 
### 4-1-1: Where Are Our Children (A Serial Novel ) Episode 1 of 9

### By Gary Sapp

### Copyright 2014 Gary Sapp

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

Table of Contents

Prologue

Louis

Serena

Thomas

Angel

Seth

Chris

Xavier

Angel

Chris

Dedication

Nest Egg Publishing Presents Gary Sapp

Where to find this author online

#  Prologue: The Dying Man

The Dying Man told fellow inmate Xavier Prince and his other three assailants, he knew who murdered the first black president.

More importantly he knew _how,_ the real reason, not the one that the one that had been manufactured for the entire world to see.

He told them that Serena Tennyson and her Pandora associates had hoped that Adolphus Sweet's demise would accelerate the dissolution between the two most influential races in this country forever.

He'd told them while South Georgia's early afternoon March sunlight glistened through the prison bars of Calhoun State Prison behind all of the inmates into the otherwise cold corridor.

He'd told them through gasp of stolen breaths from his broken ribs and blood gushing through his mouth and nose, thanks in no small part to Xavier's muscle that had accompanied him.

He spat out a mouthful of bruised blood. And then he told them that a further escalation of this dissolution was coming.

And soon.

Yet, the dying man was no fool. He had no loyalty to Serena or her cause, so he'd spill his beans about the when and the where...for a price.

Xavier Prince slid his toothpick with his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other, stole a quick glance at the cracked face of the clock striking 12:30 on the molded wall... _tic_ ... _tock_ ... _tic_ ... _tock_ , and shook his head once then again, _no deal._

Xavier Prince:

He was an undersized black man in his early 40's whose reputation and presence, The Dying Man thought, almost seemed to cast the shadow of a much larger man behind him. He was the tone of charred charcoal; he wore his hair cropped short and his sideburns thick around his ears. He had a drunkards eyes and nicotine stains on his teeth. His reputation had preceded him that he was as a man of few words, even now, though when he had choose to speak his voice resonated smooth, silky, like a sweet ballad. Every one of his movements seemed measured or calculated, and he pimped more than he walked.

He said, "Once, someone very dear to me said that beams of sunlight radiating throughout small pockets of space like in this room were like the eyes of God piercing through. And that the guilty shied away from this light for fear of His judgment raining upon them."

So when Michael Davenport, The Dying Man failed to accept Xavier's offer of life in exchange for his information, the leader of A House in Chains ordered the other man silenced forever.

The largest of his executioners, with biceps the size of barbells unsheathed a machete and got on with the business of dislodging The Dying Man's sorry head from the remainder of his body.

Fear of his end coming...or perhaps something as simple as sheer curiosity caused The Dying man to use the final seconds of his life to watch Xavier Prince instead of the machete's edge swinging to greet him.

Tic.

Once, someone very dear to Xavier said that beams of sunlight radiating throughout small pockets of space like in this room were like the eyes of God piercing through. And that the guilty shy away from this light for fear of His judgment raining on them.

Tock.

At the instant that the machete's blade severed Davenport's curiosity—and his head—he watched Xavier Prince step backwards into the light and let God's judgment rain upon him.

# Louis

The car bomb performed impressively.

The initial blast shattered glass, scattered debris and launched crimson and mustard colored shrapnel in a maddening rush that illuminated Atlanta's late evening skyline with what remained of the Andrew Young Youth Center.

The flames licked rows upon rows of shotgun houses and invited those structures to join this fiery party.

It was a bomb that had taken on a life all its own and knew exactly where and when to strike.

It was a bomb that seemed to know _too_ much.

Just like Serena had told him that it would.

Louis Keaton:

He was a pocket sized man nearing 60 years old. He had those deep blue eyes that eerily never seemed lose their focus or intensity and refused to blink. He wore his hair, long since gray and thin, combed backwards against his skull. He was dressed tonight in his typical battle gear: A denim jacket, flannel shirt and faded jeans and ankle length cowboy boots.

He'd ducked for relative safety underneath the brim of a shed 200 or so feet from the bomb's epicenter. He'd spied the locale during one of his many reconnaissance ventures down here over the past month. Serena had assured the old man that the more he was familiar with his surroundings—and his escape route—the more he increased his odds of surviving this night.

Yet, his preordained location had provided something else unexpected as well.

He watched in part fascination...in part horror, as three bystanders—two men and one woman—were killed by the youth center's falling debris. He could hear the sirens of first responder units blaring from miles away, but drawing closer with each measured breath he took. _Though they won't arrive in time to save these poor bastards_ , he thought. And of course, per protocols, a police helicopter or two would sure to take flight soon. _I mustn't be here when they arrive. I can't let them see me. I can't_. Louis had been instructed by Serena to walk with a steady stride, and then accelerate his pace...and finally _run_ when he was sure he was far beyond seeing eyes, though as to not draw attention to his presence.

" _Oh My God_ ," Louis heard a voice cry out into the night. " _Can anyone save the children inside?_ "

_What children is she talking about?_ Louis asked himself. But then he'd sworn on Elvis' life and death that he'd heard another female stranger approaching from a side street begging for someone... _anyone_ to save her two nephews who were playing a game of pickup basketball inside the gym.

Now dozens of people were frantically racing towards the inferno babbling about a young loved one who was probably trapped inside as well.

Unconsciously, Louis Keaton took a half dozen steps towards the blaze when a young black man wearing black tee shirt, khakis, and sneakers crushed him underneath his weight with a devastating tackle.

He is a Peacekeeper. You're screwed. You should have left this place when you had the chance.

Louis had been warned by Serena to avoid these young men and women, the military right hand of A House in Chains at all cost. The younger man, dressed in a black hoody, khakis' and sneakers swore at Louis and screamed at him to stay out of the damned way and let the trained professionals do their jobs. _His_ type shouldn't be down here anyway.

_And what_ type _is that, my young friend?_ He thought. _I was shedding tears for men like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr on the day of his murder, years before your parents were born._

The memory didn't serve him well. Now, all he could do was remember that fateful afternoon, when Louis was just a scrawny teenager, back home in Memphis, Tennessee. And he remembered how the colored kids, who had previously claimed to be his friends, punched and kicked and spit on him while he walked home from school after the principal had delivered the devastating news over the intercom system before the day's final bell rang.

Now, tonight, he desperately wanted to save these children, but he didn't want to be punched, kicked, or spit on by these People of Color. That was the term that Blacks used to identify themselves in today's world.

Louis pushed himself to his feet, felt for the detonation mechanism that should have still been in his jacket pocket. He moved away from the young Peacekeeper who had attacked him and made his way up half a block, before he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.

Groups upon groups of hysterical family members, worried onlookers, and otherwise concerned citizens had huddled together, locked fingers with one another and held each other for strength. They began chanting something unfathomable for him to understand at his great distance. The chanting soon quieted into crying and the tears led to expressions of grief and finally the grief grew into anguish.

In that moment Louis Keaton remembered asking Serena, after one of their meditation sessions weeks ago, why she hated People of Color so.

_I never said that I hated them, Louis._ She had looked taken aback. _But I will not allow A House_ _in Chains_ _to destroy what so many of our forefathers, on both sides of the color barrier, have worked to diligently to build together in this country._

Louis had nodded at her response, but thought there had to be something a great deal more personal in this for her. Serena must have had read his thoughts because she added _, the finest man I've ever known sacrificed_ everything _to further the cause of People of Color. And I do mean_ everything. _Now, too many of them abuse his sacrifice. Many of them breed like rabbits. They can be cruel to one another. And too many of them are uneducated, unreliable and act too uncivilized to contribute to society._

Louis Keaton heard the police helicopter flying nearby, bringing him back to the present, and reminded him of the danger that he faced if he dared hang around any longer. And he knew that he had to go right _now_ or all would be lost. So he stole one final glance at the family members, the onlookers, the everyday citizens, he looked at them all, still locked arm in arm.

He knew there is a human sense of comfort and relative safety when you are sheltered under the umbrella and fellowship.

Even the uncivilized knew this too be true.

He found Serena Tennyson, Danielle Rohm, and three other Pandora agents dining at one of the upscale restaurants lining the cobblestone streets three miles from where his route began. The stench of burning concrete and ignited fertilizer was replaced by the smell of grilled chicken, the sound of crying supplanted by laughter and a dozen different delightful conversations.

"Why didn't you tell me that children would be inside of the youth center when the bomb was detonated?" Louis asked Serena with some gruff. He was gassed and struggled to catch his breath. "I specifically remember our simulations involved detonating an explosive at an abandoned building with a triggering device as merely a symbolic gesture during the early hours of 411."

"I gave you instructions to be carried out, a target." Serena Tennyson said coldly. The suggestion rattling around in her hushed tone that he should wisely sit down in the seat she was offering him and to lower his voice to match her tone.

Serena Tennyson:

She was a long and athletic looking redhead in her early 40's. In Louis' experience, most men would say that she was more handsome than beautiful with her understated makeup and her hair tied in a bun; and she often looked more sophisticated than sexy in her tailored pants suits and short jackets. Although tonight she wore a gray sweat suit and had a ring of sweat drying in the area neckline and above her small breast. She had a long neck, accompanying freckles, and the next time someone stumbled upon a smile curving her thin lips, it would be a first. Hard is what her associates called her—in hushed voices well out of hearing, of course—and hard she was.

When Louis wisely sat down across from her she said, "The simulations were programmed to present you with many different variables that you could face as you carried out your assignment tonight. I kept the specific details of this operation confidential to guarantee Pandora's success even if you were injured or captured...as you nearly were."

Louis waved a trembling index finger up at her.

"Don't play word games with me, Serena." When Oracle's gaze hardened, as the operatives often referred to her in the field, Louis felt his finger feebly fall back on the table. "Please. I don't wish to be responsible for hurting anyone else." He said, refusing to compete in her gaze staring contest any longer. "I am many things, but I am not a heartless killer."

"That is a noble sentiment of you, Louis." She said. She stopped long enough to take a long pull from a bottle of water. There were three empty containers in her vicinity. "And yet, you need to be aware and understand how pivotal your role is in this game we are playing; this game that Pandora must come through as victorious. I want you to relax your thoughts for one minute. I want you to imagine that you and I are sitting perched atop the highest snowcapped mountain in the entire world." Serena raised her hand high above her red hair as if she were demonstrating to a dull child. "We're high up here. We are at the top. Tonight, we unleashed an avalanche—so devastating, so lethal that we're hopeful that it will crush our adversaries completely and absolutely while it is on a downwards path. As this game draws closer towards finality, we hope each choice we make will derail our enemy's resolve, ensuring the least amount of casualties on both sides as possible."

"An avalanche, you say?" He had to admit her proclamation made sense. "Yes, I guess I see your point clearer."

"You've served our cause...your _country's_ cause, well tonight." Serena suppressed a smile and got to her feet, her subordinates following her lead. "We all thank you for your efforts. I know this was not an easy assignment."

"I said that I see your point," Louis replied, running both hands through his thinning hair. "I didn't say that I felt any better about what I've done tonight. I feel so...evil."

Serena flashed her first air of inpatients of the evening and planted her hands on her slim hips. The younger of the two women, Danielle Rohm smoothly stepped into the vacant space between Louis and Serena, pried his hands open with her own and squeezed his wrinkled fingers.

Danielle Rohm:

She was on the right side of 30, pale, petite, and wore her jet black hair in a single braid that ran the length of her spine. Louis knew she kept at least one pistol strapped to her thigh just out of sight. She was dressed entirely in black. She was _always_ dressed in black.

"Louis, you do understand that you sent those children to a far better eternity than their lives could have been here, in this life _._ " Danielle Rohm said. "And you did this without them suffering any unnecessary pain or injury. Their deaths were instantaneous."

Serena had frowned in irritation at the younger woman's unsolicited input. "I'm sure he does."

"Yes." Louis said in a quiet voice. "I guess that I do."

"Good." Serena nodded in Rohm's direction while never taking her gaze off of Louis. Although the younger woman had aided in restoring order, Serena was likely to reprimand her for her interference, especially in front of the others. Louis did not envy Shooter over the coming hours. "What do I require of you now, Louis? Remember our sessions, all of those hours we've spent together over the past six months readying you for tonight's events and those that lie beyond."

Louis stood a little taller and lifted his chin. "I am to proceed to our previously agreed upon location. I am to promptly finish setting up a temporary sanctuary for our coming visitors."

"And,"

"And I am to continue mastering my meditation techniques. I should exercise balancing my breathing patterns with emphasis on calm and concentration."

"Good, Louis." Serena folded her arms. "And finally,"

He searched the starred skyline a second for guidance, buttoned his jacket against the night's chill, and then nodded assuredly. "And finally, I should stay out of site and await your signal for me to reassume my work, Serena."

"Good." Serena raised his chin with two of her long fingers. "I want you to understand that I have the upmost confidence in you. Tonight, only solidifies my belief that you are the right man for this job... _Hugh_."

Louis snatched himself away from her touch. An old anger—one that he long thought that he'd suppressed forever, rose up seemingly in his chest so abruptly that he wondered if he could maintain his discipline and contain it. One of the other agents' noted Louis' rapid change in demeanor and placed his palm on the butt of his sidearm, while Danielle Rohm did the same, as she already placed her tiny frame between Louis and Serena.

"Louis," He bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. "My name is Louis. I'm Louis Keaton of Memphis, Tennessee."

Serena placed a hand on Rohm's shoulder and the younger woman slid to one side, Shooter eyeing Louis the entire time and never relinquishing control of her weapon.

"I guess we've arrived to this point where you would expect a heartfelt apology from me." Serena twisted her long neck ever so slightly to her right, studying his ocean blue eyes that never seemed to blink. "Sorry, I don't think I'll be able to find the words. Hugh Keaton. He _is_ who you are, your true self. And Hugh Keaton is a monster. He is a monster who, with the right amount of guidance or nurturing, can achieve greatness in the days to come. I was a fool for listening to Doctor Angel Hicks-Dupree when I allowed her to cage the real you, the _complete_ you. This Louis caricature is but a seashell on a beach. Why you should only accept being a simple seashell lying even on the beach, or even be that place in paradise in fact, when you can assume the identity of an entire ocean as you're very own."

"Please refrain from calling me by that name." Louis said to all who would listen. "I am Louis Keaton. I am but a _shell_ of that seashell your mentioning. I'm a seashell trying to keep from being washed away by that ocean." Louis swallowed hard. "But I won't fail you. You have my word, Serena, that I won't fail you..."

Serena said, "We'll speak on this matter again at length after your progress at the sanctuary is completed. Go now...my friend. Your work here is at an end."

Louis felt all of their judgmental eyes upon him as he turned to leave. He decided that it was still in his immediate interest so serve Pandora overall and Serena's wishes in particular. But that didn't take any of the sting out of learning that many innocent, beautiful children were killed by his hand...and then to make matters worse, Serena addressing him by that terrible name.

_We're okay, for now, Louis._ A voice inside of him said; a voice far too familiar for his liking, a voice that he'd hope never to hear again. _At least we know exactly where we stand with the others especially that bitch Serena. We take care of our own. We are here for us, Louis. We won't let_ anyone _hurt us again._

And we will kill anyone who tries.

The Dragon must have been watching over Serena, because she had her sixth sense working and felt a sense of danger emerging in the night's chill. Nonchalantly, she slid smoothly between Rohm and the other two agents, while they all conversed.

There is a human sense of comfort and relative safety when you are sheltered under the umbrella of company and fellowship.

Even Serena Tennyson knew this to be true.

# Serena

Serena Tennyson's knees ached as she rose to her feet after she'd finished her prayer. _Damn these knees,_ she'd struggled with bouts of arthritis, tendonitis, and inflammation in both of them since she'd turned 40. And the miles that she'd accumulated with her runs over the past six months of getting back into shape, had stressed them beyond any training she'd done before. _Yet_ , _Keaton's success is a major step forward toward our ultimate goals. My turn comes soon. I must be ready. I_ will _be ready._

Still, while the irony that Pandora's founder, The Caretaker, had assigned her the field name of Oracle because of her _gifts_ , yet her pediatrician from all of those years ago, and had rightly predicted the degenerative failing of her health from knee down when she reached middle age hadn't sat well with her.

What she once would categorize as no more than a mere nuisance, was rapidly shifting into something far more serious. She could only hope that the knee replacement that that same doctor had predicted would hold off for at least a few years longer.

She toweled her forehead off, fighting chills. Serena's body left her in the odd position of both warming up and rapidly cooling down after her run when her group had disbanded after her conversation with Keaton. In the past this sensation had caused her to feel anxious. She took another long pull of the water even after her initial thirst had been quenched. It was set at room temperature and she downed half a bottle easily down her throat. Her hydration would be critical over the next few days. She was a lifetime removed from being 17, and a three time state champion defending marathon runner.

_It is time to concentrate on more immediate things._ Serena tossed a hand full of sacred sand into the flames into her hotel room's fireplace. The flames responded by rising as they had always had before. When she was on her knees, she'd asked the human god to spare as many lives as possible as 411 now had been enacted with Keaton's attack on the Andrew Young Center now was two hours old. She'd prayed a Christian prayer, and the followed it up with the same appeal in Islam. She'd studied both religions as well as dozens of others for a general understanding and some...entertainment they often provided her. She didn't believe that any of these superstitions had any true substance at their core—of course not—but she felt it was necessary to honor the fallen...and those who were still to fall in the tongue of their own faith.

She was loyal to the calling of the Dragon.

And in the Dragon's inferno, Serena saw all of the vision, clarity, and sense of purpose she deemed necessary.

She was no longer alone in this room—

"Speak your mind, Rohm," Serena said without turning away from the Dragon's flames. "Speak your mind or leave me in peace."

Rohm cleared her throat. "If you have a moment to spare, I'd like to speak to you about Louis Keaton."

"What about him?"

"You've done a masterful job with him, Serena."

Serena finally spun away from the fire. "And you came to this conclusion all by yourself, Rohm." Serena didn't attempt to strike the sarcasm from her tone. She'd never had much use for professional assassins; even this highly recommended killer who murdered on demand, yet looked the part of a high school senior. Anyone with training could be a cold calculated shooter. Serena admired those who were far more intimate and _personal_ with their murdering. "How wonderful for you, Rohm, I'm impressed. You're future in this organization certainly is very bright."

If Rohm had been embarrassed or even angered by Serena's tirade she didn't express it on her pale face. And in truth, that only angered Serena further.

"May I speak freely, Serena?"

_Now this should be interesting._ "This is still America, Rohm, and you haven't been drafted. Say what you will."

Rohm cleared her throat again. _This child is serious._

"There are more than an a few agents in important positions within our group who are... _apprehensive_ about Louis' further participation in our plans.

"Really," Serena asked in a serious tone. Many of these men and women who served the cause of the Caretaker had come from all fields of service in this country: Some were former and other current military, secret service, FBI, CIA, and other professionals who joined Pandora in droves and now had been placed under her command. How others measured her skills in handling Louis Keaton had honestly never crossed her mind. _But perhaps it should have?_ "What do you think, Rohm?" Serena wanted to know.

Considering how Serena had treated Rohm since she'd entered the room, in addition to the one sided chat she had with her for interrupting her conversation with Keaton back on the street, there was little wonder to why the woman dressed in black hesitated to answer her now.

Serena unfolded her arms and relaxed her stance as to not appear confrontational. "Talk to me, Danielle. I want to know what you are thinking."

"Alright," Rohm said. "I'll be perfectly honest, Serena, I wasn't convinced Louis Keaton would able to hold his emotions in check long enough to complete tonight's assignment, even if he wasn't aware of every minute detail." She added "I wasn't convinced until he stood up to you both before and after your comment about needing _Hugh_ to take the lead for his upcoming responsibilities."

"That little detail changed your mind?"

"Actually, Serena, _you_ changed it?"

"Me? How do you mean?"

Rohm seemed to relax a little, letting her guard down. "You've been giving him strenuous mental exercises over the past few months. You've been building up his poise from the inside out, boosting his confidence. Tonight served as a marker for you...and for him on his progress." Rohm eyed one of the plush couches that populated the Bank of America Hotel and Suites living area in this room. Serena could never get comfortable on the damn thing. In fact, other than the fireplace and the piano, she neither had little use nor desire for such luxuries.

"Please Rohm, sit down."

"Thank you."

Serena beckoned the other woman to continue.

Rohm crossed her leg, exposing her pistol for Serena to see it in its full glory. "I'm guessing that tonight was very important to see how much growth Louis had actually experienced. Your ultimate expectation of him will likely drain him both mentally, physically, and especially emotionally. If I know you like I think I do, you likely have one or two more tasks for him to complete before he is to...begin his work as you say."

Serena planted her butt on the arm of the loveseat next to Rohm.

"Damn. I'm impressed." And she was. "You've hit on all of the finer points, Danielle. Every accomplishment aids in him building a solid psychological foundation and more importantly, drives a caged Hugh to the surface."

"I have every confidence that you both will succeed."

Both women drink in the silence of the next minute. Rohm had earned Serena's respect tonight, if only a begrudging one. Rohm had a deeper intellect than just that of a cold hearted killer. The grown woman with an adolescent's body was marinating in those good feelings. Serena thought she noticed an eyebrow cock with an unasked question on the younger woman's face.

"You want to ask me something," Serena said. "Perhaps you want to share another observation?"

"I'm not sure if I want to tear down the goodwill we've built tonight, Serena. I'm not interested in embarrassing you."

"Go ahead, Danielle," Serena said. "It's alright. I promise to keep an open mind."

"Okay," Rohm hesitated, and then seemed to find her voice again. "I was standing here in the doorway a lot longer than when you finally felt my presence. I saw you...praying."

Serena stood up again, as tall as her thin frame allowed in defiance, but this attempt at toughness was empty, because she felt her cheeks flushing. Hard is what her associates called her—in hushed voices _not_ as well out of hearing as they'd might of thought, of course—and hard she was.

"I was." Serena explained her point on respecting her enemy's religion even if she obviously didn't share that faith. When she had finished she said, "Does my position upset you in any way?"

"No, Serena, of course not," Rohm answered quickly and reached her shooter's hand down into her blouse pulling...a gold cross out from beneath her tiny breast. I'm a devout Christian. I love our God."

"You're a Christian?"

Rohm let out a giggle, "Don't sound so surprised, Serena."

"Forgive me, Rohm," Serena said in all seriousness. "It's not every day that someone who earns a living from killing people claims Christianity as their faith of choice. Somewhere in that Bible of yours there is a passage that says: _thy shall not kill."_

Rohm nodded. "That's fair enough, Serena. I'm a shooter. It's a skill I've developed over the years. Yet, since I've joined Pandora, I feel that ultimately I'm in the business of saving people."

"Aren't you mincing words?"

"Am I?" Rohm asked. Rohm stood in the space directly in front of Serena, her fragrance smelled expensive. Serena didn't wear perfume...it felt sticky and _disgusting_ when it dried on her skin. "Working for Pandora isn't all about the money...well _most_ of it isn't, at least not for me. I believe in _you_ , Serena. And because I believe in you, I have faith that our cause is a just one. "

Rohm took another step, violating Serena's personal space as few who still lived had, if she saw the older woman's discomfort level grow it did not stop her. In fact, Rohm enclosed Serena's long fingers in her child like hand. "We're doing God's work. This is a holy war for our time. We are in the business of reaching hearts and minds, of saving lives, saving a nation." Rohm's voice fell into a near whisper. "Pandora is not an organization of hate mongers as some in the media claim that we are. We're patriots. A House in Chains is a real threat to destabilizing all that people of all races and colors have fought and died trying to build."

Before tonight, Serena would have dismissed this younger woman as some type of religious zealot with a fantasy of serving her god with missions of grander. But Serena knew that Rohm actually _believed_ in what she had said to her. _First, this cold hearted killer exhibits a degree of intellect and now she expresses that she has a foundation based in spiritually, will tonight's wonders ever cease._

The handle on the front door twisted open and Rohm had her pistol detached from her thigh, the safety off, and the barrel pointed at the figure that was walking it. Serena marveled at the woman's efficiency, yet felt taken aback that this same woman, who was speaking about her love of her lord, was prepared to send another human being to His judgment in one fell swoop.

"I'm interrupting." Pilot said.

"Of course not, sir," Rohm answered first. She lowered the barrel of her pistol. "Just engaging a little girl talk to past the time until you arrived."

"I could come back—"

"Nonsense, sir, as Danielle said, we were expecting you." Serena said smoothly. We were done with our talk."

"Yes. We were."

Rohm started to dismiss herself when Pilot steeped into her path.

"Champions back on the radar, Shooter." Pilot said, and then he looked up as Serena. "He turned up right where you said he would."

Rohm's big brown eyes brightened a bit with a task, a target, and her hand went to the holster on her thigh almost automatically. "If both of you will excuse me, I have work to do."

The lock on the door snapped shut behind Rohm. Serena folded her arms, all business again after the song and dance with Rohm, and she waited in patient silence for Pilot to drive where this conversation and their movement went next.

Pilot stank of stale cigarette smoke. He took a sip of his coffee. "What's our status, Serena?"

She gave him a brief but detailed synopsis of what has transpired over the past 18 to 24 hours. There are anywhere from 35 to 50 unconfirmed deaths from the car bomb explosion at the Andrew Young Youth Center and the first night of the Siege at The Fox Theatre. The big four networks and CNN had rightly named Pandora as the primary suspects, though at least half of these news outlets weren't aware of the siege at the Fox theatre as of yet, or they were slow to get around reporting it.

A small minority of journalist and talking heads believed that this was terrorist attack from another extremist domestic group, with a handful of reporters saying this is but a first strike in a larger offensive by Al Qaeda or Isis on US soil.

Pilot had to laugh at the absurdity of that.

She told him as a side note, that Atlanta's city officials were planning a memorial hours from now near the youth center, but as the siege at the Fox Theatre gains footing, they'll be putting such activities on the backburner for now if not definitely.

"That's the right call on their part." Pilot said, draining the last bit of coffee out of his cup. "People of Color should be weary of assembling masses of people in a single place."

Serena said, "Everything considered, this operation is going even better than we could have expected at this point."

"I'm counting on a snag along the way; in fact Benny Stanton should have had his folks out of that theatre by now." He pointed the coffee cup at her. "Has then been any response from Xavier's people? I would have expected to at least hear from members of The Circle by now."

Serena shook her head. She'd counted on at least a verbally prepared response herself by now.

Pilot looked as if his brown suit was squeezing him in a tender area.

"I don't like all the risk your plan entails, moving forward."

"You signed off on it, sir."

"I know what I signed off on, Serena." Pilot said with some gruff. He let the moment of anger pass and gathered himself. "And I stand by my signature and my word.

Pilot had been an effective leader. He wasn't the Caretaker to be sure, but men who were like the founder of Pandora were few and far between.

Pilot:

He was a... _no,_ Serena thought to herself. He was an anonymous figure to her, nothing more. He was a shadow, a thought, a memory. If she were captured or tortured by any a number of adversaries, she couldn't be threatened or compromised to give up Caretaker's successor, because she couldn't readily identify a man she's never truly _seen._

"I still don't have to _like_ your plan, even if it strategically makes a hell of a lot of sense."

"I'll respectfully remind you that Caretaker specifically left me in charge of the planning and fulfillment of 411, sir. Ultimately, this entire operation is my responsibility. He also left explicit orders for Pandora to accomplish all our objectives with as little bloodshed as we could reasonably manage." Serena said. "My proposal raises the odds that we could reach our objectives while simultaneously honoring all of Caretaker's wishes. With your blessing, I mean to see this through to whatever conclusion that my plan leads me to. I'm not afraid."

Pilot had no answer for that; instead he became restless as if the spot he was standing would hold him there no longer. "Your proposal is bordering somewhere between crazy and suicidal." Caretaker never intended for Pandora to function with you in the field and having a maniac like Louis Keaton unleashed on the public at the same time. Tell me he would have wanted this?"

"Maybe not," She had to admit. She turned and made her away to the giant window and peered out into Midtown and the suburbs of Cobb and Gwinnett Counties far to the North of their location. This night would be the end of the world as so many had known it. _The end,_ she mused, _or perhaps the beginning of a new world order starting here, starting now._

And if The House in Chains did not stand down, as she feared they would not, even she could not guarantee if anyone involved would be left standing once the next offensive began. And what if her enemies forced her to unleash the full-fledged wrath of The Whirlwind? _What is the shape of things to come?_ She asked herself. And when the day arrived that her nemeses would reach their end and it was as terrible as they imagined it would be... _after all, we are all given to the flames._

Pilot surprised her by taking his place next to her, standing in front of the fire. He even ran his hands through the sacred sand, allowing the texture and roughness of the gravel massage his knuckles. Ordinarily, Serena would have taken offense at a non-believer violating tradition by touching the sacred sand without invitation. _But this night has been full of wonders already._ And she was otherwise fascinated watching his reactions.

"You're not a believer in the ways of the Dragon." Serena said without anger.

"No, I'm not," He said, and removed his hand from the sand and took a respectful step back away from the fireplace. "You do believe, Serena. That makes all of this meaningful enough for me."

She grabbed half a handful of the sand and tossed it into the fire. The flames came to life, twice as large as they did when she thought she occupied the room alone.

"What do you see?" Pilot asked her.

"Death," She said. "Death is all the flames ever show me, sir. It is in the air all around us."

"Oh, yea, I'm sure." The non-believers always took the gift of prophecy far too lightly. She pitied him. She pitied all who did not grow to learn and love the ways of the Dragon. "Do you see anyone I know in there?"

She studied the flames for a minute then. She never blinked and the intensity of the flames caused her eyes to tear. Pilot wiped at his brow and loosened his tie. He was unsure how to take her reaction. Serena failed to care.

"Xavier Prince." She finally said.

"He has been resourceful. He has escaped us."

"He has escaped us _so far_." Serena added, and then tossed another handful before the man could comment again. The flames jumped to even a higher level...and its revelation startled even her, left her breathless for a moment.

"Who did you see, Serena?" He asked, and when she failed to answer immediately. "Damn you woman, I asked you a question."

"Dr. Angel Hicks-Dupree." She said more to herself than to Pilot.

"You sound surprised."

Serena nodded. She did not say aloud, _Angel is going to suffer from something far more traumatic than even death is before her end._ Something compelled Serena to toss in one more handful of sand.

The flames popped and crackled and a flicker jumped out of the fireplace and landed on the forearm of her left hand.

"Are you are alright?" Pilot said, and reached across to her to fan the budding flame. "You're _burning_ —"

Serena planted a firm right hand into his chest to stop his advancement. She threw her head back and the smallest smile grazed her lip as she mouthed out of gasp what could be described as a bout of intense _pain_ ...intense _pleasure_ wrapped its arms around her.

"I saw an imminent death." She said when she had opened her eyes again, the moment of...near orgasm passed into infinity. "That is why the flames were so intense."

"Who did you see?"

"Our esteemed Mayor Ernestine Johnson may not survive till dawn. And when she reaches her end, and it is as terrible as she imagined it would be, she will be given to the flames."

# Thomas

He checked the clock's time on the jaguar's dash, spun the wheels in a perfect motion, and fit the car in the last open parking spot reserved for the media in front of Mayor Johnson's estate in southwest Atlanta.

He bumped his head getting out of his car which added to this morning's frustrations. He checked his Rolex, 7:50 AM; at least he had a few minutes more to spare before the 8:15 presser, although he'd earned a $300 speeding ticket for his efforts. _Damn._

Thomas Pepper:

He was a big man the way sports fans considered retired hockey players big men. He always stood fully erect, totally comfortable and satisfied with his height and weight. He had a squared jaw, with a spectrum of salt, pepper, and oregano colors running through his curly hair and his day old beard that looked like a _two_ day old beard on most other men. Although he was wearing a fresh custom-made suit it couldn't mask the faint stench of perfume and stale sex leaking from his pores.

At 6'3"tall he fit better in his other vehicle, the Escalade, but enjoyed the speed and the thrills of driving the Jaguar more. Besides, he always caught more female attention when he drove up in this ride. Last night Sheila, at least that's what he thought he remembered her name being, had been crazy about this car and begged Thomas for a ride around town. _She was a real cutie too._ She even insisted that he park the Jaguar in front of her house she and her husband, an architect who often worked well after midnight as deadlines on projects approached, where he spent a night a passion with her.

Thomas had been to the mayor's estate countless times now. He'd grown accustomed to seeing the atrium double as the entrance to an impromptu press room. What _did_ surprise him was the near standing room crowd of press, well known athletes, entertainers, and local business people who had been invited to whatever in the hell was going on here.

It didn't escape Thomas that most of the attendants were People of Color.

Thomas flashed his press credentials to a chicken legged servant who knew him by face and who barely scanned the paperwork over at all. Yet, another stone faced man wearing a khaki suit and sneakers, a Peacekeeper, asked to see the identification for himself, studied it with more of a sense of urgency, smiled, and asked Thomas to take him to take his numbered seat in the gallery.

Thomas thanked the second man carefully, read his number nine aloud, and identified his chair in the front row — right next to Lucy Burgess.

"Thomas? Good morning, Darling." She patted the tin, unpadded seat next to her when he arrived at the front row. "I saved a spot for you, do sit down."

Lucy Burgess:

She was a mid-sized White South African, who had golden shoulder length hair and had a huge overbite.

She dropped her sharpie just as he fit himself in the space around him that was designed for man nearly half his size. Alright, he'd play the part of a gentleman and pick up her pen for her...and saw that Lucy had parted her legs just enough for him to see that she was wearing blood red panties underneath her skirt. He couldn't help but grin—and take a small gander—before working to reseat himself and hand her the sharpie back. _Lucy,_ he thought, _you haven't changed a bit have you?_

She showed the good sense to cross her leg before any of the pack of people on the podium could notice. "I was starting to believe that you were hiding from me, Thomas." Lucy's eyes darted down to her lap. "We've missed you so much. How long has it been now?"

"I don't honestly know, but you know me, Lucy," Thomas replied. "I'm always so busy, you know working."

"Working," She drew close enough to take a deep whiff of his jacket. "I can tell. She wears Channel Number Five. This fragrance was a limited edition back in the spring catalog. At least she has good taste...or perhaps her _husband_ does. And you, my darling Thomas, you never fail to impress me with your tenacity. She never stood a chance of you not bedding her did she? The Jaguar drove her over the edge didn't it; your slightly wrinkled suit should have given that fact right away. And I call myself a reporter."

Thomas felt himself redden a little, the anger catching hold. He shifted his weight in the little chair.

"How is Bill?"

Now it was his former lover's turn to squirm, and he felt a perverse pleasure in her discomfort in spite of himself.

"My husband has taken up residence with a 26 year old. So happens she has lost all of her baby teeth and happens to be the daughter of a self-made millionaire." Lucy said with a smile that held no humor, smoothing out her skirt as she spoke. "You see, Thomas, you are not the only man in Fulton County blessed with the finer taste in life."

"So was our dear William forced to endure you're patented sad face or maybe even a round or two of crocodile tears falling from your eyes? Or did you go so far as to unleash full-fledged tantrum this time and pick up something irreplaceable in the house and throw it at him?"

One of the men on the podium tapped at the microphone, an equipment check, and used the opportunity to tell one and all that proceedings were running a few minutes behind schedule. And that everyone's patience was greatly appreciated.

Meanwhile, even Lucy's humorless smile had vanished. And it looked as she remembered something that made her uneasy when she looked down at her flats. "We're selling the house. Bill has chosen to keep this conquest. My services as his token wife are no longer needed. I've been staying at the Ambassador Hotel in Midtown for the past three weeks." Lucy slid over closer to Thomas and then a sly, familiar smile lit up her face once more. "At least he's footing the bill. And I didn't throw a damned thing at him. I refuse to play the part of the unsuspecting wife that my poor, pitiful American counterparts fail so miserably at. He has had his affairs. I have had mine. In fact I told him about you."

Thomas sat up straight in his chair. "Why in the hell would you do a thing like that?"

Lucy ran a manicured fingernail over his lips. "As you people say, do turn that frown upside down, darling." She said. "Believe it or not, not everyone in the known universe or here in Northern Georgia knows who Thomas Pepper, journalist, blogger, and best-selling author is."

Still, Thomas swallowed hard. "Well, I hope that everything works out, you know, with your marriage, the way you wish that it will."

Lucy glanced away and her sly smile vanished as if it never existed. "I sincerely doubt that it will."

Thomas followed her gaze. Two men dressed in white lab coats were being escorted to the podium with some haste. Thomas grabbed Lucy's wrist and pointed with his other hand, to the mayor's husband who was standing and looking miserable near the podium as well. Lucy nodded an agreement at his silent observation. The poor bastard looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Do you have any idea what this is about?"

"Well, darling, a bombing in your city where you are an elected official might prompt a press conference or two."

"That's not what I mean." Thomas rubbed at his day old beard, he haired up so fast. "The Doctors...Antonio Johnson...the almost alarming presence of the Peacekeepers in the room, it all feels so very... _personal_."

"Personal, darling," Lucy said. "The end of the world as you and your American cohorts has that effect sometimes."

"The attack on the Andrew Young Center while tragic, doesn't qualify as the end of the world, Lucy. President Sweet's assassination caused days of violence in the streets, but somehow order was reinstated and that peace has held the course since."

Lucy said, "Tell me you are not that naïve."

Thomas grunted and shifted in his hard little chair growing smaller and harder by the minute. He _does_ know better actually. Speculation was growing that Serena Tennyson and Pandora were behind this attack at the Andrew Young Center. They had yet to officially claim responsibility, but that was just a simple matter of time. Thomas had been granted several interviews with Serena before he published his second book on race relations in America. In the hours they'd spent together, Thomas had took the red headed woman to be ruthless, efficient, and very organized.

Thomas had also noted that she was very attractive.

"And this is the exact moment...the opportunity that _they've_ been waiting for." Lucy pushed her chin out at the room that was filled the hilt with People of Color.

Thomas shifted again. Lucy's words had found some potentially unfriendly ears a few rows back and had drawn attention from two female Peacekeepers standing near an exquisite painting gallery that housed renditions of several famous Black leaders: Martin Luther King Jr, the leader of the Civil Rights Movement; Malcom X, the rigid head of The House of Islam; Isaac Prince, the founder of a House in Chains; and President Adolphus Sweet, the first elected Black President in American History.

Thomas looked for clarification of her statement, since there wasn't a way safely out of this room. "Perhaps you might want to rephrase that?"

Lucy wasn't stupid. She caught his hint, flashed a careful smile highlighting her overbite, and inched close enough to kiss him.

"Perhaps that wasn't very...prudent of me, Thomas." Lucy said. "But I believe that you know that I am not a racist."

"I do." Thomas replied in all seriousness.

"Good. But being a foreigner, I possess objectivity and impartiality that you Americans lack."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm an outsider. I haven't been overly influenced by your country's culture or its history either way." Lucy said in a whisper. "Slavery, Reconstruction, the Civil Rights Movement have all pushed these people to an emotional brink. The House in Chains has capitalized and exploited this moment to their advantage."

Thomas frowned at her reasoning but did not interrupt.

"I'm not saying that People of Color in this country haven't had to overcome obstacles; that would be shortsighted of me. But look around our planet, Thomas. Has there journey truly been so troubled? Have minorities in this land, especially in comparison to how smaller factions are treated by majorities in other countries, been treated any worse throughout history than anyone else?"

"Americans tend to look inwards at times like this."

"You are such arrogant bastards in that regard." She replied. "And that arrogance blinds you, darling. If you want to see real atrocities, in this past half century alone, look no further than in Kosovo, Rwanda, Burma, and Southern Sudan. These are true examples of a powerful majority exercising its power, its influence and its hatred of a minority and attempting to remove that minority from existence forever."

"I'm sure your people in South Africa would know nothing about this sort of thing would they?"

Lucy nodded two times, smiled tiredly, and nodded once again.

"You're right, of course, darling. Your keen observations never fail to astound me." She said, struggling to keep her voice level. "My point is that the minority in this county don't understand how good they have it here. Where People of Color in this land face bouts of discrimination, a right leaning justice system, and the occasional unlawful police shooting or beat down, people with similar skin color around the world are facing genocide and eradication."

"Understood," Thomas said. Does that mean that The Circle, the leaders of A House in Chains, shouldn't continue to better the lives of their people in this country?"

"I applaud A House in Chains efforts. I applaud their organization and their ruthlessness even more. They've grown to rival Hamas and The IRA in power and influence. No one in the Western Hemisphere has _ever_ seen anything like the power structure they've built here." She lowered her voice further. "Perhaps they've grown _too_ powerful. As corny as it may sound, darling, the saying with great power, comes great responsibility, still applies even in this case. Since President Sweet's assassination Xavier Prince and his brood have done nothing short of proclaiming a Jihad against Pandora. The Circle is supposed to be a governing body, then they should damn well govern, and not foolishly challenge the bully to fight they obviously can't win. A House in Chains, and People of Color everywhere, should be thankful that Pandora has chosen not to oblige them so far."

_I wish you were wrong, Lucy._ Thomas thought. _I wish you were wrong because Pandora may have_ obliged _them with the attack last night._ Thomas let out an exasperated exhale, felt suddenly tired and sat back as far as his chair allowed.

Lucy slapped her coat over his lap and began to discreetly squeeze his manhood, gently at first, then with more force as the minutes passed along.

" _Hey."_

Lucy leaned over and stuck her tongue in his ear. "So when can I can expect you to drop my hotel room?" She said between bouts of licking. Lucy's breath was a hot summer breeze. "I'm soon to be a divorced woman. I do deserve some measure of comforting don't I?"

Thomas is saved from her question and erotic bombardment when a spokesman stepped to the podium and asked a growing impatient crowd to settle down, that the press conference at long last was beginning. The platform was filling with known members of a House in Chains including two members of that principal governing party known as the Circle that Lucy had just mentioned, Grace Edwards, who was looking professional in a suit and stockings and Warren Washington, who wore his standard condescending smile on a handsome face, were standing atop the highest step. The next row was filled out by what Thomas could only surmise as The Board, a secondary political body which included Councilman Vanessa Davis, who was wearing one of her signature wigs, and at floor level stood a half dozen Peacekeepers and other friends and allies of a House in Chains. _What is all of this?_ And then the same spokesman introduced the primary speaker for the presser.

Thomas Pepper couldn't believe who he saw take the microphone.

Senator Terence Lavelle:

He was a bright skinned black man of 55 years old. He was above average height, below average weight, and looked as if he'd been born with a frog in throat and a permanent scowl on his otherwise good-looking face. "Good morning," He said with little enthusiasm. It reminded Thomas of the other man's demeanor when he lost the Democratic bid in the last presidential election. "I've been authorized by Mayor Johnson to speak on her behalf. Afterwards, I will allow a handful of questions only from our esteemed panel of journalist who were issued the numbers one through 15 and are seated in the first two rows in front of me."

Lavelle allowed the first round of information to sink in then he continued on. "First, I feel it is necessary to extend a moment of silence for the victims of last night's events."

The room fell silent.

"Thank you," Lavelle said in the moment afterwards. "As a member of The Board, I have been instructed to say, and I personally hold the belief, that Serena Tennyson and her illegally mandated organization of outlaws and hatemongers have moved against A House in Chains, People of Color, and specifically the citizens of Atlanta in the past 12 hours. A car bomb exploded last night at The Andrew Young Youth Center. 42 young men and women have been confirmed dead, although at least a half dozen more are as of this moment been unaccounted for. One of the first responders, a firefighter from the fifth percent has also perished. His name is being withheld until his family can be notified of his bravery and sacrifice while performing his duty."

Thomas noted the number of casualties had risen twofold since Sheila had shut off the television with the remote and pulled the covers over both their naked bodies last night.

"Details are arriving in from The Siege at The Fox Theatre in pieces and fragments and unfortunately very little can be confirmed at this time." Lavelle was saying.

Thomas Pepper, Lucy Burgess, and apparently many other people were caught unaware that a significant event occurred blocks away from the youth center as well. Lavelle scowled and swallowed a drink of water until the loud and nervous chatter died down. He straightened the clip on his tie and pressed on. "And finally, as many of you have long suspected, and now with the heavy A House in Chains presence in this room can confirm, I will announce that Mayor Ernestine Johnson, like me, like most People of Color in the room, is a standing member of A House in Chains. In fact she is a dignified member of the Circle. She has the mark on her body, and more importantly in her heart."

Thomas notes that this time the conversations don't cease and desist. Thomas had long suspected that Mayor Johnson had ties to A House in Chains just as the senator said, but not only is she a member, but a card carrying associate of the governing body. _Wow._

Finally, Lavelle raised his hand for silence. "Please, everyone." He said. " _Please_. Let us move on." Lavelle's persistence and his booming voice won over the boisterous crowd at last. "We've invited you here, into Mayor Johnson's home, so that you would understand and acknowledge that the attack on Atlanta's mayor was the final leg of a well calculated three tier attacks that occurred last night."

"How exactly was the mayor attacked?" Jack Manning, lead columnist for the C _onstitution_ and seated in chair number three asked. Every eye in the building burned through Lavelle awaiting an answer of Manning's question. When Lavelle failed to respond right away Manning compelled him to explain his previous statement so that everyone would understand. Manning concluded by asking, "Was the mayor stabbed, Senator, was the mayor shot? What are her injuries? Where is she now?"

"Mayor Johnson is not suffering from any type of _traditional_ trauma or medical condition." Lavelle said quickly before a thousand theories and conversations could begin again.

Lucy brushed her breast against Thomas as she stood. "Senator please enlightens us. Please tell us what has specifically has happened to Mayor Johnson?"

Lavelle looked as if he wanted to be anywhere in the world but up on that podium. "Her doctors have every reason to believe that the mayor has been poisoned."

Once again, Senator Terrence Lavelle was not allowed to continue his monologue thanks to several dozen conversations breaking out simultaneously. Thomas could feel the anxiety building in the room. You could cut the tension with a knife. Lavelle tried, futilely this time, to talk over the mass. Grace Edwards smartly handed him a gavel and he banged it until silence once again ruled the chamber.

Thomas noted the facial expressions of many involved. Edwards looked as if she'd lost a sister. Washington couldn't hide a smirk. Councilman Davis' eyes looked...high underneath her new wig—

Lucy had shrouded their lower half's with her coat after she'd finished her question and sat back down in her chair. She squeezed his manhood again and again until it ached...until it felt just right. He stuck his own hand underneath the coat, found her hand and gave her a squeeze of his own. "Why don't we just hold hands?"

Lavelle was saying, "Mayor Johnson's primary doctor has provided us with two of his colleagues who will be able to answer your general questions while he attends to his patient."

The doctors, who Thomas had noted in the lab coats earlier, worked their way past the score of a House in Chains members. The taller of the two took the microphone and raised it four inches. _Well, at least Lucy is behaving for the moment._ In fact, Thomas noted that she let go of his hand, had produced a notepad and was using the Sharpie to take of notes as the doctor began to speak.

"Senator Lavelle is speaking the truth. Mayor Johnson has been poisoned. We've run dozens of tests over the past 10 hours they all come back positive for foreign antibodies running rampant in the Mayor's bloodstream."

"Is Mayor Johnson at risk of dying from this poison?" Richard Daily, a crime reporter from the local Fox affiliate asked.

The doctor glanced at his colleague, flashed the senator a hard gaze, and then said, "Yes. I would say that is highly probable, at least from what we know right now. I'll take another question or two."

Thomas decided by the time the doctor had finished, that he could have concluded his portion of the press conference after he answered the first question because he said little else of substance after that. He refused to answer what kind of poison the Mayor had contracted. He neglected to answer when or more importantly, _how_ this poison, whatever it was, was introduced into her system. And finally, to the chagrin of many in the room, the doctor declined to assure anyone if this poison was contagious or not.

Lucy Burgess and Thomas Pepper were gathering their belongings together by the East wall a short time later. The chamber was still a mountain of activity although some of the energy had leaked out with the combination of the sobering news and only a third of the habitants from the press conference still mulling about. Lucy took advantage of sparse crowd and brushed a breast against Thomas' arm.

"I'll be waiting on you with bells on, darling." She handed Thomas a standard hotel issued key card. "Yes, bells, and nothing else I might add,"

Thomas dropped the card into his pants pocket without looking at it. "Is sex all you think about, Lucy? A half hour ago, you pointed out to me that my city...my country is headed for a crisis on a social front for which it may not recover. People are dead and dying as we speak."

"Not us, darling," Lucy said and gave the whole of him a look over. Her breathing intensified. "I plan to live forever, and so do you. You and I are one and the same and more alike than you would care to admit. We are two birds of the same feather. Only I have a cunt and you have a cock."

"Maybe—"

"Thomas Pepper," Senator Lavelle had approached the two of them undetected with two of the Peacekeepers shadowing behind him. Thomas wondered how much of his conversation with Lucy had the other man heard.

"Good morning, Senator." Thomas smoothed out his jacket and then offered Lavelle his hand."

"Mayor Johnson has asked to speak with you personally," Senator Lavelle said after the two men shook hands. "That is," He gave Lucy a purposeful but short gander. "I hope you can spare time out of your schedule."

"Of course, Senator," Thomas Pepper buttoned his jacket up. "I'm ready when you are, sir."

Lucy threw her jacket over her left arm and proceeded to follow the two larger men. A Peacekeeper with deadpan eyes silently stepped into her path.

Senator Lavelle flashed a taut smile. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Burgess. It is still _Mrs._ Burgess isn't it?"

"It is."

"This is a private meeting. You may stay here in the conference room as long as you like. In fact, there are refreshments down the hall if you find yourself thirsty."

"I told you that I'm always busy." Thomas said to her and raised the key card up out of his pocket to give her the chance to take it back from his possession.

Lucy snatched it from his grip, opened his pocket once more, and dropped the key card back from where it came. "This is not about work and you damn well know it, darling," Lucy called out to him as Thomas turned his back on her and met the other men's strides as they walked towards Mayor Johnson's private quarters somewhere in this maze of a mansion. "You aren't interested in me anymore because you are attracted to wedding rings, and not to the women who wear them." She made her words bite even as he must have disappeared from her view. "It's wrong. You are immoral. I'm immoral. It's what turned you on about me."

When the four of them reached Mayor Johnson's private residence ten minutes later Thomas wished he had stayed behind with Lucy.

The room stank of death.

The staff had tried valiantly to cover the smell with disinfectants, air fresheners and scented candles but nothing had worked. Whatever this poison was, whatever infections the Mayor was suffering through, almost had seemed to take a life of its own.

The only thing Thomas could compare the stench to be how his father's room had smelled during his final days of life when Thomas was a freshman in college. So when Lavelle had excused the Peacekeepers and Thomas saw Mayor Ernestine Johnson lying in a transportable hospital bed in the corner of this room, he morphed into that younger man, if only for a few seconds, the past he'd thought he'd left behind so many years ago. Thomas wanted to believe that the tears stinging the corners of his eyes, and the reason he openly covered his mouth with his shirt, were because of the pungent smells attacking him at his core, and not some makeshift memory of his dead father.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Thomas." Mayor Johnson said. She used her index finger to beckon him nearer. "Come closer, Thomas. I don't want to have to talk over all the beeps and whistles of all this medical equipment."

Thomas attempted to lift his size 12's, but his feet were lodged to the floor as if they were in quicksand. And for the first time he recalled how people in the room downstairs reacted when the doctor who spoke at the press conference declined to assure anyone if this poison was contagious or not.

Mayor Ernestine Johnson:

She had been a chestnut colored black woman who spoke with a deep, mannish voice, but had been blessed with the curves of a woman half her age. He could see her shape clearly, even silhouetted underneath the bed sheets.

And yet the poison had stolen most of her good looks from her now. She wore purple boils and blisters on her face and neck, and blemishes of bruised blood and scars existed in the areas that the boils and blisters did not.

"Close enough," She called out to him. Consciously, he never remembered getting his feet moving and walking towards the bed. Senator Lavelle had disappeared without a trace, surely attempting to escape this smell. The two Peacekeepers had joined two others by an open window and were following events transpiring by the Mayor's bed with a vested interest. Thomas noted something else for the first time: The Peacekeeper's were armed.

"Doctor Cavetti, my personal physician, tells me this unpleasant odor is the result of a chemical reaction between my pain medication and the poison. I apologize." She said.

"Save your apologies, Mayor. None of this can be blamed on you." Thomas curiosity won over his disgust. With concentration, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, and smoothed out his edges of his coat out of habit. _This woman may not have much longer to live. Pull yourself together, son._ It was his father's voice, calm and strong and _alive_. "How may I be of service?"

Just then, Mayor Johnson suffered through a coughing spell that doubled her over. The one lab coat in the room, the man Thomas assumed to be Doctor Cavetti, sprinted over to the mayor's bedside with her husband a footstep behind him. The mayor's coughing episode passed as quickly as it came, and everything considered, she looked no worse for it.

Doctor Gregory Cavetti:

Mayor Ernestine Johnson announced to Thomas that her doctor had been enjoying a semi- retirement and was only seeing a few choice patients a week when she called him up last night. He was a walking beanstalk of a man with a banana for a nose and a catcher's glove for hands. He was methodically reading her vitals, comparing them with the data on her charts, and then checked his watch.

The doctor said, "Promise me that you two will keep this conversation short."

"Scout's honor," Mayor Johnson raised her right hand for effect and managed a grin. Thomas admired the woman's courage and her good humor.

Cavetti gave Thomas a long hard look, flashed Antonio Johnson, the Mayor's husband, a sympathetic gaze, before finally trailing off to his work he was previously performing on the far side of the room. Some thought stopped him in his tracks, and glanced at the mayor of one of his bony shoulders.

"I've been your doctor the better part of your whole life, Ernestine. You never _were_ a girl scout." He said and grinned in spite of himself. Mayor Johnson barked out of laugh. Thomas smiled genuinely.

Mayor Johnson's husband did not smile or laugh.

Antonio Johnson:

He had big, pouty lips, razor bumps covered his lower cheek and jaw, and he wore gold rimmed glasses that looked almost fluorescent against his dark skin, and didn't fit as he continually pushed them up off of his nose.

He planted himself in the space between Thomas Pepper and his sick wife protectively as if he were a Doberman, with his fur ruffled, ready to spring into attack mode at any given moment. "I will not cry." He announced to Thomas Pepper out of nowhere. "I will not cry."

"Never mind my husband." Mayor Johnson said. She massaged the skin around her husband's knuckles, smoothing out a fist that the other man had made. "It's alright, sweetheart, I'll be fine. Give me a moment with Mr. Pepper. We have much business to discuss...and we don't have a lot of time."

The mayor's husband stiffly began to back away to an area of seclusion on the opposite side of where Cavetti was standing. It was far enough away for his wife to conduct her business, but close enough for him to rush to her immediate aid if she had another attack...or came under one.

"Circumstances in our world present unique opportunities, don't they, Thomas?"

"I'm sorry, mayor. I don't think I catch your meaning."

"It is amazing the bond that is forged between the dying and those who will be left behind when that fateful moment is at our doorstep." She'd watched her husband without interruption when he finally took his place of solace. Mayor Johnson turned her attention towards Thomas and he noticed that her bruised face had taken on a harder edge to it. "Make no mistake, Thomas. I watched Senator Lavelle's press conference. I saw when Cavetti's aids refused to announce to the world what the truth is: I am dying."

"Do you have any idea how this happened, Mayor?"

A spasm of pain hit her, lifted her torso slightly off of her bed, but she masked it well and neither her husband nor her doctor noticed.

"I wish I knew. I am confident that if there is an answer, Doctor Cavetti will find it. I'll leave to details and the medical diagnosis to him. I'm more interested in the questions that _you_ have for me, the ones that you truly want to know."

Thomas studied her face for a minute. His legs had grown weary so he pointed at a nearby chair. "May we continue this conversation after I sit down?"

"Sure."

The chair was far more comfortable than the ones the press had been assigned to downstairs. He sat on the chair's edge to keep himself alert and the conversation formal as it should be. He'd taken in other observations, the journalist seeping out of him, after he'd finally gotten over the room's unpleasant odor and Mayor Johnson's scars: He was the only white face in the room besides Dr. Cavetti. It had been a long time since he'd felt so alone. But as he watched Antonio Johnson continuing to birddog him he felt just that, isolated and ... _vulnerable,_ and with a fresh bout of fear topping his feelings off.

Mayor Johnson must have felt his budding anxiety so she blew her husband a kiss which seemed to soften Antonio's hard gaze, if only for a few minutes.

"We had a son together."

"I knew of him." Thomas said. "Wasn't he around 19 years old when he died in the Middle East during the first Persian War during Operation Desert Storm?"

"Desert Shield, actually." She said in a quiet voice. She was still maintaining eye contact with her husband. A small, subtle coughing spell rose up out her chest but she waved off any assistance from anyone including Thomas who had jumped to his feet faster that he'd thought was possible.

"Oh how I loved my Sean," She said as if she had never been forced to stop talking only a minute earlier. "I can still remember how he looked the day he left for boot camp, as if I saw him passing through this room an hour ago."

Thomas heard a story stirring inside the mayor's mouth. So he sat back, crossed one leg over the other and prepared himself to listen. He owed the dying that much. Perhaps, Thomas hoped that many years from now, someone who listen to one of his tales when he was an old, dying man.

"Tell me about him."

"He was taller than Antonio is now, and may God bless my husband's heart, a lot more handsome than his father. But his good looks alone are not what made me so proud of him." She said. "Sean was so smart, Thomas. He had an intense fascination for learning and love of books and reading."

"You must have been very proud of him."

"One of us was." Although Mayor Johnson never allowed her thick lips to waver, yet her smile lost all of its warmth. "My husband began to wonder if Sean's love of words, art, theatre, and music were... _unnatural_. Up into the day Sean left us for boot camp, I had never seen him show interest in a woman, not once. It never dawned on me...nor did it ever dawn on me to ask Sean about that part of his life."

"Your husband's own manliness came into question then. What kind of father...what kind of man raises a gay child? Those are the type of questions the father of gay boys asks themselves. What happened then, Mayor? Did he threaten Sean in some way?"

She nodded. "He offered Sean the chance to man himself up, as he put it, by joining the army. In exchange our son would be allowed to have the hefty college fund we'd saved for him. If our son showed some _natural_ interest he would be allowed to indulge in all of his other interest upon his return to the states."

"And this _thing_ went on between your husband and your son without your knowledge or consent."

"I was running for reelection of a lower seat of power earlier in my career."

"And Sean took you husband's offer, and opted for military service."

She nodded again, as tears began to litter her face. "And he never even got to prove his worth in battle. He was killed when he was blindsided by a Humvee while he was unloading a supply truck in Kuwait."

Thomas lowered his head. "Even after all these years, the memory of how this all came about must be devastating for you."

"If only I had these years you speak of, Thomas," She said. "My beloved husband told me this tale this _morning_ , after my conditioned worsened from the effects of the poising. My husband told me that he felt responsible for Sean's death. As if he had killed my son himself. And then he asked for my forgiveness. "

"I will not cry," Antonio Johnson said aloud as if he'd heard the mayor's conversation with him. "I will not cry."

Thomas got to his feet as if sitting any longer would drive him insane. He allowed the mayor a respectful moment of silence then he said, "I'm sorry, Mayor, for everything that has happened to you. And yet, you called for me. What is it that I can do for you, Mayor Johnson?"

A third coughing spell, and by far the most intense one to date, came on her suddenly. Mayor Johnson's torso convulsed once and again and Thomas guessed that she was having a seizure of some strength and magnitude. The medical equipment beeped and whistled loudly, Cavetti ran to her side, and Antonio unleashed a wail that sounded anything but human.

" _Alright, I've had enough of this, Ernestine_." Cavetti spat out angrily. "This stops now. I'm terminating this visit." He pulled her eye lid open and shined a light in there. "Ernestine, can you hear me?"

After what seemed a long time she finally responded with a nod. Thomas thought when her body relaxed with the suddenness that it had bent in horrible pain that the Mayor of Atlanta had died.

Instead, he watched her grab the doctor's wrist and forearm with a devastating vice like grip. "I must finish this, doctor. Promise me you'll let me _finish this_."

Cavetti looked from Mayor Johnson, to her husband, to the Peacekeepers who were at full attention, to Thomas Pepper, then to the heavens itself for guidance.

"Alright, Ernestine, damn you, make this quick."

When Mayor Ernestine Johnson turned to Thomas, her facial features had worsened as several of the purple boils and blisters had burst, leaving pus and blood leaking around her cheeks and jaws and onto her bed.

"You are not moral man." Mayor Johnson's mannish tone had grown darker still; if it were because of her condition or if she were angry, Thomas could not say.

And yet he had enough of women telling him how immoral he was today, thank you. "You asked for my help, Mayor." He said, sharper than he had intended.

"The most immoral of men are often the most honest. They have a clear understanding of who they are. They know what they want, and they prepare to sacrifice whatever they feel is necessary, even their very souls, to get what they want."

"I haven't sacrificed anything, Mayor. Maybe you're mistaken. Maybe it was a mistake for you to ask me here—"

"We are all in the path of darker days, Thomas. And although it hasn't rained in Atlanta in over a year, the storm clouds are upon us. I can smell them. I can _feel_ them."

"Are you talking about the Whirlwind?"

"Yes," She said. "The Whirlwind may be upon us all." Mayor Johnson found her indoor voice where she left it minutes before. "And if an immoral man must be our beacon of light before the approaching storm then so be it. You are the truth teller. You are our beacon of light."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do, Thomas. You've taught me, you've taught all of us in your books and on your blogs. I want you to think Thomas. I want you to truly understand what I need from you."

"Where Thomas Pepper went, the truth was never far behind." He said. An old lover had christened him with the stupid phrase after he promised her that would give her an intense orgasm during their lovemaking ...and hence, had given his pet phrase that would become his calling card that he now always signed off on his blogs with.

Mayor Johnson was struggling for breath. "Truth..."

"You want the truth about who poisoned you."

She shook her head. He still wasn't getting it. "All of this is much bigger than just about me. I knew that there were inherent risks when I took the mark, when I became of member of the Circle, the governing body of A House in Chains."

And for the first time Thomas noticed the he saw a tattoo of a chain on the lowest part of her neck. She was wearing the mark. Thomas thought long and hard before he spoke again.

"There are three questions that every Person of Color in this country wants to know." He said with renewed confidence.

"What are they, Thomas?"

"Who killed President Adolphus Sweet?" Four years after the president's murder, and the second largest investigation in American History behind the 911 attacks, still had brought no one to justice for firing the shot that killed the first Black president.

Mayor Johnson nodded.

After another minute Thomas said, "Who is the Caretaker?" No one knew if the first leader of Pandora had gone into seclusion years earlier or was dead. He was said to be a man without feeling or remorse.

Mayor Johnson nodded once again.

Finally, Thomas Pepper said, "And what is the Whirlwind?" Rumor said that the Caretaker had birthed an ingenious, diabolical plan to destroy People of Color before he went into hiding or before he died. Many Americans, including Thomas Pepper believed Serena Tennyson knew what this plan was.

Mayor Johnson nodded one final time, but instead of relaxing her body, she pressed all of her weight on her knuckles and gazed long and hard at Thomas, ignoring everyone else in the room including both her doctor and her husband who were pleading with her to stop this now.

"All that I ask from you, Thomas Pepper, is for the _truth_ , nothing more." After she mouthed her last statement, Mayor Johnson lay flat on her back at last. Thomas stood still, unable to move as he had when he first was asked by the mayor to approach her bed. She surprised him by adding, "If you help me, you will gain enemies on both sides of this conflict. They both will harass you. They will threaten you. They may even kill you. Yes, Thomas, they may try and kill you."

"I understand." And he hoped he truly did understand what he was signing up for. "You have my word, Mayor that I will find the answers to your three questions, or die trying."

She smiled one final time. And Thomas Pepper knew it was that pictorial of her that he would someday take to his own grave.

Mayor Ernestine Johnson's was engulfed in a final spasm that yanked, twisted...and ultimately broke her body and her spirit and she died a very a loud, a very violent death.

Doctor Gregory Cavetti cursed loud enough to alert security.

Antonio Johnson was proven to be a liar after all, for he finally did cry.

And Thomas Pepper exited the room a shaken man, but a man with a mission and a promise to keep nonetheless.

Where ever Thomas Pepper went, he hoped the truth was never far behind.

# Angel

Outside the Blanche Coffee and Pancake House in Griffin, Georgia, two FBI agents were securing the buildings perimeter, pretending to be a vacationing couple holding hands, while out on an early morning stroll. 50 feet closer, a third agent lit a cigarette and leaned back against a light pole. Inside the restaurant, a fourth agent scooped the last morning newspaper out of the machine and secured it under his arm pit.

Dr. Angel Hicks-Dupree knew that the Blanche Coffee and Pancake House had survived a fire that gutted its infrastructure in the late 1960's, a change of ownership 1982 when the founder died of Lupus, numerous recessions, and the Great Recession of the last few years. _But will it survive a federal incursion this morning?_

She watched a fifth agent enter the premises, order breakfast at the register, and angle towards where she sat alone. It was far too early in the morning to play hide and seek with the feds, even one as good looking as this one, so she crossed one pants leg over the other and waited for him to approach her booth. She knew it was also far too early for most human beings to pour gin into their coffee...so she doubled the content in her cup to improve her odds of getting it right.

Dr. Angel Hicks Dupree:

She was a curvy brunette in her mid-thirties. She had heavily arched brows curved above her big brown eyes. She wore rose colored lipstick over exaggerated thick lips and walked with a limp that grew more pronounced as she stressed. Angel's lips were a gift from a former lover who had had bottomless pockets and an erotic imagination. The limp was the result of brief but wicked bout of polio when she was ten. She wore a pungent fragrance of perfume to douse the smell of alcohol rising up out of her pores.

"Dr. Hick-Dupree, my name is Special Agent Nicholas Sheridan of The Federal Bureau of Investigation." He said, as way of greeting her. "Would you mind if I share this booth with you?"

Angel flashed him a wicked, playful smile.

Special Agent Nicholas Sheridan:

He was of medium height and weight, tanned to a tone that Angel wondered where his previous assignment had been, clean shaven, and had grayed early in life and now wore the snowcapped hairdo like it was a badge of honor. He wasn't wearing a wedding ban. Angel kept the wickedly playful smile on her thick lips for a bit longer than she usually would, the one she reserved for attractive me she could sleep with, but probably would not.

"It's your ass." _And a fine one,_ she did not add. And just as Sheridan's backside hit the chair she did say, "Champion didn't tell me where he was going."

"Excuse me?"

Angel drank from her coffee cup for a taste of her gin laced liquid courage. "You and your people have been out searching for Joseph Champion. Whatever lead you may have had has led you here."

Sheridan exhaled and arched a bushy brow in curiosity. "What gave us away?"

"You people are always so busy. I'm sure you don't have enough time for me to explain."

He glanced at his watch. "Damn. You are probably right, but I'm curious anyway."

Angel explained the agent's faulty positioning before the waitress arrived at the booth with Sheridan's cup of coffee, with packs of cream and sugar in a saucer. She automatically started to refill Angel's cup but the doctor shook her head and thanked her all the same.

"So are you going to explain to me what your involvement with a federal fugitive might be, Doctor? Joseph Champion is a person of interest in the shooting of President Adolphus Sweet. He is the most wanted man in the world. "

"Alright, Nicholas, where do I begin?" She asked, and stole another sip of her drink. "Joseph has made overtures about turning himself over to your people. He told me that he is prepared to produce prudent and specific information on Serena Tennyson's strategies and Pandora movements."

"Champion's made these so called overtures before." Sheridan said with a trail of bitterness in his voice.

"He wants to turn himself in. He told me that."

"Which brings me to my next question, Doctor?" Sheridan said. "Why did he come here? Forgive me, but you are living here in the middle of nowhere in South Central Georgia."

"Joseph and I share ties, Nicholas. Check your records. We were both recruited and became card carrying members of Pandora. It didn't take long for me to realize what madness Serena is capable of. I resigned after only a few months. Joseph Champion wasn't as bright."

Sheridan smiled. She recognized the gesture for what it was: She'd saved him some time and energy for having to extract that information, that he should have already had filed on from her.

"Okay, then back to my original line of questioning, Doctor, If Joseph Champion really wants to do the right thing and turn himself in to the authorities, then why won't he?"

"He doesn't think you can protect him."

The waitress had returned with Sheridan's breakfast of bacon and eggs cooked over easy. Sheridan excused himself and took three bites of the eggs, and a single bite of the crispy bacon, wiped his mouth, and urged Angel to go on.

"There honestly isn't much to tell, Nicholas," She said. "He called me on my cell at my practice and informed me that he was in town to see a local man, another former Pandora agent who was running from Serena as well. After I arrived at the hotel we argued about him turning himself in. He was emotional. We drank a lot. We had sex. It went back and forth like that for a while. I don't remember a lot of specific details other than our sexual chemistry haven't eroded over time."

Sheridan struggled to keep a straight face. "Did this man, who Champion mentioned, ever show? Did you even overhear a phone call he may have made?"

"No. Sorry. Joseph never even gave me his name or what his function was in Pandora's organization. I could tell that they had important business though. Like I said, Nicholas, other than what I've told you, last night was a blur on my radar."

"That's too bad."

"Is it? He can't have gone too far. I'm sure with all of your resources and influence you will track him down sooner or later. In the meanwhile, you are stuck with little old me?" Angel spread her arms over her head for effect, the gin working its old magic in her bloodstream.

"Yes, Doctor, little old you, a former Pandora recruit who happens to be the _real_ reason that we ventured down to this shithole in the first place." Sheridan said to her surprise. We she cocked her own curious brow he added, "On two different occasions this agency had retained your services in a consulting capacity, the results have been...productive on each case. You are very good in your field of expertise."

"Thank you," Angel said seriously. "My work in Clinical Psychology means everything to me. The Deputy Director seems to respect my opinions."

"He does. He speaks fondly of you, almost if he has a very soft spot for you in his heart."

_It's probably a hard one and it hangs around a little further South than his heart._ "Listen, Nicholas, you say that you and these other agents came down here looking for me?"

"We did."

"Then this must all be about that phone call I had with Louis Keaton around ten days ago now. Again, during that little season of madness that I spent as an operative in Pandora, Louis was a patient of mine. I'm sure you already know this as well."

"I am aware of your relationship with Keaton, Doctor." It was time for Sheridan to flash his own mischievous grin at her. Angel surmised that mischievous looked good on the federal agent. "And your phone records indicate it's been 11 days since you last spoke to Keaton, actually. But forgive me, I'm interrupting."

Angel sat her cup in a saucer and read the statue that Sheridan had produced from The Justice Department reminding her of federal regulations to allow wiretapping of phone lines to prevent terrorism in by foreign and domestic means. The waitress returned and filled Sheridan's cup once more. He paid his bill with a government credit card and tipped her with a ten dollar bill to finalize her dismissal.

"Louis Keaton was a troubled man." Angel heard herself say.

"He is _still_ a troubled man." Sheridan unlatches his briefcase, produces a laptop, which he has up and booted with the care and precision of a man who has more than a familiarity with contemporary technology. "I want to get your opinion of what you see here."

Sheridan's computer is equipped with a split screen. The video feed on the left side is from one of the big networks documenting the bombing of The Andrew Young Center upstate in Atlanta with the usual coverage angles. The one on the right side, while not as nearly a clean feed, is far more interesting, and catches Angel's attention. This feed is from a surveillance camera perched on the side of an adjacent building. It is time stamped. Angel recognizes the figure of an undersized man who was wearing a denim jacket, flannel shirt and faded jeans and ankle length cowboy boots. _Louis Keaton._

"Oh my, God," Angel ignored her coffee cup and nearly reached for her gin stash itself almost out of habit, but thought the better of that decision. "I haven't watched the news this morning. How many more casualties were added to the list during the night?"

"I didn't get an update. And I don't like to speculate specifics on such things, though I suspect the number will grow over the coming days."

"I'm sure it will," She settled for a subtle sip out of her cup. She watched the time stamped footage once again with it showing Louis holding something in his hand, then the youth center exploding into a ball of fire. "I am not going to argue with you about what that camera implies, Nicholas."

"That footage doesn't _imply_ anything." Angel heard Sheridan's voice take on a stern tone. "Keaton's there on scene. He is a known operative of Pandora. They have taken openly taken responsibility and credit earlier this morning for the terrorist act known as 411."

"Give me some latitude here. We both believe Keaton to be a troubled man. But he is a man known to be a pedophile, a man who has repeatedly molested children, especially young boys." Angel said. "Blowing up buildings has not been his MO. That is not who this man is."

Sheridan eyed Angel a second or two after his cell phone rang. He begged the doctor's pardon and began to listen to the party on the other end, an agent named Green. He makes a sudden decision that she should be in on the conversation and he puts the speaker on and lays the cell, face up, on table.

"...We've been monitoring your conversation, sir, and there is no sign of Champion." Agent Green was saying. "I have received intel that a dead body had been discovered four blocks from your present location. He is a white male who was either in his late 40's, or early 50's. There was no ID on him."

"Is there an immediate cause of death?" Angel asked Sheridan, as she was familiar with FBI procedures in the time she'd spent working with them.

"Agent Green," Sheridan said. "Answer the doctor's question."

"Yes, sir," Green sounded unsure of whether this violated protocol or not. "He suffered a gunshot wound to his forehead at close range. It was a small caliber weapon. The body is still warm so the evidence points that it occurred in the past six to 12 hours. It will take three to four hours before we get the ballistics back from the lab."

"Expect those reports back in no more than two hours. Walker's crew is known to pull miracle off from time to time, especially with proper stimuli to motivate them. I will have The Deputy Director to give them a call as soon as I'm finished here." Sheridan powered down his laptop. "Agent Green, does any evidence support a theory that this gunshot was self-inflicted."

"Unlikely. There is an absence of residue on his fingers and his wrist. You've trained us not to speculate—"

"I have at that, Agent Green. Let's make an exception this one time, go ahead"

Agent Green said, "I think it was a robbery. As I already told you he has no Id or wallet at all. His pants pockets were turned inside out. And a couple of his fingers are discolored as if there were rings there once. I believe the perpetrator lifted the jewelry off him before he got out of dodge." The man concluded by saying, "I would advise Agent Walker to report her findings to the local police department."

"I disagree, Lance. We will stay on top of this ourselves and examine it closer."

"Yes, sir," Angel could hear the younger man grown in the backdrop before the line was severed.

Agent Sheridan drained the last of his coffee. "As I said, Doctor, we came looking for you."

"Why? I don't see where I can help you."

"I need you in Atlanta. I need you aiding in the 411 investigation."

"What could I offer you in an investigation like this?" She wiped sweat from her brow, grabbed her gin stash out of her purse for Sheridan to see, and stood to leave. "And as you can see, Nicholas, I'm in no condition to help you. You have good people in there, in Atlanta already. Christopher Prince is personal friend of mine, he runs the field office, and most importantly is one hell of a Special Agent..."

Sheridan breaks eye contact for the first time in the past few minutes. He pushes his coffee cup away from him in disgust.

Angel abruptly sits down and flops back in her seat.

"Something has happened to Christopher hasn't it? Sheridan compounds her concerns when he fails to reply immediately. "Where is Agent Prince?"

"No one has seen or heard from Agent Prince since yesterday morning."

"He's notorious for not answering his cell."

Sheridan nodded in agreement. "He is notorious for not answering his _private_ cell phone. Agent Prince's partner told her superiors that Prince had an appointment with his private doctor for a follow up from an annual examination. He never showed. Agent Tabitha Blue hasn't been able to raise him on his company line. Agent Prince never misses a call on this line. No matter what time of day he receives a call he always answers this phone."

Angel searched the ceiling of the restaurant and then the floor for answers. _Where could Christopher be?_

Sheridan: "There is more."

Angel exhaled. "There always is."

"The 411 attacks are not centered on the bombing of The Andrew Young Center alone. Atlanta's Mayor, Ernestine Johnson has died of complications stemming from some type of poisoning. And currently, there is a siege still underway at The Fox Theatre in Midtown Atlanta." Sheridan hesitated for a long time, and Angel's dread grew. "Agent Blue told her superiors that Agent Prince mentioned that he had ticket to show there the night the siege began there. He had a date. I believe he is there and is amongst the hundreds of hostages that are being held inside."

Angel felt her teeth chatter. She suffered through a spell of nausea that fortunately passed as quickly as it came.

She stood again.

"I'll need to run home. I'm going to grab a hot shower and grab some personal belongings." Angel looked down at him squarely in his eye. "And I'll need some time to sober up."

Agent Sheridan stood next to her. "I've anticipated your assistance and have a car waiting outside for you to handle in private business you may have."

"I'm in," Angel muttered to herself than to the man standing next to her. "I'm all in."

"Be careful what you are volunteering for." Sheridan rubbed the back of his snow white head. "I'm under orders, by Deputy Director Rice, to solicit your services. I follow orders, Doctor Hicks-Dupree. Still, I want you to know that I didn't ask for you. And my boss has left it to my discretion how long you assist on this case."

Angel nodded soberly. "I understand, Nicholas."

Agent Sheridan brushed off his suit and straightened his tie. "No, Doctor, I highly doubt that you. Let me explain myself further. What others in my field of work call taking initiative I call being insubordinate. What another man in my position may proclaim someone as being a free spirit, I would name that same person reckless." He leaned over her. "You are reckless, Doctor. You're past ties to Pandora, the way you lead your personal life, everything that encompasses _you_ presents a clear and present danger to the honorable men and women who still serve their country through this bureau. I will not tolerate any screw-ups from you."

Sheridan reaches into her purse and takes the tin flask of gin out of it. "I hope that I have made myself perfectly clear on my expectations of you during your consultation."

"Crystal clear, Nicholas."

"And from this point moving forward you will address me as Agent Sheridan or Sheridan."

"Yes, Agent Sheridan."

She had lived a reckless life. And Sheridan was right, for both personal and professional reasons, her presence during this investigation was a clear and present danger to all involved...including Christopher Prince, assuming he still lived.

But as long as Angel Hicks-Dupree loved, her redemption was possibly still at hand.

She was alive.

As she turned towards the exit of the restaurant she gathered that one of Sheridan's agents hadn't gotten the message that she had joined their ranks, or that Joseph Champion was nowhere to be found in this vicinity.

"Agent Sheridan, I pointed all of your people out. Why is one of your men still sneaking around outside?"

Agent Sheridan straightened out his tie again and looked as if something on the floor had gained his attention. "He's not one of my men, Doctor, he's one of _yours."_

Angel glanced in the stranger's direction...and then took a second, longer look at the man who was standing outside the restaurant. She sighed in disbelief to the fact that what Sheridan said was true.

Doctor Seth Dupree was peeking through an open blind of the Blanche Coffee and Pancake House.

As long as Angel lived, her redemption was possibly still at hand.

She was alive.

She was alive and she had an angry husband to face.

# Seth

"We're not done talking yet," Seth watched his wife drop to her knees and reach along the side of the bed for her travel bag she'd always kept packed and ready to go on a moment's notice. "And _now_ where do you think you're going?"

Angel looked back at him, sighed, and rolled her big brown eyes at him. "Atlanta. I'm needed in Atlanta, Seth."

Seth pointed at the carpet. "You're needed here. We've got to fix whatever is wrong with our marriage."

Angel, impervious, went back to the business of what she was doing as if a word hadn't been exchanged between them. She got to her feet, switched on the widescreen with the remote and pumped up the volume past 40. The sound faintly echoed as their bedroom...and seemingly every other room this Victorian styled house was oversized for two people and even with the expensive furniture loitering throughout, looked as if no one lived there.

_There have been too many_ big _fights that have taken place under this roof as well, Angel, too many tears shed._ Tonight, if only for one night, he promised those tears would not come from him.

Dr. Seth Dupree:

He was six feet tall and still fit now in his early forties. Friends had started calling him The Gray Man about ten years ago. He had sparkling gray eyes and had more streaks of gray in his hair and whiskers than he liked. He had always possessed the unique ability to look comfortable and relaxed, yet professional, whether the day dictated him wearing a three piece suit or a golf shirt and slacks.

He wasn't looking comfortable or relaxed right now.

"Make me understand what any of what has gone down in Atlanta has to do with—"

" _Quiet_." Angel planted her long, manicured fingernail close enough to his full to his thin lip to touch. "I want to hear this."

A razor thin blonde stood as close to the barricades of a building...Seth scanned the area immediately behind her, an electronic sign noted the structure as The Historic Fox Theatre. _Historic, it just plain looks old,_ Seth thought. Some of the roof's paneling had torn from the hinges and looked if it would completely off if a strong gust of wind whipped in right now. _Well, knowing how the city's luck rolls these days, a wild wind event would be the only type of storm they would get._ Seth reasoned to himself. Atlanta and most of northern Georgia was suffering through what some meteorologist experts were calling the Drought of the Century. There hadn't been significant rainfall in metro Atlanta in nearly a year. And wildfires had begun running rampant on the outskirts of town, especially to the North and West of downtown. Some days the city looked more like LA encompassed in thick soup bowl of smoke, instead of the smog America's second largest city suffered through.

Sections of panels and tile were torn from the right side of the building as the camera scanned the protestors who'd begin camping out of there. Seth rubbed at his day old beard, and shook his head at his own stupidity. _Of course there are torn panels and patches of damage in those spots,_ he thought, _how could I have forgotten about the tremor the region suffered about two weeks ago._ Seismologist had measured the quake at 3.3 and the center of it near Columbia, South Carolina, the Atlantic fault shifting again after lying nearly dormant for half a century.

And now Atlanta was suffering through this latest challenge.

Heavily armed police units, armed with high powered rifles struggled to keep citizens behind the barriers. Seth's gray eyes took notice of a group of half dozen young men and women of color who chanted the same theme over and again, especially when the television cameras focused on them. One of them would ask, _Brothers and sisters, what do you see when visualize our people's future?_ And the others would answer in chorus, _we see days filled with misery and pain._ Most of the protestors were ordinary, everyday Joes, but the camera seemed to highlight the presence of clans of young men dressed in Khaki suit and sneakers. _The Peacekeepers;_ the media is focusing on them to stir the pot...and yet he endured a chill strong enough to burn at his shoulder blades, _or are these vigilante numbers higher than anyone assumes they are._

Seth rushed to widescreen, located where the power button was, and slammed the set off.

Angel swore at him.

"You got in an unmarked car back at that restaurant with federal agents didn't you, Angel. This," He pointed his thumb back at the blank television screen. "This is about Christopher Prince isn't it?"

Angel had folded her arms, which tugged at her blouse, exposing a little cleavage. Knowing his wife as he did, Seth was sure the act was intentional, to throw his concentration off. "The FBI believes that Christopher is one of the hostages being held in that theatre. Agents of Pandora are holding them there. Everyone inside that place is in danger. Sheridan got on a plane when we left; he is putting his hostage negotiating team together, right now, as we speak. You know I've consulted with the feds before, Seth, you know I've worked directly with hostage negotiators. That car, as you spoke of, is outside waiting on me right now.

"This isn't about those hostages, for you, Angel," He heard his voice rise, thought about the FBI agents planted 50 feet or so from where he was standing, made him instantly regret doing so. "This is about Christopher Prince. You've always loved him."

"Oh stop being so melodramatic, Seth." Angel had opened her travel bag, replaced a short sleeved blouse with a longer sleeved one to protect her from the night's chill up there. "Just stop it already. You know our story, our history together. Our fathers were cops, partners for ten years together. That partnership of theirs evolved into a lifelong friendship, where such relationships between black men and white men were rare and were frowned upon in the Deep South. Chris and I played together as children. My father even trusted him enough to babysit me. In time their partnership ended when my father moved on to the US Marshalls and then eventually to the ATF. And although their friendship fractured somewhat when Isaac Prince founded a House in Chains, their children still kept in touch.

She stopped with her activates for a minute and Seth watched her big browns mist up. "He's my best friend in this world. Of course, I care about what happens to him."

Seth inhaled, exhaled, and stood as tall as his 6"1 frame allowed. "I understand that, Angel. He is your best friend. _I_ am your husband."

Angel's eyes lost the mist. "And for that, I pity you."

"That's not funny."

Angel tossed a bra into her bag and stepped in his direction. He thought she would embrace him, but she stopped just short of where he was standing, and brushed the back of his cheek with her soft hands. He felt aroused in spite of himself. He wanted to be angry right now. "You're a good man, Seth Dupree. You're a damn good husband. You deserve a damn good wife. I'm not a good wife. I'm not...she struggled to find the right word...I'm not sure that I know _how_ to be one."

She turned her back on him to resume her packing. He wraps his arms around her with such suddenness, that he engulfs her smaller frame with his own. The scent of her perfume, the relaxer in her hair is intoxicating. She throws her head back and exposes her neckline...collarbone...and the top of her breast to him. She reaches back and finds his manhood already stiffening against her buttock.

She was the one usually seducing him during times of crisis in their marriage. _And honestly...she is at it_ again. _She's been seducing me from the moment we walked into the bedroom. I'm just late to the gathering._ But he would let her claim another victory in this war between them, if only she didn't go. "I'm begging you to stay," Seth said as he ran his lips along her neck line. "We can fix this."

Angel gently but firmly removes herself from his embrace, spun around, and smoothed out her clothes. "I have to go, Seth." She announced to him. "I'll call you as often as I can. I'm sorry."

He snatched at her arm with quickness beyond reason, beyond relief. Anger had superseded reason and he found himself in unexplored territory and it was lost of him exactly what to _do_ next.

Angel gave him his answer.

He needed to defend himself.

Angel pushed his hand off of her and attempted to knee him with her right leg in the crotch. Perhaps it was some type of male intuition that caused him to be prepared for such a maneuver as he blocked her first and second attempt successfully with the lower half of frame. Unfortunately, that left his topside vulnerable for a counter attack and Angel took full advantage. She jabbed him twice above his right eye socket with her left fist.

She'd proven herself ultra-flexible and even athletic during their exotic romps in bed, but here physical strength was proving far more just a nuisance as she connected again with another punch that _hurt_ , this time on his jaw.

He found an opening as she swung wildly and missed, and used all of her 125 pounds against her and shoved her at the top of her arm, sideways on to the bed. _Don't escalate this,_ he thought, whether it was intended more for him or her he could not say. She cursed at him again. Angel's big brown eyes were full of fire and brimstone...and focus.

This time she kicked at him and found success...and the inside of his thigh and crotch paid a steep price. For the first time since this episode began Seth feels the bite of almost unbearable of pain.

He backhands his wife.

The world stops...and so does Angel...and her suddenly frail body lands on the bed flat on her back.

" _Oh, my God_ ," Seth dives on top of the bed and on top of her. "Angel, I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry." And he is filled with dread not only in the fact that he has struck a woman for the first time in his life, but he has struck a woman with federal agents parked on the curb outside his house. He has allowed his anger and more so his _pride_ to put his career, to put his freedom in jeopardy.

" _Get_. _Off_."

"I'm sorry." Seth said pointlessly again. He wished he could take it all back.

They stayed in that position, that odd position with him on top her, almost pinning her down for what had seemed a long time. He took some assurance, selfishly so, that the FBI didn't hear this exchange, because the doorbell hadn't chimed, or they hadn't knocked the door down and a score of agents hadn't piled in the room and jumped on top of him.

Instead he and his wife looked into one another's eyes. He looked into her magical big browns, and he could see his gray's reflected in hers. She didn't try to punch him anymore, or head butt him, or even bite him. In fact, her body went lax; she exposed the other side of her face, the one that _wasn't_ slightly swollen to him.

"I deserved that, Seth." When he tried to speak, she shook her head slowly, and shushed him as softly as one of her kisses on his cheek might have been. For the entire dishonor I've brought to our marriage, I deserved it." A single ran down her smooth cheek and it _frightened_ him more than any moment during the fight. She didn't cry at their wedding. She didn't cry when she suffered bouts of pain in her leg as the result of her bout with polio as a young child. She didn't even cry when they buried her father. But she _was_ crying now. Go ahead, Seth, you get one more shot at me, for the future dishonor I would bring to you if I _stay."_

He felt suddenly ill. "I don't want that, Angel. I don't want to fight with you at all."

He backed off of her and she sat up and perched her weight on her elbows. "I'm allowing you a free shot. I'm advising you to take it." She said, in a low dangerous voice. "Because if you ever lay a hand on me after my offer expires, I'll kill you Seth; you know what I'm capable of. There are already three people buried because of me."

Angel pushed herself off of the bed. Seth reaches to help her, but she slaps his hand aside. He guesses that she has decided to shower after she reaches Atlanta because she limps over to the bedroom mirror, touches up her face, brushes her hair, and changes from one button up blouse to another. Seth sees his reflection close in behind her, but he keeps a cautious distance between them.

"You've always told me that you have been responsible for _two_ deaths, Angel."

"There's Brody." She said, her blouse still fully open, exposing her bra and cleavage to him in the mirror.

Seth nodded. "He was the fugitive who came looking for your father during one of the times he left you in that old house alone. After three days of being his hostage, he made a sexual advance on you and you stabbed him to death."

It was her turn to nod. "Eight years later, a young man named Kenny Traylor learned his valuable fatal lesson."

"He did." Seth said as she buttoned the blouse at last, doused perfume on each wrist and put her trinkets in place. "He learned that when a woman says no she means it. You defended yourself and your actions were cleared in a court of law." When Angel spun around she grabbed her bag and began to exit their bedroom. He stepped in her path but retained the separation between them.

"Angel, what is this _third_ incident?" He asked his wife. She had shared the other two instances with him...again, tearlessly...on their wedding night.

"My mother died birthing me," Angel said as a matter of fact and without emotion. "So I'm responsible for killing her too."

Seth loses all of the strength in his leg and tumbles to the edge of the bed and seems paralyzed in his attempt to move thereafter.

Angel limps to the mouth of the doorway and speaks to him without turning to face him; perhaps the tears have found a home on her face again. "I'm screwed up, Seth. I am a drunk...a functional one considering the detail I pay my work, but a drunk nonetheless."

"Are you a whore as well?"

Now she did face him, and did she have the audacity to for anger to be plastered on her brow or was the look lodged there meant to mean something else? "I don't like to be alone." Angel could nothing more as her look softened.

"And us?" Seth asked. "You specialize in Clinical Psychology, Dr. Angel Hicks- Dupree. You specialize in the integration of the science, theory and clinical knowledge for the purpose of understanding, preventing, and relieving psychologically-based distress or dysfunction and to promote subjective and behavioral well-being and personal development." He'd memorized the definition over the years. "What is the diagnosis for us moving forward?"

An hour later Seth learned that even the king sized mattress couldn't hold his weight on its edge and he'd slipped aimlessly to the floor. He had a bed, bedroom, and a home that was already too large for a couple, grew exponentially larger and lonelier still now that _he_ was alone after Angel had given the best answer she could muster to his last question and had left for Atlanta with the FBI. He was still staring at the bedroom's doorway where she'd stood, even now.

There was a _pop_ , and then a _bang_ rising from the surround sound in their bedroom that startled him. And for the first time Seth realized that during his scuffle with his wife, they had somehow managed to switch the television back on. He was now viewing how a scene had played out from the first night of the siege that had been caught on amateur video. Shots had been fired from inside the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, and some of the protestors and other curious citizens were scattering for cover. Half dozen Peacekeepers had drawn their weapons in response and had taken what Seth surmised as strategic positing around the building. _Where are you going, Angel?_ He asked himself. _What are you getting yourself into?_

For all of his life, Dr. Seth Dupree felt he was holding his breath...waiting; he hoped to still mend his broken heart.

He hoped to breathe again.

He hoped.

Seth reached for his cell phone and hit a private investigator he had on speed dial. The man was a pig both in size and appearance, but had proven professional, trustworthy and damned good at finding Angel's whereabouts over the years. He finally answered on the third ring. He spoke in a sleepy voice. The other man, Lawson, listened to Seth's latest complaints about Angel. Seth knew putting the man up in motels in Atlanta would be expensive—but instead of the private dick quoting him a rate on his retainer he said, "Doc, why don't you invest that money in a good lawyer. Or even a _bad_ lawyer." Seth felt the phone slip from his fingers and fall to the carpet, but the speaker had been engaged. "Man, you're a surgeon. I know you are used to fixing things." The other man hesitated, clearing morning bile from his throat. "You're not going to fix _her,_ Doc."

The private detective hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Seth got to his knees, crawled to the nightstand, got the phonebook out to find Lawson's replacement. He flung the phonebook and toppled an expensive vase from the other side of the room instead and found himself sitting on the carpet as he had before.

Another hour later Seth had gotten himself together enough to make two more phone calls; the first was a straight forward call to the HR department of Atlanta's General Hospital. Dr. Seth Dupree had been assigned to a statewide trauma team. They'd already seen action after last month's earthquake and subsequent tremors. He was required to train with the team out of their main base of operations at the Atlanta General Hospital location for four weeks out of the year.

He couldn't see a more ideal time to train than right now.

The General's HR department would contact his own workplace and finalize the deal. If he needed more time in Atlanta, he'd had some vacation weeks available to him.

He began dialing the second number...stopped with four digits still remaining...thought long and hard about completing the call...and pressed the end button, terminating his call to the other party, for now.

The Gray man got to his feet, grabbed his own travel bag from his side of the walk in closet, pulled out the pistol that he had stored inside of the bag, filled the chamber with bullets, set the alarm on the door and remembered his wife's answer to his formal question about them moving forward before she had turned and walked away from him.

_Our vows say through sickness and health, Seth._ She had said. _I think I qualify for well beyond sick. I want a divorce, Seth. Please grant me one._

For all of his life, Dr. Seth Dupree felt he was holding his breath...waiting; he hoped to still mend his broken heart.

He hoped to breathe again.

He hoped.

And then he locked the front door behind him.

# Chris

He realized that the events that had transpired first thing this morning had mirrored the final, traumatic events of the previous night. He wished, not for the first time that these events have fared differently— without the loss of life especially, and yet the civilian...the _human_ inside of him wished he'd attempted to run to freedom with the one woman who had made it.

A pregnant woman and her mother had used the need to go the bathroom as their excuse to disappear out of sight for a few minutes. The lounge in front of the women's bathroom bore a fountain for decoration sitting in front of it. There was a pool of blood now flowing along with the water. A significant trail of blood and brains and marrow led back to the great room he and the other hostages were being held.

In his mind's eye, Chris could see that woman's mother stuffing her daughter, who was in the latter stages of her pregnancy, out of one those windows in the bathroom. _But you folks took too long. Pandora became suspicious. They sent a guard to find you._ Agent Christopher Prince remembered hearing the shots clearly. He also remembered feeling knots tie in his gut when two of these guards drug the mother's limp corpse back into the great room.

The next thing that transpired next frightened him worse.

Luna Belle, who he had come to recognize as the second in command of this operation, fired a handful of rounds into an already dead body as an act of imitation. It worked. Chris could see the shift in attitudes from the hostages. It wasn't about the pleas and prayers for mercy, or even at the maddening screaming at the act of horror they'd all witnessed, but an overall sense of hopelessness and dread that fell over the crowd was like a dark cloud hovering above the theatre. The hostages _thought_ they might die before. They _knew_ it now.

"Prince," He heard a voice whispered his name.

He didn't look around right away. Instead, he got a feel for where the dozen gunmen...or _women_ were. All of the Pandora agents involved in the operation, with the exception of the leader, were _all_ women. _That is one reason they took this building with such little resistance. Who would have expected a group of women who had gone out for an evening show capable of such violence_ they'd truly had the element of surprise on their side. In fact when they begin roping in from all areas of the theatre, Prince, like many others in attendance, thought the act was part of the show. _They looked like bats flying around a belfry._

Chris turned around at last to put a face to the voice that called his name.

"My people are positioned the best they can be under the circumstances, they are prepped, and ready to counterstrike on my command." The man said, Chris cursed to himself, unable to place the other's name with the dark, hard face hovering ten feet in front of him. "Are you with us?"

"Your _people_ ," Chris made the statement a curse. "No. Call off whatever you have planned. There are too many guards here and they are too armed with semiautomatic and fully automatic weapons. What you are planning is nothing short of suicide, not only for your followers, but these innocent civilians as well."

Special Agent Christopher Prince:

He was of average height and was 39 years old now. He'd gained twenty pounds around his middle but most friends thought he carried the extra weight well; w _hich means that I look worse than I already thought._ He was one shade darker than midnight, his shading so absolute and finite it was almost beautiful in its own opaqueness. He was clean shaven from his Adams Apple to the nape of his neck: No mustache, no goatee, and no eyebrows; No hair of any type adorned his skin.

The other man rested his weight on his elbows before laying all the way back on the floor and closing his eyes for a moment. _His people,_ Chris thought. O _kay, so you're one of the Peacekeepers...no...you're something, somebody even further up Xavier's chain of command than even that._

"I only wanted to know if you stood with us or not. I wasn't asking for a tactical analyst of the situation or your consent, Agent Christopher Prince."

"You know who I am?"

His smile betrayed the confidence of someone who was in clear control of the conversation. He reopened his eyes, carefully pulled...a penny...from his pocket and began tossing it up once and then again and again. "Number One suggests that the other members of The Circle familiar ourselves with all of our adversaries. Even if one of the antagonists is his own flesh and blood. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, especially tonight. How are you holding up?"

Chris finally put a name to a face and cursed in a low voice. "You're Morgan aren't you, Quincy Morgan?" He scanned the room's perimeter to update himself on the female guards positioning. The hostages had been allowed to converse amongst themselves but Chris wasn't willing to risk them spying in on _this_ conversation. He lowered his voice until it was damn well soft and faint as if he were singing a lullaby to hush a crying baby. "You are The House in Chains Sargent at Arms, and the number three in command of The Circle. Well, at least that's the hypothesis being shared back at the field office."

Morgan nodded.

Quincy Morgan:

He was an olive skinned black man who Chris thought was the picture of fitness and all the handsome features of Man of Color could wish for. He had big thoughtful eyes, a clean shaven face, an expensive diamond stud in each ear and a fresh haircut. He kept tossing that penny in the air once and again and again. _You don't come off as the nervous type, Quincy;_ the experienced investigator inside his gut told Chris, _that penny represents unfinished business with something...or_ someone. _I'd give a king's ransom to know who._ Chris found himself staring at the other man's physique longer underneath his silk shirt longer than he intended, hoping Morgan wouldn't take his interest as anything sexual. _I was you once, Quincy._ Instead, he was again reminded that how he was bulging along his own midsection. In fact he'd made an appointment and finally seen his private doctor a few days earlier. The follow up appointment was scheduled for today. He'd been from suffering occasional stomach pains and his energy level hadn't been up to his usual standards.

_Concentrate on the present,_ he told himself. The holding area stank of piss and other waste as the remaining hostages had been forced to urinate in the flower pots that were located within. Again, Prince reminded himself they'd been allowed conversation and even some movement, but they were encouraged to keep their voices low and absolutely forbidden from standing up. A weighty gentleman asked for permission to approach one of the makeshift toilets, one of the lithe shaped guards sneered, patted him down, and used her rifle to point him towards one of the flower pots.

Chris thought it ironic that this room was designed to give life to a recreation of the temple for Ramses II, the Egyptian Pharaoh who set Moses and the Hebrew nation free...only to hunt them down, if the old Bible story could be believed. Now, today, mostly People of Color were waiting to be set free from this building.

Quincy Morgan scooted along the floor past of two sobbing young women and found an open spot amongst the humanity, and sat next to Chris. One of the female guards took notice, but seemed more interested at the length of her fingernails at that moment. Chris only offered her a moment's glance in return. He only had eyes for Luna Belle and another man Chris did recognized immediately when he first laid eyes on him last night: Benny Stanton, a former ATF guy who Chris had worked together with on an investigation in Alabama a few years back when the latter man was still on the right side of the law.

Luna Belle:

She was an angular and lissome shaped blonde whose hardened gaze seemed fixed permanently on her face.

Benny Stanton:

He was of late middle age with white blonde hair, deep blue eyes and spoke with tied tongue.

When Morgan settled next to Chris the Special Agent said, "My brother would advise against whatever you are planning, Quincy." Chris said.

"Perhaps," Morgan said and pushed the penny deep down into his pocket. "We are outnumbered and outgunned, but I take using my small advantages where I can find them. And since you people believe in the chain of command, you'll understand when I say I'm going to use my seat in The Circle to advocate change to our current status as helpless sheep."

"Stanton should have issued their demands by now. The wolf _wants_ something or we would all have been killed last night during the initial siege. _Yes, they would have all been killed like poor Catherine over there._ Chris Prince's date had been mowed down by the indiscriminate automatic weapon's fire during the first few minutes of the attack. _It was a precipice of the siege._ The gunfire was designed to start a mass of people running in a single direction so that Stanton's team could better control them.

_I'm so sorry, Catherine. I never even knew your family name, but it doesn't mean that I won't mourn for you when the time is right._ He gave her slender figure, her corpse lying face down in a pool of her own blood, one last respectful glance before he turned his attention back to Morgan.

"Negotiations won't favor these hostages." Morgan stopped and cursed. "I believe Stanton is acting independent of Serena's authority." Chris failed to mask his reaction. "I see you believe that as well. Tennyson's orders run more direct and straight forward than this operation is being carried out. You were right when you said we should have all been killed last night like that woman you knew lying over there. We weren't. This whole siege is about the release of James Carter. Stanton is tight with him. They're trying to exchange the lives of these hostages for the freedom of that racist son of a bitch."

Chris nodded, Morgan sharing most of his views as well. "Alright, will whoever is still in charge of The Circle release him to Stanton's custody?"

The veins in Morgan's neck rippled and he swallowed hard. Yet, there was a sadness that clouded his eye, if only for a second. There had been a change in leadership on The Circle. Chris could feel it. "We are no different than your FBI brethren, Agent Prince. We don't negotiate with terrorist." And then for the first time since this conversation began, Morgan looked away. "Anyway, we don't have Carter or know of his exact whereabouts."

"Great."

In the meantime Stanton and Luna Belle nodded at one another, looked directly at the two men, seemingly coming to some type of agreement on how to proceed with an urgent matter. Two of the brunette guards met them along the route and escorted them through the hall of the great room, parting the frightened hostages who gasped and ducked their heads as the group approached and then passed them by, afraid that they would halt their progression where they sat...and would had singled them out for execution.

The group headed straight in line to where Special Agent Christopher Prince and Sargent at Arms Quincy Morgan were seated.

"Listen to me, Chris, because we don't have much time left. Your brother loves you." Morgan said. "Men of Color don't express these feelings to one another enough. I will protect you. He would want that. I'll make sure that our true enemies regret what they've done here today."

In his mind's eye Chris could see an embodiment of himself last night. When he first heard the shots rang out and people around him started dying, he'd silently vowed that somehow...someway he would find a way to survive the madness.

Chris Prince had decided that he was going to _live_.

He was a highly trained FBI Agent, but that hadn't numbed him from his human traits of fear and anxiety. Life was God's most precious gift. He wasn't going to throw his away over a hyper sensed sense of duty or arrogance, or stupidity. He had tossed his concealed weapon into a nearby flower arraignment after a counterattack seemed implausible last night. The location was far enough away that if the gun were found that it couldn't be tied directly to him, yet close enough to make a run at it if his life depended on its use.

Now he knew he wouldn't reach the weapon in time.

Stanton stalked over him while the women made a perimeter around him. There would be no escape. " _Choo_ are Christopher Prince. _Choo_ are guilty of being a FBI Agent, _choo_ are guilty of being the lone sibling of our sworn enemy, Xavier Prince, and frankly, _choo_ are guilty of being the unluckiest bastard I know."

"I am." He carefully said. "I am all of those things."

Luna Belle stepped in front of Stanton in one, smooth motion and pointed the barrel of her automatic weapon at his forehead. "You will come with me."

"Where," Chris raised his hands, but struggled to keep fear out of his tone. "Where are you taking me?"

Luna Bell disengaged the safety on her trigger in another smooth motion. "You will get you ass up and you will come with me with no questions asked, Agent Prince, or you will die right here, right now, in front of all these people."

Morgan said, "Why wait?" And then his voice boomed throughout the great room. "What are you waiting for woman? Kill him _now."_

What are you doing, Quincy? Why—

Stanton snorted and joined Chris in rolling his eyes at the other man. " _Chiss_ matter doesn't concern _choo_ , sir. Obviously we are all under a great deal of stress, but why don't _choo_ dial it back a notch and try to relax."

" _You are_ _beyond incompetent!_ Serena should have taught you never to make threats that you are unwilling _..._ or _unable_ to carry out _."_ Morgan stood and waved his arms long and wide like a maniac. "The only way to maintain your control over such a large crowd is through fear. You need to do what you say you will do. _If you are to kill this man, then do it right now!"_

The hostages went into fervor. There were spasms of crying and one woman screamed for her God to save her. Even the two men who Chris had seen engaging in friendly conversation with Morgan earlier, looked at him with trepidation and uncertainty now.

Belle had had enough and turned the barrel of her weapon away from Chris to a newer, slender target. " _Shut up_." She cursed Morgan. "Sit down and shut up or I'll—"

"Kill me?" Morgan's laughter roared through the ball room, the hallways, throughout the entire Fox Theatre. Perhaps all of Atlanta heard the man mocking these two to their faces. "I am Quincy Morgan, Sargent at Arms of A House in Chains and I am already dead. Do what you will with my remains. I have taken the mark. I have visualized my people's future...and I see days filled with misery and pain."

Chris studied Stanton and Belle as they breach their own protocol and openly argue about how to proceed. He scanned his perimeter and saw the female guards shifting in their stances as if their boots won't hold them in place much longer. He prayed that Quincy won't go for Belle's gun, but prepares himself to disarm Stanton or whichever of the guards poses the most immediate threat and defend these remaining hostages if this situation continues to erode...or die trying.

Stanton announces his decision with a tenacity that dares _anyone_ to challenge his authority. " _Cheeze that man."_ One of the women guards points her weapon at Morgan's skull while the other uses the barrel of her gun to nudge him towards the back of the room.

"The rest of you strip down, right now." Luna Belle commanded.

Stanton raises a brow embedded more in curiosity than in anger as his second ushers the command again with more urgency. "What are _choo_ looking for, Luna?"

"I want to know if any more of our _guest_ have taken the mark." Belle's tone takes on a more respectful tone. "We should isolate members of A House in Chains from the rest of our captives and execute them first if our demands aren't met in a timely manner by the FBI."

Stanton nods silently in agreement.

Christopher Prince struggles to hold his trembling hands still as he forced back into sitting position while he watches Stanton and Belle haul Quincy Morgan towards the back of the theatre...and certain death.

One by one the hostages begin to disrobe. They have gone from losing their freedom to losing their hope to now losing their dignity as piles of clothes litter the great room's floor. Many of them stare up at him as hope for all their very survival dwindles. _You were supposed to serve us_ ; their gazes appear to say and burn hot as fire. _You were_ _supposed to protect us;_ their looks beg to say and run cold as ice.

"Do what you must," Quincy Morgan's voice falters as he passes nearly out of audible range and at last Chris can no longer see him. "I am unafraid to die. That makes me the most dangerous man in the world."

_That is where you are mistaken,_ Chris thought, removing his shirt and pants, flinging them angrily into the growing mound on the floor.

He knew that Thomas Pepper, a noted journalist and blogger had christened another with that designation in his last book.

The most dangerous man in the entire world is my brother, Xavier Prince.

# Xavier

Xavier heard a platoon of correctional officers angling down the cold corridors, coming for _him_ at last.

They came for him while he inhaled the last of his Newport, and thumbed through the last chapter of a biography about his father, Isaac Prince, the founder of A House in Chains.

By the sounds echoing down the hall, they came for him in _force_ , so Xavier shelved his book in alphabetical order next to the dozens of others in his cell, exhaled the smoke in one long, blue stream and began undressing. He had an odd sense of déjà vu but couldn't explain the sensation to himself. He was tugging at his boxers with only his chill bumps to warm him when he heard the master key twisting in the lock allowing his visitors inside.

Xavier showed him his back and spread his arms against the nearest brick wall in preparation to be frisked, his tell tossed. In whatever manner this frisking or tossing was carried to completion was entirely up to the guards. Four inmates had died in recent months under suspicious circumstances here at Calhoun State Prison and Xavier Prince had no wish to add his name to that list.

"Good morning," Xavier said, his head locked in the forward position.

No one returned his greeting, once again. Instead, he heard a _woman's_ voice with a throaty tone and carrying an enormous shadow instructs her cohorts to toss his cell and pat him down for weapons. He nearly broke his own protocol in an attempt to match the husky voice to a face; women were not uncommon at Calhoun, but to see woman with her sheer _size_ would have been an unexpected treat before breakfast.

One of the guards asked what the need in patting him down was. He _was_ standing in his birthday suit for Christ sake. Xavier kept his eyes trained forward throughout the entire process, but his curiosity made this unusually difficult. The woman stranger asked for his permission to do the deed herself and when he nodded his approval, she did began to feel around his crotch, while one of the other guards went through his belongings scattered around the cell.

"Turn around, Prince." She commanded after she stepped back to an adequate distance. "My name if Officer Rose Dixon. The new warden, Donald Bright, is expecting to see you in his office in his office immediately.

Rose Dixon:

She was at least 6'4" tall. She was thick of neck, triceps and calves and despite a pleasant enough face and a dirty blonde ponytail, Xavier guessed she was often mistaken for a man.

She was a magnificent specimen; he stood there stamped to this spot as naked as the day he was born and couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"Warden Bright?" He'd asked after a moment of composing himself.

Officer Dixon shifted her weight in impatience. "In the past 36 hours, Warden Bright received his orders from the State of Georgia, to govern this prison and all the populace that reside inside its walls." She said in a deep voice. "Warden Fain has been reassigned." She cut her brown eyes at him. "Reading your file, I'm sure you're already familiar with the change in power."

_Reassigned or have you gotten yourself fired, Farris,_ Xavier wondered. She was correct in the assumption that he was privy to the information that she'd shared with him. _Yet, The State of Georgia moved Warden Fain out of Calhoun faster than even I thought possible._ Good. They'd probably spared themselves thousands of dollars in covering the brute's funeral sources if he stayed at Calhoun much longer.

Officer Dixon's dark tone grew sardonic. "If you don't have any more questions, Inmate Prince, you should get your clothes on. I don't like to keep the warden waiting."

"Then let's go." Xavier said.

An entourage of eight more guards had been waiting outside the cell and received the four people who stepped into the cold, dark, corridor. Xavier matched their pace...until he halted his progress and squatted to speak to an old jailbird who was camped on the floor of his cell. The old man was rumored to be 90 years old and had been in The Georgia Correctional System for over 70 years now. He was blind and nearly deaf and grunted and squealed more than he talked these days. Xavier gave the man a wide smile, "When I return from my visit with the new warden, I want you to tell me another story of your escapades when you ransacked Valdosta when you were a teenager."

The old man leaned closer, not hearing Xavier, the younger man repeated himself and the old man let out a laugh that would lift the spirits in a graveyard. He said something to Xavier unfathomable, grunted, and laughed again.

Xavier Prince rose to his feet, waved his hand at the old timer and fell in step with his escorts.

Xavier Prince never could say goodbye.

Warden Donald Bright:

He was a well-built man who had high cheek bones, straight teeth, and blonde hair that screamed to strangers that he could have been a successful salesman or second tier Hollywood actor if he had wanted, instead of being a simple prison warden.

He was completing some forms, writing with his left hand when Xavier, Rose Dixon, and two of the guards entered his office, the final guard closing the door behind him without being told. Xavier took a familiar spot in front of the warden's desk. The office was rectangle shaped, with cracks lacing the walls and floors. There were boxes scattered everywhere. Warden Bright hadn't had the chance to unpack his belongings yet.

Xavier waited.

After ten minutes, Warden Bright tossed his pen aside, dismissed the remaining two guards with a Louisianan accent, while Rose Dixon took a few giants paces forward and secured herself at the warden's right side. Another minute passed...and finally the younger man acknowledged Xavier's presence.

"Somehow, I expected you to be taller." Warden Donald Bright said. "Sit down, Prince." Warden Bright waved the back of his right hand towards where Rose Dixon was standing. "I'm sure Rose—I mean _Officer_ Dixon—introduced herself to you already. We must follow those mandated protocols mustn't we, Rose?"

"Yes, sir," The large woman actually smiled.

"We've served The Georgia State Correctional System together for what...Rose, nearly ten years now haven't we?"

"Actually 12, sir," Xavier acknowledged a color in her otherwise pale face and a gleam in Rose's dull brown eyes that hadn't existed when she extracted him from his cell. This was more than a working relationship...in her mind at the least.

"My, my, my," Warden Bright flashed a million dollar smile at her. She melted. "How time flies when you are having fun."

Xavier needed a cigarette. He crossed his legs and sat back in his chair instead. "You have your own private shield, Warden, how convenient?"

Warden Bright didn't waste further time denying the obvious. "Rose here has helped me out of some tight spots."

Rose face shifted back to its normal mode as she folds her arms, eyeing Xavier Prince the entire time. _Alright, I get it, you are prepared to defend him against in threat I may pose._ If he weren't scheduled to be released over the next day or two he might...just might...find this new relationship between the three of them interesting. "Why am I here, Warden?" Xavier asked into the room's silence.

"You are direct, Prince. I can appreciate that, so I won't delay the inevitable any longer: My predecessor's formal inquiry concluded that the death by beheading of inmate Michael Davenport and three prison guards could not have been carried out alone by the other two inmates who also perished that day." He said, looking from one page of the report to another. "You know, I don't believe it either. At least one, if not two other men were on that floor when this all went down. And somehow the weapon used to cut Davenport's head off has yet to be found."

Xavier and Julian Moore sprinted back to their cells while the two bigger men stayed behind and bought them time, dealing with the mass of humanity exiting the mess hall after lunch after Xavier failed to get Intel from Davenport. Xavier wasn't a praying man, but had stopped by the chapel every day since to pay his respects to _all_ of the men who lost their lives that afternoon.

"How does any of this connect to me?"

Warden Bright slid two black and white photos from his stash of papers over to the other side of desk where Xavier could reach them. Xavier felt his pulse quicken. So he reached, ever slowly for a toothpick from a bottle, stuck it in his mouth, since having a cigarette would be impossible right now and studied the photographs.

Warden Bright was saying, "I find it...interesting...that both of the dead black inmates at the scene wore the mark on their necks, a mark terribly similar to the one tattooed on the side of your neck. Help me out here, Prince; the tattoo is of a chain for A House in Chains? Or am I off track here?"

Xavier chewed on his toothpick, studied the photos a minute longer and pushed them back to Warden Bright's side of the desk. Rose Dixon shifted in her stance. Satisfied in his silence, Xavier sat back in his chair. "Surely, I can't be held responsible for the violence perpetrated by two deranged individuals," Xavier said smoothly. "There are millions of People of Color across America who has taken the mark. I've met with at least 50 men in this prison alone who have sworn an allegiance to our cause, who have visualized our people's future."

"Yes," Warden Bright said carefully. "They have seen days filled with misery and pain...or so I've heard."

"Anyway," Xavier continued. "Should I be held responsible for the misdeeds of any man who bears the mark in this prison?"

Warden Bright's brows curled. "Come now, Prince, and be reasonable. You wouldn't dismiss this event as if it were mere chance would you?"

"Life is God's most precious gift." These were Chris' words. Xavier's brother had the gift of expression that he would never have. "Even the life of a lesser form of human like Michael Davenport means something to me, Warden. Still, I'm sure your predecessor's reports that I was in my cell and otherwise detained when this went down?"

Warden Bright flipped through a few pages...and back again before he finally gave up looking for the specific citation. "21 inmates and four prison guards testified that they saw you in your cell at some point when this carnage was taking place if my memory serves me."

"Well there you are," Xavier went to stand, putting this meeting to an end.

"Sit down, Prince." Warden Bright said with some bile. "There's more."

Xavier tugged at his pants legs and sat back in his chair and resumed chewing on his toothpick. _We didn't miss a step in planning our escape back to the cells. Be cool, Prince, and play this man's game until he is satisfied._

It was Donald Bright's turn to sit back in his chair. He rocked back and forth and back again until the chair would no longer hold him down. "You do know, as old as Calhoun may be that this prison has a sophisticated surveillance system. What's unique about this system is that if there are any disruptions in the feed, alarms are set off and those who monitor the system are immediately alerted."

"A wise precaution,"

"But the most ultra-modern system can't compensate for tampering. Come over this side of the desk, Prince. I want you to see this."

Prince slid his petite frame to the opposite side of the desk, to Rose Dixon's displeasure. "What am I looking at, Warden?"

"Just pay attention to this section here...right behind where the two large inmates were standing, just before they rushed Davenport and beheaded him with, what I'm guessing was probably was a machete."

Xavier did as he was bid without comment. The video played back showing exactly as Warden Bright...and his own memory recalled. Once Davenport refused to give up the when and where of what turned out to be The 411 attacks in Atlanta, Prince ordered the man killed. Julian Moore, like Xavier, just out of the camera's visual snapped his finger and brought a guard—who'd taken the mark as well—onto the scene who provided the weapon to behead Davenport.

The two other inmates, a homosexual couple nicknamed Sampson and Delilah, intentionally and _voluntarily_ standing in the camera's view, stayed behind to distract the coming guards while Xavier and Julian Moore made their escape along a preordained route back their individual cells.

Xavier finally observed what the warden had noticed was off about the playback: A small bird that had flown outside the window and provided a shadow against the bright sunshine of that afternoon.

"You saw it too, Prince." Warden Bright said. "As I said before, the system is designed to identify any disruption. It can't compensate for someone intentionally giving it the same feed over and over. The shadow of that bird passing not once but again and _again_ gives that away."

"I've been in this business almost my entire adult life, Prince. I've seen it _all,_ or at least I thought I had." Warden Bright spat. "I've seen inmates kill other inmates or guards out of fear of reprisal, or out of a blind sense of loyalty to a group or cause. I've _never_ seen what is going on in the short time I've been here. Who are you really, Prince? Who are you to command such respect, authority and even... _love_ from what amounts to strangers blindly doing your bidding?"

In the long term, Xavier Prince had neither the time nor the desire to have a prolonged conflict with this man, but he dared not appear weak in the presence of any Rooster at any time. His time in this hell hole was drawing to a close; he might as well test the waters of release right now. "Fortunately for everyone involved, I will be out of your hair in just under 48 hours. This complex web of influence that you swear that I weave at this facility will be at an end."

Warden Donald Bright spun around and gazed out of his window into the courtyard and then the highway beyond. "And where will you go, Prince." All of the enthusiasm of the warden's discovery had evaporated from his voice. "And what will you do...with so much power?"

Xavier surprised himself by answering. "I'm headed...elsewhere... nowhere...I'll guess I'll know when I get there _._ I'll always go where I'm needed. I'll continue to pursue equality and justice for my people."

The other man spins back around and swipes at the folders on his desk in one motion, and knocks most of them to the floor. He hops on the floor and flips again through the mess in hot pursuit of something that Xavier cannot name. Finally, he pinches another photo between his fingertips, Rose Dixon ever present at his side when he stands at full height again.

"This is the photo of Larry Gleason, security guard. He was a husband and a father to three children." The warden said. "All life is precious, Prince, didn't we both agree to that point a second ago."

"We do," Xavier said in a calm tone. _48 hours, Prince. In two days this entire conversation will be but a footnote to my stay in this Godforsaken place._

"Do we really? Or do you consider Gleason a lesser man like you called Davenport simply because of the color of his skin? Is he—what is the term your people have coined these days—just another... _Rooster_ , just another White Man that rises before any other animal on the farm, searching for a fresh way to keep a Person of Color down and out. "

"Don't put words in my mouth, Warden." Xavier said in a dangerous voice that Rose Dixon caught breath of immediately. "I mourned for his family's loss like I did all the others involved."

"He had a mortgage to pay, Prince. He had hopes and dreams. He had three children, for _Christ sake."_

Xavier turned on him, his anger rising to the surface like an erupting volcano. " _I have two boys as well, Warden_." Just as suddenly Xavier willed his muscles in his neck to relax. He had heard Rose Dixon grab her nightstick and he doubted she would return it to her holster before his visit was completed. "This justice system of yours has stolen fourteen months of my life over trumped up charges of Grand Larceny. Our government is convinced A House in Chains is dealing weapons to Western African nations like Liberia and Sierra Leone for a profit in its cold war with Pandora." He leaned into the warden's face. Neither man broke eye contact. "They've stolen 14 months from my time with _my_ boys, Warden. They needed me out of the way, while Pandora tried to destroy everything my father built."

Rose Dixon stuck her baton into Xavier's chest and forced him back.

"You were a lawyer, Prince. You should know that trafficking weapons to foreign agents is illegal under the law." Warden Bright reminded him.

"As it should be," Xavier felt a throbbing in his temple come...and subside just as quickly. He sat back down, needing a cigarette more than ever before. "How convenient for your system, that these weapons or all of this cash were never found."

"Just as the weapon that beheaded Davenport will never be found; or justice brought to the real men who were behind what happened that day ever will be found either." Bright said with a trace of bitterness in his tone.

The warden chose to remain standing. Rose Dixon planted her large frame in the space between Xavier and the warden.

"What is it that you want from me, Warden?" Xavier asked.

" _Respect of self_ ," The warden said with a blank look on his face.

"What?" Xavier asked as the land line rang four times before Warden Bright seemed to acknowledge its existence at all. "What did you say?"

"Those were your father's words. That was part of his first mandate after he founded A House in Chains all of those years ago." The phone rang itself out. " _Respect from family and then respect from the community—"_

Xavier heard an urgent banging on the warden's door.

"I'm busy right now." Bright shouted in the door's direction. He never unfixed his gaze on Xavier. "I've read both of Thomas Pepper's books on race relations in this country. I've fixed his interviews and subsequent chapters on you to memory."

"Have you, now?" Xavier asked. "I remember those interviews with Pepper as well. He is a...interesting man."

Whoever was outside of the door hadn't left. The voice pleaded with the warden to admit him. For the first time since Xavier sat down in this room, Rose Dixon looked unsure of whether the warden was in full control of himself or the situation at hand.

"Thomas wrote that one of your most compelling traits is that you had a sincere since of honor. He said that you always told the truth." Warden Bright leaned over his desk. "Why don't you put this charade and fill in the gaps of what this video doesn't reveal. Why don't you tell Rose and me the _truth_ of what really happened that afternoon a couple of weeks back?"

The two men stared at one another a long time—when the prison's alarm blared.

Xavier Prince and Rose Dixon jumped at the sound. Warden Donald Bright kept his gaze fixed on Xavier, almost oblivious, a bitter smile beginning to grace his lips. _He's cooler than even I am. He truly has ice running in his veins._ Circumstance guaranteed that Xavier could never call this man a friend, but he admired the collective way he carried himself. "Did you have Davenport killed?" Bright's voice was barely audible through the wailing of the alarm. "I want to know if Pepper had you judged correctly."

Three officers from Xavier's escort used their passcodes to bypass the lock and let themselves in, their weapons drawn. "My apologies, Warden," The most senior of the men had blood dripping from a gash of his forehead, and sweat was pouring from his armpits. "We had no idea whether you were in danger or not—"

"It's alright, Thompson." Warden Bright said. "What is going on?"

Thompson took a deep breath and steeled himself. "We have an emergency situation up on the third floor. A full-fledged riot is on. We've estimated that 70 to 75 percent of Calhoun's population is loose. Our situation is critical."

Warden Bright stood, but if he was in panic mode he wore the look of anxiety well. He pulled his jacket off, kneeled at a safe besides his desk, zipped through the combination and produced a nine millimeter pistol. He checked the chamber for rounds, disengaged the safety and tucked the weapon into previously concealed shoulder holster. "Do we know what happened?"

Thompson shook his head. "Most of the details are sketchy as of right now, sir." The officer seemed to hesitate a second, and Xavier gathered that Thompson was trying to measure what he should say in front of him. "We do know that members of the Black population initiated the hostilities."

The warden asked for a map of this facility and one of the younger officers thought he remembered where one was. He returned to the office after leaving so quickly that it was difficult for the others to remember that he had exited at all.

"Where can I be of the most use right now, Thompson?"

"Their leader," Thompson hands a torn piece of paper with the inmate's name jotted down on it to the warden. "A Julian Moore is asking to meet with both of you on Alpha Wing."

The warden pats Rose Dixon's shoulder with his left hand. "Alright, you heard the man. Let's go, Rose."

"I'm sorry, sir," Thompson stepped into their path from exiting the room. "I probably didn't make Moore's instructions clear enough. The two of you that the prisoner was referring to was yourself and this inmate, Xavier Prince."

The warden cursed. Xavier would have sworn on a thousand Bibles that Donald Bright's skin lost one tone of color at that exact moment. Yet, the man recomposed himself and Xavier saw him working muttering something, working out a plan in his mind.

Warden Donald Bright shook his head, _no._

And Xavier noted another sense of déjà vu—at this scene played out eerily similar to his own moment of decision a few weeks back.

"You take three other guards and escort inmate Prince back to his cell." Bright pointed at the junior man, the one who had fetched the map and had returned to his office so swiftly.

The junior man whose name was Stuckey frowned in confusion. "Sir,"

"You men have your orders. Rose, you and Mr. Thomson are both with me."

"Yes, sir," The two said in chorus.

Two hours later, back in his cell, Xavier could hear many pairs of footsteps echoing against the stoned floor. He pulled an unlit Newport from his lips and planted a toothpick in his mouth instead.

Warden Donald Bright had come to _his_ office.

"Julian Moore and about three dozen other inmates, mostly former gang bangers from this group that called their selves the Black Knight, have barricaded themselves up inside Alpha Wing up on the third floor." It had only been a couple of hours since their meeting, but Warden Bright looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "They have managed to get their hands on a handful of civilians and are threating to kill them if I don't meet their demands." Warden bright caught site of Xavier's pack of smokes sitting in his shirt pocket shook one of the Newport's loose and watched as Xavier lit the cigarette for him. Once again, Xavier was reminded that circumstance guaranteed that he could never call this man a friend, but he admired the collective way he carried himself. "Moore's still asking for you." The warden said after he exhaled his own long stream of smoke. "They are calling this their great campaign: A Riot's Last Gleaming or some bullshit like that." He shook his head dismayed. "I'm willing to provide you with any resource available to me, whatever you need to help free those captives up there."

Xavier grabbed the prison bars with all of his strength. "Take me to where Julian is, unbounded." Xavier said. The guards began to mouth a protest, Rose Dixon especially, but Warden bright pointed his cigarette at them with his left hand for silence. Xavier continued when the corridor had quieted. "I don't know what Julian and his Black Knight are up to, but I give you my word on my father's grave that I will not try to escape...and I'll do whatever I can to help you resolve this."

Xavier Prince was unsure of whatever answers the immediate future held for him. A part of him wanted to pray, but he was unsure of the words that God wanted to hear. And he knew even _less_ what the dreams he'd been having of his father meant...though he was sure they meant _something_ important was going to happen to him, and soon.

The one thing Xavier Prince _did_ know for a certainty is that when Officer Rose Dixon approached his cell with the keycard and he heard the bolt unlatch with an audible _click,_ he knew he had heard that revolting sound for the very last time. He could feel it in his marrow. He swallowed hard.

Xavier took his rightful place at the head of the pack, the warden struggling to match his purposeful stride. Rose Dixon hung several paces behind them, with intention, Xavier surmised. She wanted to guard Bright's life from any enemy that may threaten him. _Those threats include me, I suppose._

"You were scheduled for release in a day or so, Prince." Warden bright doused the cigarette by stepping on it and caught back up with Xavier. "It looks as if that will be impossible now. Look, I'm not ignorant to what is going on upstate in Atlanta right now, The 411; I know how important it must be for you to get home to your city and to your sons." He paused until they turned the corner where the old timer's cell was. Prince wanted to stop and speak to the man one last time. "We're stealing more of your time. What can I offer you as compensation?"

Xavier halted his progress, turned and caught a whiff warden's dragon breath. "The damage has already been done. Atlanta will keep. And my son's understand their father's role in this...life." He took a small step towards the other man. Out of the corner of his eye, Xavier could see Rose Dixon rest her hand on her nightstick once more. "That look of uncertainty and...fear you are wearing on your face is providing me all the compensation that I'll ever need." And just like in the warden's office the two men stared at each other for a long time, until it was Warden Donald Bright who broke eye contact.

Xavier kneeled down to where the old man was usually seated on the floor. He found him sleeping. He didn't want to disturb the old man, but Xavier was sure he would never pass this way again so he shook him at the shoulder...and then he shook him again. Slightly alarmed, Xavier Prince reached both of his hands through the bars and laid a hand on each side of his neck, measuring for a pulse.

But the old man was dead.

Xavier Prince lay the old man back down, eased his arms and hands from out of the prison bars, got to his feet and straightened his tunic before turning back to face the warden.

"After this is all over, I will pay for this man's funeral arrangements. There will be no cremation as mandated by this state for inmates who parish while incarcerated." Xavier said. "I'm holding you personally responsible that my wishes are met."

"I'll see to it."

Xavier twisted back around and began walking towards the stairs, towards his an uncertain _destiny_ and the others followed him in silence.

He didn't look back at his dead old friend.

Xavier Prince never could say goodbye.

#  Angel

"Why in the hell is _he_ here?" Dr. Angel Hicks-Dupree asked Agent Nicholas Sheridan of the man who exited the Chrysler with him a minute ago.

Justin Ryan:

He had grown a pot belly on an otherwise slim frame. He was shitfaced and wore too much moose in his hair, but Angel had to admit he was ruggedly handsome in his silky, black suit.

"Mr. Ryan happened to be on personal business up the street in Chattanooga, Tennessee, Doctor," Sheridan shot her warning glance for her not to start, not here, not now. "Justin Ryan was The FBI's Chief Hostage Negotiator for many years and Deputy Director Rice asked to consult here, for him to be a part of this team, like he asked for _you_ to be a part of the team." He checked his Rolex. "In fact, the director himself should be arriving himself any minute now."

"Benny Stanton sent us a list with specific FBI personnel that he would not negotiate with. I'm not on this list; this man is at the top of it." Ryan had extended his hand to her, but she left it hanging there naked and exposed in the morning chill. _And if you saw how this man single handily cost lives at Waco you would see my point._

"Stanton _or no one else_ dictates terms here, Doctor." Angel was unsure whether Sheridan had raised his voice because to be heard over the circling helicopter flying into place, or to make his point of emphasis clear to her. He glanced at the Rolex again. "At first light, Stanton agreed to release several of the oldest women and youngest children in exchange for the talks beginning. Eight people have already walked out of that building alive. I call that progress, Doctor."

A strong gust of wind whipped through from Peachtree Street, the helicopters' blades making it all the worse. Angel hugged herself, pulled her hoodie back over her head and hunched her shoulders. "He agreed to those releases as an exercise in good faith, Agent Sheridan. He messaged us that he would begin talking _only_ after one of the individuals he asked for showed up. He's tied tongued, Sheridan. He's no dummy. This is sure to provoke him."

Angel is saved from another round of Sheridan's undressing as all three of them notice a black Chrysler swerving through the maze of idol police cruisers, government vehicles and barricades until its breaks squeal and two more men exit out each of the back seat doors and a young woman rises from the passenger side. A uniformed APD officer nods at their questions and points them both in the vicinity where this party is bracing themselves against the biting cold.

Angel recognized the older of the two immediately, smiled when the other man's features became familiar to her, and pitched an educated guess to who the younger woman was.

Deputy Director Rice:

He was pale and thin and wore brown rimmed spectacles and reeked of coffee and cigarette smoke when he shook her hand and passed a container of coffee in her direction. He never took his eyes off of Angel as he shook both Sheridan and Ryan's hands and patted the latter man on the back with some affection. _You haven't changed a bit, have you, Ray._

Special Agent Romeo Kendall:

He was a panda shaped Black man with a slow right eye and a too lively twitch of his upper lip and he still was wearing a hairstyle better suited for the late 1980's. He'd been promoted to Commander of the Lead Rescue Team in the past six months, or so Angel's sources inside the bureau had told her.

Special Agent Tabitha Blue:

She was a skinny brunette in her early thirties with big ears sticking out from underneath the thin hair and she had a noticeable overbite. Angel smiled inwardly that Christopher's partner was the quintessential girl next door carrying a badge and a gun. Agent Blue referred to Angel as madam and extended her skeleton hand enough for the doctor to squeeze her fingers.

After introductions were made and the stressful reality of the moment engulfed her once more, Romeo's appearance in particular, caused Angel to reevaluate her surroundings. She'd been involved with enough of these scenarios, both in simulation and in the field, to readily identify what she was seeing. She heard another FBI copter arrive on the scene as she stole a sip of her copter, fighting the cold winds thrashed up because of the copter's blades.

She knew that each copter served its own unit of three or four agents in the copter itself and another six sharpshooters on the ground. Angel knew that the FBI liked to conduct operations in threes... _and over there, just past those pine trees,_ she saw yet another helicopter had been dispatched and was skimming over the horizon. So there were at least nine if not more sharpshooters sitting, almost invisible around the theater ready to strike when called upon.

In addition, if memory served her, there were Mobile Tactical Teams of Logistics, Intelligence, Communications, and Command Staffs making up the bulk of the personnel squeezing into a one mile radius surrounding the theater as well. _Serena, what web have you spun here?_ Angel had already worked out the theory that the siege part of Stanton's maneuver here at The Fox Theatre was of his own doing and ad live of the events of 411. _However many operatives you have with you, Serena fixed you with the task of indiscriminate killing of everyone inside and then you were supposed to get out._ If Stanton somehow managed to survive the next few days or hours in this standoff and extract what he wanted from the FBI, he was likely to die as Serena's hands for disobeying orders.

She burned Ryan with a look that would have warmed her coffee and cursed him in her mind. One screw up holding a gun and hostages inside didn't deserve another on the outside holding a bullhorn.

"Sheridan, listen." Angel grabbed him by the elbow, deciding that now was not an ideal time to breach protocol. _I will follow the chain of command._ She then shared with the group, through talking directly with Agent Sheridan, her theories about Stanton breaking ranks from Pandora and acting on his own.

"I don't totally disagree with your assessment, Doctor." Sheridan said. "That's Stanton's MO alright."

Chief negotiator Justin Ryan finally chimed in. "Is that your final professional analysis of this situation, _Doctor."_ He spat her title at her. "Or is that some type of psychological analysis of a situation that you have no technical expertise in. What I'm saying is...perhaps this is evidence of you letting your emotional investment govern your thought process."

"No, Justin, that isn't evidence at all." She gave him the finger. " _This_ is."

Ryan snorted and through his hands up. " _Son of a bitch,"_ He said. _"_ Raymond, you actually keep people like this on the government's payroll."

The Deputy Director downed the last of his coffee and slapped Ryan on his shoulder again. "Calm down, Justin." He pointed his empty coffee cup at Angel. "And play nice, Doctor." He then pointed the coffee cup at Sheridan to give him the floor once more.

Sheridan cleared his throat and assumed command. "Each one of you is here because you bring a unique talent and area of expertise to this crisis. I'm going to need a mixture of these talents, expertise and experience to get us through this and ultimately save those people inside that theatre."

"That is what I'm trying to do." Angel said. "Forgive me, sir, but we all do remember a little historical blunder called Waco don't we?"

Sheridan said, "Doctor, please. I don't think we should—"

"And why shouldn't we?" Angel folded her arms, drawing her line in sand here and now. She put all of her focus on Ryan so there would be no mistake of who she was referring to. "This man was personally responsible for the firestorm that engulfed the Mount Carmel Center in Texas and the 70 some odd deaths of the Branch Dravidians that resulted from it."

Ryan tossed his coffee cup into the breeze, pulled in his gut and bowed his narrow chest out. "Don't you dare lecture me on what you perceive you know, young lady. I have no regrets on the decisions I made that day. Every action I ordered served a greater peace, a greater security for the country I served and the country I still love."

"Peace?" Angel cocked a brow at the referenced word. "My father was on the ATF team that had been there for 51 days before the FBI allowed you to run the negotiations." She heard her voice soften. "My father wasn't a good man. He was a turd in fact, but he stayed behind for days after the siege ended and helped dig those people's carcasses out of that rubble. He took those singed images...and the smells of those babies, of your _peace,_ he found to his grave with him."

"Many lives were lost that day, that's true. I've never denied it. But my focus lies in the days and years that followed since that fateful day. I would give the order again today. I _will_ give the order again today. I will sacrifice every man, woman and child left inside that theatre if it gives some assurances that this situation doesn't happen again for another 15 or 20 years." Justin Ryan cursed aloud. "It means that I am doing my job."

"Hopefully, you will be dead long before an event happens like this again." Angel said and meant.

" _That's enough, both of you."_ Rice said in exasperation. He took a deep breath and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and made contact with Romeo. "Are all of your people in place?"

"That's an affirmative." Romeo Kendall pulled out an architectural blueprint of The Fox Theatre and adjacent buildings and nearby streets. "We have snipers positioned here...here...and here. Their weapons are hot and they only await targets to fall into view and a go."

The smoky haze that had been an Atlanta trademark over the past few months blew in without little warning. The dry area stirred up a coughing fit from Romeo. He collected himself, said, "Two mobility units are stationed on the upper southeastern edge of the structure. They are lightly armed and as their name imply and are extremely mobile. They are moving into place and await further instructions as you and I speak, sir. Our three helicopters have jurisdiction over the skies for the mandated six miles out. No one will enter this zone. That means limited media coverage. That also means that if Stanton has some visual of what is going on out here, it won't be a panoramic enough view to give away our movements. Even if he has an escape route mapped out of this theatre of operations, pardon the pun, we will be able to pinch him and finally take him down."

The Deputy Director nodded, pleased. "Excellent work, all of you."

Angel felt a tingling in her neck, as if she'd been stuck by a bee signifying her defeat. She faced Ryan down. "So what is your plan?"

"Bob Tate is speaking by phone right now with Stanton. He is acting as if he were leading the 'dummy' negotiations as that little shit inside that building wanted." Ryan spoke to the group. "In the meantime we're going to allow those inside that building a little downtime. Let Stanton bask in the glory of letting him believe he is in control here. Let's let him take a little breath while we let him gain a false sense of security. More importantly, we'll wait on darkness to fall over the city." He then, with a purpose, found Angel's eyes and took two steps towards her. "And then we're going to gas everyone inside, have Commander Kendall's people storm the building and take back what is ours."

Angel cursed. "You've got to be kidding me."

Ryan countered. "It's the only way to be sure."

Angel's big brown eyes pleaded with the group of five who had gathered on this chilly, smoky afternoon with her on Peachtree Street. "Does anyone else think this is a bad idea?"

When no one spoke up initially Angel snorted and kicked at a rock with her boot. Romeo Kendall searched the sky for guidance, found what he was looking for and spoke up. "The agents on the roof are scheduled to blow a hole in the theatre wall and pump sleeping gas to incapacitate the terrorist." He looked at her with his one good eye, but spoke loud enough for it to be intended for the group. "The gas is an odorless, invisible proxy we modeled after an ingredient we lifted off the Russians a few years ago." He squeezed Angel's shoulders with some affection. "It's a good plan, Angel. And it gets better." He released her and turned back to his superior, Deputy Director Rice and the others. "We are coordinating our efforts with a specialized force that have entered the sewers and narrow underground shafts and are setting up listening devices." It was time for Romeo to check his watch...or better yet a stopwatch. "In about an hour we'll have those systems online. We will be able to hear and any and all conversations that are going on in there. More importantly, we will also have the ability to ascertain a better estimate to our enemy's exact numbers, the condition of the friendlies, and exactly where in the hell everyone inside is located."

Sheridan said, "There will most certainly be civilian casualties, Doctor. We've taken every necessary step to keep those numbers at a minimum."

"I know that you _believe_ that you have, Agent Sheridan." Angel said. _This is a damned foolish thing that you all are doing here, a damned foolish thing._ She tried another angle. "And what if they spoil your perfect little scenario and throw off your timing by not waiting through your downtime. What if Stanton loses his patients and starts killing people before dark."

"He won't." Justin Ryan said with an absolute certainty. "He could have killed every poor bastard in there and been on his way hours ago, before anyone arrived to stop him. The man _wants_ something. I know this. So do you. Another few hours is not going to make one helluva difference to him."

Angel let out a curt, maddening laugh. "This is insane."

"It is," Sheridan agreed and looked at Agent Blue, who looked as if she wanted to say something. "But it looks as if it is our best shot, if you have something constructive to add, Tabitha?"

"Respectfully, I do, sir." Agent Blue shifted in her stance. "We all believe my partner, Special Agent Christopher Prince, is amongst those being held inside. I believe that I've worked with the man long enough to know that he would be asking some of same questions that Doctor Hicks-Dupree is asking if he were out here with us. Are these risks we are all taking worth the price those inside may be asked to pay?"

Just as Angel breathed a sigh of relief for someone bringing sanity to the conversation she heard Justin Ryan answer for Sheridan. "They are, Agent Blue. Yet, the doctor's point is a good one. What if Stanton enacts some type of offensive before sunset? That's why we can't afford to waste any more time. Ray, I need to finalize a couple more details with Commander Kendall—"

"One last point," Angel waited for either Raymond Rice or Nicholas Sheridan to give her the slightest hint that she would be allowed to go on. The Deputy Director ran his fingers through his hair then glanced out of the corner of his eye, _one last point, Doctor,_ it seemed to say.

"I want each of you to think about the political ramifications of what you are proposing."

"I'll take that one, Doctor." The Deputy Director said. "The world and more importantly to me, the citizens of this city are watching every step of this process. As a governmental agency, we must strike at a subsidiary of Pandora with as much vehemence as we would if A House in Chains or the revival of The Black Panther Party, Branch Dravidians, or _any_ other extremist militant group would."

"And by definition, these people holding those captives inside are _our_ people." Agent Blue said with an air of venom that gave Angel another chill. "I've heard through the grapevine, that Stanton recruited women as pawns to help take this building. Many of these women went through the FBI Training Program with me. They are traitors to their country and to us as an agency. Ultimately, it should be up to people like _us_ to decide their fate."

"I understand that, Agent Blue. But what if the Black community," She corrected herself when Romeo flashed her one evil eye. "What if People of Color views the FBI's actions the opposite way of what your true intentions are?"

Sheridan cocked a bushy brow, appearing more fascinated with her question than annoyed with it. "How do you mean?"

"What if they view this as a hyper active action that disregards the lives of their citizens?" It was her turn to give Romeo a devilish look. "It is a group that looks out at the world and sees it undervaluing the lives of People of Color already. What if you all are all wrong, what if all of this planning is truly a grave mistake in judgment of our parts?"

Sheridan blew out a breath he'd been holding. "Then, we will have to live with it."

Justin Ryan nodded at Sheridan, then face downed his old friend Raymond Rice. "Ray?" He got The Deputy Director's attention. "I'll fall on the sword if this one blows up in our faces. All I need for you to do is sign off on granting Commander Kendall's men the right to use any necessary force he deems necessary. The public will learn only what we choose to disclose to them. The public thinks they understand that types of terminology like provocation, escalation, and prevention, terms that we work under everyday of our lives." He turned his full gaze on Angel. "They don't know a damned thing. That's why I am here young lady. I'm going to give them a quick lesson in how to deal with extremism."

Angel ignored Ryan and turned her attention and focus on The Director of The FBI instead. "Christopher Prince is inside that theatre. I can feel it. He's more than just your federal agent. He's my friend. I don't want him to die."

Rice said, "He is all of that, Doctor. Special Agent Prince has served this agency with honor and distinction on more than one occasion. And though I don't know him personally, I hear from people like Sheridan and Blue here, that he is an even better man, which is obviously just as important. Still...he understands what he signed up for..."

Sheridan allowed the silence to have its moment as a smoke filled wind shifted yet again. _Will this drought ever end plaguing Atlanta ever end?_ "Time is not our ally, sir. If you ae going to give Mr. Ryan and Commander Kendall their authorizations then the time is now."

Angel's head went on a swivel, intently watching all of those involved as a collective and eventually as individuals.

And then she only found eyes for the One.

The Deputy Director of The FBI opened his mouth...and closed it again.

Sheridan said, "Sir?"

Justin Ryan said, "Ray?"

Raymond Rice looked as if all of his remaining years he had left on this planet had been sucked up into a vacuum and dumped into the look he had on this face when he finally to spoke aloud for all the others...and Angel specifically to hear."

"Do it," He said.

#  Chris

They came for the hostages under the cover of darkness.

Special Agent Christopher Prince heard the FBI blow open holes in the ceiling twenty feet behind him. He felt the theatre tremble as another hole opened up in the distance to his far right. And finally, with a spectacular eruption of both light and sound within 20 feet of his line of sight, he received his final signal that the cavalry was seconds away from arrival.

One way or the other, the third day of The Siege of the Fox Theatre would be its last.

_We are on a stage here,_ thought Chris. _Shall we dance, ladies?_

Chris struck one of the women guards with a lethal chop at the nape of her neck when she was distracted by all of the commotion. Chris had never struck a woman before in his life, even while performing his duty, and for an odd instance in time the woman's collapse shook him. Even though that his very life may depended on his actions...and actions still to come, he realized that he'd crossed a threshold that he would never be able to return from.

Chris didn't let that fact hold him back.

A second guard had recovered from her initial surprise long enough to get her semiautomatic pointed in his general direction. He sprinted at full speed towards her, used his momentum to slide beneath where she was standing and snapped a bone in her left leg, while dislodging her firing weapon from her grip in one swift motion. He had kicked himself back on feet in a split second. He balanced his frame and the accursed added weight around his middle on one leg, while crushing the soft tissue around her throat with the other.

Chris bent over, winded and cursed himself for his damned gut slowing him down. _My lapses in discipline in maintaining healthy eating habits over that past few months may cost me_ everything _today._

Chris took a deep breath and got to his knees, semiautomatic in tow and nearly crawled from room to the next as he caught the scent of tear gas that was beginning to sting his eyes. _The fountains,_ Chris stood erect, taking his chance with inhaling more teargas for the sanctuary of the fountains on the far side of this area. He washed his face while the water flowed over his baldness down into his shirt. _At least Luna Belle had enough decency to allow us all to redress after she'd discovered a dozen more of the hostages who had taken the mark and were segregated from the other People of Color._

Chris whipped his head around in time to see scores of Mobility Team members swinging in on ropes to the floor level. If these guys were the local unit, then they were Romeo Kendall's boys and he knew personally how damn well trained they were. He knew he was going to be in a tight spot trying to escape this place in one piece, but felt better in his gut that these men were going through the hellfire with him. _Bless you, Romeo._ He took a quick glance behind him. _I owe you one._

Kendall's unit was making relative short work of a half dozen female guards over by the East Wing. A couple of the desperate women even grabbed a hostage or two as a human shield, but Chris saw the sniper's red beams, death rays as bureau guys sometimes called them, light up an inch or two of the female's foreheads, as a deadly round of gunfire followed in haste. One hostage dropped with his kidnapper and Christopher's heart sank...only to watch the middle aged woman roll herself off of the dead Pandora Agent, and resume running away, screaming.

_This wasn't supposed to be a prolonged event at all,_ Chris surmised, _watching the females being shot to death, one by one, soul by soul._ Stanton's people weren't inept; they were ill equipped to deal with a prolonged siege, or the probable federal incursion because of that siege.

_I don't need any more motivation to find and bring you to justice, Stanton._ He thought. _But your moronic thought process that brought this unnecessary loss of human life...this_ rapture, as Chris sometimes called it, _upon us all_ _makes you all the more expendable._

Special Agent Christopher Prince arrived near the booths that housed the ticket box office near the front entrance. What he saw there sickened him. He saw the first casualties of the siege three days earlier and the odor reeking from the bodies punched him the gut as well. At least ten People of Color had made a quick dash for this exit when Pandora's gunfire intentionally drove the herd of humanity in towards the dead end. The exits had already been chained and when the people had panicked after learning of it, they'd reversed course and ended up here, in this room. Stanton had the carcasses piled in an undignified matter, one on top the other.

The air around Chris grew thicker with tear gas. He could find no more water fountains or anything else for that matter, to shield his self against the fumes. Chris suffered through spells of choking and coughing that took turns gnawing at his ability to move or concentrate. Sporadic gunfire could still be heard from the other wings of the building. The cries coming from the mouths of the victims had elevated itself to being the most dominant...the most _tedious_ noise most of all. He held his weight up with one hand against a door's opening, while he used his other hand to cover his nose and mouth with a scarf he'd picked up off one of the dead bodies. _How many more will die tonight before this madness had run its course._

And then for the first time, since this rapture had begun, Chris wondered exactly where Luna Belle and Quincy Morgan were. Was the Sargent at Arms of a House in Chains and brother's third in command still alive or—

_Someone_ or _Something_ struck him over the back. The object, thankfully, turned out to be weighty and not sharp and didn't tear into his skin as well. He twisted his torso as quickly as the pain and his added weight allowed him to allow his vision quicker access to his attacker or attackers. _I can still dance with you, bastard._ Chris back hurt like hell. P _lease let it be only a single attacker,_ he prayed. Even in his weakened state he should at least be an equal for any of the female guards that may have survived the assault team's initial onslaught.

But Agent Christopher Prince's luck did not hold.

Benny Stanton had found _him_.

Chris searched high and low for the weapon that had been knocked away from his possession when Stanton had struck him in the back.

He rummaged in front and behind him for a possible retreat to allow himself a minute to inhale some clean oxygen through his lungs so it would flow up into his brain, so he could gather his thoughts and retool his strategy from retreating and surviving to how to launch an impressive counteroffensive.

He searched for a sign that he would receive absolution from all of his past sins.

All he found was that Benny Stanton had killed a Mobility Team member and was wearing his head gear, which insulated the other man's lungs from the poison of the tear gas. Stanton would enjoy having enhanced vison thanks to the Virtual Vision Technology installed in each of those helmets as well. _And my predicament on gets worse from here,_ he crouched into combat position, _he's in ex ATF Operative, meaning he's received at least the same amount of combat training that I have._ And worse of all, the bastard was in shape and wasn't carrying around a spare tire around his middle.

With the odds weighed against him, Christopher Prince stepped on the dance floor first, hurling himself at Stanton. _That was a bad move._ Stanton used Chris' own momentum to throw him against a row of chairs to the near side of the ticket concession stands. It didn't take rocket science, or his personal doctor, for Chris to instantly know that his already aching back had been damaged further. There was a tingling sensation in the thigh areas of his right leg that was nothing to write home about either.

" _Piss on you_ ," He screamed at Stanton.

"I'm going to kill _choo."_ Stanton replied back.

"Why don't you come over here and let me untie that twisted tongue of yours, Stanton." Chris picked himself off of the floor. "I'll be happy to do it for _choo."_

Mocking Stanton had at least succeeded in angering Stanton to the point of the other falling into stupid mode. He pulled the helmet aside and threw it at Chris, who easily side stepped it. Stanton dove at him with an attack that was part clumsy part stiff.

Chris sprinted at Stanton and made his second attempt at a slide and tackle that had worked successfully on one of the female attackers a few minutes earlier. Stanton didn't leave his leg as exposed and vulnerable as the woman did...and the other man tried to counteract Chris move with a slide tackle move of his own.

Chris won the war of attrition. He got to his feet faster than either man would have thought humanly possible. He used Stanton's frame for partial balance and unleashed a left jab and then right cross that returned the tactical advantage back to Chris...at least for the moment.

Whether it was from Chris' punches or tear gas beginning to wear on him, Stanton withered more quickly than the special agent might have hoped or prayed for. _This had better work, our song is nearly done._ Chris called up the last of his energy reserves and let a series of lefts and rights that found their targets on Stanton's cheeks, jaws, lips, eyes, and nose.

And then Chris spun in a 180 degree circle and unleashed a judo kick maneuver he'd saved for last.

And the dance, at last, was at an end.

Chris didn't get to enjoy the fruits of his labor, however. He collapsed on top of Benny Stanton. He fought off unconsciousness with every fiber of his being, as he had fought for his life since the sun had set in Atlanta's evening sky.

He fought off the memories of being taken by Louis Keaton all of those years ago.

Chris cried. He lost all control of his muscles. He threw up. _Well...at least...my back...has...stopped hurting..._

And yet his eyes focused long enough to see Quincy Morgan.

The unmistakable silhouette of the member of The Circle walked with some urgency over on the Westside of the room. _Or are my eyes...or mind...playing tricks on...me._ A second figure slowly came into full focus, one that was even more slender and far more feminine than the first one. It was Luna Belle. He was certain of it. _Unless you two...have joined me...in eternity,_ he thought.

Belle had a long butcher knife in her hand and repeatedly tried to stab Morgan with it. She swiped at his sternum, at his face, and finally at his throat. As he dodged each blow his grin he was wearing on hip lips only widened. He possessed no weapon of his own, except his own extremities of long legs and arms, but he seemed content to prolong his own dance a while longer.

Belle gritted her teeth and left her feet as she pushed at an area she'd targeted between his eyes with all of her strength...and failed.

Morgan had knocked the knife harmlessly to the floor.

And what...will...you do with your...victory, Quincy?

Morgan had lost his smile and mouthed something that Chris could only dream to articulate considering this distance...and his worsening condition.

Morgan glanced in _his_ direction for a single moment in time, then moved with quickness and agility of a born acrobat, flipped behind Belle, landed at her heels, grasp her slender neck with his left hand and snapped bone after bone in it with his right.

Luna Bell's body collapsed.

Quincy Morgan glanced in his direction one final time.

And then Christopher Prince saw angels.

And then he saw at least _one_ Angel.

"Christopher. _Christopher."_ The Angel he'd know so very long was speaking, her big brown eyes nearly tearing up. _"Thank, God, you're alive! You are alive."_

And he believed it for certain when the spasms of coughing and choking worked him over again. _Don't complain, Chris, it could have been far worse._ In addition to his back being sore as hell, his legs, side and his chest were burning as well.

A medical team full of faces he recognized moved him further away from the theatre out into the open air. He reasoned that it was the only way he could have made it there. "What are you doing here?" He smiled, thankful for gift of painless lip and mouth. "And what have you screwed up this time?"

Chris best friend in the entire world laughed in spite of herself. And fresh tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Through all that the woman had been through, he'd never seen her cry before.

"I haven't gotten into trouble yet," She rubbed his cheek. "But the night is still young and so am I."

Chris caught her hand and gave it a couple of long squeezes. She must have noted the seriousness etched in his face, the agent in him filtering through, so she gives him the edited version of this genesis of this operation that had extracted him and the hostages from The Fox Theatre. She told him how Romeo Kendall's plan evolved from the way the FBI initially conceived it. Agent Nicholas Sheridan, in the overseer over field operations, thought that using the specialized gas they'd taken from the Russians probably was a dangerous overreach. _For that plan to have worked, everyone and I do mean everyone would have had to unconscious at the same time,_ or Chris realized that any captor remaining conscious would have panicked and started killing hostages as a preemptive measure for a likely incursion from FBI and ATF agents.

Out of the corner of his eye Chris saw his partner Tabitha Blue approaching. She halted her progress at a respectful distance, stuck her hands in her pockets and allowed the two friends to complete any private conversations they were having, _Blue being Blue,_ he used some of his reserve strength to beckon her closer.

"You are a sight for sore eyes, Tabitha."

She kneeled next to him. "I'm glad to see you made it, partner."

Chris knew this personal exchange was Blue's equivalent of crying. If Angel had a tough exterior then Blue was made of steel. No matter how many more years they might work together he doubted he'd ever break through to see what feelings Tabitha Blue might have buried on the other side and that was fine by him. Though he suspected that his partner looked at the FBI like her family, and took the desertions into Pandora personally

"So this was all Justin Ryan's master plan, huh?" Chris asked. "He's a son of a bitch alright. I can just imagine he and the good old doctor got along just fine, while I was busy right, Blue?"

Blue flashed her overbite and nodded. "Perfectly,"

"Tell me you didn't try to intimate him, Doc?"

Angel matched Blue with a smile of her own. "Yeah, well, someone had to keep him straight."

"Waste of time, Doc," Chris took a deep breath and tried to mask the pain he was feeling from two very important women in his life. "Don't you know you can't intimidate a man who has raised seven daughters?" He said as his memory continued to unclog he asked, "I had one helluva run in with Stanton, did he—"

"Well, that explains all the bruises on this face. Anyway, he's dead." Blue said without emotion. "Somehow he survived his fight with you long enough to pick himself up and shot right between the eyes by one of the Mobile Team members."

_But how could have that happened?_ Stanton had been unconscious just as Chris had been. Federal training or not, Biology is biology, so he couldn't have recovered fast enough to become a menace again. _And if Stanton had gained consciousness even for a few minutes, he would have finished me off._

What?" Blue wanted to know. "You look as if you've seen a ghost or something, Chris."

"Yeah, it was probably a ghost or something to that effect," He agreed, then shook his head to get further cobwebs out. "Luna Belle was his second in command. Have the medics recovered—"

This time it was Angel's turn to nod. "Yea, they've recovered something alright. The medical examiner is unclear yet on how she broke her neck but she had a bullet hole in her forehead as well."

He wanted to know if what he'd seen had been accurate. _I'm not going to put my voice to any_ official _report about the last moments in there until I'm clearer about what I saw._

Suddenly exhausted, Chris turned away from both women as if the conversation has zapped away the last of his strength, which in truth, it has.

And then he saw body bags.

He saw piles and piles of body bags.

"How many," He asked without turning back to face them. He knew that Catherine, the woman of Indian descent who had been his date, who he was responsible for protecting, was one of those lying dead in one of those body bags. And he couldn't even supply the medics her damned last name.

Blue Answered. "At least 18 confirmed civilian casualties, but expect that number to grow in the coming days by at least another handful. If you count both Stanton and Belle, then 14 Pandora agents also perished, while I know personally that two of Commander's Kendall's men bought it as well, while a third clings by a thread as we speak."

Damn.

The human part of him...the part that defied death, at least for another day, selfishly turned his thoughts away from the dead and dying to...his own little world. Chris had to admit he was looking to getting home to his condo for a warm shower and a meal after a debriefing from Sheridan and a mandatory visit to a company doctor.

And yet, he felt the need to answer some of the unanswerable questions, especially before he made any official statements to Sheridan. What really happened to Benny Stanton and Luna Belle? Was he dreaming or hallucinating when he saw Quincy Morgan kill Luna Belle, did the man have something to do with shooting either one of them? For now, at least, he was forced to swallow those questions, especially in front of the partner, Tabitha Blue.

Chris personal cell phone buzzes. _What? How and when did I get my phone back?_ Cell phones and any and all other means of communication were taken by Stanton's people as soon they had secured the theatre as their very own. His screen was telling him that he had multiple messages awaiting his password to retrieve them.

_I'll add this to the list of mysteries I have to solve,_ he thought. And as thrilled as he as that he had recovered his personal cell phone, he hated loose ends even more passionately. Wincing in pain, he lay flat on his back and handed his phone to Angel and gave her the ten word password that put a smile on her thick lips.

"It's wonderful that even after all these years, that you still honor your father's memory."

"Yea," He said looking for a quick change of subject. "Angel, scroll back at far as you can to see who left the last message or two."

"Sure." She did as he had asked her, then handed the phone back to him without reading the actually message itself."

He read three messages; two were from his personal doctor, who he had missed the follow up with today with the message saying that it was vital that he spoke with him at Chris' earliest convenience.

And yet it was the latest text, sent nearly 24 hours ago, that parted Special Agent Christopher Princes' lips into a visible O and rewarded him with a new pain in his gut and around hit heart. This evenings plans of returning to his condo for a shower and meal would need to be on hold, as well at visit to the company doctor... and even Sheridan's debriefing would have to be rescheduled.

The message said:

" _On the day that you escape The Fox Theatre Siege, meet me at 2:00 AM in Piedmont Park. Come alone. Your prudency and cooperation are appreciated in this manner. And your stepdaughter's life may depend on it."_

FBI Special Agent Christopher Prince searched for a sign that he would receive absolution for all of his past sins.

After he read the text again, he now wondered if that sign would ever come.

End of Episode 1

Thank you for reading
Dedication:

### This one is for...well me. This tale has been in my pipeline for a long time.
Nest Egg Publishing Presents Gary Sapp.

### (Other Works)

### Waiting: A Twelve Worlds Novelette

### Fumblerooski: How the NCAA Dropped the Ball on the Coming Playoff.

### The Gospel According to John: How Elway Saved us From Tebow, his Media Cronies, and an Insufferable Fan Base.

### (Coming in 2014)

### Where are our Children (Serial Novel)

### Episode 2: Deliverance

### Episode 3: Rapture

### Episode 4: Past Prologue

### Episode 5: Zero Hour

### Episode 6: Betrayals

### Episode 7: Scar

### Episode 8: Tempest Rising

### Episode 9: Whirlwind

### Available in Paperback through Create Space

### Waiting: A Twelve Worlds Novelette

### Fumblerooski: How the NCAA Dropped the Ball on the Coming Playoff

### The Gospel According to John: How Elway Saved us From Tebow, his Media Cronies, And an Insufferable Fan Base.

### Available as an Audiobook through Amazon, Audible.com, and I Tunes

### Waiting: A Twelve Worlds Novelette

### Fumblerooski: How the NCAA Dropped the Ball on the Coming Playoff

### The Gospel According to John: How Elway Saved us From Tebow, his Media Cronies, and an Insufferable Fan Base. (Coming Soon)
Where to find this author online

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