointed. There was an aged tree with robust limbs that stretched outward like muscular arms standing at the end of the lot. Tom gathered up his things and walked toward the gravesite. "This better be the place, I'm getting sick and tired of your false searches."

"If ya truly seek what ya come to find, then ya shall find it with ease; if not, ya'll fail."

"Don't give me that poet mouthwash. My week until now has been the backend of a jackass so just save the philosophy for the philosopher," he said with an aggravated mouth.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed ya but I'm just enjoying what little time I have. I'm sure ya can understand that."

Tom turned toward Rab with an annoyed face; but the little fella was gone into the wooded darkness, and he stood alone.

This was it. He could feel it. A few feet of soil separated him from the rotten corpses. Tom gripped the shovel firmly and started to dig. He drove the sharp blade into the hallow ground and began to uncover the mystery of those two men who disappeared.

He tossed off his jacket to the ground and rolled up his shirtsleeves. This was hot work and harder than he thought. The sweat dripped from his face, the dust caked on his gloves, and fatigue forced him to stop and rest. And as he slammed the shovel into the soil, it created a hollow noise; he had broken through the top seal. Tom dropped to his knees and began to push the dirt away with the palms of his gloves. Anxiously he brushed aside the remaining clay powder that dusted the box; then he lifted the lid. The bodies were kept in black body bags that didn't allow him an immediate view of their hideous deformities.

The stench of rotten flesh escaped into the air, and he felt an ill response in the pit of his stomach. He knew there were clues beyond the plastic sacks. He released the zippers, and uncovered their mutilated faces. They were lying face up, stripped of all their worldly possessions. The corpses' faces barely resembled those of human beings. Their skulls were deformed with what appeared to be caused by blunt-force impact, possibly a heavy pipe or wooden bat. The stench had intensified; Tom could barely contain himself from vomiting.

He backed away from the bodies and leaned up against the old tree. He turned and stared at their mutilated faces trying to determine what they looked like before their gruff deaths. There was a sound of shuffling leaves that alarmed him. He thought he could have been followed so he shone the light into the darkness to confirm he was alone; it was just a discarded plastic shopping bag blowing across the field.

With the flashlight directed at the bodies, he leaned closer to view the shrivelled eyes of the corpse on the right. He heard a voice, and this startled him. He jumped back against the tree. The flashlight fell from his hand and landed in front of the corpse's face.

The corpse sat up out of the bag and popped its bones into a ghoulish configuration and said in a dead, dry tone. "I knew someone would come and desecrate my truth."

"You were waiting. Who told you someone was coming?" Tom inquired in a tense tone as he moved closer into the hole and reacquired the flashlight.

"That is not of your importance."

"Then, tell me why you reactivated to life?"

"The powers of the beyond are a mystified force," the ghoul said in a monstrous voice.

"I realize that, and I don't have all night to chat about the art of evil spells," Tom said, fully annoyed.

The ghoul pointed its bowed finger. "I worked for Carravecky and Sons for the past nine years," the regenerated body revealed, "and for four years, I worked on developing a missile guided system for the new L-18 missile. Unofficially, and only in secrecy, was this development called The Carra-Messen Missile."

"What about this missile?" Tom asked curiously.

"To answer that I must explain," the ghoul said while chocking up part of its blood-black lung. "Months ago, there were two security breaches," its voice grew truthful and grim, "each occurred about a month apart."

"Yeah, I know all about that," Tom said impatiently.

"The first breach was acknowledged, and security was stepped up."

"Yeah, so get to the point," Tom said with a bossy mouth.

"Carravecky ignored the data and said: 'this would never happen again.' It wasn't until the second breach that a potential security problem surfaced. I was the lead scientist for this project sector so it was my decision to run a full diagnostic test on all the equipment to determine if any of the missile programs had been scanned or compromised. Carravecky's new security system, the TR-110, identified several changes in the activation programs."

"Then what happened?" Tom asked while ignoring the long-tail rodent that crawled out of the ghoul's sunken chest cavity.

"These changes were traced back to the company's satellite up-links. I documented my findings, but it was undetermined who made these unauthorized changes. The problem was corrected, and the system was restored to normal. For some reason, Doctor Carravecky wasn't willing to acknowledge the first breach or the second and destroyed all the records pertaining to these unexplainable events."

Tom sat in the grave and leaned closer to the body, "So, he knows exactly what's going on."

"Of course he knows; a few years ago, the government pulled funding from this special project, or so they said, and instructed Carravecky to put all development on hold until further notice; that never happened."

"So the old man is filling us with lots of golden fibs?"

"Carravecky had different plans and secretly continued to develop the weapons. This European group funded the project, which we estimated to cost billions. Every person who worked on the project or knew about it was informed that if they talked, they'd end up dead."

"The old man said that?"

"The words weren't so prolific, but he meant business. This was why no one would admit that the project continued."

"And what about this project? What's going on with it now?"

"The L-18 Missile was constructed to be used with another device--some type of sky carrier. The only thing I knew was that its exterior body was made from a special organic material, which was extremely lightweight with incalculable tensile strength. This project was named and classified Project Re-Fire. This was because the sky launcher could be reused," the ghoul said while holding its jaw and keeping it from dropping off.

"Then," Tom paused, as if in thought, "this is why you were murdered because you were going to talk and expose them?"

"That's part of the reason," the ghoul replied and retched its neck; the sound of cracking bones filled the night air. "There is a man; his name is Remmie Take."

"Yeah, I heard of the guy," Tom said. "The man's not a Saint."

"He and his army of thugs made me an example of what would happen if anyone else attempted to stop Carravecky's plans to transport this weapon system, which I believe is scheduled for this Friday night. Now Doctor Carravecky is powerless over them and has chosen to close his eyes to everything that has happened in the last few months. I believe this European group is linked to Russian extremists and will stop at nothing to get what they paid for; and if they have to kill someone or everyone in the process, so be it. Watch your back, discover the answers, and don't get yourself killed."

"I need a clue--some evidence, anything," Tom held the ghoul upright.

The ghoul's exhausted body began to settle back into the grave. "You must find the man with the anchor on his left hand; he will be most helpful," the dead scientist expelled, almost out of beyond-life.

"What do you mean? Who is this man? Tell me! I must know his whereabouts and identity," but it was too late; the body was once again stiff and lifeless. He sat back from the bodies and just stared at death for a good ten minutes before he mustered the mental strength to seal the dead Carravecky employees back into the body bags. "Man, this has been a rotten night," Tom moaned in a dog-tired breath as he began to shovel in the tomb.

A short time later, he stood overlooking the manual excavation with a bad case of heartburn and wondered what to do next. He shook the dirt from his ruined clothes. His business here was complete. He couldn't go back to McBridle's house looking like a tramp so, first, he'd go home and clean up. He gathered up the tools and returned to the car.

Chapter 14: DON'T MOVE - YOUR HEAD'S NEXT

McBridle wasn't going to be ladylike when she examined the blotched interior of her pricey sedan. The exotic leather was soiled with dirt from his clothes; but for Tom, a verbal spanking for bad behaviour seemed inescapable as he settled comfortably deep into the driver's seat.

The night fog was thick and heavy as Tom descended from Marsh's Peak. He leaned into the bird-spotted windshield as he lost sight of the scanty path for a moment and reduced his speed, careful not to drive into the unmoveable trees before pulling back onto the pavement and heading for home.

The air was just as soupy at the bottom as it was near the top of the mountain, and he struggled to maintain sight of the twin dividing lines as he drifted back and forth in the middle of the single lanes.

Without warning a big, black vessel materialized; the driver blasted its bullish foghorn into the swarming mist. The rig was travelling toward him at full speed and was unable to obtain a controlled stop.

Tom shot back into the seat as he saw the thunderous, heavy machine and cranked the wheel hard to the right at the last possible second; however his vehicle caught the jumbo's square front bumper and running board as he passed on the driver's side. He fought desperately to control the vehicle and to keep it from jumping the guardrail down a steep embankment of rocks to his death.

There was a sudden calmness in the vaporous air; his hands felt like they were glued to the steering wheel as the car came to a controlled roll a few hundred feet away. He sat numb, afraid to view the damage; then he heard the sounds of floppy feet racing toward him from behind. He tugged his hands off the leather-bound wheel and readjusted the rear-view mirror. It seemed to be the driver of the rig who was followed by another man.

"Hey, pal, ya all right?" the tubby-belly driver called in a boyish tone while he and the other man heaved open the driver's door.

"Yeah, I think so," Tom replied as the two men helped him from the vehicle. "Holy macaroni; it's a bad day to step into a dream," he said and held his spinning mind from breaking apart. "I should have stayed in bed and stolen forty winks with pay."

"That's quite a body bashing," the fat man said with a cold dead Cuban cigar clamped in his puffy mouth, pointing it toward the scarred automobile.

The entire driver's side of the sedan was flattened, the paint was chewed to the bare metal over the entire length of the vehicle, and the front and rear bumpers were deformed and appeared as if they were going to hop off at any second.

Tom held his mouth, "Damn it. Now I'm in deep trouble with my lady friend."

"You came out of nowhere you crazy kook," the fat truck driver belted out insultingly.

"Ya crazy kook-head--that's what ya are. What ya trying to do; dance us into an early grave and give us high-test heart attacks?" the thin man barked from behind the heavy man's well-fed girth.

Tom exhausted an apologetic breath, "I'll get the insurance papers; and then you guys can be on your way."

The untidy driver bellied forward, "I wished you didn't."

"Why's that?" Tom seemed surprised.

"Business reasons of an unfriendly sort."

"Something you don't want the authorities to know about?"

"Between us, and only us, I'm laded down with an illegal shipment of corn water; and I don't want any encounters with the law," the driver patted his worn-in, stretched-out, hunting jacket, "if you know what I mean."

Tom tensed up, an act to conceal his gleeful reaction. "Look, let's just forget the whole thing ever happened."

"A very smart young city boy," the heavy driver said with a grin. "Let us say goodnight and sleep tight; and may we only meet," he paused as if in thought, "never again."

Tom swallowed a ball of relief that tried to escape from his throat. "That's perfectly all right with me. You never saw me nor did I see you. That's a good deal."

"Like the sweet price of a fifty-cent turnip," the driver replied.

"We saw neither you nor your hairy-chested mama," the thin man said jokingly as he followed his fat boss to the rig.

Tom got back into the wrecked luxury sedan; the tires spun and he was off.

When he returned home, he wondered how he would explain this unforeseen fiasco to McBridle. He parked in his driveway and practiced his fake excuse; then he went into the house.

He switched on the television and clicked to the news channel before he collapsed on the couch.

There was a loud, annoying soap commercial blazing, which was followed by a calm news flash. The anchorperson made his professional delivery.

Tom massaged his aching temples and sat back.

"Coming from a source inside Carravecky and Sons Aerospace Technology," the newsman reported, "classified documents concerning a weapon system in development for the past ten years had been leaked to outside sources. According to the Defence Department, funding for this project was halted four years ago to comply with the World Weapons Accord on Weapons of Mass Destruction. At this time, it's not clear whether these weapons are nuclear, biological, conventional or a complete new technology.

"There has been no comment from Robert Carravecky, the company's President and CEO, but it is expected the corporation will make a formal statement in the coming days."

He cleared his motoring throat, "Today, the company's spokesperson stated, 'The concerned matter is under strict investigation;' but, as of now, what we do know about this internal report is that it documented two security breaches and focused on classified data in the company's main research and development computers, which, we assume, were targeted by intruders. It is expected the Federal Bureau will investigate, and we will be following that Secret Service story. For channel forty-five news, I'm..."

Tom abruptly switched off the television. "This is all I need right now," he moaned, and closed his irritated eyes to rest.

The telephone rang. He was slow to pick it up. "Yeah, hello," he answered without much concern for politeness.

"Is this Tom Bronze?" the caller inquired.

"Yeah, who's this?" Tom responded quickly.

"This is Samuel Carravecky."

Tom was silent.

"We met at the company's board meeting yesterday."

There was another moment of silence between them.

"And what can I do for you?" Tom inquired after he repositioned the phone closer to his ear.

"I need your help."

"Are you in trouble?"

"No, I mean, yes... maybe," he said nervously. "I need you to meet me at the corner of Forth and Eighth in thirty minutes?"

"That's midtown; I can't make it."

"You don't have a choice."

"Why? What's the matter? Why can't we talk on the phone?"

"I need to meet with you in person."

"I'm kind of busy right now and don't have time for a walk in the park."

"No, no, it's nothing like that; I promise. Please."

"What then?"

"I've got something important to give you."

"What is it? Maybe I can get it from you tomorrow?"

"Bronze, don't amuse me; just meet me on the corner of Forth and Eighth in thirty minutes. You won't be wasting your time and don't be late," he said, as he hung up.

*****

Tom changed clothes and headed out. The laces of his hiking boots tapped against the ground as he hurried toward McBridle's crumpled sedan and hoped that the moulded bumpers wouldn't fly away. He backed out from the driveway and headed for the place Samuel had asked to meet. It all sounded suspicious. Samuel's tone of voice was urgent; and for a do-nothing rich kid, he sounded desperate. Tom thought meeting Samuel Carravecky that he could be placing himself in a dangerous position; but he had to take the chance and hope he'd come up a winner.

The drive took about twenty minutes. Tom parked the vehicle on the main street near a loading zone located at the corner. There was a sign positioned near the curb--NO PARKING AFTER 6:00 PM. Nearby a store owner kept a watchful eye on the neighbourhood as he swept the sidewalk in front of his small grocery business; the retailer eyeballed Tom when he got out of the car and stood waiting under a streetlight at the corner.

"Bronze, don't turn around," a voice warned. "Wait a few seconds and follow me into the alley."

"Is this Samuel?"

"No questions. Just do as I've instructed; and no one gets killed tonight."

Tom waited as ordered; then he followed the unidentified man wearing a hooded jersey into the mouth of the alleyway.

At the end of the narrow opening there was a dim red light that buzzed on and off over an emergency exit that was cluttered with boxes of spoiled produce and a family of dented, smelly garbage cans that were kicked on their sides.

Tom walked toward the light, stopped halfway, looked around; and listened.

"Come closer," a man said with a strong foreign accent. The figure was camouflaged by the darkness.

Tom initially thought it was Samuel, but the East Slavic emphasis was perhaps attached to the voice Ken Sandle had warned about.

The man emerged from the shadows. He stood a tall six-feet-three and weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds. His black hair was slicked back with an even blacker hair gel. His clean-shaven face showed no expression of joy, only ruthless intimidation. And his narrow eyes were as cold as icy steel. Two beefy bodyguards equipped with American-issued military hardware flanked him.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" Tom attacked with an assertive tongue.

"My identity or purpose is not your importance at this time," the man replied bluntly.

"Someone called me here, and I want some answers," Tom ordered.

"Samuel had spoken highly of you."

"I've only met the guy once so that's very thoughtful of him to think of me as a friend," Tom commented rudely.

The man's face hardened, "I was expecting more of a challenge than the man I see before me."

"What you see isn't always what you get," Tom replied firmly.

Samuel stepped out from the darkness and stood with the soldiers.

Tom's eyes shifted toward the young Carravecky. "What is it you wanted to give me?" Tom demanded forcefully. "I haven't got all night to stand around chitchatting with your army of boyfriends."

The commander soldiered forward and answered with a commanding voice, "Himself."

"Himself! What's this all about?" Tom replied sharply.

"He wants to give you himself," the commander said with his hand on the handle of a gun that was tucked in his waist belt.

"No, that's not true," Samuel explained with a defiant tone. "Remmie, we had a deal."

"Silence; I speak, you listen," the commander stormed.

Samuel sunk into the shadows.

"My young American friend has been our inside communications' channel for a few months," as he stepped toward Bronze, "and helped us penetrate Carravecky's security system on more than one occasion. Isn't that right, Sammy?" the commander said with an abusive tone as he withdrew the gun from his belt and stood face to face with Tom. "They call me Remmie, Remmie Take, because what I want, I take; and, now, I must take what I want; if not, I will take your life as an act of payment."

"Samuel, what the hell did you get yourself into?" Tom demanded and backed up a few defensive steps.

Young Carravecky didn't respond and almost tried to become invisible.

"You see, our friend Sammy had other plans."

"Remmie, I did all I could do," Samuel muttered. "It's not my fault."

Remmie's stare was harder than glacier ice, and Samuel shivered with fear. "He released classified information to the known public, the news media got wind of it; and now this exposure has threatened our mission." He paused in a controlled silence. "We thought our operation was complete until recently. I guess Samuel had neglected to tell us that the changes in the satellite up-link programs were killed."

"Remmie, I tried to re-enter the codes; but after the first security breach, there was no way I could get close enough to change the programming in the satellite security system," Samuel said frantically as he backed away.

Remmie told Samuel to shut up; then he aimed the gun toward him. "This gun is a Colt .45. It was made especially for me twenty-five years ago. Silver plated with gold trim; and in all of the years I've owned it, I never once failed my objective," Remmie gloated. "Sammy, I'm sorry it has to end this way," he said, and thumbed back the hammer.

Samuel wept like a little boy. "I've tried. Give me another chance--one more chance--this time I can do it. I'll make things right," but his cries were in vain. He was out of breath and sobbing for Remmie to spare his privileged life.

Tom attempted an attack, but he was subdued by the two heavily armed soldiers. He struggled to free himself from their weapons hold, but their firepower was too overwhelming. "Let him go; he's just a stupid boy," Tom shouted, expecting a retreat.

Samuel bobbled his escape.

Remmie easily restrained him by the ear. "That's easier said than done; we want what belongs to us," he replied with a heavy voice as he shoved Samuel to one side.

"What belongs to you? Tell me," Tom demanded.

Remmie was pressed in Tom's face, "Our sky weapon system, a device that will change the tactical strategy of war, will make us strong," Remmie barked with nasty vengeance in his dominant voice.

Tom tried to break free, but an active weapon barrel was stuffed in his face.

"You see. Your government was afraid to provoke another arms race with the Russians and withdrew their financial support. Our employer paid for this weapon. Now, it wants what it paid for."

"Who are you talking about--this mysterious European investment group?" Tom clamoured like he already knew the answer.

"Our business is not your concern," Remmie reported.

"It is my concern if it involves me and my country."

"You are a very pure and patriotic citizen for a yellow-bellied American."

"You and your sick band of goons will be stopped. I'll see to that," Tom shouted.

"No one can stop me or my men. We are beyond stoppable, and you must understand that," Remmie gloated.

Tom was powerless against Remmie's dominance and rested his defences, at least for now.

When Remmie was satisfied that Bronze was contained, he continued. "Just imagine launching a specially-designed weapon from a specially-designed sky carrier that is capable of flying across an ocean at speeds far beyond conventional methods--travel at space altitudes and beyond across the stratosphere or skim across the ground surface while avoiding all detection from the most sophisticated tracking systems. For any country possessing such an advanced piece of technology is an unimaginable dream, and you say we're sick."

Tom could sense the vulgarity radiating from this military madman.

"There is no stopping the future. The words to describe invincible are Carra-Messen Missile Skid Weapon System." Remmie turned toward Samuel, "My young Carravecky friend, you have become a liability to us; and our employer says thank you for your unfaithful services and goodbye." He looked at Tom. "It's now your turn to help us get back what belongs to us," as he fired a bullet from his gun into Samuel's heart and destroyed him before his dead body hit the alleyway.

Remmie's face revealed a pleasure for fresh blood. "Nobody double-crosses me and lives to tell their grandchildren," he said and holstered the gun in his belt. "Now, business is back to normal. Men, we have a mission to repair."

The soldiers tightened their hold on the accountant, who could do nothing to save Samuel's life or provide medical attention if that had been required.

"First him and now you," Remmie shouted and grabbed Tom by the scruff of the neck. He yanked Tom's head back and held an ugly blade to his exposed skin. Remmie slid the cold steel across his prisoner's throat. His eyes were wide and black, like that of a mentally diseased killer and showed zero remorse for executing Samuel. "You're now involved," Remmie said with a thick Russian voice. "I'll be a part of your life for the next twenty four hours. Do you get the message, Bronze?" He lowered the blade from Tom's exposed Adam's apple and stashed the weapon in his jacket.

"You won't be successful; the authorities will stop you," Tom warned them.

Remmie laughed artificially. "The United States has led the world in military might for many decades," Remmie said with a smug mouth. "Now it's not about controlling the world but about controlling this technology." Remmie calmed down--just a bit. "Our mission will be completed tomorrow night. Once our program is reactivated and weapon hardware is transferred, I'll give you your life back."

"Is that a promise?" Tom shouted.

"No," Remmie replied in anger, "I never promise anything to anyone." He appeared even more fearful. "The program has to be reloaded into the Carravecky main research computer system so once this task is completed, only then will you be safe from me; and, of course, we will be able to once again access their satellite system." His flaring temper receded. "Now, listen carefully. Carravecky is planning to move the skid by secure transport and deliver it to the American Government on Saturday to be shelved. That's what our network intelligence has uncovered, but we believe that's not their intentions." Remmie strengthened his stance. "Friday night will be the last time the missile carrier will be tested in the sky for the U.S. Military. If you botch up this mission, you'll rot in a prison cell for the rest of your pitiful life for the murder of Carravecky's youngest son. I'll see to that."

"If Samuel couldn't gain access to the main computers, what makes you believe I can?" Tom said sarcastically.

Remmie was in no mood to play or to be humoured by Bronze on the details of gaining access into Carravecky's system. He pulled the gun from his belt; and in one sudden motion, spun the cylinder and jammed the barrel against Tom's cheekbone. Remmie triggered the gun at Tom's eye.

Tom didn't even have time to pee his pants, yet totally fearless against death.

The commander grinned with pleasure; then opened the chamber. He emptied the chamber except for one live round. "The only thing I want you to do is correct this matter.

"You and your goons go to hell."

"If you agree, you will live for, at least another twenty-four hours."

"No, I can't do it. It's impossible, beyond my moral beliefs," Tom replied like he wanted no part of Remmie's unhealthy spy adventure.

"It's your life. It makes no difference if you die now or later." Remmie spun the chamber and continued. "For every bullet you escape, I add one. Don't think you'll escape my demands," as he pressed the barrel to Tom's forehead. "Any last words before you die?"

"Killing me doesn't solve anything," Tom grunted.

"Then it is pointless to play games," as he lowered the gun. "Maybe this will convince you," as he reloaded all the chambers. "We're on a tight schedule; what's your decision?"

Tom just eyed the soldiers.

"I would say the odds of avoiding death are highly stacked against you--six chambers, six live rounds, one attempt to escape death. I will give you five seconds to decide" as he began to count.

"Okay, I'll do it; put the gun away, I'll do whatever you want; just back off and let me breath," Tom snapped, and surrendered to Remmie's terrorist cause.

"Now that we have a binding agreement, I expect success from you," Remmie said. He motioned to his soldiers to release the prisoner. "Now, Bronze, stand still and don't run away."

A long, black limo pulled into the dark alleyway, and a soldier-type got out of the driver's seat and waited for the order to transport them from the crime scene.

"Bronze, get in," Remmie commanded.

Tom sat crammed between the two meaty soldiers. They were watching his every itch. Remmie sat directly across from the three of them.

Remmie leaned back and eyed his corrupted guest. "Do you love your country?" he inquired.

Tom looked at each of the soldiers; he was buying a few seconds. The one on the right of him pulled a throwing knife from his vest and began to inspect the blade. Tom watched the soldier slide the steel slowly across the soapstone as he sat in silence.

"Killing for a worldly purpose is an honourable business," Remmie continued--"just like accounting is an honourable profession. You have to take the good jobs with the bad. Two years ago, the ISN..."

"What's that--a private club for people like you?" Tom verbally jabbed at the terrorist.

Remmie smiled with a controlled anger. "The International Security Network was called in, and my team and I got involved in this corporate dilemma. It's not that we're out to steal these weapons, or to use them to tilt world power in our favour. We want to insure that these weapons never fall into the wrong hands."

"I don't believe any of your bullshit," Tom admitted.

"It's not for you to believe or disbelieve; the truth is the truth. If this happens, we're all history. This is why I ask if you love your country?"

Tom sat and listened. That was all he could do.

"Samuel was the rotten apple in the basket. He brokered an insane deal with another organization to sell the system to them at a bargain price. For starters, it wasn't his investment to sell. It was him or you."

"Your voice is making me want to vomit. Tell me before I get sick on your boots what it is I have to do?" Tom asked as if he didn't have an ounce of respect for the ruthless terrorist.

Remmie leaned forward and pulled a small flat box from his jacket pocket and held it in the palm of his hand; he lifted off the top and revealed its digital content.

"What--a solid state data stick?" Tom snapped.

"It's not just a stick; it's a data hound," Remmie replied. "The security in the complex has been enhanced since a device of similar nature was last used. Now you're the only one who'll have an opportunity to get inside the complex. This woman you work for, Celia McBridle, she'll be leaving for a meeting at Carravecky's Friday morning. This is our last opportunity to reload the hound into the main research and development computers. Friday night they'll be transferring the data into the system, and our reactivated program will be among the loaded code. Once this happens and you've done your part, you're free from any further obligations to us." Remmie tapped on the glass barrier behind him and signalled the driver to pull over. "If you keep your mouth shut, no one will ever know your involvement in any of our dismal fun and games."

The limo stopped on the shoulder of the road. Remmie replaced the protective box lid and passed the sealed unit to Tom. "You'll have one chance; don't screw it up," he said; and he opened the door. "Now, Bronze, get out."

Tom stepped out of the limo and held open the door. He hoped this would be the last time he saw any of them, especially Mr. Take; but he had a gut-wrenching feeling that they would soon meet again.

"Bronze, take this;" he extended his fisted hand. "It'll help you to find your way," and reassured the accountant with a nod of confidence.

He received the folded piece of paper from Remmie's control and stuffed it into his pants pocket along with the small flat box.

The limo door slammed shut, and the vehicle sped away into traffic.

Tom walked a couple miles back to the street in the loading zone. In that time he thought about every miserable thing that had happened tonight.

When he arrived at McBridle's vehicle, he realized the damage was far more extensive than what he had originally thought. "Holly shit-water, this doesn't look good. McBridle's going to fire me headfirst out the bedroom window over this warped mistake," he moaned with a cleansed sense of relief.

Then he unlocked the vehicle and pried open the door. When he was about to dive into the driver's seat, he noticed a parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper. "Damn, that's all I need for a goodnight kick in the pants," he cried silently. He pulled out the parking violation from beneath the blade and stuffed it into his pocket.

He twisted the key, and he was on his way again.

Chapter 15: WAKE UP I'M DYING

Tom had to convince McBridle that it was absolutely necessary that he accompany her to this meeting tomorrow morning. It was getting late, almost midnight. He'd go home and get some sleep, but first he'd go back to her place and park the vehicle in her driveway. He'd give her a sob story and hope she'd glean pity on him; then he'd indiscreetly crawl out and take a cab home. The dashboard clock indicated the time to be 12:00 a.m. He wasn't sure if she'd be waiting up so explaining the bad news would only take a few hurried minutes; then he'd be on his way.

Tonight's game of Remmie Roulette was gnawing at the thinking meat between his waxy ears. He was really worried that someone could possibly identify him at the murder scene, especially that storekeeper who looked directly at him as he waited on the corner in front of those Asian grocery shops. Once the police started their investigation, they'd probably come up with a vehicle and a suspect description. As Remmie said, he had at least twenty-four hours to figure out what to do; but ultimately, he hoped that he wouldn't be questioned for the killing.

McBridle's car phone rang. Tom answered it, "Yeah, hello."

"Hi, darling, it's me. I just called to find out where you are and to tell you that I just got home a couple minutes ago."

"Sorry I didn't make it back; so did you grab a taxi home?" he asked.

"No big deal, Lankenbury drove me."

"I should be at your place in a bit," Tom loosely estimated.

"Good. I want to show you something I bought today."

"What is it?"

"Just knock your socks off and get here soon," McBridle said seductively and hung up.

A short time later, Tom parked in her dark driveway and entered the house through the side door. He couldn't stop reliving Samuel's horrible death, but he forced the eventful night from his stressed mind as he entered the backroom. With a pasty white complexion and mentally disconnected composure, he collapsed on the couch.

"Tom, whatever has gotten into you, isn't good. You should have gone home and straight to bed," McBridle said, as she noticed him slumped over in anguish.

He looked her in the eyes. "I'm sorry. I must have dozed off."

"I know. That's what I said. You should have gone straight to bed--none of this running around all hours of the night."

"No, I don't mean that."

"What are you talking about?" She went to the kitchen to get him a cold drink.

"I'm sorry. I momentarily lost control of your vehicle and brushed up against a guardrail or a tree or something while I was returning from Stamp Line County. I badly messed up the car; but don't worry. I'll pay for any damages--no matter what the cost," Tom apologised sincerely.

"Are you injured?" McBridle said with a worried look while standing at the sink rinsing a glass.

"No," Tom replied, and tried to straighten up.

She sat down beside him, "No, no, stay put. Here--drink some water. It'll help clear your mind," she prescribed.

Tom guzzled its cool content as the water spilled out the ends of his mouth and splashed onto the leather upholstery.

"My concern isn't the vehicle. That can be repaired; however, you're a one-of-a-kind model, and I deeply care for you," she said lovingly.

This was a huge surprise. Tom pictured her being more enraged than sympathetic when he told her about wrecking her expensive wheels. He stroked her delicate hair away from her fragile face. He was trapped between the good McBridle who cared that he wasn't dead and the bad McBridle who, in his daydream, was hoarding a suitcase full of cash and making love to that mystery woman.

"I know you have feelings for me and that makes me very happy. That's why I'm not angry with you for damaging my property," she said, as she held his rough hand to her untroubled cheek.

Tom couldn't move away; he was emotionally drained.

"I made some tea when I called you earlier," she said, and jumped to her feet. She was winding him back into her web of deception. "Tom, I want you to get a good night sleep. There's a meeting at Carravecky's tomorrow so I'll have to leave an hour or so earlier. If you want, stay the night; and I'll drive you to the office in the morning."

Tom straightened up his bent body. "What's this meeting about?"

"It's nothing; just get some rest."

"Tell me; then I'll sleep. If not, I'll be walking the floors all night."

She looked at him with big, worried eyes, "It concerns investments; some special investors want to discuss some special equipment contracts."

"Doctor Carravecky, will be at this meeting?"

"Yeah, and I believe Robert and Samuel will also be there." McBridle took the cup from Tom and placed it on the kitchen counter; then she helped him upstairs into the bedroom. She pushed him down on the bed and fell on top of him. She kissed his quiet lips and kneaded his chiselled chest. "I'll be back so don't cool off."

After she stepped out of sight, he pulled the data hound and piece of paper from his pocket. The paper demanded his utmost attention as he flattened it out on his knee. It contained a sketchy yet detailed floor plan of Carravecky's complex sub floor four. The diagram mapped out an alternative route on how to reach the main research and development computers where classified project information was housed. According to the map, reaching this site would be extremely easy for a team of professional terrorists.

"I'll be out in two seconds so cover your eyes, my sweet," McBridle said with a toying voice.

"Whenever, my darling, just give me a chance to blink," he replied, taking little notice of her sudden nakedness in the walk-in closet mirror. He had to devise a plan. He had visited Carravecky's twice so finding this area wouldn't be all that difficult. His fingertips were intuitively sensitive to the letter quality paper, and they were telling him to flip the sheet over and to view the other side. The Pentagon's official letterhead was visible at the top with INTERNAL MEMO printed below followed by the text--Sensitive: DESTROY IMMEDIATELY AFTER VIEWING.

From U.S. covert intelligence in Russia, it is confirmed that a Russian diplomatic team has discovered the American Government violated the Arms Race Weapons of Mass Destruction Agreement negotiated less than five-years ago.

Russian Central Command has begun to rearm their defensive forces and will threaten to retaliate with whatever measures they need to destroy this sky system--code name: The Carra-Messen Missile Skid.

The threat of a nuclear exchange is highly possible if the American Government does not back down from such unwarranted aggression and agrees to make a formal apology to the Russian people.

"No wonder Remmie Take's seeking absolute control of this weapon system. He could be trying to defuse World War Three, but I strongly doubt that," Tom mumbled, disconnected from his surroundings. He was screwed no matter what he did. He had a defective option--go along with Remmie's sick plan or rot in prison.

Tom stuffed the items back into his pants pocket just in time to avoid explaining to McBridle what he was doing.

"Cover your eyes; don't peek until I say so," McBridle ordered; then she pranced into the room. "Get an eye full; and if you like what you see, take a big piece."

Tom obeyed her sexual command and pulled her in close.

She was wearing a lace bra and panty set and very arousing to his manhood. "Do you like it?" she asked, her hands sliding over the contour of her silky skin.

"Yeah, it's very appetizing," he replied and lightly kissed her neck like a French lover.

"I bought it at lunchtime," she said lustfully breathing, "so get a mouthful before it ends up on your head." Her bare skin welcomed his roving handwork. She pressed her plump breasts forward. They were pushed way up in the skimpy bra like mouth-watering balls of juicy fruit, and he tasted every inch of her ripe desire.

McBridle slid into bed alongside of him. "You need to get away and relax some weekend where we can make blissful love," she whispered temptingly in his ear and held him gently.

He kissed her again and again.

*****

The cracked thoughts of Tom's week haunted his mind as he slept. The demonic powers of Ferronkus, the unearthly pureness of Exsorbo, the ruthlessness of Remmie Take and the tragic murder of Samuel Carravecky were nightmare images that transported his wobbly mind back in time to a land far, far away.

He stood at the edge of a dirt village. He had no idea where his dream had taken him. There were dozens of thatched-roof huts that lined the bank of a muddy river. There was a warm sunset, and the moon was fully visible in the dim sky. The scenery seemed peaceful; the villagers appeared to be going about their regular evening tribal routines. Nothing was out of the ordinary except when Tom attempted to move forward the soil beneath his feet potted him down.

Like the warm evening air, which stood still and invisible, nobody could see or hear him as he called and struggled for their attention. He sensed danger. It was coming from overhead; then there was a whistling sound that woke the night sky.

The village was struck as bombs and grenades exploded, and people ran to save their lives. Many were killed in the scatter of confusion. Within minutes of the attack, bodies lay motionless on the ground. Then a noisy aircraft flew over and dropped a metallic, pressurized canister. Tom could sense that it was napalm; it burned into the air like a tidal wave of superheated fire that consumed everything in its wake. The heat rushed across Tom's face like a blast of death.

When the air cleared, an elite highly efficient team of soldiers stormed in by foot. Tom assumed they were there to assistance the dying but he was dead wrong.

An experienced soldier stood mean while commanding his men. His troops called him "The Commander." Tom sensed that man was Remmie Take who appeared at least twenty-years younger. Still he acted just as inhumanly ruthless.

Smoke bellowed from the ground like it was on fire. Remmie instructed his team by coded hand signals to span the area and conduct a thorough pattern sweep.

In a tree hollow, the soldiers discovered a young village woman cradling a small child who was barely breathing. They signalled Remmie and waited for him to arrive.

Remmie stood like a tower of hate and terrorized the woman; she begged for her simple life.

"Where's the drop cargo?" Remmie shouted repeatedly at the woman but received no verbal response. He drew his Colt .45, and pointed it at the woman's temple. Remmie shouted again. The woman cried out: "I didn't understand," in her own language.

"I will make you understand," Remmie bellowed and yanked the woman's head back. "Bronze, your dreams can't save you; this is real-life reality. If you think you can outsmart me, you are violently mistaken," he laughed devilishly. "Try and die" he roared and looked directly at Tom.

Tom froze; he suspected the young woman in his dream was a representation of his estranged wife. "No," he cried, his hand outstretched as if to save her from the deadly terror.

"Dreams are for the living not the dead," Remmie bellowed. "Bronze, this is a bit of extra insurance."

The bullet exploded from the barrel of his gun, and the woman dropped to the charred ground. "Bronze, botch up this mission, and you'll pay the ultimate price."

Tom awoke suddenly released from the nightmare's venomous jaws. He lay in a lather of sweat breathing as if he had just escaped the blade of an axe-happy psychopath. He was convinced Remmie would kill his family if he didn't get this data hound loaded into the computer system so he was treading on thin ice.

He knew that Remmie Take was all business, but he had to be stopped. He peeped at McBridle. She was still fast asleep so he quietly got out of bed and dressed.

He knew if he were going to attend this meeting in the morning, he'd have to go home and get a fresh change of clothes. He took one last look at her as she slept. Her bedside clock indicated the time was 3:32 a.m. He checked his watch and estimated that he had plenty of time to go home and get back here without her even knowing that he was gone.

The drive was easy except for wrestling with thoughts of Remmie killing Samuel; they would haunt him until the day he died. Remmie had made him a witness to this gruesome crime. Now, he had to play by the terrorist's double-dealing rules.

Tom arrived home and was about to unlock the front door when he noticed it was jarred open. There had been several break-ins in the neighbourhood over the last few months so he figured his turn had come. He eased the door open and silently crept inside. It was dark. His sweaty hand groped the wall while searching for the light switch yet he was soldierly ready to fend off an attack if need be.

"I've been waiting for you, Mr. Bronze," a strange man said as he sat in the darkness of the living room. The stranger silently instructed one of his two goons to switch on the lamp next to the telephone. Tom noticed his uninvited guest wore a chunky build.

"Have a seat," the man said, and gestured toward the armchair across from the couch where he was seated.

"What do you want?"

"I'll ask the question," he said politely, and extended his thick hand; "please, have a seat."

Tom did as he was told, somewhat intimidated by the two pressed suits that stood behind the couch like twin bookends. His eyes were fixed on the stranger. "You're obviously not my bank manager so I guess this isn't a foreclosure," Tom said in a light tone, an attempt to break the tension.

"You're a very funny man, Mr. Bronze."

"Well, I try," he said with a stubborn smile.

The stranger just stared.

"So, enough fun; what do you want?" Tom asked, fully tensed on the edge of the chair.

"It's not what we want; it's what you want," the stranger replied in a strong voice as he leaned further into the light, which helped to reveal his thinning hair and neatly clipped moustache. It was obvious by the appearance of his pudgy face and puffy eyes he weighed well over two-hundred-and-fifty pounds yet he was extremely well dressed, professionally dressed just like the two bodyguards who stood behind him. "There's a time when the killing games must stop. My name is Ivadot Rosky."

"So, am I supposed to care?"

Ivadot ignored the lack of respect. "I'm a special agent with a special agency." He flipped open his identification shield.

"What about your two boyfriends who are standing behind you as if they'd love to send a bullet through my temple?" Tom inquired.

"They're my loyal associates in training; they do what I ask of them," Ivadot replied.

Tom grinned with a smug attitude.

"Tom, you really got around tonight."

"Well, I have two feet made for walking," Tom replied sarcastically.

"A man who fits your description was spotted on the corner of Forth & Eighth near the scene of a crime late last evening."

"That has nothing to do with me."

"We questioned several witnesses who have confirmed our investigative facts so you better listen to every word I say." Ivadot pulled a five-by-seven inch black and white photo of a man from his pocket and slid it across the coffee table.

"Samuel Carravecky, so what!" Tom replied. Then he politely swept it across the surface.

Ivadot tucked the picture into his trench coat pocket and leaned into the couch. "This man was gunned down in cold blood," Ivadot revealed. "What do you know about this act of butchery?" The room was silent as Ivadot stared at Tom. "We're going easy on you right now because we feel that you're not the killing type. The evidence is pointing toward you, and you're telling me you know nothing about this murder. There are many witnesses who can identify you at this location around the same time as the homicide so cut the bullshit." Ivadot leaned forward again. "I know you didn't kill Samuel, but no one else will believe that. We believe a professional killer named Remmie Take committed this crime. He's an international security expert who works for profit."

"That's a nice clean name for a terrorist?"

"He commands a dozen or so men as dangerous as himself and Remmie doesn't fool around with dickheads like you unless there's something in it for himself."

Rosky's associates were fidgeting as if anxious to use force.

"Tom, if you're associated with this traitor, this scumbag, this maggot to earth's society, then you're signing your own death certificate," Ivadot warned.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Tom asked.

"Have you ever heard of the KCB?" Ivadot replied.

"The KGB," Tom said admittedly.

"No," Ivadot replied. "The KCB, it stands for Kill - Covert - Bury."

"These are hard words to die by," Tom said bravely. "That's what you guys do? 'Cause those words would scare the guilty, but they don't scare me."

"No, of course. That's not what we do, and I'm not here to scare you," Rosky said. "We're here to help. We're an organization that receives funding through private donations from wealthy citizens," Ivadot explained as he laughed. "The government has no knowledge of our existence; and if they did, they'd be lying."

"The government lies about everything; you guys are just a figment of my overactive imagination. I bet if I close my eyes and reopen them, you'll be gone."

"If that's what you believe."

Tom shook his head, "I don't believe anything anymore."

"Then believe me. Our central purpose is to eliminate global crime and make this world a safer place to live. That's the reason I'm sitting here. It doesn't make much sense that you'd sign up with a professional killer like Remmie Take so you'll have to trust me," Ivadot said convincingly.

"All right, for now," Tom replied, but he wasn't fully convinced. "If I cooperate, what's in it for me?"

"You'll get your life back."

"That's it!"

"What more do you want?" Rosky seemed surprised.

"I was expecting a gold watch--maybe a new refrigerator," Tom said, casually joking.

"Tom, I'll be in touch with you soon so relax and go about your normal daily chores like nobody's business," Ivadot said as he stood and walked toward the door.

Tom noticed the agent man had a debilitating limp.

"Think about what I said; then decide."

"Yeah, I'll file it under things to forget," Tom admitted carelessly. He held his hand to his face and breathed an anxious goodbye to the secret agent and the pair of goons as he closed the door. He was now silently committed to both of these dissimilar organizations. He could try to satisfy both sides. First, though, he would have to do what Remmie demanded; then do what Rosky instructed. This seemed to be his only way out. He definitely didn't want to wear a ball-and-chain for the rest of his depressive life or have Remmie kill his family over some rich kid who meant nothing to him.

He went to his bedroom and selected an appropriate suit to wear to the meeting later in the morning. When he was leaving his house, he took one last look at the living room. It felt like he'd never live to walk through the front doors of this place again. He rattled his wristwatch with the dull digital glow of 4:45 a.m.

Sunrise would soon wake the neighbourhood, and Tom could hardly wait.

The drive back to McBridle's house was peaceful and quiet, which was unusual for a Friday morning, even at this early hour.

Tom's mission was clearly defined in his mind and that was to convince McBridle that he should attend this meeting. It was his prime objective. Since he had only one opportunity of gaining access to Carravecky's complex before the weapon system exchange took place, he'd cry at her feet and outwit her negative decision if it came to that.

He entered McBridle's house, went up to her bedroom, changed his clothes, then sat by her bedside and waited like a good boy for the alarm to wake her.

Chapter 16: WORLD OF INFERNO

The alarm clock struck at exactly 5:45 a.m. McBridle reached over and slapped the snooze bar and cancelled the burping cycle.

Tom observed her sleepy body dynamics from the end of the bed.

She rolled over and noticed him. "Why are you sitting there watching me?

"You're a very lovely sleeper, and I didn't want to waste the view," he said, as he reached for her morning wear that was folded over the chair next to the bed.

"Did you sleep well last night?" she asked and lightly tussled her lazy hair.

"Yeah, I did. As a matter of fact, I had the best sleep in months," he replied as he passed her the robe. "So, what's our hectic agenda like today?"

"You're working in the office on these files. For me, it's a go-go type of crazy day."

"Why? What's going on?" Tom asked and stripped back the snug bedding. It was his way of hurrying her out of the bed.

"First, I'm interviewing an accounting grad at seven-thirty," McBridle replied and slipped into the cottony housecoat. "That's why I have to be at the office an hour early. Then I'm leaving for a couple of meetings at Carravecky's. If everything goes as expected, I should be back late in the day."

Tom followed her to the kitchen and stood behind her. He was trying to devise a safe way to ask if he could accompany her to the meetings without appearing desperate or pathetically begging.

McBridle stood at the counter near the sink, "Do you want coffee?"

"Sure, black is fine," Tom replied in a morning tone.

"Good, 'cause there's no fresh milk."

He asserted his voice. "I'm your auditing partner for this week, right?"

She turned toward him with an alarmed expression. "You're assigned to my case if that's what you mean?"

"Yes, exactly! Well, I should attend the meetings with you at Carravecky's instead of staying in the office and wasting my time flipping through those worthless internal accounting papers."

She seemed confused. "I thought you were anxious to start on that report."

"I'm anxious to complete this investigation and move on to something new."

"Good. You'll have your chance to complete the job. I've scheduled four days at Carravecky's next week." (She paused with an annoyed breath.) "If you want to sit in on the meetings, I'll have to confirm that with Robert Carravecky." She opened the cupboard door and removed a tin of coffee. "Personally, I don't think you should attend the meetings; they'll only complicate your life; however, since Robert makes all the executive decisions, I'll call him later concerning his royal confirmation," she said and started to prep the machine. Then she switched on the portable radio located within her reach.

"It's 6:01, and a good morning to you, Seattle. This is the early morning news," the radio personality howled before getting down to some serious news-tailing business. "A slain body was discovered north of the city's core this morning. The victim's identity has not been released, and the police are not releasing any of the chilling details at this time other than it's a Caucasian male in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Gang violence is a possibility." The newsperson sounded as if he changed his tone. "Let's be diligent, folks, and clean up the greatest home in America. This is the eighteenth obscene homicide in the past ten months. Seattle, I know you're listening; and I know you can do it so let's get going by keeping an eye open and to help kick the crime rate from where we live."

Tom switched off the radio before the news was finished. He already knew the rest of the story.

McBridle seemed displeased and objected to his rude behaviour. "What's gotten into you today? If you don't like listening to this radio-guy, then live with it because I happened to really enjoy his morning newscast," she said with her check signing hand pressed against his chest.

"I'm sorry, Celia, I didn't realize you were so interested in what was being reported. I can turn it back on," Tom said. His straight finger was stalled on the radio's power button.

She just looked at him with a tight mouth. She was holding back her bad words from escaping her larynx.

After all was said and done they left the house through the side door where her vehicle was parked.

"You really did a crummy number on my new car, but don't sweat your rotten luck. I've got a good friend who has an auto collision business. With one phone call, it'll be fixed by the end of next week," she said with confidence.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry. Give me the bill for all the work, and I'll make sure it gets paid," Tom replied reassuringly and examined the vehicle more thoroughly. "Maybe, I should drive since I caused this unpleasant problem."

"...if you like to be a working gentleman," she replied with her eyes aimed toward the vehicle.

"Oh, of course," he said and opened the passenger's side door, for her to get in.

The drive to the office was like every Friday morning, traffic--bumper-to-bumper and mechanically loud.

A jumbled up collection of unresolved investigative clues tainted Tom's already delusional mind. He knew he was going to hook something big. He expected it. He knew because the palms of his hands felt itchy as he squeezed the steering wheel and held on with a locked grip. He glanced over at her. Her eyes were dissecting a fat newspaper, but she still looked sweet and smelled even sweeter. His only problem was that stupid box that protected the hound; it was digging into his leg as a constant reminder of what his true mission was and the painful importance of his success. He directed his eyes away from her spicy appeal to the unsightly motorway of pavement.

"The newspaper forecasts another nice day," McBridle said and stashed the paper behind the seat.

"I hope it doesn't rain like it did last week at this time," Tom replied, "because the cold and dampness makes my bones creak like an old dog."

Before they knew it, they had entered the Belk Tower's underground parking. The gate attendant immediately recognized Tom driving McBridle's vehicle. "Ms. Celia, I see ya teaching Mr. Bronze how ta drive safely," the attendant commented with a naughty, insane smile. "You have a big, bad, booboo. Shame on you, Thomas."

Tom snapped at the guy, "Just open the damn fence and mind your damn business, you damn little fairy squirt." The attendant seemed jolted and curled back into his den.

They soon reached floor fifty-one. This gave Tom an opportunity to articulate and better compose his disorganized, chopped-up thoughts. His main concern was how could he stop Remmie Take and get out of Samuel's murder alive.

Tom took a deep breath before he stepped from the elevator. He gave McBridle a couple strides head start before he proceeded. Physiologically, he perceived that the hallway leading to the office was exceptionally long and narrow, and all he recognized was the partners' names in large form etched on the glass doors. Maybe the mind-crash was near. He entered the office and noticed Stella organizing her work.

"Ms. McBridle asked if you could come to her office," Stella said.

"Thanks, Stella." he replied.

"Oh, Tom," Stella shot up and asked in a whisper, "it's all around the office that the two of you were dating on bowling night. Is it true?"

"I don't know what to say to that," he replied absently. "Check the Internet; you'll probably discover the answer there."

She seemed disappointed when he didn't divulge the details.

Tom entered McBridle's office and sat in a seat already positioned behind her desk.

"Tom, you may as well sit in on the interview that I had previously arranged for this afternoon but changed it yesterday for this morning," she said while holding the phone to her ear. "Stella, send in Steve LaCly.

"Tom, as you are aware, we now occupy five floors. Our firm has been growing in leaps and bounds and I've been interviewing a number of candidates, but this young man is a family friend of one of the partners and demands extra attention so I'll be going easy on him. Don't register my flirtation as a sign of growing soft and weak around young, attractive, men." She passed Tom a fat file folder filled with resumes. "This is Steve's second interview; the first was with Lankenbury," McBridle explained. "I've been instructed by Mackenzie to hire Steve and to draw up a one-year work term contract. He'll be assigned to Selly's supervision. Believe me, there's gonna be major changes taking place around here, hopefully, for the best."

Tom just nodded; he really didn't care or want to get involved in any of these corporate, backstabbing cage matches and kept his mouth shut.

The interview concluded with a quick handshake and conservative congratulations. McBridle made the arrangements for Selly to introduce Steve, the new financial analyst, around the office and instructed the newcomer to start Monday at eight o'clock on the dot.

When Selly closed the office door, Tom advanced his mission. "This meeting at Carravecky's--it'll be at the same main boardroom?" Tom asked McBridle.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you; it'll be held in the conference room on the sixth floor." She packed her leather satchel with several reports and slung the heavy bag over her shoulder as if it were a sack of money. Her phone rang and she answered it; it was Robert Carravecky. She talked for a moment; then hung up. "Robert Carravecky will be expecting you. Do you still want to come with me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then get ready because we're running behind schedule; let's shake our boots and get running," she said enthusiastically.

"I'm ready; so let's boogie," Tom replied as he buttoned the front of his coat.

She pressed her fleshy, desirous breasts against his strong shoulder, "Last night was the best; you drove me into a state of coital euphoria and pleased me like no other man has ever pleased me before."

He kissed her wet lips. "I want to make love to you all weekend."

"Last night wasn't enough." She withdrew her affection. "We have tons of work to complete. Now, let's get going before we're late."

On the way out, McBridle told Stella that she'd be back in the office after four-thirty if anyone should call.

Stella diligently wrote it down on a message pad.

The telephone rang. Stella answered it. "Tom," she said as she held her hand over the receiver, "it's for you. Do you want me to take a message or send it to your voice mail?"

"No, I'll take it, Stella." He picked up the phone, "Tom Bronze \- speaking."

"Mr. Bronze."

"Yes," Tom replied.

"This is Detective Gene Riley," he said in a senior, mature tone of voice.

"You're a cop; I mean, a police detective?"

"You sound shocked."

"No, no, I'm just surprised."

"Don't be surprised; it's just routine, nothing serious."

"Well, then, what can I do for you so early in the morning?"

"I'm calling you with regard to an automobile."

"What about it?" Tom replied quickly.

"It's a late nineties, two-door, Japanese model, recovered at the bottom of an embankment along Highway #9 wearing license plates registered in your name. I'm just calling to confirm if this is your vehicle? And if you do, in fact, still own it."

"Yeah, it's registered to me," Tom replied hesitatingly.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"I'm really busy right now."

"It'll only take a minute."

"Yeah, well, then, okay," Tom replied carefully.

"I don't believe you filed an accident report; at least, it hasn't arrived on my desk. Is this a correct assumption?" Riley inquired.

"No, I mean, yes," Tom replied, nervously confused. "I never reported the accident to the police. I must have forgotten. Detective Riley, excuse me," he said; then he called through the glass doors. "McBridle, can you wait for me downstairs?"

"Tom, don't be long," she replied while indicating the time.

"Two minutes," he reassured her; then placed the receiver to his ear.

"Am I getting you at a bad time?" Riley asked.

"No, no, it's fine."

"Good, because I won't be long, I just want to confirm that you have valid insurance and that nobody else was in the vehicle or that anyone was injured."

"I understand," Tom replied impatiently.

"Since you're busy right now, and for your own convenience, would you object if I came to your workplace later to take a more detailed statement from you?" Riley asked.

"I don't know what time I'll be back in the office," Tom replied.

"That's fine, Mr. Bronze, I'll call you later today or the first of next week. I'd like to clean up this matter as soon as possible and retire your file," Riley indicated.

"I understand your concerns," Tom replied, somewhat relieved.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Bronze. I'll be in touch soon," Riley concluded and hung up.

After his conversation with Riley, Tom joined McBridle in the parking garage.

"Who was that on the phone?" McBridle asked.

Tom apologized with a friendly peck on the cheek, a small token of good faith for making her wait an extra minute. "I never reported my accident, you know, Tuesday night when I ran my car off the road."

"And they're just catching up with you now," she said with a puzzled look.

"I guess there're no bad guys to catch so they go after the dumb guys." Like a cunning master of Chinese checkers, Tom knew his intuitions had to be one step ahead of the game; but it was only a matter of time before Detective Riley linked the ownership of McBridle's vehicle with Carravecky's murder. The damage to the side of her car was a dead giveaway, but he hoped Riley wouldn't bother him until he invented a way out of his critical complication.

*****

McBridle pulled up to Carravecky's gate and waited impatiently. An armed guard stood watch in front of his post while another guard approached the vehicle on the driver's side window and looked in. "Ms. McBridle, what is your business today?" the guard asked as if looking through Tom.

"We have a scheduled meeting with Doctor Carravecky, and we're late so please expedite the entry process," McBridle replied with brass armour on her sassy tongue.

"One moment," the guard ordered; then he occupied his station quarters. Tom saw the guard talking on the radio. The soldier returned wearing a reserved smile. "Sorry for any confusion, Ms. McBridle; you and your associate are cleared; please proceed."

Tom felt a grumble of relief in his empty stomach once the guard signalled for the road to be open. The employee who operated the gate controls stared at them as they drove past. Tom peered into the side-view mirror; the guards were steadfast with their weapons in a fixed position like fearless, twin, plastic green soldiers. Tom thought maybe they knew something he didn't, but it was too late into the game to worry or care.

McBridle parked; then they high-tailed it through the main complex doors. She showed her security clearance card, the visitor's registration paperwork was pre-processed.

The main floor elevator doors opened, and a guard accompanied the Doctor's guests to the sixth floor, a highly secure location where special conference meetings were held. The floor was equipped with the latest advancements in communication security equipment including signal relay transmission detection and listening/disruption technology--all conversations conducted behind these walls were scrubbed clean and safe from interception.

Within the secured perimeters of the soft-blue conference room walls were about twenty people who resembled crafty, high-priced lawyers. They waited silently for the meeting to commence.

McBridle and Tom entered and the solid door banged tight, sealed to form a perfectly secure communications' barrier.

McBridle sat next to Doctor Carravecky; it was the last vacant seat at the long oval board table so Tom stood with a handful of others along the wall next to an older gentleman who wore a wrinkled plaid suit and appeared very anxious about the meeting.

Doctor Carravecky (stretched to his feet), a big-boned, heavyset man could be ugly and mean when he wanted to be, and this was one of those occasions. "According to the accounting department, this is the last meeting for our fiscal year. There are a number of committee representatives who would like to voice their suggestions and concerns so let's not waste time," he said and turned the floor over to the first brave speaker.

"Good morning, I'm Harry Snell. I represent Space-Tech & Investments; our group holds thirteen percent of Carravecky Class A Common Shares so I think we have a strong voice when it comes to matters concerning our investments" as he flipped open his briefcase. "The information that was on the TV news last night isn't sitting well with us," Snell addressed the room. "My company wants to know what's going on; and if this explanation isn't forthcoming, I recommend we unload the shares before the bottom falls out of them. I think if you don't come clean, chances are that the price will drop like a ton of bricks." His eyes searched about the room seeking support. "We're all in business to make and protect our money; technology is a vicious industry, but we know nothing about this extremely expensive military gun. If we did, it's questionable if we would support such an illegally destructive program. Now, I want answers for those whom I represent."

"We all want answers; it's just going to take a bit of time," Doctor Carravecky said as he stood. "There's an ongoing investigation being conducted as we speak, and I'm hopeful this matter will soon be resolved. Then all your questions will be answered. I have my best people working on this problem; I reassure you that all is fine, and there's nothing to worry about."

Tom watched Harry Snell brewing over the mound of documentation that he was referencing and addressed each issue one by one.

The older gentleman who stood next to Tom gently nudged him. "I've been to about five of these crazy meetings. Sometimes they heat up and tempers flare."

"Is this one of those meetings?" Tom asked quietly.

"Far from it," he chuckled with a wheezy breath. "I find it quite interesting how people get all bent out of shape over money." He introduced himself as Doctor Alvin. "You are?" he asked as they shook hands.

"Tom Bronze. I'm here with Celia McBridle. She's sitting next to Doctor Carravecky."

"Yes, I've had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. She's a fine lady... known her a long time. I was a good, long-time friend of her father."

"Oh, when was that?"

"We went to military college together, many, many years ago."

Their hands locked in a shaking motion that lasted longer than normal. Tom noticed a small, crude-looking tattoo, (like a navy anchor) over Doctor Alvin's right thumb. Before Tom could wink an eye, the powers of the mind-crash swallowed him into the future where time was skewed; five minutes there was five seconds back on earth.

A thunderclap echoed from the sky as Tom broke through the dimensional barrier that held space and time together. He stood on what appeared to be foreign soil. The buildings were all destroyed and lay in twisted rubble, streets were turned upside down; and the people, who were still alive, were in desperate need of medical attention.

Black smoke rose into the unbreathable atmosphere, but Tom recognized where he was by the Belk Tower's triangular-shaped building logo plate that protruded up through the scorched unearthly crust. "This is my own world, my own country, my own home," Tom whispered in disbelief; "what ungodly master could have caused such chaos?"

"Hey you," a man clothed in a soiled medical garb cried out. His hands crooked with bloodstained latex gloves. "Hurry, help me stable the injured," he shouted.

Tom approached with caution.

The man tossed the visitor an unsterilized-looking towel. "Quick; hold it on my patient's wound while I extract foreign matter from his shattered parietal bone."

Tom did his best to comfort the patient, but the body was already cold and lifeless.

The medical man screamed into the burnt heavens, "It's always too late; hell has washed over us and will soon defeat our wish to live." He ripped off the gloves and balled them into the pocket of his stained medical smock.

The makeshift hospital tent was a flimsy, plastic tarp yet the only recognizable structure which stood in a wasteland of demolished commerce. Concrete and steel that once formed the impressive elevations lay in a pile of unimaginable ruin.

"What happened here?" Tom asked, looking in all directions for any signs of normalcy.

"This is all that is left from the great world we dominated for thousands of years."

"Are you saying the planet is destroyed?"

"I don't know. I only know what I see. It's all gone, gone because of what knowledge and scientific torment I unleashed upon planet earth."

"What was it you did?" Tom asked while looking directly at the brainsick scientist.

"They said it would only be used for world peace."

"They. Who are you referring to?"

"I don't remember," the scientist replied, as he wiped his hand over his face in hopes to restore his memory.

"You got to remember and tell me the details," Tom said, with his hand bound into a loaded fist, "or I'll give you pine-box pain" and grabbed the scientist by his smock.

"I vaguely remember that my name is Alvin."

"Doctor Alvin, the Doctor Alvin employed at Carravecky's?"

"That's right, Doctor Alvin," he said with a soar mouth.

"Get a hold of your senses," Tom demanded, and tried to stable the scientist's weakened balance.

"Yes. He said that I would be cosmically admired by scientists from all over the world."

"Who said that! Doctor Carravecky?" Tom snapped.

"Yes, and by those scientists whom I've chosen to forget. Instead, I have cast the world into an inferno for all eternity." The doctor stepped out from beneath the weathered canopy and looked into the incinerated sky. "Tomorrow there'll be more death and more the day after that. It will never end. Each yesterday wears a different face. Today they all look and sound hellishly alike." He walked to the far side of the plastic drape to visit his dying patients.

Tom wasn't prepared for this future carnage. Even the great skills of a Nukyi Salient didn't make it any easier on his frayed nerves.

Eventually, Doctor Alvin led Tom to a concrete structural slab which lay in ruins in front of the dusty tent cover. He held his hands outstretched with his face into the atomic wind and cried out, "Beyond nuclear destruction is all around me. I can't escape the results of this torture. Our world will never stand strong and live for freedom." Suddenly the doctor turned toward the visitor; his face grew grotesquely blistered and burnt from the effects of swirling radiation. His voice hardened, "This is what living death looks like. Take a good, hard look and remember what tomorrow will look like. If you can derail mankind from this hideous fate, you will have saved all of us from this unbearable destiny."

"I'll do everything I can, but I'm just one simple man against a hell-raiser's army of swords," Tom replied.

"You must do everything and more. You must save yourself from this torment if you are to save mankind. The world is counting on you..."

As the mind-crash died without warning, Tom was sucked through the dimensional tunnel from which he had come. The sounds of energy buzzed in his ears as he released Doctor Alvin's sweaty hand.

"Are you all right young man?" Alvin asked.

Tom's eyes had to refocus. "I think so," as he shook his head, "nothing to be concerned with; at least, I hope not." The images were still fresh in his mind as he placed his hand into his pocket and touched the protective box that would change world events. He asked the doctor politely, "I noticed you have a small tattoo on your hand."

"Why do you ask?"

"Just that it's in an odd place--just above your right thumb, I'm just curious where and why you got a tattoo pinned there?"

Doctor Alvin didn't reply but, seemingly, wanted to.

"I'm just guessing from when you were in the military; right?"

Alvin stared harder at Tom.

Tom sensed his words had created a feeling of uneasiness.

"I was once involved in that line of work. Those who don't actively participate, call it war. It's a dirty big business where deadly conflicts always last far too long, and too many innocent people die without explanation. If you would, please excuse me," the doctor said in a shaky forward motion.

Tom touched Alvin on the arm. "Was it what I said?"

"No, of course not," Alvin replied and stopped to explain. "It's been a long time since I had memories of those horrible battle days. They're hard to die in your mind; and they'll never, ever let you go. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get some air."

The guard opened the conference-room door and Doctor Alvin left.

The meeting didn't last much longer and Doctor Carravecky wrapped things up; the room soon emptied except for Carravecky senior, McBridle, and Tom.

He grabbed a sat next to Celia. "Why are we still here? What's going on?"

"There's still another meeting scheduled; it should start soon, but first we'll have our coffee and snack." She leaned over and whispered, "Our auditing case concerned the security breach, and not the finalized matters of this next meeting so don't jump to conclusion about what I told you."

Tom's face drew blank, but he didn't poke her for an elaborate explanation.

Robert Carravecky entered the room and sat next to his father.

A security officer wheeled a breakfast tray into the room and served the table.

A half-hour later and more security checks, three military officers with spit-shined shoes entered the room--each carried a shiny new-looking metal briefcase. Doctor Carravecky greeted his special guests while Robert passed out the agenda pertaining to their new weapons system.

The white conservative-looking cover page was titled PROJECT RE-FIRE.

"We apologize for the absence of Doctor Alvin," Robert said from the head of the table. "He wasn't feeling well and had to leave." He waited for everyone to get settled and then continued. "Imagine possessing a system as powerful as that illustrated on page two."

Everyone in the room flipped open their file folder and followed along.

"It's a monumental victory for advancing technologies. The finished project, as you gentlemen are fully aware, has taken over ten years and billions of investment dollars (yours and others) to develop. Later tonight, you'll be able to witness the skid's amazing sky capabilities. As you gentlemen are aware, this evening will be our last test flight conducted under our joint control. After that, it's all yours to enjoy.

"So, gentlemen, ask yourself what's so unique about this craft and why we committed so much financial resources to it? For one reason, the propulsion delivery system is not your typical rocket thrust. This system uses an extremely new technology discovered and refined by Doctor Alvin.

"Now that Russia has begun secretively selling their resources to the highest bidders, there's an abundance of weapons-grade plutonium on the Black Market at the present time," (Robert slung a military joke at the concrete-faced echelons) "but we don't need to buy those discarded reserves to satisfy our fuel demands." He cleared his throat and got professionally serious. "Doctor Alvin's theory does concern itself with the decaying process of radioactive metallic chemical elements and the scientific complications of quantum physics; but in a highly scientific consumption manner, a little bit does a whole lot.

"Basically, gentlemen, the flight power is generated in the craft's electromagnetic gravity inducers. On a quantum level of simplicity, it's complicated; positrons are collected during an accelerated beta decay process; then they encounter an electron in a magnetically designed particle collision ram. That's what Alvin would describe as a matter-antimatter annihilation chamber; the magical result is lots and lots of pure high-energy lift. Doctor Alvin called the energy output Uroccium, the power source used to drive the craft's special gravity propulsion system.

"It's not a thrust; just as the name describes, gravity motors give the skid its vast mobility and unbelievable capabilities to skip across the stratosphere over the earth's surface easily exceeding recorded hypersonic speeds unimaginable for today's known technology. It's the fastest, the most powerful, and most expensive propulsion delivery system in the world, and the most secretive.

"With such speed and power the craft requires an exceptionally durable exterior shell moulded with a new hi-tech sheathing that is many times stronger than steel and substantially decreases the overall weight of the craft, which makes its skyward ability a modern day reality.

"We consider this craft one-hundred percent dangerous. It's controlled by ground or satellite, a system which was developed by a team of our top information engineers."

Tom watched Robert performing his executive sales speech, and it sickened him. He must stop the transfer of his doomsday device. What Remmie said: 'do you love your country?' That was possibly what he meant. Tom leaned over and said softly, "Celia, I have to use the washroom because my stomach is really, really bothering me."

Her face went suspiciously blank as he stepped out from the meeting room.

Chapter 17: DATA DRIVE ME IN

Tom asked the planted security office which way it was to the men's room. The muscled-neck guard explained the directions with a bulldog-like voice--"Go to the end of the hall; then turn right."

When Tom was out of the watchdog's sight, he pulled the map from his pocket and studied it. There was one route--two corridors of which he had to locate. He could easily find the first one because that hallway was the only one past the washrooms. The second hall was stubbed with a security door fitted with an access locking system for which a pass code was required. The area seemed quiet. No one was around to witness his crime of intrusion.

The ruffled diagram detailed the positioning of the surveillance cameras and laser grid behind the barrier and documented how to evade detection. The control pad was built into the door. The panel was flashing LEVEL FIVE ACCESS CODE REQUIRED.

Tom searched the map for the key code. There was a string of numbers sequenced at the top corner of the page. He punched them into the system. The readout flashed CONFIRMED - ACCESS ACCEPTED.

The vault-like door opened with the power of a smooth hydraulic system. A shadowy stairwell led all the way down to sub-floor two where there was a meager landing and a pale-looking blast door that appeared as if it hadn't been properly maintained in years. EMERGENCY & SUB-LEVEL EVACUATION EXIT was painted on the rusty portal.

Tom found a second set of numbers located on the diagram. He dialled in the combination. The door disengaged, and he was in. He entered a long, dark passage and hurried all the way to the end, which seemed like a mile; there he found a retired service elevator.

He stepped into the metal compartment and pressed the operation's button for sub-floor four. The weight of his upright body created worrisome cable stretching sounds that were coming from the antiquated overhead pulley system. The elevator squeaked as if it were going to break at any moment, but he was relieved to reach the bottom in one piece. The doors rolled partially opened, and he found himself in a dingy area for discarded protective clothing.

He squeezed through the storage department to the exit and cracked open the security door and peeked up and down the clean, well-illuminated tunnel. He heard a telephone and followed in the direction of the ring.

The tone was coming from an automated voice system. Tom entered the room and saw a bulky-looking communication's device. It repeated over and over again THANK YOU FOR CALLING CARRAVECKY AND SONS; YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US as it transferred and directed calls. Tom suspected big Carravecky was spying in on company conversations. He got that sneaky impression. The old guy doesn't trust anybody, not even his own blood.

An unidentifiable sound directed his eyes from the spy room to a cluttered supply closet with a small window fitted with safety glass that was aged with dust and cobwebs. Tom fanned off the years of neglectful housekeeping and peered through.

About sixty feet below, were men dressed in protective white clothing with full-face shields. A few others were clothed in a silvery-type suit equipped with self-contained breathing apparatuses strapped on their backs.

Tom observed an overhead crane carrying a long, skinny projectile. Some workers stopped and watched the operator manoeuvre the lift boom as he lowered a sleek-looking object labelled L-18 MISSILE onto a loading system, which then guided the computer-instructed bomb inside the sky unit's weapons compartment.

The skid was an odd-looking craft, a thin diamond-shaped vehicle with a rough outer skin, which measured a good ninety-five feet or more in length and sculpted with sharp angles and juts designed to elude radar detection from the ground surface or earth's outer space. It was like a chameleon; it was the only thing on the work area deck, and it blended in perfectly with the pale blue concrete floor epoxy.

Tom pressed his face hard against the window for a better view of the site. A man was instructing a group of white suits and bellowed. "Activate the main processors; then test the gravity motor's power output," the thick voice ordered from behind the protective face shield. The men hopped to it.

The computer operations' lab consisted of a spacious mezzanine that was located to one side, which currently housed four technicians wearing hooded white suits; and for safety purposes, they worked behind blast-proof glass.

Tom's hands itched; this was where he would have to load the data hound device. He slipped from the room and followed the directional wall markings. The workers' changing room door was ajar. Inside the cramped quarters, a tall, chubby-faced technician was preparing to suit up as Tom strolled in like he owned the town.

"Hey, you, you're not supposed to be here," the worker alerted him with an authoritative finger as he halted in his cramped suit.

"Can you tell me how to get to Mars?" Tom said seriously.

"Crazy-Man, I'm reporting you to house security," the man motioned with a contorted step.

"Not today fat boy," Tom saluted, and pounced with the spring of a jackhammer and knocked the man to the floor. Tom used his emerging Nukyi skills unbeknown to him and temporarily paralyzed the engineer's nervous system. The man was not hurt--simply in a deep sleep.

Tom dragged the deactivated worker behind the lockers out of sight; then he suited up in a protective white suit with a hood and full face shield.

From the decontamination area, he entered the man-lift and dropped down to the work floor. An overhead warning light indicated that there were no hazardous contaminations detected before the doors unlocked. Tom stepped out; two silver suits were handling a special box marked with radioactive symbols. They didn't stop to chat.

"Hey, Pedro, come over here and give us a hand," a grumpy man called (chief project manager was labelled on his clean protective suit) and pointed at Tom.

"Just my luck," Tom mumbled, and kept his head down as he walked toward the engineer. Although it was difficult to see into the headdress with only the eyes noticeable, Tom desperately hoped that this was enough to conceal his assumed identity.

"Pedro, system readouts for the gravity motors indicate a disrupted internal power flux. I want the pump chambers tested and, if need be, retested; I need this problem identified and corrected," the chief engineer demanded and handed Tom a torque-like device before heading off.

Tom pretended to inspect the motor unit; instead, he was eyeing the four men who were hunched over the control panel inside the operations lab.

The overhead crane churned about lifting another missile. A team of men controlled a conveyor system that placed the projectile into the skid's belly compartment; a total of eight L-18s appeared to be loaded as a hatch plate powered shut.

He saw an opportunity as the testing procedures wound down and walked up the steel stairs that led to the lab overlooking the facility. One of the regular white suit workers stopped him halfway up the stairs. "Pedro, are you feeling well?" he asked with his hand on Tom's side.

Tom froze and kept his face down and away as he replied, "I'll live; I ate something this morning, I'm feeling a little dizzy and just need a break."

"Yeah, do that; but we need that job completed soon," he released Tom's arm and went back to the work floor.

Inside the control area the computer operators were checking and rechecking and activating and deactivating the launch codes in the weapon's guidance system. Once completed, two white suits left the area while the remaining two suits stayed behind for additional equipment testing.

"Chez, are you getting a positive readout on the direction converter switches?" he asked.

"I'm confirming the level of energy flow now, Pep," Chez replied. His latex-like gloved hands zipped over the control board.

Tom stood behind the two men; they didn't seem to care that he was there. The complex control system was right in front of him. It was a data farm of vast computing technologies. Tom waited for both of them to take a minute break away from the area.

Once the technicians confirmed that the flight relay system was fully operational and no new faults were discovered, they were required to make a physical examination of the skid as it sat on the work deck before making their final report and left the control room.

Now, it was Tom's opportunity as he held the data hound in his hand about to insert it; however, it wouldn't fit into any of the data slots. The component he held was an abnormal size, slightly wider than standard commercial format. He began to panic in silence until he noticed at the rear of the lab there was a hulky-sized information/data station. The letter X was labelled on the front cabinet. Tom vaguely remembered seeing an X marked on the map, and this machine had to be it.

The operator's keypad consisted of numbers only. The code to access the system was included on the map. Tom entered the digits, a recessed hatch door popped open, and he inserted the device. The data transfer was slow as it loaded the program into the weapon system, and Tom was getting nervous waiting for it to finish.

The two system technicians had completed their inspection of the sky carrier, and they were on their way back; Tom could hear them talking about a party.

He pulled the technology from the data opening and placed it into his protective suit just as the two flight programmers re-entered the lab.

Chez clapped his hands together with joy, "Hey, Pedro," he looked at Tom, "we've rechecked the carrier; and from our perspective, every thing looks ready, set to go for tonight."

Pep stepped forward, "The boss asked for the status of the pump chambers."

Tom gave them a thumbs up; "Tell him one-hundred percent complete, and all systems are a-o-k."

Pep verbally jumped in with a cheer and patted his co-worker on the back, "Later we're all celebrating with beers so who cares what the boss thinks."

Tom attempted to participate with the twin technician's mixed-language jargon while still remaining anonymous; then he pretended to be feeling ill and held his stomach as he stepped around the Castilian brothers. He exited the area and stepped into the man-lift and returned to the locker room. He threw off the protective suit and stuffed it into an empty locker.

A low voice startled him. He spun around.

"Tom," Doctor Alvin whispered from the door, "what are you doing here; who sent you?"

"You tell me," he replied with an abundance of volume. "You know more about what's going on than I do."

There was a brief moment of silence between them as they stared at each other.

"I can't change what's been started," Doctor Alvin admitted.

"Why not? Don't give me that load of crap."

"If I attempt to stop this madness, my life would end the same tragic way as the others."

"There'll be others who'll die because of you. You must expose Carravecky and go to the appropriate authorities."

"I'm afraid."

"Being afraid isn't an acceptable excuse."

"I'm sorry, but if I talk, I'm dead."

"Are you referring to those men who were murdered by Remmie Take?" Tom forced his voice.

"Yes," the doctor replied, "and we can't converse here without being discovered." Doctor Alvin led Tom back to that mouldy, sick-smelling storage room.

"If this advanced system reaches its destination, then we're all at risk. I'm afraid of the worst."

"Why is that?"

"This propulsion system is modifiable," Alvin reported.

"Modifiable into what form?" Tom demanded additional details.

"The craft's engine, a new type of power resolver, is capable of amplifying power sources thousands and thousands of times, as a nuclear source," the doctor admitted nervously as he looked down the hallway to see if anybody was spying on them.

"And what about those missiles? Are they standard or special?"

"They're conventional design, but they can easily be modified into an ultimate weapon using this technology."

"So you're worried that someone will modify the power which drives the skid and put it into the warheads?"

"I've already told you enough to put your life and mine in serious danger. Bronze, go home and forget about all of this; but be careful; they know you're here, and they'll destroy you."

"They, (Tom studied Alvin's frightened expression) they are who?"

"Just be careful and don't trust anybody." Doctor Alvin slipped away without offering a valid solution to this edgy dilemma.

Tom needed to get back to the conference room before McBridle left. There was a sound of armed guards coming down the hallway in the distance. He knew if he didn't flee now, he'd be apprehended. He boarded the elevator and pressed the button for sub-floor two.

There was a code red, intruder alert. The guards formed teams and began to search each section of the complex.

Tom stepped from the lift and sprinted as fast as he could until he reached the base of the stairs at sub-floor two. He ran up eight levels back to the security door at the sixth floor, the only thing blocking his escape. He reached into the bottom of his pocket and pulled out the map, which ripped in half, a nervous action created by an attack of clumsiness.

Guards were accessing the security door.

Tom reacted with Nukyi swiftness.

The security door powered open. One guard stayed out in the hallway while the other soldiered in through the opening. The weight of his flak jacket and other small gadgets clipped to his utility belt slowed his mobility as he ambled into the area five or six paces beyond the door. He beamed a light down the stairwell; then he turned to his partner and reported. "It's okay. It's all clear. It's just a stupid little mouse." They had a good laugh.

Tom hid above the doorway holding onto what appeared to be a sprinkler piping system. His fingers were becoming cold and numb as he waited for the guards to retreat and prayed that they wouldn't look up.

A minute lapsed; the patrol guards seemed satisfied and activated the door shut. Tom jumped to the floor, waited a ten count, accessed the door; then he entered the hallway. He made his way back to the washroom, which was just up the hall from the boardroom.

There was another person at the sink splashing water on his face. "Did you hear the tragic news?"

"What news?" Tom inquired.

"About Samuel Carravecky," an office clerk with teary eyes said as he towelled himself off.

"Yeah, I heard; it's too bad," Tom replied as he removed his jacket and began to scrub his hands and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He was too ashamed to face himself. He waited until the man left; then walked back toward the conference room.

"Hey, you, stop right there," a guard called from the end of the hall.

Tom turned around slowly expecting a weapon barrel to be directed at him. "I'm screwed now," he mumbled.

The guard waddled toward him, "Are you Tom Bronze, Ms. McBridle's associate?"

"Yes sir. Is there a problem?"

"No sir. These are for you." The guard handed him the keys to her automobile. "She said the meeting is finished."

"Thanks." Tom accepted the key ring.

"I must have walked this corridor a half-dozen times looking for you."

"I was in the washroom," he held his stomach. "It's one of these days."

The guard seemed somewhat convinced. "Hey, did you hear little Carravecky was discovered dead this morning?" he asked, as if he couldn't believe Samuel was gone.

"It's a shame; he was a young man with an empire to inherit, and this tragedy strikes him down," Tom replied. "It's not right."

The guard agreed and escorted the visitor to the elevator, which dropped down to the main lobby. "That was too close for my uncomfortable life," he whispered, and breathed a sigh of relief. He could use a couple stiff shots of whiskey right about now to calm his adrenaline overload. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out anxiously dangling the car keys on his baby finger.

Two guards stood at the control post and were monitoring in-going and out-going traffic on the surveillance system.

"Excuse me sir, do you have your access security card?" the round-face guard asked.

"Yeah, I got it here somewhere," Tom said while searching his pants pockets.

The guard accessed the system and retrieved a name. "Are you Tom Bronze?"

"Yeah, that's me," Tom replied, and placed the card on the counter.

"There's a message for you," the guard said as he repositioned the monitor so Tom could easily read it.

The message was: Horrible news, Samuel was killed. I've gone with Doctor Carravecky to identify the body. The guard at the front desk will give you an exit pass. Go back to the office. I'll be back later today to discuss all the details. Love Celia.

The guard handed Tom an executive security pass and explained that he could exit the compound unquestioned. Time of day issued indicated 11:57 a.m.; the pass was only programmed for maximum time of 15 minutes.

Tom rushed down the marble stairs, fully knowing that this would be the last time he'd ever set foot in this sick, malignant complex, and wondered if he did the right thing by inserting the data stick. He jammed the key into the ignition; then he drove toward the gate. He handed the guard the exit pass and was waved through without incident.

McBridle wanted him to go back to the office and continue working on that bogus report, but he decided to go home and collect his scrambled thoughts and wait for Ivadot Rosky or Detective Gene Riley to come knocking on his front door.

He knew that Remmie Take would somehow be involved in their investigations and that they all would eventually meet in the middle of the crime zone.

Tom watched the gate disappear in the rear-view mirror as he raced toward the industrial highway. One of the guards watched his vehicle as it faded out of sight. "If ever I come back to Carravecky's, it'll be all too soon," he expelled with a glad voice and tossed the data hound out the car window.

Chapter 18: PACK ME SOME CASH

Tom's sober sensibility was shot as he lay flanked out on his couch. A few good swigs of sweet rye, and he was feeling physically dangerous. The horrific images of Doctor Alvin's deformed future and the unimaginable destruction of mankind was like a mental handicap, a reoccurring brain symptom irritated by the mind-crash affliction. He required a strong regiment of psychiatric help.

"Our agents were tracking you since Wednesday," a man said.

Tom was startled and jumped from the couch like his feet were on fire. "God dammit, Rosky, don't you spy-guys ever knock?" Tom scolded the secret agent in a sarcastic tone while wiping a splash of booze off the front of his shirt.

"Sometimes but not always," Ivadot replied loosely and sat on the couch and crossed his stiff legs. "Federal investigators have all ready begun sorting through a handful of suspects, and I know that your name is among that list."

"How do you know that?" Tom asked.

"I know it because I've seen the list."

"I'm finding that difficult to believe so don't try to bullshit me 'cause it won't work."

Ivadot leaned further from the couch and stared with a face like cold iron. "Do you know that the KCB has files on people the CIA or FBI haven't seen for years or can find? Our covert operations are so secretive that Congress has no documented proof of our existence; but if I made one telephone call, twenty lawmen will be here in two minutes," as he snapped his fingers--"just that fast and that would probably be a record for them," he said convincingly.

"Go ahead make the call," as Tom handled the phone. "I don't believe you for a single second."

"You're very strong minded," as he gestured with a flattened hand for Tom to disconnect, "and that's good, but there's going to be someone convicted of Samuel's murder; and it's going to be you. When that happens, since you might not be aware, this great State that you live in still enforces its right to execute its criminals. You'll be facing the grimmest possibility--death by lethal injection; I can promise you that much." Ivadot wore an overcoat that concealed his handgun, but it didn't conceal a manila-coloured envelope that protruded out of his top inside pocket. "I saw a lot of bad blood in my time, and it's not something you'd like to remember." He reached into his coat and removed a nine-by-twelve inch package, which he tossed on the coffee table.

"What's this?" Tom asked as he stared at the sealed bundle.

"Just open it," Ivadot instructed.

Tom reached over and pulled the envelope across the unkept surface. His eyes were fixed on Ivadot; he didn't trust him, not for a second. He ripped open the paper and emptied an assortment of items into a pile. "What's this for?" Tom asked as he picked up the wad of hundred-dollar bills.

"That's fifteen thousand in cash," Ivadot replied. "Let's just say, it's for services rendered."

Tom remained quiet. He didn't want to know what the money was really for and placed it back on the table. The next item from the envelope was a handgun. He held it in his possession. "What do you expect me to do, kill someone?" he asked as if it were a remote possibility.

Ivadot smiled and folded his hands in front as he replied, "It's for your self-protection; killing isn't our protection strategy--defending one's life is."

"Yeah, I'm sure it is." Tom spun the loaded ammunition chamber and listened; then set it gently on the table next to the money roll. There was also a faded photograph. It was bound in a piece of white paper, which partially covered the image of a soldier.

"This is the last photo we have on file of Remmie Take," Ivadot admitted. "He has eluded us for a very long time, but we're close to getting him this time."

Tom pulled the wrapped paper off the photo and stared at the faded image. Remmie looked about the same age that he remembered from his dream. "I'd like to help you but no deal," Tom said, and forced the items across the tabletop.

Ivadot didn't flinch or speak a word. He stared at Tom for a moment. "Samuel's execution--do you think it will be the last?" Ivadot questioned the evasive accountant. "Do you think Remmie Take is going to let you just walk away? You saw what he looks like so you could easily identify him."

"No, I don't want to get caught up in this unnecessary hanging."

"You're already trapped. There's no way out except for my way. Listen to me; Remmie's a professional. He could kill you with an electric razor or a nutcracker. He would do it in public and make your death look like an accident."

Tom picked up the picture and again studied it.

"This is how Remmie looked about twenty-some years ago. I suspect he may have had his facial features altered to make himself appear younger than his age," Ivadot said.

"Those eyes," Tom said, "I'd know those black, evil eyes anywhere."

"So, you're admitting to have met our villainous friend," Ivadot said.

"I'm sorry to say yes."

"I must warn you; I've encountered them all; Remmie Take is the most ruthless person on the face of this planet."

Tom looked up, "I've heard that from a few people, some dead."

Ivadot didn't understand what Tom meant but continued. "When he was a young man, I recruited him because of his lack of fear. Remmie was one of the quick learners, a prize student. He worked undercover for a secret antiterrorist brotherhood for ten years until he had a falling out with a senior member and disappeared for all these years.

"We knew, from reports, he was training soldiers for a number of terrorist operations. This man isn't your typical gun-slinging cowboy who walks around jingling his spurs. Everything he does is silently calculated, and you're not dead because he needs you for something; but when it's finished, your services will be terminated and so will you."

Tom leaned back in the chair to catch his concealed breath. "I'm still not convinced that I can trust you."

"There's no other way out," Ivadot replied. "You'll have to trust me; you're a dead man if you don't. If you accept, I'm offering you freedom. If you don't, after I leave your front door, there's nothing our organization will be able to do for you; and you'll be on your own."

Tom thought Ivadot may be bluffing, but he wasn't about to gamble. He stared deep into Ivadot's poppy eyes. "Okay; I'll do it," Tom said. He didn't understand exactly what he was supposed to do, but it didn't matter. "Once it's finished, I'm out; right?" he stressed.

Ivadot nodded.

"So say it. Once I do what you ask, I'm out," Tom demanded.

Ivadot paused for a moment, "Okay, you got my word." Again, Ivadot paused as he stared at Tom. "Unwrap this piece of paper that covers the photo and look at it closely."

Tom eased the gun and the money closer to his reach and slid the paper out in front.

"Don't be shy; it won't bite," Ivadot said.

The item was folded several times, and Tom was slow to react. On the printout, a set of words and numbers were linked together in an enigmatic style.

"This is your opportunity to set things straight. This tiny piece of paper is keeping you alive," Ivadot said.

"Why's that?" Tom asked, but Ivadot ignored the question.

"All you have to do is pick up a package and deliver it," Ivadot admitted. "The address is printed at the bottom of the code. It's so simple a child could do it."

"Then what's the gun for?" Tom asked.

"I'm not asking you to use the gun," Ivadot said. "I wouldn't let any of my agents go into the depths of the unknown without packing some heat. Let's just say it's for my own self-comfort."

Tom felt slightly satisfied and wasn't about to argue the facts with him. "What's inside this package?" Tom inquired. "It's not a bomb or something--you know something that could blow up in my face and make me as ugly as a cow's ass."

"Don't be foolish. When you receive the package, they'll tell you what to do with it," Ivadot replied. "They'll be expecting you to arrive on time."

Tom viewed the paper; his eyes dropped below the address where the time was highlighted.

"It's tonight or the deal's off; otherwise, you'll have nothing to keep Remmie from killing you or to keep you out of jail," Ivadot said as he rose from the couch. He limped toward the front door, stopped, and looked back. "I'll keep my part of the deal; you keep yours," he said.

"What if I don't keep my word?"

"Those consequences are not for me to decide," Ivadot replied. "Truthfully, I don't know, maybe nothing or maybe something. As I said, it's your decision; make the correct one and stay alive." He started forward; then he stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot; thanks for finding those bodies."

"What do you mean?" Tom replied.

"No need to play stupid anymore. Thanks! Now their families will be able to sleep at night; that's more than I can say for myself."

Tom closed the door behind Ivadot and leaned against it for a moment. He was trying to clear his foggy mind. The bundle of money was clasped in his sweaty hand as he tried to figure out what could be so urgent that the KCB would give him fifteen thousand in cash for a few hours work.

He sat back in the chair and held the gun at his head, thinking. He reached forward and picked up the paper for a closer look. "1943 Hillside Venue is an extremely ritzy neighbourhood; it gotta be the address of some rich dude with nothing better to do than make my life a living hell. I'll pick up this so-called phantom parcel and shove it wherever with whomever wants it," Tom challenged himself.

The words CRADLE-OCTO-LANDLOCK-FINCH appeared like a secret message, but Tom surmised that they formed an electronic password of some sort. The accompanying set of numbers also created an interesting puzzle comprised of a ten-digit series of 6485 1012 22. They possibly could be part of a system access code.

Tom felt frustrated trying to solve the equation, and even his years of academics and public accounting offered him no logical solution.

He was expected at Hillside Venue at 6:55 p.m. so he'd first get some rest. He wanted to be fresh and spry for his date. He tucked the paper into his shirt pocket and gathered the items scattered on the coffee table; the picture and the money slid nicely back into the ruptured envelope as he filed them away. The gun was too heavy for his pocket so he stuffed it beneath the chair's cushion. "I hope this is worth it," Tom said with a worried breath.

What happened today was too much stress for one year. He stretched out, shut his eyes; but he was interrupted by the doorbell. He let it ring a few times. "Who the hell could that be?" he cried out as he went to the door.

"Mr. Bronze?" the weathered-faced gentleman asked.

"Yeah," Tom replied through the chained opening.

"Sorry for bothering you at home."

"What's this about?"

"Oh, excuse me, I'm Detective Gene Riley. We spoke on the telephone earlier today." He tried to look into the house, but Tom blocked his view. "I promise not to take up too much of your valuable time. May I come in?" he asked politely.

"Can we talk about the accident another time? I'll call you first thing Monday morning."

"It'll only take a few minutes, I promise."

Tom opened the door and peered down the road. "Okay, then, come on in."

Detective Riley wiped his feet on the doormat; then he pulled out his wrinkly notepad from his inside coat pocket along with a short, chewed-up pencil. "Would you mind if I sat?"

Tom gestured toward the couch, but Riley selected the chair where Tom had deposited the handgun.

"My legs, they aren't what they used to be. Thirty-five years of pounding the pavement has really taken its toll on my bones."

"That's a very long career to be catching the bad guys."

"Sure is--I'm happy to say that I'll be leaving the force next month so I'd like to close your case file and retire with my plate clean," Riley said very calmly as he brushed his hand over his grey, cropped hair. "About your automobile accident..." he said as he expected Tom to expand on the undocumented details.

"What about it," Tom bullied his voice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bronze, I may have misled you when I asked if you filed an accident report."

"I don't understand what you mean," he said, acting stupid.

"I also wanted to ask you a few questions about a murder that's under investigation." Riley flipped open his notepad to a clean page.

"What murder is that?" Tom asked as if he didn't know.

Riley sharpened his pencil on his tongue. "Samuel Carravecky; he was murdered last night."

"Oh, yeah, I only met him once," Tom replied, as he sat on the couch across from the detective.

"When was that?" Riley inquired.

"A few days ago at a meeting at Carravecky's; other than that time, I didn't even know the guy."

Riley made some notes as Tom talked. "Now, getting back to your accident--from where were you coming when you drove off the road?" Riley asked.

"I was coming from Ms. McBridle's house," Tom replied.

"Who's she?"

"She's a partner in the firm where I work. It was late, and I must've fallen asleep at the wheel."

"Were you drinking?" Riley inquired as he prepared for more notes.

"No sir, I wasn't drinking; what are you getting at?" Tom said as if he were getting disturbed.

"So, you were coming back from your girlfriend's house?"

"Ms. McBridle isn't my girlfriend; as I said, she's a partner in the firm where I work," Tom replied in a more annoyed tone.

"Celia, Celia McBridle is her name?" Riley questioned Tom.

"Yes, that's her name."

"Is that vehicle in your driveway your property?"

"No," Tom replied. "It's Ms. McBridle's."

Riley stared at his notes. "Again getting back to your accident Tuesday night I'm curious why you didn't report it." He waited for an answer; the pencil sat between his teeth.

"Well, as I told you on the phone this morning, I didn't think it mattered. The car was a worthless wreck; and since no one was injured, I figured why bother; someone will come along and collect it for scrap metal."

Riley shifted his two-hundred-and-forty pound police frame from one side of the chair to the other, apparently bothered by something beneath the cushion.

Tom knew Riley was stepping around the facts concerning who killed Samuel Carravecky, and he knew Riley would eventually ask.

"Ms. McBridle's vehicle," his voice grew keen, "how did it get damaged?"

Tom just stared.

"I checked the accident reports for the past six months, and no report had been filed under the name Celia McBridle."

"I brushed up against a guardrail Thursday night," Tom replied calmly.

"Two accidents in one week could be a world record," Riley said with a healthy chuckle. "Well, now, I have a real problem with that. According to a credible witness, a black European luxury model like the one parked in your yard was spotted near the Carravecky murder scene; and this vehicle fits the description to a 'T'. Mr. Bronze, the way I see it, you were there."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom answered in his own defence.

Riley again shifted his weight in the chair. "Oh, by the way, the evidence doesn't lie. When I was checking the day's issued parking tickets, one was written on plates registered to a Celia McBridle Thursday night at the corner of Forth & Eighth." Riley continued to shift his weight and reposition himself on the cushion. "While I was checking your driver's license photo, a composite sketch came across my desk." Riley slid it across the table. "Look familiar?"

"That sketch could be anybody."

"Mr. Bronze, I could bring you into custody right now on suspicion of murder; but I don't think you're a trigger-happy killer."

Tom felt defeated.

Detective Riley tensed forward in the chair. "Tom, all the evidence is pointing toward you. I'm asking you to come down to the station and give a detailed statement. If you're afraid and need protection, we can provide that."

"Protection from what," Tom replied defiantly.

Riley slid his notepad back into his coat and looked at Tom. "I can help you; but once the Bureau Boys arrive on your doorstep, it's not going to be nice," Riley said as he walked to the door. He stopped in the porch and buttoned the front of his coat. "I'm expecting to see you first thing tomorrow." He passed Tom his cop card.

"I'll think about it," Tom replied and closed the door.

Tom had only one alternative; that was to follow Ivadot's instructions. He collapsed on the couch to rest up for tonight's unknown business.

*****

As Tom slept, the mind-crash swallowed him into a state of infinity where he was activated by beyond forces. He felt his body falling into an endless void of darkness while an array of colourful lights swirled about him like whips of enchanted energy, like protective tentacles that saved him from the ungodly depths below. He gasped for air, his heart pounded, and he was sweating profusely.

The beams of light wove together and formed a humanlike entity that was translucent and magnificently glowing. It seemed overly curious as if it were studying its subject.

"You are our champion," the entity said.

Tom tried to focus his tiresome eyes; his vision seemed blurred as if he were drunk.

"Your skills have been tested. Each time you have successfully proven to be the most worthy of all the battle challengers." The sound of its voice was mixed with other voices of unknown origins.

Tom reached out to touch the energy field, but his hand passed through it. "What do you mean challengers?"

"Many valiant soldiers of time have challenged the forces of evil, and many before you have lost," it admitted. "The power for ultimate supremacy is now being challenged by Ferronkus, Lord of Figure. You must stop his bid to unleash Hot War. If you fail, there will be no future, and all will be captured.

"Exsorbo has toughened you well, and we have great faith in your great abilities. Use them. They will grow stronger. Believe as we believe, and you shall succeed."

"What must I do?" Tom asked in a reserved tone.

"All will be revealed in time. Since time is an unknown variable, we will be there when that time arises," it revealed before it faded away.

Tom awoke as if he were returning from the unholy dead. His hands were closed tight, the blood was restricted to his fingers, and his knuckles were pressed white. This dream wasn't like the others. Neither Exsorbo nor Ferronkus had been in it, and this made him feel mentally unhitched.

The clock over the television indicated it was 6:15 p.m. It was getting late. Tom changed into jeans, a fresh T-shirt, laced on his hiking boots; and stuffed the gun into his leather jacket. He could still hear the entity's voice in his mind-–'If you fail, there will be no future.' He didn't care; he didn't have much of a future anyway, but he would try his best.

Something was going to happen; he could feel a madness burning in his gut, and it made him very anxious.

Chapter 19: SHOT OF REALITY

Tom babied McBridle's spoiled sedan on route to his instructed location. In that quiet drive time, he pondered Alvin's quantum gravity discovery and that military anchor design positioned on the scientist's hand in an unusual locality. The artless hook was inked on the friendly doctor's right hand but he distinctively remembered the corpse from the mountain saying to search for the man with the anchor on his left hand. How could that deader be so dead wrong?

A signpost indicated HILLSIDE NEXT RIGHT, and Tom followed the direction markers that led to Seattle's wealthiest and most exclusive neighbourhood. It was a private development where the properties were excessively rich in character and enclosed by brick or iron security walls with designer gates that warned to KEEP OUT \- GUARD DOGS AND PATROL SURVEILLANCE.

A veil of mist rolled in from the pacific waters and covered everything with a dense ridge of fog. He reduced his speed while keeping a watchful eye for that special address.

The architecture at nineteen forty-three was gothic in style and recessed from the roadway; a clear view of the property's high steep roves was obstructed by century-old cedars that populated the surrounding grounds and protected by a well-maintained brick-and-iron fence that stood about ten feet in height. Tom parked in front of the gate with the arched lettering REBEL KINGS.

There was an intercom system accessible to visitors on the driver's side. He pressed the glowing red button and waited for a reply. The outside security lighting was illuminated and flooded the wide landscaped entrance.

A man with an obnoxious tone of voice enquired "What is it you want?"

"I'm here to pick up a package," Tom replied to the speaker box.

"You got the wrong place. There's no package here," the man retorted and closed the channel.

Whose chain is this jerk trying to yank?--Tom thought as he grinded his teeth, fully pissed off. He pulled the printout from his pocket and viewed it for a password. There were those four words and the series of numbers printed on the paper. He jabbed the alarm button hard and waited.

"Now, what do you want?" the man said with an even more obnoxious tone.

"Shut up and listen. Cradle, Octo, Landlock, Finch," Tom read from the list.

There was a brief moment of silence. The man's tone of voice seemingly changed. "Do you have the number key?"

"6, 4, 8, 5 -- 1," Tom stopped abruptly.

"Where's the rest of the code?"

"Open up and I'll give you the axed-off bit."

The heavy, reinforced gate electrically swung open. Tom drove up to the house and parked alongside a little black Italian sports model. He peered into his rear-view mirror and watched the barred gate clang shut before getting out of his vehicle. "I must have cement mix in my head for coming here," Tom whimpered as he expected the worst.

He followed the stone walkway that led to the huge stone entrance. He carelessly stepped in a bed of freshly turned soil and was ankle deep in cow shit. "Damn place," he muttered; "it's gonna give me a damn coronary before I get to the damn door."

The man with the obnoxious voice scowled distrustfully at Tom from the doorway. He stood an enormous six-feet five with poppy muscles like a steroid-abused cartoon character. He had a do-it-yourself tattoo on his thick neck. It was a woman's name--OLGA. "Come in and wait," he said in a deep unwelcoming tone. "Have a seat;" he gestured toward a chair.

"No thanks. I'm here to pick up something; then I'm out of here so I don't want to get too comfortable," Tom admitted.

"Then stay put and don't touch anything, and I mean anything," he said with a muscular voice. The big man proceeded down the long cavernous hallway to the end and knocked on a door before entering.

Tom didn't want to stray too far from the vestibule, but he could hear a young woman's voice. She was humming notes from some classical composure; it floated from the upper level like an angelic song. That alluring tranquillity stirred an immense curiosity within him as to whom lived in this wonderful kingdom estate, yet he didn't care to study the owner's concealed identity. He went against his judgment and explored the antechamber and the interior chamber, which was designed like a private museum with headless statues and familiar-looking priceless masterpieces, all strategically arranged among the grand princely furnishing scheme. Standing upright in the middle of the abounding area was a glassed-in show cabinet filled with ancient weapons of a grouping of rusty spiked-balls and chains, battle swords of all shapes and sizes, dented metal helmets, and bits and pieces of body armour used in warfare during the medieval times. "This guy must be a nut," Tom said, and ducked back to the porch.

The big man returned from the backroom. "Do you have the gun Ivadot gave you?"

"What gun?"

The big man didn't smile. "The one Rosky gave you for protection." He held out his meaty palm.

Tom immediately surrendered it to him. "I want it back before I leave, my friend."

The big man nodded, "Follow me, please." He escorted Tom to the door at the end of the hallway, tapped once; and they entered.

A distinguished-looking gentleman was seated behind a mahogany desk; he was absolutely delighted to see the visitor. "Rosky has spoken very highly of you," he said, and clamped his fingers around a stout cigar that was burning in the ashtray; his fingers were obviously arthritic and tar-stained. His other crippled hand was positioned below the desktop as if his finger were attached to the trigger of a loaded gun.

Tom studied the rich man's physical characteristics. His face was aged like a weather-beaten shoe, and he looked years older than his golden age, which Tom estimated to be around seventy-five yet the old man's attire was that of a youthful playboy because he wore a fancy rose-colour smoking jacket and a white chemise with a high collar that was buttoned tightly around his neck.

"Mr. Bronze, have a seat."

Tom glanced around; he selected a leather armchair.

"I see you are interested in my kingly collection," he said with a raspy voice.

"I assume you're referring to me when I was in the front lobby of your mansion," Tom said respectfully, and gazed about the spacious quarters. It was endowed with a lot of unique things, which, he assumed, were gathered from unique corners of the globe.

"Collecting things is just a sliver of my business empire," the man admitted.

"What makes up the other parts of your pie chart?" Tom asked as if he didn't give a shit about making a positive first impression.

"Specializing in keeping our country alive and free from the inhumane abominations of global terrorism," the man replied, without changing his tone of voice.

Tom relaxed, just a tad.

"As you can see, I am extremely wealthy. I search, find, and acquire these things of extravagant grandeur," he said as his cigar hand introduced the office as proof of his commitment to hoarding things of great value. "Although, I feel you are not of an extraordinary nature, I am now forced to purchase your life."

"I'm here to pick up a package so don't get the wrong impression about me; I'm not for sale."

"On the contrary, we are all for sale; we just do not realize it." He placed a weapon on his desk.

Tom's keen sense of visual observation was correct. The man was holding a gun. It was a model similar to the one Rosky had given him for self-protection.

"You have already met Ckecko. There is nothing that cannot be said between us that Ckecko cannot hear. My name is Voyid."

Tom interrupted, "It's a pleasure to meet you Voyid; now if you'd not mind, I'll sign for the package and get going."

"In due time my friend," Voyid continued and puffed on the cigar. "I am an international security broker who provides a unique service to many known and some so-called, invisible charities." His eyes narrowed profoundly. "It is unusual for the KCB to utilize an inexperienced individual for such an important mission." Voyid's voice was a little edgy and caused Tom to become suspicious of Ckecko standing behind him.

"Enough about your money and folklore; just give me the package, and I'm out of here," Tom said, and got to his feet. "I don't have all night to talk about my employment qualifications."

"You will be on your way soon enough," Voyid admitted as he continued to puff on the cigar. He exhausted expensive smoke rings into the silent air. "According to Ivadot Rosky, you found a grave site on Marsh's Peak." His elderly tone of voice had turned more raspy. "We believe they were killed by infiltrators of Carravecky's industrial empire, but I guess you already discovered that."

"What's that got to do with my delivering a package?" Tom replied.

"Everything; we could not find those bodies so it makes us wonder how you did."

"What is it you want from me?" Tom looked up at Ckecko who towered over his shoulder, and walked toward Voyid, "Tell me or I walk out the door and forget about your stupid package."

Voyid stared objectively at Tom. He swallowed another breath from the cigar. "That tiny piece of paper that Rosky gave you has the load code for a special device so I instructed Ckecko to let no one enter our house this evening unless that person had the other half of the data key... if you please," Voyid extended his smoking hand and retrieved the code from Tom. "I must input your ten digits to verify its authenticity and activate the mission device." He opened a desk drawer and punched the number sequence into the coder.

Voyid's voice had become noticeably painful. "Splendid! The system is armed and ready for a back-mountain dogfight." He removed a device from the concealed machine; and handed the little piece of paper back to his visitor. "Keep it; don't lose it; you'll need it," he warned.

"What is that device-thing?" Tom asked as he stuffed the code paper into his pocket and sat.

Voyid placed the module interface into a kid's-size shoebox. "It is a specially designed instrument used to abort a sky-weapon hijacking incident," he admitted. "Ckecko," he said politely, "be careful; it is fragile; seal it up for our guest and bring us our drinks."

"Whiskey, no ice," Tom ordered over his shoulder as Ckecko closed the office door. "He's a very charming fella, talks with brawling on his barbell-addicted tongue, and makes me feel like I'm the super-bad guy while, in fact, I'm just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I apologize for his protective behaviour. He is a very determined and loyal servant who is sworn to protect his fatherly master so do not take offence to his unsociable demeanour."

Tom sat back. "How did a rich man like you get such a strange name like Voyid?"

Voyid rose from his high-back leather chair, and walked toward a small glassed-in display of ancient tools. "It is a long painful story." He slid open the glass and removed a piece of forged steel and examined the undulled shaft. "It was many years ago. I was much younger and much weaker," he replied as he turned to his houseguest. "I am not talking about physical expectations; I am talking about mental fortitude," Voyid admitted with years of unresolved vengeance in his voice. "I have always believed I was solely responsible for creating Remmie Take."

"No. Men like him are born, not created," Tom said.

He paused in thought and returned the ancient blade to the showcase. "I cannot have this man's terroristic actions on my conscience any longer. It is like living a nightmare; just thinking about what Remmie has done in the past makes me unwell." His hand was trembling (like an uncontrollable effect of a degenerative nerve disease) as he placed the cigar to his mouth and puffed. "You asked me how I got such an empty name. I could not stomach the by-product of producing innocent casualties anymore, and I assumed my new cognomen after I gave up that ugly way of life. My life up to that point was a void so the name stuck." His hand topped the ash from his cigar. "At that point in my life," (he walked toward his fond collection of art that hung on the wall) "I discovered a meaningful purpose to exist and formed this secret organization now known as the KCB; what happened next is undisclosed history."

"I'm confused as to what you want me to do," Tom said. "I was told the mission was simple. Now it seems like there's a technology installation glitch involved in the deliverance of this surprise package." He was interrupted by the big man, who had returned with two drinks.

Ckecko passed one to Tom and set the other on Voyid's desk; then he quietly left the area.

The aged aroma of expensive whiskey filtered up through Tom's clear nostril passages as he held the crystal shot glass to his needy lips. He gulped the generous ounce in one tasteful mouthful.

Voyid watched Tom with an increased curiosity, "Our vast world is a constantly changing battleground. We must quickly adapt to hostile changes and keep one step ahead of our evil masterminding oppressors. You asked me about the delivery of this package. I will not lie; it does involve a substantial degree of danger."

"So, I'm the disposable crew member who goes out and never returns?"

"We are all disposable in this ruthless industry. The mission success is the only real importance to those who pay the agent's wet fees." Then he pointed to three paintings on the wall and began to explain the importance of each. "I fully understand your valid concerns. As a matter of fact, as an example, I imported these two beautiful works of art into the country about thirty-years ago. It was a very demanding job, and I injured myself;" he said as he aimed his cigar at the insanely colourful and abstract pieces. "I informed the client that the paintings were destroyed. I made up some believable story. I am sure the insurance company paid the claim after a few years so nothing really matters except the mission. Finally," he pointed to a third artwork, "this is the only art piece that makes me get up and live each day with renewed vigour for life and revenge." It wasn't a priceless work of art; to Voyid, it was beyond priceless. It was that of a delicate Asian lady, who sat composed with a lovely smile. She had long, straight, shiny brown hair, and Tom guessed her age would be no younger than twenty-one.

"We met on the Island Country of Singapore," Voyid said in an emotionally sunken tone.

The alcohol had affected Tom's eyesight. He focused hard to stay fully alert.

"It was the year of the heat. I vividly recall that summer day as if it were this morning," his hand gently caressed the canvas as he remembered the past. It was that moment when Tom noticed the wording above the second knuckle of the rich man's left thumb.

Tom was surprised and caught off guard. The worn-out tattoo was ANNE KERR. He could feel the mind-crash; a dark, lifeless force snatched his sight. His heart pounded, and his skin tingled all over. Voyid's voice slipped away, but Tom heard him cry "She was my beautiful wife."

Tom's mind was dropped into an unknown place where he stood in the eye of a sweaty discotheque surrounded by the rapid movement of cute Asian ladies. The music had a bouncy beat, which was synced with droves of colourful lights and spinning strobes overhead and a trendy sign that hung over the bar that flashed white to red WELCOME TO SINGAPORE--ENJOY TIGER CLAW BEER & PLAY LIKE A CAT.

Tom approached the bartender, who looked at him and asked in an Australian accent "What's ye pleasure, mate?"

"Where am I?"

"Can't read, mate, or sipped too many drinks to know?"

"Singapore?" Tom pointed toward the neon advertisement light fixture while wearing a dumb facial expression.

"That's right, mate." The Aussie leaned over a rack of dripping wet glasses. "You feeling bonafide, mate?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling sick as a dog so don't stand too close," he grunted like a tormented soldier as he rounded the corner of the bar and made his way to where several rough-looking characters were coming and going from a tight opening. Tom slipped into the private enclosure where the lights were dim, and the cigarette smoke was cancerously thick.

The betting confinement contained a dozen or so card tables, which seated about four or five players each. Tom stood and watched the intense gambling and the feverish exchanges of dirty currency. Coming from the rear of the enclave, he heard a familiar voice but couldn't quite place its owner.

Tom approached the last table where five loud men were playing and drinking wildly and shouting obscene language at every Singaporean brave enough to wager into their hostile territory. He observed the gang of wild men; one soldier had a sizeable tattoo of a fiery American flag draped across his lumpy forearm. Every time he flexed his muscles, it appeared to be in fluttering motion. The second soldier was young and athletically muscular with a freshly shaved head and his swarthy skin matched the smouldering cigar stuck in his teethe mouth. The third soldier was all shoulders and chest and mean-looking and was referred to by the others as Clip. He appeared hungry enough to eat the cards he was dealt; or, for that matter, eat the table at which he was seated.

The two other men looked very familiar to Tom. The first he easily identified as Remmie Take. The other man was about fifty-plus years of age with slick, black hair and a thin moustache. Tom guessed that soldier was Voyid, who was being referred to as Commander Cam. Voyid's untainted bride stood behind him; she was even more radiant than the canvas portrayed. Now Tom could fully understand why Voyid was so emotionally destroyed when he talked about her.

Tom remained at a distance and allowed the game to continue. Each player was betting heavy currency. The cards were tossed around in a circle with five-card stud being the favourite, and all weapons of choice were placed in front of the players to discourage cheating. Soon there were just two men holding betting rights--Remmie and Voyid--and a significant pile of money in the middle of the table.

"Well now, sir, it's down to you and me," Remmie bullied his voice. "Are you ready to fold, or must I embarrass you?"

Voyid snapped the lighter's neck with a flick of the wrist; then he lit a fresh cigar. "What is your rush?" He let the elite soldier wait.

Remmie was growing tired studying his commander's sly persona and being careful not to fall into the master's lethal trap.

All eyes were on the two active players. Each arranged their five cards for the last time.

Voyid's wife rested her petit hands on her husband's shoulders and offered her loving support.

"Well, I'm waiting, sir; but if you want to quit now, you'll be ahead of the game; I won't mock your integrity," Remmie taunted and ordered another bottle for the table.

"I will see that ridiculous, little bet and raise you everything you got."

"So," Remmie said and looked his commander square in the eye, "you want to lose all your money. Well that's fine with me," as he tossed in a messy bundle of local currency.

"Remmie, take a long, hard look at these fancy boys, and do not let anyone see you cry," Voyid said, and guzzled a huge mouthful of gin; then he spread four kings across the money-littered table.

Remmie's card hand dropped just enough for Tom to spy at the four deuces and the king of spades.

Tom sensed trouble brewing in the young soldier's mind.

"Your gaming tactics stink like an army shitter, but you play like a professional combatant," Remmie stated and calmly retired his cards on top of the deck. He sat back in the chair with a look of betrayal building in his burning eyes.

Voyid scooped the mountain of winnings across the green felt and was organizing the money into tidy piles. "You were never one for holding a bluff," Voyid said. "You are unlucky in poker and unlucky in love."

"What do you mean by unlucky in love?" Remmie snapped. His eyes shifted toward his pistol.

"You think because you are a young, brave-looking, baby-faced lover, you got all the right moves," Voyid said seemingly pissy and drunk. "Well, you got shit for questions and stink for answers."

Remmie smiled once in his military career, and this was that one time. "You speak like an untouchable man yet you walk with feeble legs."

"You are a young, disloyal shit;" (Voyid slung another insult and motioned for his weapon.) "You are getting on my inflamed nerves."

The other soldiers looked on with militant concern.

"Enough, old man, your disrespect is wearing thin on my boots,' Remmie barked with a ton of pent-up animosity. "You're so drunk you can't think straight,"

"I will show you who can think straight," Voyid slurred and motioned for his gun. His gun hand froze up like a seventy's mainframe that was hit by a bolt of lightning once he realized he was drugged. "You, backstabbing, double-crossing weasel," he bellowed while attempting to examine the liquor bottle and its cloudy contents.

"I've had enough of your unprofessional nonsense," Remmie belted out, then executed his custom-made weapon and fired twice. The first bullet went wildly astray and dropped Voyid's Asian beauty; the second bullet hit Voyid in the side of the neck as he fumbled off a single round into the ceiling rafters while civilians scattered to safety.

Voyid slumped bleeding with dying agony to the floor. Staring up at Remmie with a contorted expression, Voyid spit a mouthful of blood. "You will pay someday for your actions. I promise."

Remmie holstered the silver-plated weapon in his belt. He showed no remorse for his unruly behaviour. "That's for getting my friend Crow-Foot killed; the other life, well, someone bumped my elbow and altered my aim, but you must ultimately pay the price with her rueful departure. Your ruling hand of authority has come to an abrupt end," Remmie revealed, as he commanded his soldiers to leave the area through a back exit.

The entire slaughter happened so fast, Tom couldn't rescue Voyid or his wife; he tried to help, but the vortex cast him forward into the present day. The fatal vision gave Tom a clear insight into the sheer complexity of Voyid's mind and the event, which activated the terrorist within Remmie Take.

Voyid noticed the blank expression on Tom's face and said. "Mr. Bronze, tonight you will need to be sharp."

"Sorry, my mind must have stalled," he replied, and shook the dream from his eyes. "You were staying?"

"I was saying that I have very little confidence in your abilities, and I am worried about you."

"Don't worry. I'm dead no matter what I do so, just chill out and send me on my way."

"If that is how you feel about this task, then we must do everything we can to protect you from yourself."

"If you're saying, you don't need me, fine; I'll be out of here."

"I am saying you will need assistance," Voyid said clearly.

The special disk was packed and wrapped in brown paper. The package sat on the corner of Voyid's desk.

"We are waiting for another agent to arrive, but I suspect your wait will not be much longer," Voyid indicated as he relaxed in his chair and flicked the cigar ash into a tray.

There was a womanish tap on the office door; in walked a young female with an Asian glow. She was about twenty-five and stood about five-seven with a well-proportioned body. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that seemed to amplify the roundness of her beautiful face.

"Mr. Bronze, this is my cherished daughter, Keylu," Voyid said warmly.

She ignored the visitor yet stood behind Tom as if she were going to stomp him into the floor at any moment.

"Keylu, there is no need to provoke unwarranted hostilities. He is our new friend, and he must be trusted. He will be accompanying you tonight," Voyid said.

Tom looked at her; all he saw was an insecure little girl.

"He looks like a bean counter that should be wearing a nerd pack and black-rimmed frames," she notes in a rude tone.

"Be ladylike, my love," Voyid said calmly. "He is marginally qualified for this mission so you must assist him every step of the way."

Tom couldn't care less what she thought and shrugged off her bitchy lack of confidence. He observed her quick stride toward the desk. She wore a stretchy, black body suit with a black leather vest, which could barely support her chesty cup size.

She picked up the package and examined it to ensure that it was properly sealed. Once she was satisfied, she placed it back on the desk and, again, stood behind Tom. She gave no advance warning of a sneak attack and pounced on him like a starved hyena. Her hands ripped into his neck as if she were trying to chew off his head. "Get out of this hold, and you can give me a kiss," she said with her arms locked around his neck. "Do you surrender or do you want more?" Keylu growled.

The disguised Nukyi Salient could have easily defused Keylu's aggression with just one little finger. Tom sandwiched his knuckled fist into the side of her cheek and rendered her semiconscious. He caught her before she hit the rug, and he set her down on the round settee. He looked at Voyid. "Don't worry; she'll be okay; a little lightheaded."

Voyid seemed exceptionally impressed with Tom's remarkable abilities. He bent down to his daughter. "Tom, you have a very special gift. I have not seen such gentle might."

"It's a curse brought on by an abnormal indigestion," Tom replied while stroking the back of her hand.

"Now, I fully understand why you have been selected for this mission; you are an extremely talented individual who is fully capable of taking care of our business."

"It was a lucky shot. Beginners luck. Believe me, I'm nothing special," he attempted to convince the old guy.

"I sense greatness from you."

Tom looked hard at the weather-beaten soldier-of-fortune.

"I do not say this often, but it is an honour and a serious obligation if you would consider becoming one of us and work for me if you are interested. I could hurry the initiation."

"Ask me tomorrow. If I'm alive, I'll give you an answer; if not, I'll pass on your employment offer."

Voyid smiled and directed his attention toward his awaked princess.

"What happened?" Keylu asked as she held her confused crown. "How did you do that?" she wondered and wobbled to her weakened feet.

Tom wasn't fully certain and just shrugged.

"Now that the introductions are out of the way," Voyid said. "Keylu, I do not want anymore of this type of child's play; is that understood?"

"Yes father," she replied almost fully recuperated.

"It's getting near my bedtime so where do you want this package delivered?" Tom asked as he looked at the box.

Voyid glanced up at the discoloured grandfather clock. "This will be our only chance. It is tonight or never. Keylu will take you to the location. Tom, I want you to watch out for her and Keylu the same. Two sets of eyes are better than one. Things could get dangerous if you do not work smartly together."

Tom snapped up the papered bundle from the mahogany desk.

"I'll handle that for now if you don't mind, Bronze," she said and clamped her combat trained hands around the package and stowed it under her arm.

"Mr. Bronze, this device is simple," Voyid said. "Once you hold it, you will know exactly what to do; but in the event that you are not successful, we will not be able to offer you any further support."

"Why's that?" Tom inquired.

"Because I suspect you will have been defeated."

"Thanks for the words of encouragement," Tom replied.

"You must be aware of what disgraced human obstacles you are up against; but you are young and fit so I do not expect this mission will end on a negative note. I have a strong vibe about you; and since Keylu has been on missions many times more complex than this one, I know you will make a strong combination," he admitted.

"I see one good thing about our crafty accountant," Keylu commented, (her temporary condition seemed fully recovered.)

"What's that?" Tom questioned her.

She looked at him. "You're wearing the appropriate footwear."

Tom glanced down at his hiking boots.

"We'll be heading into rough terrain; no wimps are allowed." Then she flung open the door and marched into the hallway like a veteran of covert warfare.

Tom followed her to the front foyer where Ckecko was blocking the house exit as if he wanted to squeeze the deliveryman into a meatball and roll him down the driveway.

"Be good," Keylu whispered into Ckecko's ear, and kissed him on the cheek. She handed Tom the box while she fully zipped up her vest.

"Be careful," Ckecko said, and stared at Tom.

"I'm always careful," she replied. "Bronze, are you ready to go or what?"

Tom nodded. "Ckecko, I'll need my shooter."

"Bronze, some last words of wisdom," he said, and handled the gun back to the accountant.

"Yeah, what are they?"

"Put the piece in the ankle of your boot," Ckecko said, "that way a foul-brain asshole like you won't accidentally shoot himself in the balls."

"Very funny big man," Tom replied without cracking a smile.

He seized Tom's round shoulder with his big round hand. "If anything happens to Keylu; I mean anything, you deal with me."

"Look here, Chucky Blockhead, I don't wish anyone to get killed, especially me; but if anything does happen, I'll be dead, ready and waiting in hell, if you still want my dance card," Tom replied sarcastically and forced his way past the overblown ego.

Chapter 20: I'M WATCHING YOU

Outside Voyid's immodest Gothic estate, there was a weak breeze that carried a scent of southern drift smoke. Tom looked into the star-spangled sky and ingested the distasteful lump of uncertainty that was festering in his knotted throat.

McBridle's vehicle had been moved. He noticed that it was now parked near the large six-car garage and capped with a blue plastic tarp.

"Over here," Keylu called and snapped her pointy fingers with a female overbearingness (intended to attract his stalled attentiveness) as she leaned against the black racer with the special box resting on the soft-top. She got into the high-powered machine and set the bundle behind the racing seats. She revved the performance-enhanced engine with a manlike foot while she waited for Tom to hop into launch position; then she flattened the accelerator to the floor and rocketed toward the closed gate. She activated an onboard switch customized into the fast shifter; the gate began to open slowly.

Tom thought that at this speed and distance they might not be able to avoid a messy crash, but they narrowly escaped with an inch of clearance on each side of the freshly waxed aerodynamic doors. They shot out of the gate to the quiet street, where Keylu tore into the path of an oncoming limo as if it were a brave game of dumb chicken.

"You little brat; stay off the road you bloody-hell kid," the driver squealed and sung his over embellished cattle horn. The limo driver swerved to escape an ugly fender entanglement and nearly drove off into the side trees.

Tom suppressed his inflamed temper as he strapped on the safety harness. "What's with the crazy schoolgirl driving?" he yelled over the engine's roar.

"That's my good neighbour. I have a throttle fetish for the British limo driver. Things wouldn't be the same if I didn't pull that stunt whenever possible," Keylu said as she glanced at Tom for a split-second and gave him a wink, "if you know what I mean. Also, I wanted to see what type of verbal response my stunt driving would produce from a paper-pushing wimp like you," she said playfully.

"Well you saw it," his face was undaunted, "so I don't expect that stupid prank again."

She smiled in his direction and asked, "Your vehicle--how'd it get slammed up?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious; so how did it?"

"I sideswiped a brick shit-house last night," Tom replied.

"You got an awful sense of bad humour, but I like it. It shows that you're a man of emotional depth and unusual sincerity when in the presence of a real lady."

"Yeah, I make them laugh by the full pound of rump."

She switched gears. "I'm just assuming that the vehicle you came here in is the same vehicle you fled from Samuel Carravecky's murder?"

"You assumed correctly."

"I'm sure Ckecko will take care of that problem. He'll have it dumped or maybe crushed into a block of metal and melted down for tin cans."

Tom looked over at her. He couldn't believe what nonsense he was hearing.

"We're just protecting you, you know. If anyone comes snooping around looking for clues, they won't find anything," she said.

"He better not touch the car if he knows what's good for him," Tom replied harshly.

She accelerated. "I'm such a bad girl."

"What's that mean?" he replied confused.

"I lied," she glanced at him with her big, bright, brown eyes and confessed. "The arrangements are already confirmed. The car crusher is probably licking its chops while getting ready to chow down on German-made steel."

Tom closed his eyes and imagined Ckecko transporting McBridle's vehicle to a place where it would be squished into a metal bale and fed to a melting furnace.

"Don't worry. If you live, I'm sure you'll be able to replace it with another," she said and laughed. "Let's just say that if we're successful, consider yourself free from any further financial torment."

Tom couldn't do anything about the matter so he mentally filed it away. "So, Keylu, where are we headed?" he inquired.

"Cradle-Top Mountain," she replied with an eager voice.

The vehicle's twelve cylinders pumped with an unlimited reserve of pure horsepower as she worked the racing pedal deeper into the floor. The wide tires howled as the custom machine gripped the road's curves at high speed. Tom powered the window down an inch or so. He was feeling queasy and hoped the night air would revive him.

A road sign indicated CRADLE-TOP MOUNTAIN THREE MILES.

There was enough silence between them, and he thought he'd better become fully acquainted with her spiteful character if he were going into the danger zone with her so he'd better get to know more about her than just her first name. "So, Ckecko's your boyfriend?"

Keylu looked at him before she replied, "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just making some friendly conversation."

She smiled, "No, he's my big brother."

"Really, I don't see any family resemblance."

"Father adopted him when he was just a small child."

"Oh, yeah," Tom looked surprised.

"His mother was a drug addict who abandoned him. She overdosed and that was that. Father is always bringing home strays, helping a lot of needy good people. Don't get the wrong impression about who we are and what we do."

Tom felt as if he were playing into dangerously fragile territory and aborted that touchy discussion. "Ckecko really cares about you, maybe a little bit too much."

She snapped, "What do you mean by that?"

"It's obvious you're able to handle yourself," Tom said, as if complimenting her. "You got the tight moves and the cool groves and the brains to charm the devil out of his blow horn."

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me," she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

"You help me, and I help you; together we come out winners and breathing."

"That's the way it should be; that is, if you don't tinkle in your pants and run away with weepy eyes."

Tom just looked out the window in response.

The road signs ahead warned to DRIVE CAREFULLY BEWARE FALLING ROCK. Farther up the mountain other signs indicated SLOPE INCREASING AVOID PASSING LIMITED VISIBILITY.

Leggy Douglas firs and Sitka spruce trees formed a roadside border fence. The area was grimly dark. Tom couldn't think about anything other than delivering the package; and getting on with his restored sense of existence. Everything else was unimportant, even what Keylu said about McBridle's scored vehicle.

He eyed Keylu. She was a sophisticated young woman. Her hair was silky soft and shiny yet she wasn't your typical super-agent girl who stood out in a busy crowd. She seemed more like a college student and that worried him.

She reached under the seat and pulled out a well worn-in ball cap. She tucked her hair beneath it; then she reached behind the seat and handed Tom the package. "Place it between your feet; it's now your responsibility."

He reacted without questioning her loose authority and secured the technology between his clumsy boots.

"Protect it like it's your life," Keylu said. "If this device gets damaged, you're over; and you'll probably be registered behind bars by sunrise. Think of it as an organ ready for transplant."

Tom powered the window closed. "This mountainous area seems like the untamed country so where are we headed now?"

"Octo Ridge," she replied.

He looked surprised, "I don't believe anyone goes there this time of the night."

She powered her window halfway down. "Don't be silly," she replied; "we're going there--to a place where the road ends. From there we'll have to move fast to keep our appointment. That's why I said that your footwear was mission appropriate."

He didn't want to dissect her rhymes, but his Nukyi intuitions were correct. It was going to be a very long night. Cradle and Octo were exposed. He was beginning to understand the meaning of the four words on that tiny piece of paper, which indicated the secret location of Remmie Take's camp; and the two remaining words must also be related to this astonishing campaign.

"Our mission entry point is just ahead," Keylu indicated.

"Good. I'm getting seriously anxious."

"That's a positive sign."

"I hope so." Tom pressed his neck to the headrest and breathed off a panic attack.

There was another sign posted OCTO RIDGE STRAIGHT AHEAD.

Keylu decreased her speed. She was looking toward the trees.

Tom watched the speedometer drop from a hundred to thirty in a matter of seconds.

"There's a trail somewhere around here," she said. "Can you see it?"

"Yeah, over there," Tom replied, as he pointed it out.

A "No Trespassing" sign with hit-and-run tire tracks spun all over it was barely visible. The tiny trail did not appear to be serviced by visitors in a very long time.

She crossed to the opposite lane and pulled into the bushy opening. The vehicle completely disappeared from sight.

Tom got out of the car; the doors automatically locked.

Keylu flipped her ball cap around. She held a set of goggles in her hand; then started up the path.

"Binoculars, you'll never see anything with those primitive things," Tom said complaisantly.

Keylu held them up to the moonlight and replied, "Government-issue. They look like a simple set of viewers, but they're not. They're equipped with motion focus, heat sensitivity, night vision, and something completely new."

"What's that?" he asked mystified.

"Sight enhancement, a valuable tool for the eyes," she replied. "I could see a grain of salt being dashed from a salt shaker at five-thousand yards and even count the grains on the plate."

Tom chuckled artificially; then he followed her into the thick brush.

Keylu used the device to see where she was tramping. Tom tagged close behind and relied on her accurate footsteps to guide him. "Where're we headed now?" he asked when he became aware that the path they were travelling was a dead end.

Keylu stopped and flipped the goggles from her eyes. "There's an abandoned forestry road above that cliff." She pointed way up. "Once we get there, I'll provide you with the appropriate details; until then, just chill."

There was a two-hundred-foot elevation ahead of them. The rock face was smooth, worn by the natural elements of nature. Several underground streams seeped through the cracks and sustained a green mossy fungus, which would only complicate their climb. Straight up the rock was a daunting task, but this was the quickest way to the top.

Tom stared upward. "This is ridiculous; I can't climb this rock monster," he complained.

"There's another way," Keylu said, "but it'll take about an hour or two; and we don't have that luxury. Anyway, I suspect their site entrance would be littered with booby traps." She noticed his objective expression. "Why? Are you afraid of heights?" (She nipped at his muscularity.)

"No, not at all," Tom replied. "It's the falling part that disturbs me."

"As I said, there's no other way so get with it."

"I don't like it, but I'll live with it," he said nervously concerned.

She started toward the rock and said, "There's a deer trail at the top of the rock formation; it leads to the enemy. They're using this locale as a temporary base. Once we're there, we'll be able to overlook their setup. If we're unlucky, you'll be able to say hello to your friend, Remmie Take."

"Remmie's a thug, not a friend," Tom replied forcefully.

"Don't tell that to him," as she donned the goggles and moved onward. She stomped a path to the face of the rock and began to climb.

"Hurry up," Keylu whispered as she scaled the wall. "We haven't got much time left. We can't be late."

"Can't be late for what?" Tom called silently and slipped the mission box inside his jacket. His fingers were planted deep in the wet crevasses. His feet fought the mossy fungus for a proper foothold and he struggled to keep up with the ambitious lady climber who was manoeuvring above him.

"A bullet ballet--what the hell else would I be talking about?" Keylu called downward once she was in a fixed body position; then she stepped up her spidery accent.

From the top of the climb, they immediately steered from the trail's sight and occupied a vantage position where they could secretly view the mountain's bald top. The trees had been harvested to form a circular clearing, which was fortified with coiled razor wire.

Two structures were stationed in the heart of the area. The first was a rectangular box that appeared to be a seventies' style mobile trailer, which obviously served as the sleeping barracks. It was completely deteriorated. Its long, narrow wooden framework was twisted and bent and unliveable. It appeared to be still on its original tires. The second structure, the shack, was a fair-size yet poorly constructed with crooked walls that appeared as if they were slapped together from old barn boards and roved with old rusty tin sheathing.

Several dim overhead security lamps illuminated Remmie's campsite. The compound blended into the treed landscape as if it had been there for forty years.

"We've got to be careful because they probably have this sector under surveillance of some sort," Keylu she as she snaked across the ground that overlooked the desolate base.

"Well! This is where our notoriously slippery terrorist is hiding," Tom said as he crawled beside her.

"No! He enjoys the finest accommodations; he keeps his men here and out of the way," she whispered. "Only yesterday we discovered where his camp is located. One of our agents sent word just before Remmie killed him with a lady's shoe."

The mobile motion detector's security porch light was activated when two men garbed in special-ops gear went inside.

"They must have been on security rounds," she whispered.

Tom couldn't identify the men. He placed the box in front of his steamy breath. "Let me have a peek-a-boo." He reached over and confiscated the special goggles from her and began to relay the details. "I see another two camouflaged soldiers hiding in the dark. They are scanning the compound perimeters and electronically checking the razor wire for possible breaks. They are communicating with funny hand signals. I see another soldier perched in a tree, smoking a cigar, and slinging his handgun as if practising for the Wild West. I guess he's the comedian of the big bad bunch. I don't see any others, but they'll probably come out of the woodwork once I'm trapped inside like a stressed animal." He handed the sight-enhancing device back to her and let her take control of the night.

It was obvious that a portable motor located behind the mobile shelter generated the power to the camp. The grumbling of the engine exhausted enough noise for them to create a small distraction while they breached the compound.

"You'll have to snip the razor wire," she said, and handed him a pair of cutters. "You'll have to work quickly. Once the patrol passes, you'll have only a few seconds. After that, you're a sitting duck."

"What about you?" Tom asked.

"I'll be here waiting for you to return," she replied.

"So I go in alone?"

"I got you here; now, it's your job to patch up this project; but if there's a problem, I'll come in shooting like a crazy lady and heroically rescue you," she said jokingly.

"Whatever it is I have to do just tell me, and I'll do it; but don't yank me around by the stick like a plastic finger," Tom replied angrily.

She quieted his annoyed voice with her cupped hand over his active lips.

They heard the sound of dried underbrush cracking. They both froze.

She dropped her hand off his mouth, "Shush, don't move."

"What is it?" Tom whispered in a startled voice. His eyes were searching into the darkness.

There were two red laser sights with military firepower attached cutting through the wooded path. The soldiers were screening the area and were advancing straight toward the spot where a security breach was detected.

"Remain quiet," Keylu whispered. "Keep your head down." She rose to her feet and removed a 9mm with a silencer from her padded vest; then approached in the direction of the laser beams.

The soldiers were silent and communicated with hand signals, one militant pointed in the direction of the suspected intruders.

Keylu scurried across the ground like a cat in heat. She attacked one of the men from behind, knocked the weapon from his hand, and shot him in the chest; the enemy fell to the ground. The second soldier rushed an attack, struck her with the butt of his weapon, and rendered her out of service. He rolled her over and checked her pulse and informed headquarters. "Clip to base. Intruder is down. Site secured. Apprehension completed."

"Received," the voice over the radio replied, "further assistance is on the way."

Keylu was motionless on the ground. Tom thought that she might be dead; that was something he wasn't prepared to accept.

A team of soldiers arrived within seconds and intensified their security sweep of the sector.

Tom wore the goggles and observed the soldiers. They recovered their fallen comrade and secured their prisoner; then they marched back to the compound once the area was cleaned.

He waited a bit before he came out of hiding. It was too quiet. Something wasn't right. A twig snapped beneath a weighty foot. He spun around, startled.

A blocky soldier with big, tarnished, yellow teeth received the intruder with a mean snarl and thumped the weapon butt with an unrestrained beastly force across Tom's forehead. It rubberized his legs, and he fell starry-eyed to the ground. Tom stared defenselessly upward at the huge man before his watery eyes rolled back into their sockets, and there was total darkness.

Chapter 21: KNOCKED INTO A DREAM

Tom was semiconscious as the rogue soldier dragged him feet first over the forest floor and through the compound gate. He heard Remmie's domineering voice circulating in the damp night air. The mission chief was commanding his loyal followers as they attacked from the mobile structure, militarily armed and ready.

Tom struggled with his hands and feet bound. Keylu was still motionless, but she appeared to be alive; that was a huge relief.

The squeaking of the hinged barbed wire gate sounded like a pack of bloodthirsty timber wolves as an orderly soldier closed it and slung a heavy chain around a tree trunk acting as the gatepost. A dim floodlight washed over the prisoners who were being detained in front of the old trailer.

"Bronze, I knew you'd be back for more," a man said and stepped into Tom's view.

Tom observed the elusive terrorist's business attire. Remmie was sporting camouflaged army fatigues. The pearl handle of his gun stuck out of his belt, which signified that he was the big boss and no one dare contradict his strict authority. Tom tried to stand, but he was held down by Remmie's leather boot.

"Bring them to our Central Command shack," Remmie shouted, "I want both of my prisoners to witness exactly what ingenious endeavour they've come to ineffectually partake."

Two young recruits tossed Tom inside the wooden structure like a wet sack of rotten potatoes. Keylu was moved with the strength of one soldier and poked forward by the barrel end of another soldier's weapon.

From within the planked floor headquarters, Remmie instructed his team of specialists to get the night underway.

"Strap them into the special seats," Remmie ordered.

Two heavy metal chairs were fastened together side by side; the visitors would be Remmie's special guests for the night.

The eager soldiers inside the shack weren't charitable as they picked up Tom and foot-bounced him across the unbending plank floor like a tough roast beef needing a stiff pounding to tenderize it; then they slapped him down in the chair and jailed him. Keylu was strapped in beside him.

Tom was regaining more of his strength and fought to break the leather straps about his wrists and ankles. He was dazed, but he could identify the outline of the man who stood in front of him.

"It's always a pleasure to see someone for the second time," Remmie said.

"Why's that?" Tom replied and strained his glossy eyes wider.

Remmie smiled with a mouthful of extorted gold that reflected the hanging overhead lights that swayed back and forth. "Because I always exterminate my enemy," he replied with a mean laugh. "That is, unless they come back from the dead; and I've yet to have that happen."

Tom contorted his long, meaty body rightward. Keylu was weak but recovering. Blood had coagulated on the side of her face and it appeared that she still bled from a severe cut along her hairline. The injury was serious but not life threatening.

"What happened?" Keylu moaned as she rotated her head and tried to free her hands, but the leather bindings were too tight.

"Keylu are you okay?" Tom inquired, brotherly concerned.

"I'm feeling dizzy. Other than that I'm feeling all right," she replied with a cold stare aimed at Remmie.

"A beautiful, young woman with all your sweet-smelling life ahead of you," Remmie said. "What do I have here," as he leaned for a rude taste of a pure maiden.

"It was you who killed my mother," she said in striking anger.

Remmie stood back because the woman's quick tongue seemed to catch him by surprise. "I finally meet Keylu, the adorable daughter of Voyid," he said overly amused. "How is my old friend these days? I haven't seen him in many, many years. If I did, surely this time I would kill him."

"Remmie, she's only a foolish young girl," Tom interrupted.

Remmie looked down on the misplaced number cruncher.

"She knows nothing about what's going on; just let her go." Tom was trying to cool Remmie's unpredictable temper and keep him from employing his weapon and shooting her.

"Bronze, you annoy me; just shut your voice hole or else." Remmie turned away and ordered his men into action. "Hurry," he alerted his team, "we've got a mission to complete." Then he clapped his hands, "Let's hop to it before the antiterrorist tribe gets here."

A big soldier reported: "It was apprehended near one of the prisoners, sir."

Remmie obtained the box and placed it down on a wooden perch located at the opposite side of the shack. "You were lucky this time," Remmie informed the soldier. "The next time, there'll be something hot and ticking inside that will explode in your ugly face. Do you get that, Revv, you big, stupid, brainless idiot? If it had been an explosive device of some sort, it would have blown us all sky high."

Tom watched as Revv shifted his well-used Colt Commando around his blocky torso. Remmie's vicious mood had triggered an unmedicated twitch in one of Revv's eyes that caused his face to spasm uncontrollably.

"Now, guard the prisoners," Remmie ordered.

Revv stood about six-foot-seven, two hundred and fifty pounds with a cheap buzz cut and a knife scar that ran all the way down the side of his face. He looked insanely dangerous.

"Hey, soldier," Tom whispered Revv near, "is your employer, Remmie, always this happy with your job performance?"

"Do not talk. Talk only when talked at," Revv replied in bad English while revealing his bad teeth. The word 'OUCH' was tattooed on the knuckles of both his hands like crude prison art.

"Ouch, that's not a pretty sight," Tom tried to amuse the big guard.

Revv stood over the prisoners like a monstrous gorilla to keep them from struggling.

Remmie's voice echoed throughout the feeble structure and could be heard plainly from the other end of the floor. Tom listened and watched the soldiers who appeared to be preparing for something other than his own execution.

Positioned against the far side wall was a long table with white bed sheets cloaked over humps of unknown inventory. Remmie waved his hand like a baton and a fateful supporter yanked the sheets off a bunch of electronics. The system consisted of twin computer mini-towers, four boxy military-looking guidance system monitors, and a compact power pack, which sat nicely amongst the equipment.

The miniature shoebox was stored near the desk where Remmie had originally placed it. He eyed it, as if he wanted to flatten it with his solid fist; however, then he simply stood in front of the prisoners with his hands on his hips with the pearl handle of the gun stuck out of his belt. "This unusual box--it is important that you know I have no use for your play toys or what's concealed within the brown paper wrap," he said in an amused tone; "but if I should peek, then where's the fun." His mean face turned chisel hard. "Right now I should finish both of you and pick my valuable teeth with the fragments of your worthless bones."

"You're a sick man," Tom bellowed.

Remmie's business demeanour wasn't graceful. "Then both of you will be out of my hair," he said with an inhumane look in his enraged eyes as he called for assistance.

Two soldiers approached and anchored themselves at Remmie's sides. Their weapons were aimed and ready for action.

"Our unwelcomed guests are interested in witnessing our crime show," Remmie said to his new recruits. "Please position them so they'll have front-row seats. I want them to feel all the comforts of a cobra's nest."

The soldiers dragged the chairs across the uneven floor and placed the prisoners close enough to allow them a clear view of all the tactical details that would eventually be displayed on all four monitors.

"That's much better," Remmie said, "now just relax and enjoy the evening."

"Remmie, for what are you using all this equipment?" Tom called over the sound of the system operator's speedy keystrokes.

"Soon you'll see," Remmie replied and diverted his attention toward Keylu. "You have brought me an unknown present,"--and he looked to where the box was perched--"how thoughtful. I brought you one too, my darling child." He leaned down and whispered what appeared to be things of a crude sexual nature in her ear and ran his swampy tongue the length of her smooth Asian face, but she remained professionally composed.

"My patience is running thin with your child's play; bring me the box," Remmie commanded, and a soldier replied instantly to his demand. He tore off the brown paper wrap and peeked inside the box. He paused, as if to study what it was. "Hmm, you people have been intriguingly bad. I'll take care of this infectious matter later," he said, and tossed the packet on the desktop.

Tom watched the longhaired computer operator, who was being referred to as File, bring the system to life. Each screen warmed up in a linear sequence as it was called upon.

The code lawyer's hands pounded the keyboard like a gifted prodigy performing Mozart on a lethal injection of Speed and not once did he glance away from the monitors as Remmie worked his magical chain of commands. It was obvious that File was a professional who was probably known by Federal authorities as someone capable of jumping computer hoops around electronic security systems and probably wanted for a variety of computer-related crimes in almost every part of the world. Tom followed File's actions. He appeared to activate a bunch of language codes via a satellite link and ready to pillage somebody's impenetrable information empire.

Remmie moved back and forth behind File and supervised the work being performed. "Bronze, are you enjoying the entertainment?" he asked.

Tom just nodded, there being no suitable verbal expression.

"Revv, be sure to guard them extra well," Remmie ordered authoritatively.

Revv planted himself in front of the prisoners. His legs were huge and appeared to be growing together like two giant tree trunks.

"What's wrong?" Tom asked the muscle-bound guard.

The big man snapped to attention. He seemed to be living in a lax, daydream mode.

"Hey, big fella, you're blocking my view of the data show," Tom said lippy. "I want to see everything so move your wide load away from the screen visuals."

"Prisoners have no life value or breathing rights," Revv grunted. He stared with a painful twitch in his face. He thumped closer to Tom. His hand gripped the handle of a 9mm as he aimed it in the accountant's face. "Quiet up; do not speak."

Tom noticed the soldier's eyes were swollen. He could tell that Revv hadn't slept a full night in many weeks; and this big, dumb idiot could be the weakest link in Remmie's unbreakable chain. He stared into Revv's fried eyes and locked into his wandering mind. Seconds elapsed. Tom used the overwhelming powers of the mind-crash, the ancient secrets that Exsorbo had bestowed upon him. He easily penetrated Revv's train of logical thoughts that controlled his memory; but before he completed any mind exploration, Remmie scolded Revv.

"You big tomato-head, I've told you time and time again to hold your damn commando down and away. Someday, you're going to kill us all with your rock-head stupidity," Remmie shouted. His face was boiled with anger. "One more stupid incident like this and you'll end up beating Siberian prison rock at a Russian sweat camp."

Revv repositioned his weapon and stepped back from the overly obedient prisoners and relaxed.

Tom nudged Keylu. "What's all this about?" he asked under his breath.

"Our main objective only concerns completing the mission, not to question our unfavourable situation," she replied.

"So there's no rescue plan?"

"Yeah, there is; but it's called, improvisation."

"That isn't too comforting," Tom replied; but with Revv's help, he could easily loosen the bindings that held him captive. The powers of the mind-crash allowed him the capabilities of accessing Revv's unconscious thoughts. A few seconds was all he needed to probe the big man's loose mind.

"What should I do?" Tom whispered over and over; then he joined brainwaves with Revv using maximum mind-crash persuasion.

Within Revv's past memories, Tom saw a small lost boy standing on a big city street corner. A man wearing an expensive-looking black suit approached the boy and offered him a better way of life.

"Doing what?" the boy questioned the man.

"The work is easy, and the hours pay good money," the rich man admitted as he handed the boy a homemade gun. "That street bully over there," the rich man pointed across the intersection, "has a box cutter in his pocket; and he's going to use it to violently assault that lady."

A successful-looking businesswoman turned in their direction. She was heading straight toward the anticipated offender.

The boy took the tube-shooter and followed the two individuals for a couple of blocks until the offender nabbed the lady off her fancy heels and dragged her kicking and screaming into a deserted alley and began violently ripping at her delicate clothes.

When the small boy entered the area, the man was physically assaulting the woman. She cried for help and tried to escape, but her attacker overpowered her.

"Stop," the frightened boy cried as rivers of tears rolled down his boyish little face. "I've got a gun; let her go, or I'll shoot you."

"You little bastard brat; get the hell out of here. This is my alley; go find yourself another filthy, stinking bitch," the sweaty man shouted without breaking his punching pattern.

The boy aimed the gun and fired.

Tom's vision of Revv's past memory went dead. It was as if a thought pump sucked the visual energy from Tom's eyes or an unknown force had cut the mind plug. The details were so vivid. It was as if he were actually there.

Now he realized that Revv wasn't vicious and weak like the other soldiers. Revv had been wrongfully indoctrinated into Remmie Take's world, a world of international terror funded, in part, by the Russian underworld and partnering extremist organizations. Revv was trapped between what he thought was morally right and what he was financially compensated to do. There was so much pain corrupting Revv's confused mind that Tom figured two subliminal commands were as much as the big man's brainstem could withstand.

The first command word implanted was TELEPLY, which would action Revv to release the prison straps. The second activator was SERROPE, a protective spell. It would help them reach safety.

Revv appeared somewhat alert, but he was unaware of what had transpired between him and the male prisoner.

"What's wrong? Has your big mouth ate your big fat tongue?" Tom joked.

Revv gripped his weapon, "Quiet or you die."

"That's no way to treat a dinner guest."

"I said silent," the big soldier barked as he steadfast himself with his back toward them and a few paces forward.

The Nukyi stood down; it wasn't time for super-human action.

"Tom," Keylu whispered.

He looked at her, "Yeah what?"

"Watch the Hippy Hacker. He appears to be coding details into the system."

The satellite connection accepted a slue of security passwords, and the menu unlocked to another screen. The word LANDLOCKED appeared in bold lettering, the encoded activation command for Remmie's digital sledgehammer.

Now Tom had recognized three of the four words that were printed on that paper, and the origin of FINCH was yet to be revealed. He tried to conceal his curiosity as he stretched sideways and peered around the big guard.

Without warning, Revv slammed the barrel of the commando into Tom's face. "I see you are interested in our primetime entertainment."

"No, your ass-breath is starting to reek in my mouth."

"Not funny American pig. Do not get comfortable."

"Too late, it's way past my bedtime, and I can't sleep."

Revv laughed. "Your entertainment will soon lapse."

"That's fine. First, I just want to see the evening news; then I'll grab some endless winks." Tom leaned back and sat still to deter Revv from taking any further hostile action.

"That's a good Yankee boy," Revv said. "We will send you to the slaughterhouse shortly."

A burly soldier came up from behind Revv and whispered something into his ear; then they both vacated the area.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief; now, he was free to secretively communicate with Keylu. "What's this electronics stuff used for?" Tom inquired.

"Something serious is going down, and we're plunked directly in the middle of it," Keylu admitted. "It appears they locked into the Stanton Satellite System attempting to tune into Carravecky's computers. Our objective must have been to block their operation," she nodded toward the box on the desk, "using that device."

He heard the stress in her voice. She was nervous about the mission.

"If something happens to me," she admitted, "it's your job to activate the fail-safe lockout program in Carravecky's system."

"How do I do that?" he whispered. He had a vague idea; but before she could relay the details, Remmie interrupted.

"Quiet, I want silence," Remmie shouted. His trigger hand was reaching for the silver-plated Colt in his belt.

She tried again to respond to Tom's information request, but Remmie approached--mad as hell.

"Enough chatter; separate the prisoners," Remmie ordered; "there's too much secretive noise between them."

Two experienced soldiers unclamped the chairs and dragged Keylu to the other side of the shack about twenty-five feet away from Tom.

"Anymore dialogue from the two of you," Remmie warned, "and I'll suspend your strangled bodies by the feet ten feet in a tree. If you persist in interrupting my procedures, I will make damn sure my threat is carried out."

Once Remmie turned his back, it was time for Tom to action his plan. The leather straps were tight and that created a numbing sensation in his wrists and ankles. If he didn't bust free of the bindings soon, he'd be dead. "Keylu," Tom mouthed, "get Remmie's attention and lead him away from me."

She nodded with a firm understanding. "Remmie," she said girlishly, "my little hands hurt. Could you release them for just a moment?"

"Shut up my baby child," Remmie barked, and leaned into her palatable breath. He tweaked her tender cheeks, boorishly pressed her face back, and peered into her clear eyes as if he were deciphering his own emotionally weathered reflection in her responding pupils. "Clip, I sense a major problem; bind her voice-box," Remmie instructed. "I don't want to hear another peep out of her tonight." He stood up from her airspace.

Clip was well-muscled and garbed like an escaped prisoner. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from his utility pouch and bound her face from ear to ear, which completely sealed off her mouth.

Revv had returned; he stood in the doorway gloating and counting a wallet of stolen credit cards.

"Revv," Tom mouthed.

The big guard lumbered forward. "I told you quiet," he snapped.

Tom stared at Revv. "I didn't say a word."

"Then I must have heard you thinking; quiet!" he barked and circled the prisoners.

"Remmie, countdown time till completion is 25 minutes," File reported.

"Excellent work, my computer-hacking friend," Remmie replied with a ruling fist.

"Teleply," Tom whispered in Revv's direction.

The big guard stopped dead in his awkward tracks; his stoned pinkish face turned pale white. He was now under Tom's spell and the eerie powers of the mind-crash.

Without another instructive word, Revv reached to the front legs of the chair and loosened the leather ankle straps as well as the leather bindings around Tom's wrists, which gave Tom just enough slack to work his way free when that particular time would arise. Once the task was completed, the soldier stood steadfast. The power dissolved from his mind, and his memory was freed.

"All system diagnostics completed; we're ready to link into Carravecky/Stanton satellite," File reported.

"Continue as planned," Remmie instructed.

A few seconds later, "Sir, we're fully patched in."

"Well done File," Remmie commended.

Tom stared at the box. He anticipated that Remmie would soon display its contents and reveal exactly what the device looked like.

"Clip," Remmie called.

"Yes, sir," Clip replied respectfully.

"I've changed my mind; remove the tape from my pretty little Asian's mouth. I want her to scream defeat once our program code cycle is completed."

"It would be my pleasure, Sir," Clip replied and tore the adhesive strip from her skin.

Keylu screamed obscenities at Remmie from the bottom of her lungs.

Remmie stood in front of her only a few feet from her angered face.

She struggled to strike him dead but leather held her back.

"If you're a good girl, I'll tell you a nice bedtime story before you slide into unrecorded history," he said and laughed.

"I don't want to hear any of your lies," she cried.

"You shall hear nothing but the absolute truth," Remmie promised.

She calmed down and sat still.

When Remmie was satisfied, he continued. "It was a muggy night, and the air was heavy and unbreathable. Your father, our senior commander, was ordered to raid an enemy operation. They were the best--an elite communist death squad. These men had one objective and that was to hunt us down and destroy us before we destroyed them. I was the bad apple of the crew, or so it was said. I never took it to heart.

"We were there to disrupt an unimportant war that, which in my opinion, could never be won. It was the last few months before the last of many ceasefire agreements were signed. All of us planned to return to our homelands and carry on with our somewhat normal lives. It was in my last month of active service. I couldn't sleep because of the excitement of returning home. A thin canvas was the only thing between me and the jungle, and I could just hear your father's voice in the distance plotting his next cancellation order. His exact words were 'we must eliminate him.' I never forgot that. I knew he was talking about me; that's the reason I had to strike on my own."

"So why did you murder my mother?" Keylu cried out painfully.

"That was a harmful mistake," Remmie admitted calmly. "I've lived with that terrible error for twenty-some years now with as many nights of unrest. I always thought you'd return to finish the job, but I always hoped that wouldn't happen."

"Your thoughts were absolutely correct," she said angrily.

Remmie paused, "Your father emotionally died after I tragically," he stopped to remember those joyous days, "killed your mother. I suppose that's why he founded the KCB so he could track me down to eliminate me and those whom I train and support."

File interrupted, "Sir, Carravecky's computer system and the Stanton Satellite are now accepting only our control."

"Very good; proceed with phase two of our plan," Remmie ordered and looked at Tom. "Bronze, now that this system is under my full command, I will hijack the sky carrier; then I will deliver it to those with the most ambition," he said diabolically. He turned to two of his best-trained soldiers. "Spike, Grip, move our ill-contented Asian girl back together with her American boyfriend," Remmie ordered.

The agile soldiers secured Keylu and Tom in the core of the action.

"Comrades, this is the night we shall remember for the rest of our glorious lives," Remmie praised. "May we work together, again someday. Now, let's get to it. File, what's the status on the weapon tracking program?"

"Sir, 15 minutes from cycle completion; system is working like a golden charm," File reported.

"File," Remmie exulted, "again, I commend you for your talented contributions," then he turned to face the doomed prisoners. "Thank you, Bronze, you've done us a marvellous job. Now what you're about to witness is formulated history in the making." He turned to his men. "It's a job well done, and a royal fee is rightfully deserved."

"Remmie, what is it you want, the missile skid's power source?" Tom strained toward. "You want to convert the technology to make it something even more destructive?"

"Our guest has solved the meat of our objective," Remmie admitted. "Our mission will soon be complete, and your humble lives will eventually come to an abrupt end." Remmie eyed the agent girl's narrow eyes. "It's too bad we couldn't have known each other under different circumstances."

She sneered and showed her teeth like a protective tiger cat defending its wilderness territory.

Remmie retreated, at least for the moment.

Tom observed the monitors. Each screen was reading columns of coded information delivered by the satellite relay system.

Remmie eyed his watch and the box. He approached the concealed gadget with caution, examined its black plastic casing, and he held it up so all those who were interested could view it.

It was about four inches in total length; the back section of the device appeared as if it contained a power source while the front section resembled a standard plug-in; the device integration seemed quite primitive for the advanced technology the terrorist organization was supporting.

The sight of the foreign object disturbed Remmie. He barked out his supreme authority over his team of homesick soldiers and a noisy computer station and verbally increased the tension level.

This created the necessary confusion that Tom required if he were going to work his hand free without being discovered. He abruptly halted his plan when Remmie turned toward him. "So, Remmie; what mad world wants these weapons?" Tom asked as he tried to divert Remmie's keen eyes away from the loosened bindings on his hands and feet.

"Many countries want this prized system, and they're willing to pay plenty," Remmie admitted and dropped the device back into the box like a slice of day-old pizza; then he turned toward Revv. "Maintain security sweeps; we're too close to have anymore unexpected interruptions," he commanded rudely.

Revv didn't move a lean muscle.

"Don't just stand there, you dumb mush-head, perform another sweep of the perimeters? I don't want another surprise dropping on my lap," as he watched the beefy soldier dash from the structure; then he diverted his attention to the computer operator.

Tom looked at Keylu. "What can you tell me about this odd disk other than to abort a hijacking?"

"It has to be inserted into their system," she whispered.

"I understand that," he replied with a dumb look.

"The unit has a built-in code searcher. It will automatically load the abort matrix; that's all I know."

"Why didn't your father tell you all the details?"

"I was just supposed to deliver you to Remmie's camp," Keylu replied bitchy. "You were supposed to do the rest. Father said that the gismo was simple and that once you held it you'd know exactly what to do."

"That's unspeakably comforting," he said with a confused expression.

Remmie turned around and faced the prisoners. He was holding the device in his fist like he was going to crush it, but he spared the inert object its artificial life.

"Sir, program completion time is 10 minutes," File reported over his shoulder.

"Good; my master plan is in its final stage," Remmie said in a joyous tone. He stood watching the monitor screens. "In a few minutes, we'll all be rich. Then we'll celebrate the eventual demise of America," Remmie shouted to the rowdy soldiers.

A dead silence overtook each man as if they had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The ambience of silence was followed by a conservative cheer.

It was obvious Remmie anticipated success; it showed on his stone-cold grin. He stopped in front of Tom and Keylu and smiled unpleasantly. "Spike, my explosive expert, remove the floorboards in front of our useless house guests; we have a big going away present prepared for them."

Spike lifted a plank or two and revealed a long canvas duffel bag. It appeared stuffed beyond capacity. When the explosive specialist unzipped it, Tom noticed that the weathered sack contained a remote control and a timing mechanism with its illuminated digits set at four stable zeros. Beneath the timer, dozens of wired brick-sized packages that resembled plastic explosives were installed and taped to containers marked gasoline--all just waiting for an electrical charge to bring them to fiery life.

"Bronze, have you taken your vacation this year?" Remmie inquired jokingly.

"Not yet," Tom replied in a dull, sarcastic tone.

"Well, you'll be taking one hell of a ride tonight," Remmie bellowed and laughed sadistically.

The computer's voice module began the countdown in a descending fashion.

"Remmie, all systems are operating as normal," File reported.

"Very good," Remmie said as he moved closer to the computer station and stood behind the code lawyer.

Revv re-entered the shack. He carried his Colt Commando slung over his square shoulder with the fiberlite barrel eyeing the floor. His eyes appeared even more bloodshot, and there was a scent of illegal smoke on his terrorist-issued uniform. "Perimeters secure, Remmie," he reported as usual.

"Good," Remmie said without looking in Revv's direction. "Stay alert; now guard the prisoners."

Revv snapped to a lazy attention. He slouched close to Tom. His weapon was cradled in one arm.

"Your eyes are so spent," Tom commented. "You look like you haven't slept a year of piss-drunk Black Sundays."

"Do not speak. Speak only when spoken at," Revv said with the weapon aimed at the male prisoner's chest.

"Revv, I've got something to tell you," Tom said with a curious yet urgent tone.

"I said quiet," the big man barked.

"Please," Tom insisted silently.

Revv reluctantly complied and leaned a bit forward and locked eyes with Tom. "Speak not."

"It concerns Remmie Take."

The big guard leaned further inwards.

"Revv, Teleply," Tom whispered. The spell immediately reactivated the first subconscious command. "Be quick and secretive. I'm unable to free my hands. I need you to loosen the wrist straps just a bit more; then, when the time arises, I can stop you guys from destroying my world." The guard secretively did as he was told.

"Revv, stop clowning with the prisoners and get over here," Remmie demanded and ordered Revv to his side. "This is victory," and raised his calloused hand overhead and summoned his dutiful servants to rally around and celebrate. When the elated soldiers disbursed, Remmie stood in front of Tom holding the disk. "This device is obviously an advanced technology of some kind, but how is it supposed to crash my technology?"

"You're the pro; I don't know," Tom replied with a boyish smirk on his scruffy, manly face. "I didn't create it so you tell me."

"My failed American hero, it's no big deal," Remmie said, and tossed the device on the desk; then he pressed his strong hands on Tom's knees and stared. "I have painful ways of making the strongest of men talk even when they have nothing to say."

The device teetered on the corner of the wooden perch, and it looked like it was going to fall to the floor. The impact would surely damage it.

"Sir; just a few more minutes, and the program cycle will be totally irreversible," File reported.

Remmie shifted his eyes away from the prisoner and toward the computer operator and replied, "As always, excellent work, my computer-hacking friend." Again Remmie locked eyes with Bronze and said, "Now I am the most powerful battle commander on the face of this planet, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

Tom just stared with a tight jaw as Remmie stood smiling.

The system monitors began reading thousands of lines of encrypted code that scrolled briskly down the screens.

The computer's voice module transmitted a celebratory message "THE LAST CONQUEST OF TECHNOLOGY HAS BEEN PRECLUDED. WE MUST PREPARE FOR ITS TRUE DESTINY AND CONQUEST IS ITS ONLY TRIUMPH. A NEW WORLD IS ON THE HORIZON. A NEW TECHNOLOGY WILL REPLACE THE OLD AND WE SHALL CONTROL THE NEW. THE NEW MILLENNIUM OF HUMAN LIFE WILL BE CHANGED FOREVER."

Tom had to stop this terrorist's game of murder madness. The loose bindings would allow him enough slack to slip his hands free and sneak out the gun that was concealed in his boot. He quickly tucked it beneath his jacket.

"Final countdown now commencing," the voice module stated and continued counting backwards from five minutes.

Remmie was pleased. He kissed Keylu on the cheek; the cold Colt .45 was pressed against her warm skin. The hammer was cocked, and all he had to do was squeeze the trigger.

"Go ahead, you bastard, do it," Keylu taunted angrily.

"What's this device for, and why did Voyid send you?" Remmie demanded an answer. "Voyid sent a woman to do a man's job, and an accountant to do an agent's work." He pulled the barrel away from her face and jerked it back into his belt. "You want to play stupid, do you? I'll give you that credit; you're an ounce smarter than I expected."

The soldiers started to pack up their gear as if preparing for a quick departure.

"I see you watching me, Bronze," Remmie grunted as he turned toward his prisoners.

If Tom drew his weapon and choked, he'd be a dead man. Now wasn't the proper time so he aborted his kill.

Remmie bent down to the female agent. "Keylu, my dear, say hello to your beautiful dead mother for me," he whispered in her ear, "and don't forget to visit me in my nightmares."

Tom wasn't about to let Remmie harm a single hair on her head. He drew the gun from under his jacket. He was fully prepared to kill Remmie Take.

"Sir, please come over here," Clip called.

Tom again concealed the gun under his jacket. He was extremely lucky none of the other soldiers had discovered his kill attempt. He slipped his hand back inside the strap and waited.

"Are we following our plans concerning the prisoners?" Clip inquired.

"Yes, we'll be leaving them for the big bang," Remmie reconfirmed and laughed.

"Remmie, Carravecky's system is completely sealed up," File reported. "Not even the devil's electrified pitchfork can bust my missile skid hijack program."

"Splendid," Remmie said with greed in his voice.

The palms of Tom's hands were nervously wet and the thumping of his heart created a throaty pastiness in his tasteless mouth. This was his perfect opportunity to strike. He reached for his gun as he was about to stand, but he was stopped by a blistering voice that bellowed from behind him.

"Sit down pencil neck," the voice howled.

Tom felt the force of cold metal slam across the back of his neck and a force that yanked him by the hair and back into the seat. It was a natural instinct for the Nukyi to fight; but before he could exert a punch, another soldier socked him square on the chin. Tom just shook it off like a good bad boy.

"Report," Remmie shouted, fully concerned.

"Sir, the man prisoner was attempting to escape," Clip bellowed, "so I fed him a knuckle-crunch sandwich."

"Revv, get over here, tighten on those straps, and watch Bronze closely this time," Remmie ordered.

Revv half-heartedly tugged at the straps around Tom's wrists, unaware of the gun tucked in the prisoner's belt.

Tom coughed up a mouthful of blood but he wasn't ready to quit, not yet. Blood trickled from his nose onto the front of his shirt. He was mad as hell and ready for a gunfight.

"Sir, we're tracking the skid," File reported. "The weapon system is travelling at an altitude of twelve miles; its speed is Mach 7 but decreasing. The missile carrier is heading northwest. Our intercept vehicle is in the air and ready."

"Clip, let's get ready to vacate," Remmie ordered. "Contact the chopper and make the arrangements."

"Yes sir," he got on the radio. "Remmie, contact confirmed ETA two minutes."

"Men, two minutes to evacuate," Remmie shouted around the room.

Spike pulled back a floorboard and reached down and set the digital timer to remote detonation; then he replaced the board. "Have a nice trip and don't forget to send loads of sky cards," he said jokingly to the sour-faced prisoners.

"Everyone out," Remmie commanded.

Clip and Revv were the last to exit the shack.

Clip called to Tom as he was leaving, "Would you like more of this?" He held up his over-sized fist. 'COME AND GET IT' was tattooed on his scarred knuckles.

"Clip," Remmie shouted, "outside; group up for an orderly departure."

Revv secured the shack entrance as Remmie stood in front of his prisoners and admitted, "I'm sorry things have to end this way." He stroked Keylu's hair; then he flexed his hand and forced her head back. "The two of you will make a fine couple in death. It's too bad you'll be flying in different directions." He relaxed his hold and eased her head forward. He removed the remote control from his pocket and extended the antenna with his front teeth. "This is what will kill you, not me," he said and held up the triggering device. "The detonation range is about three miles on a clear night. With that in mind, it may give you a few added minutes of life." His demeanour mellowed. "Bronze, I'd like you to know that you could have been an excellent terrorist, maybe even my understudy. I felt something unworldly about you the first time we met. Maybe, we could have been the best of friends."

"I don't think so," Tom replied fully disgusted.

Remmie inhaled the fresh night air into his clear lungs. "Remember, it's purely business and nothing personal."

The computer system's digital voice module continued to countdown.

"Soon, my friends," Remmie said, "this technology will be in my chosen country's hands."

"Whose greedy palms are they?" Tom asked loudly.

"It's a wonderful country that has yet to be reborn," Remmie replied.

"You bastard," Keylu shouted. "If I were free of these bindings, you'd be lying on your back with two bullets in your skull--one for my mother and one for me."

Remmie aimed the Colt .45 up through a rusty hole in the tin roof sheathing and said, "Those are strong words from a weak girl."

"I mean what I say."

"I'm sure you do, Keylu. I fully understand why you'd like a piece of me, but I'm not all that bad."

"You must be stopped," Keylu replied in a womanish rage.

"How about my friend, Mr. Bronze," Remmie inquired, "would you also like a piece of me?"

"Sure, whatever you say, Mr. Take," Tom replied as he tried to penetrate Remmie's mind unsuccessfully.

"I've made it my professional trademark to identify each one of my most memorable missions with a sign that signified 'Remmie Take' was here." He placed his pistol on the desk next to the data device, and he turned toward Revv and said, "Inform the flight operator that I'll be there in a few shots."

Revv stormed from the shack entrance with his commando in hand and boarded the chopper.

Tom felt his hand twitching for his bullet popper. His eyes were fixed on Remmie as he reacquired his Colt from the desktop and aimed it at Tom.

"I'll be leaving soon," he said and glanced a view toward the monitors. "It's only a matter of seconds before the cycle is completed, but don't worry. You should have plenty of time to spare. Utilize what few seconds you have, and I suspect the both of you will escape before I ignite the torch beneath you."

"Whatever," Tom replied. "Who taught you to play cards? Don't you know five kings spell cheat in a deck of cards and four deuces is more than a bluff? I'd say, you blew it big time; you showed your good hand on your bad face, and that's your weakness."

Remmie looked at Tom with a blank searching expression as if he knew exactly what past event Bronze was talking about, and he was at a loss for an explanation.

The digital voice module confirmed "Program run time 60 seconds."

"Well, Agent Bronze, this is it," Remmie said. "This is my final hurrah. My mission here is complete" as he spun the bullet chamber, waiting for it to stop.

"Forty seconds," the voice module confirmed.

This was Tom's last chance if he wanted to terminate the terrorist.

"You man pig; you got what you want; what are you waiting for, you murderous bastard?" Keylu cried.

Tom would have expected Keylu to fight until her last breath of air was swallowed into her lungs and exhausted with a mouthful of blood.

"Twenty seconds," the voice module confirmed.

Tom drew the gun from beneath his jacket and aimed with both throbbing hands.

Remmie was surprised yet prepared.

The countdown was in its final seconds. If Tom failed, both he and Keylu would die. The blood was surging through his fingers, and he felt the pounding of that big pulse thumping between his ears.

"Ten seconds," the voice module confirmed.

Both gun barrels were now aligned in a deadly confrontation. Tom knew the shooter with the fastest reflexes would become the victor. Each fired simultaneously as Keylu screamed revenge.

Tom had never once fired a handgun, except for now. His bullet exploded from the barrel and just grazed the top of Remmie's forehead before it shot through the pitted roof. Remmie's bullet struck Tom in the neck.

He fell to the floor. His body was limp and lifeless. Tom lay in a pool of blood, silenced from Planet Earth--or was he?

End of Book One

Please Read Book Two

* * * * *

NOTE TO THE READER

:

Creative expression is like a double-edged sword, some like it some hate it--if you enjoyed book 1 of The Last Nukyi series, please continue to book 2, tell a friend or you can contact me directly, thanks.

Paul J. Bagnell can be contacted a: paulbagnell@gmail.com
