 
### Wolfkind

The Invisible Assassin

A novel

by

Stephen Melling

Wolfkind

By Stephen Melling

Copyright© by Stephen Melling 2011

Published at Smashwords

Dedications

This book is dedicated:

To Elaine, my wife and best friend, for her patience and no nonsense approach.

To my children, whose innocence always serves to set me free.

To my mother and my late father.

Big thanks go to Alan I'Anson, Stephen Gallagher, Bev Jackson, Nick Hogg, Joe Standing and Jill Wells for their readings and helpful criticism and suggestions.

Prologue

Fox Hills, Los Angeles. Fletcher Regan.

"All quiet on the Northern front?" the metallic voice filtered through the radio clipped to Nate's belt, the words crisp and clear in the still twilight.

Nate Kellerman reached for his radio. "Everything here's quiet." He almost said _too_ quiet. But he remained tight-lipped. In the brutal realm of the LA underworld anything less than cold dedication was a liability. Kellerman had no liabilities.

Amid the chirp of crickets and the distant drone of traffic on San Diego Freeway he made his way lightly along-side the perimeter fence. On the westward horizon the soft orange glow turned purple as the hot California day departed, leaving behind an equally balmy evening. The absence of the infamous smog left the air redolent of Star Jasmine and Mimosa instead of carbon monoxide: the LA of which people dreamed – balmy, fresh, picturesque, and a tad offbeat.

His shoes crunching the gravel and his radio clasped in his left hand – he always kept his gun hand free – Kellerman re-checked the surveillance cameras, the gates and guard posts. In the growing darkness he watched their silhouettes wax and wane beyond the trees at the perimeter.

On the driveway inside the front gates Kellerman said. "Finished my sweep." But as he lowered his radio he felt an icy shiver and snapped alert. Motionless, not breathing, he sniffed the air like a bloodhound. The beat of his heart quickened. Hairs on the back of his neck stood erect.

All at once he felt watched.

Nate Obadiah Kellerman had been alive for forty-two years, the last eleven spent in the employ of crime boss Fletcher Regan, who recruited him from the military. Nate was extremely efficient, a true professional who remained fiercely loyal, yet equally was a disciple of self-preservation. His devotion had kept him alive, whereas many of his colleagues were now cautionary tales in mob lore.

But Nate's continued survival was not due entirely to Special Forces training, or that he kept in terrific shape. It was intuition – plain old hunch-play, perhaps primal instinct; the biological alarm that warned of impending danger.

He might argue that his fear was irrational, that he had succumbed to the hysteria fast infiltrating the underworld. Fletcher Regan's mansion boasted top dollar surveillance, and the largest ratio of guards to square feet of ground Kellerman had ever seen – an urban fortress. No elite force on the planet could breach the security undetected.

Nevertheless, standing on the driveway of Regan's Fox Hill's mansion, Kellerman felt those bio alarm bells tolling ominously at the outermost limit of his senses. A worm of superstitious terror squirmed in his mind. He lifted his radio. "I'm coming in."

In the bowels of Regan's mansion the dim, windowless surveillance room flickered with a dozen monitor images. Head controller Ray Ulrich, still pissed about being assigned permanent graveyard shift, tossed aside the remnants of his Chinese supper and belched with aplomb. On his screen he noticed Kellerman behaving oddly by the front gates. "Hey Rogers," Ulrich nudged his partner. "Check out G.I. Joe here."

But his partner wasn't listening; Rogers was eyeing his own console, switching camera viewpoints, pushing buttons. He fumbled for his radio. "Oswald," he said, spittle flying from his lips. "You left your goddamn post."

Ulrich swiveled his chair. "What's up?"

Rogers jabbed a finger at a monitor that displayed a deserted stretch of fence. "Oswald's not there – he's...he's gone."

Ulrich leaned in and gave a disinterested look at the screen. "Relax," he said. "This cradle's strapped tighter than the Pentagon."

Rogers ignored him. "Oswald, where in the hell are you? Come back." When all he got back was static, he reached for the alarm.

Ulrich's outstretched hand stopped him. "Wait a goddam minute." He flicked on his own radio. "Kellerman, has Henry been by you? Can't see him on the screen and he isn't answering his radio. Over."

"He was there a minute ago." Kellerman's voice crackled over the air. "Give me one second."

A moment later Kellerman appeared on Henry Oswald's monitor, glancing warily to his left and right. Then he saw something and dropped to his knees.

"Oh shit." Rogers said. " _Shit shit shit_."

"Can it, will you." Ulrich said. "I ain't hitting the siren 'cause one of the guys went to take a piss."

A burst of static from the loudspeakers. "Control! Control!" It was Kellerman. "I've found Oswald. The perimeter's breached. Repeat. The perimeter's breached."

Rogers tore free of Ulrich and slapped the alarm button hard enough to crack the red plastic casing. The shrill, whooping siren penetrated the complex.

In Western California the sun finally dipped below the horizon. Darkness settled over the land like a shroud.

Under the motionless fronds of a palm tree, Kellerman leaned over Oswald's body. The guard's head appeared to be missing. A pool of blood spread from his decapitated body. On the grass beside him lay his unfired weapon. Kellerman bent to retrieve it. The barrel was crushed and bent upwards. A man's finger, torn out at the knuckle, hung from the trigger guard.

Kellerman's intuition crashed in with dreadful finality.

Sshhhffffff.

It was the stealthiest of sounds, followed by a fleeting shadow, which sprang up behind him. Kellerman's military-sharp instinct kicked in and he dived like a trained gymnast over Oswald's body, high forward rolled and twisted so he faced whatever cast the shadow, his weapon un-holstered and ready to spit poison.

Back in the control room the sound of automatic gunfire tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tatted over the air. Then a piercing cry.

On each of the monitors the hitherto well-disciplined guards stampeded in monochrome silence. Gunfire, muffled by distance, broke out in several parts of the grounds; dogs barked; guards yelled at one another; someone shrieked; then someone else. One of the monitor images shook, fragmented, as if something had crashed into one of the camera poles.

Ulrich's eyes snapped from screen to screen. He grabbed his radio. "Kellerman? Kellerm-" He threw down the radio for his weapon and stuffed spare ammunition clips into his waistband.

Rogers was staring with child-like fear at one of his screens. "Mother of God..."

"The hell you talking about?" Ulrich fumbled with his weapon. "This is no drill, sweetheart, grab some steel."

But Rogers slumped in the chair, arms limp at his sides. "Ray," he said, not turning to his partner. "We're all dead."

The monitor images flickered.  
All the lights went out.

### Part One

### Of Mice and Men

Ahead lay only darkness.

The Camaro's headlights cut the night as two drizzle-specked beams, heading straight as arrows in a westward direction. Though no other cars were on the highway, Joshua Grenire kept his foot easy on the gas. The needle twitched at the fifty-five mark. If ever it crept beyond, he eased on the gas.

Since leaving the old man and the ramshackle wood-framed house over a day ago, his fears of being unmasked had started to fade. When he had first set out, he had half expected the public at large to see through his masquerade and point at him, screaming and hollering. A torch-bearing mob would quickly assemble, carry him shoulder-high to a hastily erected funeral pyre, and burn him at the stake while dancing in the fire glow.

But in the last twenty-four hours he had moved among the general population unchallenged; shared highways with other motorists, pulled in at gas stations, stopped at red lights and queued in traffic. Although a few people had looked at him, no one had looked at him twice; no one had pointed and screamed. No chants of _unclean! Unclean!_ Like the rest of the faces he dissolved into the population.

_Why should I not?_ He dared to think. At twenty-five years old, in faded Wranglers, new loafers, a western style open throated shirt, he cut the figure of a young all-American guy. The only fashion tilt which separated him from the mainstream was his longer than average hair. Barlow told him he looked like a Rock Singer, but Joshua liked to think of himself as an undercover agent, like 007. After all, like James Bond, he was on a mission for the common good. And he was the good guy...wasn't he?

He took his attention off the road and smiled at his reflection in the rearview mirror, but his eyes remained haunted by the reason for his journey – his own raison d'être - and the smile soon died. So he returned his gaze to where the Camaro's high beams opened a capsule of light in the all-encompassing gloom.

Up ahead on the right, about half a mile distant, faint light from a truck-stop twinkled in the darkness at the roadside. Soon the name _Mel's Diner_ asserted itself in a blaze of orange neon. A small, self-contained restaurant, it was the only building on this stretch of highway, set back twenty or so yards from the road behind a pock-marked parking area.

The meager food supplies he had brought along with him from New Hampshire were little more than crumbs and discarded cellophane on the back seat. Over eight hours had gone by since his last meal and his hunger pangs were more like stomach cramps. Well here goes, he thought as he neared the diner, the moment for him to take the next step.

Time to interact.

He eased on the gas and maneuvered onto the puddle-filled parking lot, where dirty water hissed against the underside of the car. On the deserted west side of the lot the Camaro came to a halt, rocking gently on its springs. He shut off the engine and killed the lights. But didn't get out. Not right away. For a moment he stared hard at his reflection. "Let's do it," he said at last and eased himself out of the car.

The night air was cool against his skin. Faint strains of a golden oldie came from within the building. A pleasant, inviting sound. A broad ribbon of steam floated skyward from a rooftop vent, which the wind caught and spread like fog across the other vehicles in the lot: a huge semi, an Oldsmobile, a hot rod with flames painted on the doors, and a brown Winnebago. Soft light from the diner's windows reflected in the puddles. The air surrounding the diner smelled nothing less than divine, beckoning, inviting him to come on in, the water's fine.

_I'm about to interact with people right now_ , he told himself, and took several deep breaths. _Act like the natives and all will be well._ He skirted the puddles and approached the entrance, deliberately rattling his car keys – which seemed the proper thing to do. He tried whistling, but no sound came from his pursed lips. Just hot breath. I'll never pull it off, he thought inwardly. I'll eat dirt at first base. And then the crowd will assemble...

The glass door creaked open and as music drifted out, Joshua drifted in, hesitating only briefly at the threshold. The interior appeared reasonably clean, a tad warm for his comfort, the air heavy with cooking aromas. Over at a jukebox against the wall the golden oldie faded.

At the first table a truck driver was eating a steak dinner, the smell of which clawed at Joshua's stomach. The trucker nodded perfunctorily and then returned his gaze to his plate. Joshua opened his mouth and almost said: " _Howdy, partner",_ when a girl's high-pitched laughter three tables along distracted him.

Three young people. A bleach-blonde girl and an unshaven guy who wore ripped denims. Joshua pegged these as the owners of the Hot Rod. Another guy who could have been a twin of the first sat slightly apart from them.

Joshua started toward the order-counter with his head slightly bowed. As he passed the table he glanced sideways. The girl looked at him. She had almost white blonde hair that she pinned back with a bright blue slide. Around her neck she wore a silver crucifix similar to the one Barlow wore back in New Hampshire. Only Barlow's was tarnished and fixed to a length of string rather than a chain.

"You want something, boy?"

And whereas this girl appeared to wear the chain for decoration, Barlow wore his because he truly believed his soul was reliant upon it.

"Hey boy, I'm talking to you."

Joshua hadn't realized the guy sitting beside her was addressing him. Indeed was rising to his feet. "You got wax in your ears?"

His buddy shook his head gravely. "I don't think he hears you, Earl."

Joshua came back to himself and stepped away. The girl grabbed Earl's arm and pulled him back toward his chair. "Set your butt down, cowboy."

Earl reluctantly returned to his seat, scowling and puffing out his chest like a prize peacock. "I'll kick his country ass all over the-" His girl stuffed a handful of french-fries into his mouth, truncating his speech. The trucker watched them over the top of his spectacles, chewing soundlessly on his steak.

"Get you something, pal?" Joshua turned around and saw the short-order cook around this side of the counter, a dripping spatula in his hand. Several greasy handprints stained his otherwise clean apron. The man stood six four and probably tipped the scales at twice Joshua's weight. His forearms were thick as a man's calf.

"Excuse me?" Joshua said.

"Can I get you something?"

"Oh." He pointed at the trucker. "I'll have what he has, please."

The cook grunted and returned to his grill.

Joshua selected a booth against the far wall, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his fingers drumming the Formica, trying desperately to remain upbeat. But with a sinking kind of certainty he feared every pair of eyes in the diner rested on him. He resisted the urge to look up, and got his first real inkling of how difficult was the task ahead.

Instead he scrutinized his distorted reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser on his table. Wondered what kind of persona he presented; whether his disguise was as transparent as it now felt. He poked his fingers inside his shirt and pulled out the small gold wolf's head fixed to a chain around his neck. The trinket felt solid and weighty between his thumb and forefinger; he caressed it, drew strength from the contact.

A morose young waitress brought over coffee. Spilled a drop on the table and immediately wiped it up with a jiffy cloth. "Oops." She said tonelessly and waddled back to the kitchen. Joshua tucked the amulet back inside his shirt and watched the waitress saunter off. His roving gaze found old buddy Earl.

"Don't eyeball me you long-haired freak."

Joshua quickly picked up a menu and shielded his face. Whilst pretending to read, he closed his eyes and sighed. Although he had always wanted away from the house in New Hampshire, part of him now pined for its comforting familiarity. He felt half naked, transparent, altogether ill-prepared to engage the public.

A couple of minutes later the waitress set down his meal in front of him. Blood pooled on the plate around the half cooked meat.

"Bon appetite," she wrinkled her nose.

Joshua set about the steak without once lifting his eyes from his plate. During his meal, several screwed up napkin missiles landed on his table, and he did his best to ignore them until a French-fry bounced off the Formica near his plate. This brought another round of giggles from Earl's table. Joshua snuck a glance their way. Both Earl and his buddy glared at him.

As soon as he finished his meal he paid, forgot to leave a tip, and then quickly made for the exit. Fresh air slapped him in the face. He inhaled deeply, grateful to be free of the diner. He moved in a straight line for his Camaro. Fumbling for his keys, he stepped in puddles up to his ankles.

Behind him the door of the diner squeaked open, letting out a truncated verse of a Garth Brooks tune. Heavy footsteps crunched through the gravel. Then the door opened again. "Earl," a girl's high pitched voice. "Come on back here."

Although he felt like sprinting for his car and tearing out of the lot, Joshua looked over his shoulder. Earl was marching through puddles toward him. He was grinning. "Wanna come look at my girl some more?" he said. "Staring at some other guy's chick your thing?" Earl's buddy swaggered onto the lot to join them.

"Look, I'm sorry if...." Joshua heard half the words before realizing he had actually spoken them himself.

Earl's grin disappeared and he broke into a run, charging through the puddle like a water buffalo. With a grunt, he swung an almighty haymaker at Joshua's chin. "Kick his ass, Earl." his buddy yelled.

Joshua easily sidestepped the clenched fist. Earl's special delivery haymaker found only fresh air, and without the resistance of Joshua's face to counter-balance the force, all two hundred and forty pounds of his bulk helped his kneecap into the Camaro's fender. "Mother _fucker_."

The girlfriend covered half her face. "Earl...don't."

Joshua circled away. "Please," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."

Earl turned around. His face had gone purple and a string of spit looped from his teeth. He pushed himself away from the Camaro, limping now. Instead of re-launching his blitz attack, he reached into his jacket and pulled a switchblade. "Get in the fucking car, Donette." He feigned a lunge and then threw himself forward proper, thrust out the six-inch blade like it were a fencer's foil.

Joshua, feeling absurdly like he had perhaps wandered onto a film set, reacted to the switchblade's wicked glint. Moving far more quickly that his adversary, he sidestepped again and grabbed Earl's knife hand at the wrist; gave it a hard squeeze. Something in there broke like a dry stick. Earl sucked in air and he stiffened. The knife slipped through his fingers and with a plop, vanished beneath the oily surface of a puddle.

A scant second later, Joshua let him go. Earl did a fair impression of Oliver Hardy falling onto his backside, staring in disbelief at his wrist, which now boasted an extra joint. He retched twice before regurgitating a sticky glut of French fries into his lap.

His girlfriend followed his gaze and mirrored his expression.

Other diners spilled out onto the lot. Someone yelled: 'Call the cops.'

Joshua looked at his own hands. "I'm sorry..."

"Get out of here," the girl yelled from her boyfriend's side, the knees of her jeans underwater, her make-up distinctly separate from her pallor. She reached into the puddle, retrieved the switchblade, and threw it into the rough grass. "Just _go_."

Heavy rain began to fall; no one ran for shelter. Joshua turned, hurriedly got into his car and rejoined the highway, racing through the gears. In the rearview mirror he saw the short-order cook leaning over Earl. The waitress joined them, her pale oval face angled at the highway, watching Joshua leave.

Fearing she was perhaps taking down his license plate, he shifted down to third and tramped the pedal. The Camaro bucked and screamed over the tarmac, happy to oblige, kicking up road spray. Within a minute the dim orange glow of neon dwindled with distance. When the light winked out altogether, Joshua shifted his focus to stare at his reflection. For a moment, the eyes of a stranger stared back. A touch of fear pricked the nape of his neck.

"Shit," he said quietly.

A long sigh whistled through his pursed lips. If finding a bite to eat proved such hard work, how would he find a place to sleep? Barlow should never have burdened him with this responsibility. But of course Joshua was the only one left capable. Now Nathanial was gone it wasn't so much a matter of choice. It was a lack of options.

Los Angeles

At eleven thirty pm the temperature in LA hovered at seventy degrees, and owing to substandard air-conditioning, the Peppermint Palace sweltered. But this hardly discouraged the clientele. At eleven-thirty-five the doormen refused further admission to the crowded basement. Though built to hold three hundred and fifty, tonight the glitzy nightspot played host to nearly five hundred people.

Beyond the queues a black limousine pulled in at the curb and a tall, pony-tailed man got out, his gold jewelry reflecting glints of neon. Divo Serefini quietly surveyed the bustling entrance like a general might survey a captured land. He stood tall as he could for a minute, swaying his arms and rolling his shoulders, like a boxer preparing to fight.

"Keep it running," he said to the driver and stepped up grandly to the entrance. Like Moses' parting of the Red Sea the crowd miraculously made way, as though he were an irresistible force pushing at their opposite poles. This suited him. Nobody got in his way. Nobody touched his cloth.

An obese man wearing a purple suit with the word MANAGER embroidered on the lapel greeted him with the offer of a sweaty hand. Serefini ignored it and looked past him, down the short corridor where strobe-lights from the dance hall reflected in his inky pupils. "They here?"

The manager mopped his brow with a cotton handkerchief. "In the Booth at the far side of the floor," he said. "Want a few of my boys to go with you?"

"Only if I want a door holding open."

Serefini skirted the floor toward the rear of the club. His expression a stark contrast to the smiles and pouts of dancers. At the far side of the dance floor he spotted the snot-nosed little pricks. Alone and silhouetted against the far wall, motionless as gargoyles, watching him approach.

It was the pick-up team all right. He recognized their manner as much as their appearance. Slouched low in their seats like piss-bored teenagers, while the strawberry tart lay across the table showing half of her ass.

Before going any further, Serefini took several deep and calming breaths. Swallowing the insults of others \- no matter how hard he tried - was an art he could not master; particularly when dealing with those clearly unfit to tie his shoelaces. He sorely wished Durant had given this job one of the others. Divo's specialty was dishing the shit – not eating it.

Safely in character, Serefini stepped up to the booth.

The principal wiseass who called himself Nathan swigged whiskey straight from the bottle; a longhaired freak who looked like he'd missed the bus to a heavy metal concert. He wore flashy leather pants, a clinging white tea-shirt and a leather waistcoat. But the look in this kid's eyes. Anyone would think he had Jesus on his left and the archangel Gabriel on his right.

In the flashing strobes and colored lights the kid rocked his head to the booming beat. Not a care in the world. On his left, also moving his body to the music was a guy of similar appearance whom the other two called Blayne – long-haired, suntanned, same style in clothes. The strawberry tart – Melissa or Melinda – a girl so built-for-comfort she might have been manufactured, was gazing up at him. Serefini knew the type – wore beauty like a pair of torn Levis; a natural born slut.

Three young people. Two wiseass guys, one floozy.

This information encapsulated the whole of what the Durant syndicate knew about who they were hiring. An enigmatic hitman no one ever saw – or had even heard of six months ago – and used cocky youngsters to pick up contracts and collect payments. What was the underworld coming to?

Serefini reached into his jacket and produced a bulky manila envelope, which he dumped unceremoniously on the table. A corner of the packet burst open, revealing stacks of bundled bank notes. "Count it."

Eyes never leaving Serefini, Nathan picked up the envelope and tossed it over to Blayne, who caught it deftly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "I'm sure it's all there, messenger boy – only a fool would short-change my capo. You're not a fool are you?"

Serefini found he was rocking left and right, swapping his weight from foot to foot like a teenager spoiling for a fight. He tried very hard to remain still, but felt his skull vibrated, and he realized he was grinding his teeth. Aware that he was close to snapping, he took a long, slow breath. "Wiseass punk," he heard himself say. "You make me laugh-"

"I make you _angry_ ," The younger man corrected. "You want to kill me so bad your hands are shaking."

"You are one puzzled little boy," Serefini said.

"Riddle me this," Nathan said. "The job's done; you've delivered the green; yet you're still standing here. Afraid of turning your back?"

"Maybe you forgot to tip the guy," Blayne said, punching his palm. "Goddam if he isn't sticking around for his gratuity."

Melissa leaned across the table and whispered something in Nathan's ear. Without breaking eye contact with Serefini, he nudged Blayne toward the girl. "She wants to dance."

Serefini blinked rapidly and felt blood rush to his face. When Divo Serefini entered a room, he remained the focus of fearful attention until he left. Not so on this occasion. Instead of sitting back open-mouthed at his dark magnificence, the young tart had grown bored and wanted to dance.

The kid was no longer smiling. "What's on your mind, messenger boy?"

"The contract was for _Regan_."

"He pull through or something?"

Serefini straightened. "Oh he's dead, all right, along with his guards, his security workers, his surveillance team, even his dogs."

"So?"

"So, people are talking. The Darvelly family back east has been asking who called in the hit. Maybe you've heard of Carmine Darvelly. His business interests affect the value of the dollar."

Nathan shrugged one shoulder. "Fuck him."

Serefini's forehead glistened under the lights. "You are way too cocky for this trade, _sonny_. This is a man's world, not a club house. I'm cutting you slack because you don't know who you're fucking with." Saliva gathered at the corner of his mouth; he swallowed.

The longhaired youngster held his gaze. "You got that backwards: I know who you are, I know your address, I know your strengths, and I know your weaknesses. For all you know I could be the Silver Surfer."

Serefini leaned forward. "Let's not pull on each other's dicks. This arrangement stinks. Unless I meet face to face with your boss, we're through – get the picture?"

"My Capo meets only his, er... victims." Nathan let his tongue loll and rolled his eyes. "Get the picture?"

A thoroughly unpleasant thrill of fear rippled through Serefini. George Decarius once confessed that being near the Assassin's pick-up men reminded him of being around the Dobermans. You were always wary of making any sudden movement. Twice now in the last minute Serefini had felt himself flinch.

The talking was over.

"The Oast house on Salerno in two days." Serefini said. "Be there."

"Oooo. Then we still have a job?" said Nathan.

"The contract will be performed as written."

"Relax, baby," Nathan said. "Go have yourself a drink and a dance, or go lay one of the table-dancers they have here. They're something else. I've ruined a couple myself, and Blayne, the horny little toad, has fucked 'em all."

"I stick to my own kind."

"Your own kind?" Nathan said. "What are you, some kind of Husky?"

Grunting, Serefini turned and strode away. Only on this occasion the throng did not magically part like the Red Sea to allow him through. Random drunks and dancers bumped into him; a Hispanic girl fell into his arms, laughed the smell of Martini in his face, and then boogied away, still laughing.

On the Road

The Camaro screamed over the blacktop at eighty miles per hour. Roadside scenery whizzed by in a blur. When Joshua eased his foot off the gas, a hundred miles of road separated him from the incident at Mel's Diner.

Radio stations faded in with a particular brand of music and stayed a while before fading out. While re-tuning the frequency a third time, Joshua yawned strenuously, causing the Camaro to drift over the white line. He straightened the wheel and gave a brisk shake of his head. Since fleeing the diner he had driven well into Iowa, making very good time. But now he needed rest.

Roadside motels were as frequent a feature of the landscape as trees and hills, but after the trouble at the diner he found he couldn't pull in at any of them – nor leave the relative sanctity of his car, for that matter. The next one, he kept promising himself. I'll stop at the next one. But whenever an oasis of neon brightness appeared on the horizon, he remembered the confrontation, and he kept his foot to the pedal.

After cruising several more miles of open road, Joshua saw a flickering neon sign: The Calypso Inn, which hovered above another sign which spelled part of the word Vacancy. A motel much like the dozens he had already given the go by. He slowed, took in the façade before tramping the gas. It was just too...it was just not...

It was just _right_ Joshua insisted as he cranked the steering, spinning onto the parking lot's west ramp. The tires kicked up a dust cloud, which drifted across the deserted lot and into the cold night air.

Through the Camaro's wiper-arced windshield he watched moths circle the stuttering red neon. Soft light from reception spilled across the porch. He switched off the ignition and stole a moment to gather himself, alone with the ticking and pinging from the cooling engine. He heard his rhythmic breathing. Felt his heart beating.

Only one other car occupied the lot; an old Dodge van covered in faded bumper stickers. If the Dodge belonged to the manager, then the motel could well be deserted. This suited Joshua fine.

He took a final deep breath, grabbed his bag, and climbed out of the car. The night was cold and fresh and aromatic, the air windless and after the perpetual droning of the engine, strangely tranquil. All he heard was the soft hum of neon. He took a moment to breathe the cool air before stepping onto the porch. A red sticker on the window read: - don't ask for credit, as a kick in the pants is apt to offend.

A bell tinkled overhead when he entered. Warmth, subdued jazz music from an unseen source, and the smell of sweet tobacco enveloped him. He closed the door behind him and the bell tinkled again. Green linoleum, threadbare to the wood in places, covered the floor. The painted walls exhibited a collection of black and white photographs of football stars. On a shelf behind the front desk stood several trophies which gleamed in the soft light. Engraved on the largest trophy was the name Benjamin Lincoln Jefferson.

Unsure of the exact mechanics of booking a room, Joshua approached the desk blinking like a barn owl. A plaque by a brass bell read: Ring for Service. He placed his bag by his feet and tapped the bell. _Pingggg_. The manager, who remained seated for reasons soon obvious, cleared his throat.

A small, bald-headed black man of about sixty or seventy was saddled, almost out of sight, in a leather easy-chair behind the desk. He observed Joshua at length over the top of his spectacles before folding his newspaper and hobbling to the counter.

Joshua lowered his gaze. In place of the man's left leg was a lusterless aluminum support, an old Nike training shoe scotch-taped to the base. Joshua craned his neck for a better look when it occurred to him this ham-handed curiosity might cause offense. He quickly straightened.

But the old man only smiled. "Before you ask," he said. "I didn't leave it in Vietnam, Korea, or on the beach at Normandy. Lost it playing pro football back in sixty-three." He waved off-handedly at the photographs. "That's me, Benjamin L. Jefferson. Ah, you probably never heard a me. Anywise, got myself nuked in the first quarter, and being that the knife-happy bastard surgeon that got his dukes on me was drunk as a blind skunk, I didn't get what you'd call," he tapped his aluminum limb, "evenhanded treatment. 'Nuff about me. I take it you want to bag some Z's?"

Joshua felt instantly at ease. "A room for one night, please."

The ex-footballer gave a brisk nod of approval. "Most folk who ding my bell want no more than directions. I tell 'em if they wanna go east turn left, and if they wanna go west turn right."

Joshua found himself drawn by the old man's easy personality. His experience of colorful characters began and ended with Max Barlow back in New Hampshire, his brother Nathanial, and in the early days, other members of their sequestered society. Television had been his only other stimulus – mostly episodes of Friends and reruns of The Six Million Dollar Man.

"A room you want – and a room it is," said the old man.

Underneath Jefferson's apparent friendliness, Joshua detected the vaguest implication of wariness, which he had sensed when he first entered the room. But the man's unease soon dissipated; his instinct sharp enough for him to know Joshua meant no harm.

"Is there a place I can get something to eat?" Joshua asked.

"Hal's diner's maybe ten miles west of here," Benjamin said. "Place ain't what you'd call classy, but their wares'll stop the rumbling." He plucked a pen from behind his ear and slid it toward Joshua. "If you'll sign your handle," he said. "We be moving right along."

Joshua picked up the pen and as he signed the register, a peculiar sensation tickled his belly, as though the simple procedure marked official confirmation of his existence in society.

Old Benjamin pulled the register toward him and read the signature. "Well, Josh, you're officially checked in and all I need now is the first night's rent in advance, twenty-five dollars." He rubbed his leathery palms together.

Joshua fumbled out a considerable wad of cash and carefully extracted three ten-dollar bills.

Benjamin touched Joshua's wrist. "Don't be flashin' cash like you some kinda Donald Trump, son. Out on the street your ass will get whipped and stripped before you can yell foul." He narrowed one eye. "You put it away, now."

Joshua pocketed the money. Benjamin took the three tens and in return gave him a crumpled five, together with a room key. "Third unit along. That's two up from mine. I'd put you right next door, but I tends to snore louder than most can stand."

"Well, thank you," Joshua said sincerely, and looked Benjamin up and down, right from the old Nike trainer strapped to his artificial limb to his bald head. His curiosity was pure and innocent, unsullied by haughtiness, or the clumsy indifference displayed by some able-bodied people. "You must have... _seen_ a lot," he said in a low voice, then dropped his gaze and turned to leave.

"Hey," the old man called after him.

Joshua looked back.

"My diabetes insists I take a break in about an hour; couple of sandwiches and a beer. If you don't care for that drive, you're more than welcome to pull up a chair."

Joshua blinked. "That's kind of you," he said.

Out on the verandah Joshua counted three doors down and let himself into the unit. Inside, the tang of disinfectant and cheap air freshener failed to mask the underlying smell of mildew and bug spray. He found the light switch and flicked it. In the meager glow he saw a double bed, a lopsided chest of drawers and an old bulbous television. On a scratched and dented nightstand were a large ash tray and a reading lamp, which cast a dull glow onto a chunky black telephone. A faded painting of a bowl of citrus fruit overlooked the bed.

He dumped his bag by the door and explored the room, opening drawers and cupboards, touching surfaces, walls, the TV. He perceived traces left by previous occupants, their faint presence clinging like finger-prints to the furniture. Someone had carved his or her initials – A.T.B, into the bathroom door. He went in and swished back the shower curtain. The white enamel had long since worn off the bottom of the tub. Above him a tarnished brass nozzle hung askew over the rail.

Tired but curious, he returned to the bedroom and stretched out on the mattress; the springs squeaked and twanged under his weight, releasing the strangely offensive odor of laundered linen. He stared at the ceiling, musing over the day and a half spent out in the open. The rambling wooden-framed house in New Hampshire where he had lived most of his life seemed a million miles away. Although he was glad to be elsewhere, a small, instinctive part of him still yearned for its sanctuary. His fingered the amulet around his neck. Touching the gold wolf-crest reminded him who he was, and why he was here.

His brief interaction with the motel manager had raised his spirits somewhat. The exchange had gone smoothly and he had avoided confrontation – though part of this success, he conceded, was forbearance from the old man, who assumed Joshua was a regular guy.

But could he pull it off in Los Angeles?

His pulse rose at the thought.

He swung his legs to the floor and dragged his sports bag to his feet. He started to pull the zipper, but hesitated. He crept over to the window and peered out. In the dim light from reception he saw Benjamin's Dodge and the deserted promenade. After double-checking the curtains for gaps, he unzippered the bag and removed a thick, hard-backed scrapbook whose pages swelled wider than the spine. He fanned through the sheets until he found the section devoted to Los Angeles crime boss Salvatore Durant.

Barlow had arranged a news-clipping history of the Durant syndicate in chronological order, and where he deemed it necessary had added text of his own. Though Joshua knew the book cover to cover, Barlow insisted he take it along for continual study.

He flipped pages until he found the picture of the young woman. The clip identified her as Genna Delucio – Durant's daughter. Though a direct relative of the mobster, Delucio was considered a civilian, in no way affiliated to her father's criminal frat club. Barlow had included her picture to complete the album.

The weight of his mission came back to him, and all at once he became aware that the walls about him were strange. Loneliness descended on him and he lowered the scrapbook, running his fingertips down the faded green cover, realizing his allegiance to the quest felt different - weaker? He wondered if perhaps the short length of time he'd spent among ordinary people had already started to change him as Barlow had feared.

He stared at the telephone. The old man would be waiting for his call.

He punched Barlow's number.

After a brief clatter of plastic a wheezing presence came on the line. The connection crackled. "Is that ...you?"

He could almost smell Barlow's disease through the receiver. On the morning Joshua departed, Barlow had foregone his usual dose of Morphine in order to remain lucid, and probably still suffered the consequences. Six months ago doctors gave the old man three months to live. A dead man walking if ever there was one. "Where are you calling from?"

"A motel halfway across Iowa." Joshua said, leafing through the scrapbook. One page exhibited tabloid photographs of assassination victims; bodies mauled beyond recognition.

"Something's gone wrong." Barlow said after a moment's silence. "I can tell by your voice." Joshua found it uncanny how Barlow seemed able to read his mind; even over the phone the old man knew something was amiss.

Joshua outlined the incident at the diner.

"Unfortunate," Barlow said. "But expected. We've been through all this, Joshua. Look no one in the eye. Keep your head down, and for the Lord's sake don't go making friends. We can ill-afford to have anyone poking around. Right now your anonymity is the only edge you have." Barlow sighed again. "I want you to call me every day, even if you've nothing to report."

"Okay," Joshua considered telling Barlow about the ex pro-footballer, but he closed his mouth.

"I'll be waiting for your call," Barlow said, and then, almost as an afterthought. "Joshua. God help us."

Joshua hung up and stared at the scrapbook, the carnage, the gangster mug shots – the Invisible Assassin. Confrontation. The true reason for his being here came crashing in, shattering the pleasant feeling that talking to Benjamin Jefferson had instilled.

He tossed the scrapbook aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. A spider's web of cracks radiated from the light fitting. For the first time in his life the ceiling above him was not his own. This unsettled him in a way he found hard to define. Intensified his feeling of alienation. He rolled onto his side and stared at the wall, thinking about the handgun and poisoned load at the bottom of his bag. Before long, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep.

Sometime later he awoke from a terrible dream in which he'd been pursued through woodland by faceless hunters. The dream slowly fragmented and he became fully aware of his surroundings. Iowa. He was in a motel.

Outside his room a hunched shadow played across the curtains; then a hard rap at the door. "You ok, son?" Benjamin's voice, touched with concern.

Joshua swung his legs to the floor. His forehead glistened, and when he wiped his brow, noticed an unfamiliar configuration of bone. He felt the rest of his skull for abnormalities. He found none. Nevertheless, he went into the bathroom and switched on the light over the mirror. He inched his face toward his reflection; but saw nothing erroneous. He swilled his face twice with double hands of cold water. Then noisily slurped another three.

Benjamin Jefferson knocked again.

"I'm in the bathroom." Joshua told him.

The old man muttered something Joshua didn't catch, and then his awkward steps receded down the concrete promenade.

Joshua scrutinized his reflection a moment longer before switching off the light. After putting away the scrapbook he picked up his room key. Perhaps another talk with Benjamin would be restful – and hadn't the old man mentioned something to eat?

A plate of sandwiches and a glass of Coors awaited him when he finally left his room and walked up the promenade into reception. The bell tinkled merrily above his head and the warmth inside felt homely and sociable. Jazz music still played softly in the background.

"You okay there, big guy?" asked Benjamin, his rheumy eyes narrowing. "Hollered like a son-of-a-bitch in your sleep."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Wouldn't be the first who checked in and clocked off. Few years back had this traveling salesman from Baltimore check in; Barrington Ball. Clung to his bag like his soul was in there. Paid a night's rent and waddled off, arms wrapped round that bag. At dawn I found him hanging from the shower-rail by his snakeskin belt. Stiffer than a frozen sausage. Goddamned if he wasn't still clinging to his bag." He indicated a chair. "Come round this side of the desk. Grab yourself some vittles and hoist that beer less it gets warm."

Three chicken sandwiches, which Benjamin confessed were loitering on the ass-end of their sell-by date, were stacked in a neat pile on a torn sheet of tinfoil. Joshua sat in a battered armchair, reached for a sandwich and devoured it in two bites. He followed this with a large swallow of beer. As he went for another sandwich, he noticed a minor disruption in his sense of balance. Chicken sandwiches were nothing new, but beer drinking was fresh snow. He raised the glass and gazed wonderingly at the gold liquid. "This...this feels _good._ "

"Damn tooting," he said, and hoisted his glass. "And I got a few more on ice."

Joshua started on another sandwich and killed the rest of the beer. Alcohol's dubious magic found no resistance in his unsuspecting body, which possessed no immediate tolerance. His inhibitions started to melt away and oddly, hunting assassins in Los Angeles didn't seem half as daunting as it did half an hour ago. Benjamin talked more of his football career and adjusting to life as an amputee. Joshua dutifully listened, but said nothing of his own story.

After a short silence Benjamin said. "You running from the law, boy?" He cracked a wise smile and held up a leathery palm. "I ain't judging you, Josh – that's not my thing. I'm just old and nosey and that look in your eye tells me you either running _from_ something or _to_ something that don't swim too sweet in your belly. Feel free to step on me if I'm flappin' my jaw, now." He reached into a Styrofoam cooler and tossed another beer.

Joshua caught it and after a short period of heady consideration, cracked the seal. "I'm not running from....anything," he said, a touch mystified to discover his tongue felt too big.

Benjamin cocked his head. "Son, is this your first beer?" Without waiting for an answer he threw back his head and cackled. "Well pucker up and kiss my bad leg," he cried. "You're one of a kind, Josh."

A single thought swam to Joshua through the pleasant haziness. "One of a kind..."

The old man cracked himself a new beer. "You wanna talk about what's in L.A., son?"

Joshua looked up sharply.

"Called out in your sleep," Benjamin explained.

"I...I can't say," Joshua whispered. "Secrets. Terrible...."

"Keeping secrets is about all I'm good at," Benjamin said. "Even if I weren't, there ain't no one I could tell them to anyhow." He set down his beer and reached over to switch off the VACANCY sign. "You got something serious on your mind, don't you son? That ain't the booze talking. But don't you fret. It's my nature to pull up the ladder behind me. And let me tell you a human truth that's taken me a lifetime to learn: a man can't help his nature."

Joshua dragged a hand over his face and looked at the floor. "That's my problem. I can't help what I am. I shouldn't be saying this..."

"Hey...we're drinkin'....we cool, and it's after hours. By sun up whatever we got to say will be piss and wind anyhow." He raised his glass. "It's the beauty of the brew."

Sinking into his seat, Joshua gazed into the depths of his beer glass. Tiny bubbles floated through the golden liquid to the surface, bobbed there a few seconds, then popped. Many of his inhibitions seemed to pop along with them, become gas and air. Tormented by the desire to tell his secret, Joshua gazed fixedly at the old man. "Barlow believes they're in Los Angeles," he said airily.

"Who are?" Benjamin asked. "The Lakers?"

"Assassins."

Benjamin took the glass from his lips. "One's what're bumping off mafia? The...what they call 'em? _Invisible Assassins_?"

"Invisible?" Joshua stared into space. "Only to some."

Genna Delucio

Genna Delucio turned off La Brea onto Santa Monica Boulevard, her eyes alternating glances between the road ahead and rearview mirror. The blue Chevy Nova hung on her tail, as it had since she left the medical center parking lot, staying well back in traffic, yet matching her every maneuver.

She quickly swapped lanes. The Nova, still several cars behind in the late evening traffic, followed her accordingly. This confirmed her suspicions. "Oh you son of a bitch."

Familiar resentment of her father seeped into her thinking and reawakened feelings she had tried so hard to repress. Umbrage between kids and their parents, be it strictness or possessiveness, generally stemmed from love and fear. But to hate one's father as she did hers made her feel somewhat disgraced.

Nevertheless, despise him she did – and all that for which he stood. She still heard the oily tones of his voice, riddled with falsity, tempered with the air of never having his word refused: _Move back under my roof, if only until the assassin is caught. I'm worried over my little girl – is that such a crime?_ Forever surrounded by his minders – hired flatterers them all – he had long ago lost the ability to accept no as an answer; doing so would erode his self-reinforced illusion of control, and control was his baby; control was his gospel; control was everything to him. But Genna represented an element in his life beyond his control and it drove him nuts.

She looked back at the Nova, realizing she'd been foolish ever to believe her father had called off his shadow 'protection'. He he'd probably had her followed twenty-four-seven since the morning she stormed out of Stromboli Mansion and into her own apartment.

The blue Nova hung farther back, leaving a five or six cars buffer, in the outside lane. Beyond the glare of its headlights the Nova's windows were opaque. Genna found herself wondering whether those shadowing her were indeed her father's men. Could be they were rivals, targeting her instead of her hoodlum father. The mafia code which decreed civilians should not be targeted was observed about as religiously as all their other cardboard codes and practices. It was little more than mob invention, its purpose to lend their organizations a ribbon of respectability.

Ahead was a busy intersection and as Genna drew near, the lights changed. Before fully realizing her intentions, she punched the gas and ran the red light. Horns blared. A motorist braked hard to avoid a collision, the headlights momentarily blinding her. Once clear, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the blue Nova held up in the snarl.

"Yes!" She hunched over the wheel, grinning in spite of herself. A lock of hair fell over her eyes, and she tossed it back with a flick of her head. She looked at her reflection, raised an eyebrow in admonition of her reckless behavior, and released a shaky breath.

All the way back to her apartment in Silver Lake, for which she headed at a safer speed, Genna kept a mental note of which cars appeared immediately behind her. At one point a Chrysler followed her bumper for two right turns and a left, but drove straight on when she hung a left and descended into the subterranean parking lot beneath her apartment block.

She reversed into a space, grabbed the bag of groceries and climbed out of the car. The air smelled of damp concrete and carbon monoxide. Her uncharacteristic behavior at the stoplight had left her feeling nervous and vulnerable, yet angry with herself for succumbing to these emotions. She locked the car and engaged the alarm, wincing at the ear-piercing double beep, as though the noise might wake a hit man who had nodded in the shadows. She imagined the headlines: _Young woman who ignored warnings found murdered amongst milk cartons and cut price English muffins._

She started toward the elevator. The legs of her jeans swished, the grocery bag rustled, and her footfalls echoed in the corners. Ahead, the elevator doors were already open, the empty carriage waiting. She refused to hurry. She would _not._

Somewhere behind her, a tin can clattered over the concrete.

Ok. This she decided was reason to panic.

Thirty or so yards of open space separated her from the yawning brightness of the waiting elevator. She hurried toward it, already fishing for her apartment key. Whoever was playing _kick the can_ in the shadows was perhaps thirty or so yards back. If they blew cover right now and charged her down she would reach the elevator with scarcely enough time to close the doors.

When she was ten yards from the bright carriage, the sliding doors started to close. "Wai..." She started, but quickly realized that whoever called the elevator stood on a different floor. Instead of presuming to push a hand into the narrowing gap, she diverted her run twenty degrees toward the fire-escape, sprinting now. Behind her, footsteps clacked on the hard floor, tracking her.

Inside the stairwell the confusing acoustics amplified her breathing and returned sharp echoes of her steps. Still clutched in her right hand, slick with sweat, her apartment keys clinked and clanged against the hand rail. Below, the fire-escape door hit the wall as someone barged into the stairwell.

She burst through the door at her floor and fell onto her knees on the hall carpet. Her grocery bag split, spilling the contents in all directions. She climbed awkwardly to her feet, stepped on a bag of muffins, and thundered down the corridor to her apartment. Behind her the stairwell door squeaked as someone pushed through – very close behind.

Inserting her door-key proved as troublesome as threading a needle with frayed cotton. After several seconds of frantic fidgeting she dropped the keys to the carpet. Instead of retrieving them, she plunged into her purse and pulled the P7 pistol Suzanne gave her. With her back pressed to the door she held the weapon two-handed out in front of her, ready to shoot whoever rounded the corner.

Her pursuers clearly did not expect this, for when the two men appeared they stuttered to a halt and threw up their arms. "Don't shoot," one of them pleaded.

"You!" Genna said.

"We saw you running..." said Oliviera, staring down the barrel of Genna's pistol. Oliviera resembled the British T.V. version of detective Poirot, though his appearance was far less refined. "We're here to protect you..."

Rolands winked. "We're the good guys, Miss Durant."

"Durant," Genna repeated. "Is my father's name." She lowered the P7 and tucked it back in her purse. Stooping to retrieve her keys, she added: "My name is Delucio. _Delucio_."

"I'm sor...sorry if we...we startled you," Oliviera said, dimples of sweat glistening on his top lip. "Your father only wants you to be happy-"

"Happy?" Genna swiveled on him. "Go look up the goddamn word, why don't you? I'm not permitted happiness. I'm not allowed friends; if I so much as look at a guy twice you clowns scare the hell out of him."

The men swapped guilty glances.

Genna opened her mouth to add something else, then froze, as though realizing she was engaged in conversation with trained chimps. She sighed and unlocked her apartment. She looked back once and glared at the two men, both of whom still held their hands high in the air. "Get lost, the pair of you."

She slammed the door in their faces.

Her heart still trip-hammering, though more now in anger than in fear, Genna hung up her jacket and paused a moment, scanning her apartment, as if seeing it for the first time. The living room, at best utilitarian, looked much the same as it had when she moved in four years ago; polished wooden floors, a large peach rug, low-backed easy chairs; a matching sofa faced a television she rarely watched. Watercolors of landscapes, cats, dogs, and the painting of a girl lying on a bed adorned the walls.

She poured a brandy and raised her glass to the girl in the painting. "Suzie," she said dispiritedly. "Sometimes I think you have it better than I do." She drained the glass, grimacing as though swallowing medicine. Then she slumped in a chair facing the mute television, let the glass slip to the floor, and dragged her palms down her face.

" _Woof?"_

A bark of inquiry. Even the inflection, toward the latter part of the woof, rose an octave. _Woof...woof? Woof?_ Genna stood, opened the kitchen door, and the huge Doberman rushed through, smothering her with laps of its tongue. Backing away, she patted and fussed him for a minute. "What's up, furball," she said. "Muriel been locking you in the kitchen again?"

" _Woof woof!"_

"Could have used your fearsome company a minute ago," she went to the window and peeked through the blinds. In the street below, the Chevy Nova she had lost at the intersection was parked at the curb. As she watched, Oliviera and Rolands crossed the road and got in. She watched for a minute, her breath fogging the glass, waiting for the car to drive away. It didn't.

She decided she would pay her father a visit.

On the road

After thanking the old man for his hospitality Joshua returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The dizziness left him, only to be replaced by a growing feeling of desperation. Benjamin Jefferson had pressed for more information about his interest in the Invisible Assassin. In the end Joshua had chosen discretion. To Benjamin's credit the subject was duly shelved, and they downed a couple more beers apiece.

Unable to settle, Joshua got up and went into the bathroom, leaned on the sink and stared once more at his reflection. It seemed to him the longer he stared, the less he recognized himself. _Who are you, really_? In New Hampshire he had known who he was, what he was, and what was expected of him. In the outside world he was an odometer at zero, re-inventing himself as he went. Although his reflected features appeared no different than on the morning he left New Hampshire, he suspected that deep inside the man was changing.

Too tired to make sense of his new feelings he left the bathroom and let himself fall onto the bed. In the periphery of his vision the phone sat mutely. He imagined Barlow on the other end of the line back east, pacing the house, his tattered gown trailing behind him, hunkered over his pain like a hunch back, sustained by a diet of pain-killers, staying alive to wait for the next call.

What would Barlow think if he knew Joshua had almost spilled his story to a motel manager? He sighed and turned away from the thought. Closed his eyes; but a long time passed before he drifted into an uneasy slumber.

At dawn light, Interstate 80 several miles west of Des Moines was deserted as far as Joshua could see. By ten o'clock, he was several hundred miles into his journey, well back on track, heading straight as a ruler toward the western horizon where the last shadows of night faded. Few trees and shrubs dotted the Iowa flatlands through which the interstate cut. The slowly brightening terrain was blanketed by a layer of ground mist, which swirled at the Camaro's passage.

Now that Joshua was miles into his journey, the memory of last night's conversation with the motel manager rested easier on his mind. After all, he had disclosed nothing to the old man you couldn't find in the papers. His alcohol-inspired ramblings surely fell short of the hundreds of conspiracy theories out there. In the cold light of dawn, Benjamin probably thought him a simpleton, a halfwit, inventing tales of monsters and murderers for attention's sake. Or, in the old man's own words, full of piss and wind.

By mid day the sun was a brilliant silver disc high in the sky. The temperature rose steadily. Joshua closed the windows and cranked up the air-conditioning. The highway terrain blended from brown to green as he cut through corn country. The nigh-on endless sea of green, dizzying in its vastness, basked under the sun to the limit of his vision at all four points of the compass. In places cornstalks grew right along the roadside, appearing to nod and gesticulate at his passing. Like crowds of cheering people, an endless honor guard, as if he were a returning king parading before his subjects.

After driving a hundred miles listening to country music and the ranting of a backwater Evangelist, he pulled the Camaro off the road, needing to relieve himself. "God is watching you _always_." the radio threatened. "Watching you from the day of your birth until the day of reckoning that will grant either _salv_ ation or _damn_ ation – the only absolutes." Unsettled at the Evangelist's Barlowesque sermon, Joshua wandered away from the car, and in the quietness unzipped and urinated at the roadside. He looked along the rows of cornstalks, marveling at their uniformity. "Deny love for your neighbor then to God you are an _abomination_!" The evangelist cried.

After relieving himself, instead of returning to the car, he left the road and wandered into the corn. The evangelist's sermon faded to a whisper. He picked his way in among the stalks, pushing through the fragrant plants, mindful of snapping the stems. After walking fifty or so meters he stopped, listening to the wind sending waves of soft noise across the stalks. It conjured an extraordinary image – like he was privy to a million souls whispering to one another.

Alone in the cornfield, listening to the rustle of the wind, Joshua felt something stir within him, like a childhood memory, full of nostalgia, which lingered on the outer limits of his understanding. Out here no traffic, no aircraft, nor for that matter any other sounds associated with man reached Joshua's ears; only the dry rustle of the wind.

He reached out and plucked a cob from the nearest plant, turned it over in his hands, examining the texture and shape. He peeled away the husk from the pale yellow beads. They were cool to his touch. Then he closed his eyes, raised the corn to his mouth sank his teeth into it. Rich juices burst on his tongue and dripped from the corners of his mouth. The taste was sweet. Instead of tearing off a mouthful, he simply held the corn in his mouth, his teeth penetrating the swollen yellow beads. Juice flowed onto his tongue and down his chin. Finally he removed the corn and studied his teeth marks.

An overwhelming desire to unleash his inhibitions grew in him. To strip to his bare skin, to sprint through the corn, to embrace his true self. Want swelled in him like a balloon, and he began to draw in harsh breaths. Change came upon him. His consciousness _shifted_ on its axis, entered a more elemental state. Sensing what was happening, he quickly suppressed it. Willed his heartbeat to return to normal. He blinked rapidly, coming back to himself.

The moment passed. Once again he was in a plain field of corn. He dropped the cob at the base of the plant from which he'd taken it, brushed his hands on his jeans, returned to the car and slipped behind the wheel.

Joshua switched off the radio and stared at his reflection. A trace of corn juice trickled down his chin. He smiled wistfully. Perhaps, after all of this ended, he could return to this exact location, where he could simply _be_. Wander far out into the corn, clear a space far from the road, hidden from every direction but the air, and just _be_.

If he ever made it out of Los Angeles alive.

At 10:30 pm he cruised the streets of Glenwood Springs, western Colorado, in search of a motel. After an hour on the road, he'd still found no place quite deserted enough for his comfort. Finally he settled for a hotel called the Red Roof Inn, situated a mile or so off Interstate 70.

The receptionist, Polly, according to her name tag, was quick and polite and in minutes handed Joshua a room key. The large square foyer bustled with people where, as usual, no one paid him any particular notice. Instead of going to his room, he wandered over to the vending machines, delving in his pocket for change. He counted out four quarters and fed the coin slot.

A group of tourists were gathered at a glass display case by the coke machine. Through the crowd Joshua saw an adult male, fully grown Timber Wolf, lips curled in the unrealistic snarl born of a Taxidermist's imagination.

Joshua scooped his drink from the machine, grabbed his bag, and turned away. Head down and eyes on the floor, he retreated to his room. Inside he locked the door and set down his drink. He stripped naked and took a hot shower. The water pressure was intense, relentless, and he remained beneath the scalding jets long after he was showered.

When he was done he sat on the edge of the bed and dragged his bag toward him. From the contents he took a fresh shirt and jeans. While delving into the bag he caught sight of the black case, which he'd taken from the Camaro's trunk for fear of thieves. He fished the case from the bag and laid it on the bedspread, thumbed the catches and raised the lid.

Inside, cold and enigmatic in its velvet nest lay the silver Beretta. With a touch of veneration and fear, he took the weapon in his hands, contemplating the pistol's threat, the latent power of the doctored load. The few pounds of steel would spit like a cobra and kill far more quickly.

He raised his head and saw his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Water dripped from his hair and beaded on his skin. He thrust the gun at his image. "You're an abomination," he said, standing and moving toward the glass. "You have no right to live." His breath caught in his throat and his heart hammered. He touched the trigger; started to squeeze. Then he dropped his hands. A feeling of despondency came over him.

He turned from the mirror and put away the Beretta. For a few minutes he paced the room, glancing frequently at his watch. It was twenty-four hours since he'd last called home. He sat on the bed and picked up the phone.

Barlow answered on the first ring.

"Where are you?" the old man demanded to know. "Why didn't you call?" His shallow breath wheezed in and out of his lungs.

"I've been on the road," Joshua said. "I 'm in Colorado."

"Colorado," For a few seconds the old man muttered to himself. "Then you should reach Los Angeles soon. Find a quiet motel. One that doesn't have a nosey manager. Call me with the address when you're done."

Joshua was silent for a beat, thinking of the Nebraska cornfields. "Some interesting country out here," he said. "Perhaps after all of this business is...is over..."

Barlow hung up.

Joshua stared at the silent handset. Had similar thoughts plagued his brother? Nathanial had been the extrovert, ready to follow his intuition. What must this journey have been like to him? Perhaps Joshua was tracing his brother's exact steps. Was he destined to suffer Nathaniel's fate? Maybe the renegades Nathaniel had hunted knew of Joshua's existence and were waiting for him.

The renegades...

A strange and disturbing thought struck him: Nathaniel had betrayed them and abandoned the cause. Perhaps he never even reached Los Angeles. What if the pull of freedom and a life of discovery had tempted him? Right now Nathaniel could be living a normal life among normal people, running through the cornfields, laughing and living. _Being._

Joshua stretched out on the double bed and stared at the ceiling, allowing himself thoughts of living along-side ordinary folk, unnoticed and unrecognized, sharing laughs with friends, hoisting a beer with Benjamin Jefferson, queuing for a movie with a girl on his arm, washing the car, mowing the lawn......

Thinking these thoughts, Joshua succumbed to sleep.

The final leg of his journey into California passed without incident. He arrived mid-afternoon on the eighth of September. Beyond the state line a steel road sign read: _You are now in California_. When he crossed the line butterflies invaded his stomach.

_They_ were here. Somewhere.

The Mojave Desert proved significantly more blistering than the stretch of badlands behind him, so he pumped up the air conditioning as high as it would go. On route to Los Angeles he passed a band of American Indians driving a pickup. They stared at him with a resigned nonchalance that appeared as natural a part of their expressions as a frown or a smile. This added to the unsettling belief Los Angeles knew of his quest, lay waiting for him, promising all things unpleasant.

As the streets became clogged with traffic on his approach to city limits, Joshua noticed his hands were trembling. The radio picked up a lively rock station, which punched out track after track of raucous music; the commercial breaks were equally raucous and fast paced. While Jon Bon Jovi screamed of being shot through the heart, Joshua took interstate fifteen through to Corona. The heart of the city beat at a faster tempo than he was used to, and he found that his own heart now beat in time. California seemed composed entirely of sunshine, white sidewalks, winks of chrome, tall palm trees, and heat.

The reason for his being in Los Angeles, by no means forgotten, slipped toward the back of his mind. Caught in the throes of big city excitement, he knew he would have to get by this sprawling metropolis before starting work. So often he had seen Los Angeles on TV. But now he was here for real, in another world, in the television itself, where all things became possible.

After the first hour the eerie feeling of being watched dissolved in a thousand winks of sunshine on windshields, in the countless faces of preoccupied citizens. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The city seemed far too preoccupied with itself to notice him.

For several hours he drove the streets, listening to the fast music, marveling at the vistas of downtown LA, absorbing the feel of the city. Flora was varied and widespread and wonderfully sculpted; many of the streets lined with huge palm trees, their thick trunks and lofty fronds a testament to years of unbroken sunshine. What sights had these trees seen during their lives growing out of the pavements? Stalwart witnesses of strange and wondrous events. Joshua lost himself in the history, the fame and the infamy that was its heritage.

Only when he reached a point where the stunning panorama of the Pacific Ocean opened up in front of him did he give thought to the passage of time. Yet he felt no real concern. Los Angeles harbor, dotted with all manner of watercraft, stretched out like a picture postcard. He could smell seawater. The ocean's color, an impressive blue, differed in shades and intensities wherever the current or depth altered. The passage of boats dragged slow-to-dissolve wakes behind them.

Compelled to glance every few seconds at the ocean, he cruised north along the San Diego freeway until he reached Long Beach. Several vehicles were parked in a lay-by overlooking the ocean. He signaled left and cut across the oncoming traffic and pulled in alongside a camper van. The sun was still high and the fragrance of the ocean floated in on a moderate, warm breeze. He leaned against the car and watched the surfers catching the waves.

For a dreamy hour, he stared out over the ocean, finding the vastness both majestic and terrifying. When suddenly buffeted by the dusty backwash of a passing greyhound bus, Joshua blinked away the grit and reluctantly climbed back into his car.

Sticking to the Coast road, where he could still see the ocean, he drove the thirty or so miles north to Santa Monica. The sun gradually closed on the seaward horizon, yet the temperature clung to the mid seventies. A freshening sea breeze swept across the outlying beaches and threw sand against the car. Finally, and somewhat unwillingly, he turned inland and headed away from the coast.

On a quiet street off Santa Monica Boulevard, he found a motel he thought suitable. A nondescript twenty-unit complex called the Hollywood Jewel; a shrub-shrouded 'L' shaped building in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. Only the reception was visible from the road; the rest of the structure was shielded from immediate view by overgrown shrubbery. Beyond the shrubbery shafts of sunlight spangled on the swimming pool. The sweet smell of nectar pervaded the air and the constant drone of honeybees gave the motel a sleepy, tranquil air.

"Stuckey – Ralph Stuckey," said the manager as he unlocked the door and led Joshua inside. "You got a utility kitchen, bathroom, wall-safe - usual knick knacks." Stuckey appeared fifty-five or sixty years old, balding, with freckles on his scalp the size of gull's eggs. He wore faded blue flip-flops and ambled along with the time-worn indifference of a man who had performed this ritual for decades. "Staying long?"

Joshua set down his bag and watched a cockroach busily climb the kitchen wall. "A few weeks – I can pay in advance."

Ralph grinned. "Good man. That's a..." he struggled for the words, "a very urban trait."

Joshua didn't have a clue what Ralph meant – he had offered to pay in advance only to keep interaction with the manager to a minimum. Shielding his wad of bills, he paid for three weeks rent, and then ushered the guy out of the door. In contrast to Benjamin Jefferson, Ralph Stuckey dragged with him an air of quiet disdain. On the surface he was all hellos and handshakes, whereas underneath, he exuded contempt.

Stuckey returned a moment later with a receipt. "We got a dozen loungers by the pool," he said. "But if solitude and relaxation floats your rowboat, try the roof. Nobody else here can be bothered with the climb. Just don't go jumping into the pool from up there"

"Sure," Joshua said, closing the door.

It was 7:09 p.m. Barlow would be waiting for his call. Instead of reaching for the phone he waited a moment in the stillness. He imagined Nathaniel in similar circumstances, waiting to make the call to Barlow. For all Joshua knew, Nathaniel might have made a call from this very motel, perhaps thinking similar thoughts. The notion left Joshua with a discomfiting afterthought, for that was the last they heard from his brother.

Finally he sat on the bed and reached for the phone. Barlow answered on the tenth ring. "'lo," he said sleepily.

"I'm in Los Angeles," Joshua informed him. While Barlow listened he recited the name and address of the motel.

Barlow read back what Joshua told him. "Good. You've placed yourself close to both Durant and the Jamaicans." The old man swallowed and deep-breathed a moment. "Do nothing tonight – read up on Durant. Start tomorrow. And be damn careful." he stayed on the line moment as though he had something to add, but he finally hung up saying nothing.

From beyond the door came sounds of laughter and then splashes from the pool. Other residents. Joshua listened to their sounds of play as he unfolded a large street-map of Los Angeles and tacked it to the wall right of the door. Several locations were already circled in red. His index finger traced a path from the Hollywood Jewel to the nearest mark. _Stromboli Mansion_ was scrawled next to it. Annotations were scribbled beside other pre-marked locations: the Jamaican's warehouse stronghold in Inglewood; several casinos; a red circle in the Fox hills district indicated Regan's mansion.

Hands on hips, he stepped back and surveyed the map. The stall was set for whenever he was ready. Discovering who the renegades worked with – or worked _for_ – would involve a process of elimination, beginning of course with the most likely – Salvatore Durant.

He tossed the magic marker and turned his head toward the sound of bathers by the pool. Someone laughed – a girl. Though a sweet sound, it made Joshua feel more desolate. More than anything he coveted their simplicity. Craved their anonymity. He envied each of them for not being him.

At 6:55 on the morning of September 9th, Joshua Grenire stashed the Beretta deep in the wall safe in his motel room and took only the Minolta binoculars on this his first stakeout. The day was cloudless and bright, the sunlight spangling off the pool. A faint tang of Chlorine hung in the air. At this hour the sundeck was dry and deserted but for a lizard, which skittered away at Joshua's approach.

Following directions he had memorized last night, he steered a course to Missouri Ave, which according to the map overlooked Santa Monica Boulevard and presumably Salvatore Durant's mansion.

He cruised along Missouri until he found a secluded spot in the shade of a huge Eucalyptus. However, though less than a mile from Santa Monica Boulevard, Joshua's lookout offered a poor view. Stromboli mansion, completely fenced, stretched two hundred yards along the boulevard. Although Joshua could see most of the perimeter, trees and shrubbery masked anything beyond. Strategically placed walls and fences effectively screened much of the structure.

He sighed and lowered the binoculars. From this distance all he saw were shimmering tree-tops; eucalyptus, spruce, palm trees and countless others, mainly evergreens; perhaps _deliberately_ evergreens to create a perennial screen. To the naked eye, the view from the hillside was scarcely a heat-hazed mirage.

A wink of sunlight on glass near the perimeter fence at the front of the property caught his interest; he quickly aimed the binoculars. A bright red BMW pulled into the gateway. Two suited men emerged from a small outbuilding to observe the visitor. A moment later, the tall black gates proceeded to swing open. A brief puff of exhaust smoke, and the red car rolled through, reappearing in glimpses through the evergreens.

Minutely adjusting the Minolta's focus, he tracked the car's progress until the growth of foliage completely blocked his view. He lowered the lenses, and with the naked eye searched for signs of the red car, but the woodland barrier was impenetrable. "Damn."

Joshua dropped the binoculars on the passenger seat and drove a few hundred yards farther along the road. From this new angle other parts of the grounds emerged from cover. He leaned out of the window, as though gaining an extra two feet might significantly improve his view.

Though less of the driveway was visible from here, more of the actual structure was revealed. Particularly, a slice of the steps and the entrance porch. Two armed men stood sentry. The doors opened and a third man stepped into view, hands outstretched in a welcome gesture. This man looked familiar, and Joshua teased the focus dial, searching for a sharper image. Yes, the ponytail gave him away. Divo Serefini – Durant's personal bodyguard – and a potential renegade.

Joshua's stomach lurched.

The person to whom Serefini was gesturing came up the steps, brisk and businesslike. A young woman who, by the offhand manner in which she brushed off the bodyguard's welcome, appeared to be in a foul mood. Joshua saw only a brief profile; though even at this range, he suspected she was Genna Delucio, the big man's younger daughter. Not down as a suspect, but...

An idea struck him. Durant's daughter was supposedly a civilian, no longer a part of her father's corporation – if she ever had been. And by the manner of her arrival she did not look like she planned a lengthy stay. Perhaps he could wait for her to emerge; follow her. She should be far less suspicious than a gangster. Could be this the easier route? Maybe a back door into Durant's clan.

He dumped the binoculars on the passenger seat, keyed the ignition and peeled away from the curb. The Camaro left a line of rubber on the road behind, which Joshua saw in the mirror. This coaxed a little smile from him. All at once his actions felt structured, imbued with a sense of purpose, directed by more than just plain guesswork. He took the first left off Missouri and headed down to Santa Monica Boulevard.

Genna Delucio counted three men as they filed out of the gatehouse at Stromboli Mansion. She quick-glimpsed each of them; none looked familiar. If her father was recruiting outside guns, more paid soldiers, to stand between himself and the Invisible Assassin, he had to be fretting.

Good. She liked to think of the cold-hearted bastard worrying. Anything capable of denting his sense of control could not be all bad.

No sooner had the gates opened sufficiently for her car to fit through she pressed the gas, weaving her way through the grounds. Landscaped borders flanked the driveway. Lawn verges so well groomed that at first she mistook them for Astroturf. For reasons she could not define, this sickened her.

In front of the house the driveway's island centerpiece was profuse with color, the flowers in their peak of bloom. Something about the arrangements looked wrong; then she had it, and stifled a humorless laugh. Such was her father's legend it appeared to her the flowers stood to attention under Sal Durant's command. _Open your petals to the sun or the seedlings get it._ The immaculate gardens suggested her father enjoyed horticulture, but she doubted he knew Juniper from Jacaranda.

Stromboli Mansion, a huge Spanish Modern residence, stood firm in the sun like a monarch. Wide stone steps served the main entrance, flanked by flower-filled hanging-baskets suspended from low balconies. Wings ran east, west and north, each serving eight rooms. This she remembered from her short childhood here. Returning today stirred no pleasant memories. Devoid of a mother, and therefore a mother's love, her early life became virtually sterile under the control of her insidious father in this impersonal, barren house.

Genna pulled up in front of the steps. She left the engine running and the door open. Looking neither left nor right, she strode along the gravel path to the steps. Two suntanned guards, armed with automatic weapons, stood sentry. One of them pointed. "I'll have you car moved to-"

"It stays there." She knew the guards thought she was a bitch, but she didn't care.

As she mounted the steps the double oak doors swung open and Divo Serefini stepped out grandly, arms wide in greeting.

Genna swatted at air between them. "Out of my way." Without skipping a beat, Serefini dropped his arms, letting his finger trace a path across her shoulder. She turned pinned him with a piercing stare. "Don't you dare touch me."

Serefini gave a light, disarming shrug, returning her stare levelly. "Just being friendly."

Regardless of the low esteem in which she held Serefini, despite her indomitable sense of self-possession, the son of a bitch rattled her. Somehow he managed to penetrate her stern defenses and make her feel molested simply with his eyes, as though his gaze were a physical entity poking and prodding at her clothing.

A year ago, right after Suzanne was hurt, Genna came across him at the hospital. Confused and angry and overwhelmed with grief, she had fallen under the siege of paparazzi in the reception area. Serefini had muscled in and pulled her away and into an unoccupied room. In the relative brief quietness of that room, he'd made as if to comfort her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Genna, still in deep shock, had not immediately realized Serefini's hand slipping down her lower back. Then the doors had burst open and more reporters flooded the room. Thereafter Serefini regarded her with a furtive grin.

Right now, on her father's porch, he displayed that same expression. "Friendly?" She replied evenly. "I'd rather be ravished by wagon-full of ringworm-ridden bikers."

His macho expression shifted a touch.

"The study," he said shortly. "Your father's expect-"

Genna turned her back while Serefini was still talking. Head held high, she marched along the polished oak floor. The porch opened into a spacious hall that split into two ground floor wings. A double staircase ran up the walls, turned ninety degrees and met in the center, rose another flight, where the corridor split into the two second floor wings.

The double doors to her father's study were closed. Without bothering to knock she turned the handle and marched in.

Salvatore Durant stood with his back to the door, his tall figure silhouetted by French windows and the sunlit gardens beyond, flanked by two of his men. A large board-room table, polished to a glaring shine, reflected her father's shadow.

She slammed the door behind her, punctuation for her arrival; still she provoked no reaction. Only the metronomic ticking of a large grandfather clock fractured the quietness.

Hardened by years of experience at intimidating people, maintaining an illusion of precise control, Salvatore Durant turned only when he wished it. "Genevieve," he said, as though she'd surprised him. He wore a Gucci suit over an open throated shirt; no necktie. His face was somewhat paler than she remembered. However, his eyes were exactly as she remembered them - they were soulless.

When she stiffened at his cheek kiss, a studied, quizzical expression fell across his face. The son of a bitch actually tried to look wounded. After all the suffering he had put her through; the constant shadowing by his men, he still tried to push her sentimental button.

Finding her own space again, Genna said: "Here's the skinny: unless you stop having me followed I shall write two letters; one to the police, one to the press. I'll create such a stinking pile of bad publicity every legitimate business you have interests in will run for cover. And after all the newspapers have scraped through the dirt and hung you on the rack, I'll take Suzanne from here in LA and move her to a hospital in Canada. You'll see neither of us again."

Her father remained pokerfaced for exactly five seconds. Then he cocked his head and smiled. "I underestimate you – again. You've got strength. And in this world..." he raised an index finger.

"Spare me the commercial," she said ungraciously. "I didn't come here to listen to your big-talking Godfather speeches – you might fool these clowns," she indicated the guards, "with well-rehearsed talk, but you and I know it's no more than hot-air and horse-shit. I'm tired of being an object of your 'care'. The pretense is killing me."

Without turning to look at his men, he said: "Carlos, Archie. Take a walk."

They did not wait for directions.

Genna watched her father stroll over to his desk and pick up a large brown envelope. He slipped two fingers inside and pulled out what appeared to be photographs, which he placed on the table in front of her.

"Take a look at these," he father suggested. More than ever he resembled Boris Karloff. No false expression softened his rigid features. He appeared as he did to the world at large: a mean old bastard. Nothing had changed – he'd just switched tack; endeavoring to shock her into submission. Another ploy in a long line of ploys.

"I won't," she said.

"Look at them," he ordered, grabbed them off the table and pushed them in front of her eyes.

Driven to some extent by morbid curiosity, Genna glanced at the topmost photograph. At first she saw nothing recognizable in the image, and so she narrowed her eyes. Then the architecture resolved and she saw the man within the mutilation. Then she couldn't _un_ see it. "Oh my God."

After overcoming her initial shock, Genna straightened and matched her father's stare: "This is what your way of life represents: pain and death. That's not the life I choose."

Her father shrugged and placed the snaps on the table. "Beyond these walls everything may appear fine, but you can forget the sunshine, the cool pacific breeze and the take-away meals – they're illusions of common people. Out there, a war is being waged, a war which you're part of-"

"Will you stop saying that?" She yelled. "I'm part of nothing you created. I exist in _spite_ of you. Live and move in spite of everything you are and pretend to be."

"Don't disrespect me, Genevieve," he said.

"You think you're worthy of respect? That's an illusion you've conjured for yourself, with bullying and threats of violence." She grabbed a handful of the photographs. "This is the only kind of newsreel you create; death and carnage and goddamn heartbreak. This stuff has been in my head for years and I'm...sick of it."

Her father remained cool.

She threw the photographs at him; they seesawed to the floor at his feet. "Stick them in your portfolio."

"You're upset."

"Yes, I am upset – very much so. If you really wanted to change that, you'd stay the hell out of my life."

Salvatore Durant turned and poured a shot of whiskey. "You may have taken your mother's name," he said, knocking back the drink. "But you are a _Durant_. You are my blood. Perhaps one day you'll understand, maybe even learn to appreciate, what I'm trying to do - which is simple. I need you to move back in here for two...maybe three weeks, until this....assassin business blows over."

Genna laughed high and long in near comic frustration. "You haven't heard a word I've said." She threw him a contemptuous look. "Like a machine, you switch off until it's your turn to speak. March around your big house demanding to be heard and refusing to listen. I don't live in that world. I never will."

With that she turned and pushed through the doors, down the corridor and through the main entrance. The BMW was as she had left it, door hanging open. The armed sentries did no more than exchange looks as she passed them, but snapped to attention as Durant came striding after her.

"Genevieve." He caught her arm.

She stiffened at his touch. "Don't you dare put your hands on me." So icy was her tone that he released her at once. The sentries exchanged more furtive glances.

"I can provide anything you need," Durant said quietly.

"I need my independence," she said. "To walk down the street without being followed by the three stooges. I want a boyfriend you won't intimidate." She slammed the door and lowered the window. "And it would be especially nice," she said with deliberate ungraciousness. "To get laid by the same guy more than once."

Durant did not look her in the eye. Instead, his gaze came to rest on the red BMW, _Suzanne's_ red BMW. And finally, his expression changed.

Genna felt a rush of irreverent satisfaction. Her old man's face twitched, and then finally he did look at her. Although Genna believed she felt no real love for her father, tears welled behind her eyes. Then all at once her resolve came down like a lead shutter, crushing the emotional rebellion beneath its heel.

She patted the steering wheel. "Suzanne can't drive anymore...remember?"

Much to Genna's surprise, her father raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, rubbed them together and showed her his empty palms. Then he turned away and strode back inside.

Taken unawares by this notably rare show of resignation, Genna narrowed her eyes at his turned back. Then she threw the car into gear and retraced her path toward the gatehouse, continually checking the rearview mirror.

Outside Durant's mansion, where traffic continued to cruise by on Santa Monica Boulevard, Joshua watched for the red BMW. During the last fifteen minutes no one had gone in or come out of the gates. He had begun to fear that Genna Delucio had already left during the time it took him to get here from Missouri Avenue. Or Maybe Stromboli Mansion had alternative exits.

At that moment, the nose of the red BMW poked out, paused briefly for a gap in the traffic, then joined the flow and soon became lost in the steady stream of cars.

Joshua ditched the map he had been pretending to read and slipped into the line of vehicles, cutting up the car behind. He glanced once at Durant's gatehouse, where three men stood together watching the BMW drive away. Fortunately they gave no sign they had connected her leaving with his hasty acceleration into traffic. Which was convenient, for now he was free to...free to what?

He looked stupidly at his reflection; his reflection looked stupidly back: _don't ask me._ The harder he thought, the easier his mind remained blank. He realized he was functioning purely on impulse. Inventing this as he went along. A moment ago he had clung to the half formed plan that he would somehow acquaint himself with the woman in the car. How he would execute this brilliant plan he hadn't a clue. ' _Hello Miss Genna. I'm in town hunting assassins. By the way I'm Joshua_."

Though still tracking the BMW, he dropped farther back. As he watched, another car inserted itself, increasing the gap. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hoping for inspiration, wondering what silky technique James Bond would use. But nothing came. His mind was freewheeling in neutral.

"Well thought out, smart guy," he said, reluctantly admitting that, in the absence of a plan, his compulsion alone would have to suffice. The art of meeting women was a talent in which he possessed zero experience. Nevertheless, he hung on the BMW's tail.

After turning onto Wiltshire and heading east toward La Cienga, less than three miles from Stromboli mansion, Genna noticed her hands were trembling. All at once there was not enough air in the car and she felt the onset of nausea. A dim part of her suspected this might happen. After fights with her father, particularly the wowzers, she would get the shakes. The desperate energy she burned to remain steadfast and aloof during the earthquake often left her vulnerable to aftershocks.

Ugly thoughts of retribution and God knew what else – fallout from being near her father – played on her mind. While negotiating the carriageway she breathed deeply and evenly. It served little purpose. Her nerves were stretched taut as piano wire. She checked her mirrors and maneuvered into the fast lane, setting a mental course for the one place where she allowed herself to let down her guard, where she could be at peace for a while.

She did not notice the Camaro on her tail.

Genna parked away from the building and crossed the lot in the baking sunshine. In the air-conditioned reception area she looked up at the desk where Grace Slinger, a large black woman who usually worked the night shift, was seated. "Why hi there, Miss Genna." The big woman regarded her genially over the top of her glasses.

"Morning Miss Grace," Genna replied. The two women smiled wanly at each other. Grace knew the score.

Only when she reached the last room on the left on the second floor did she truly relax. Her hand hesitated toward the door; she took a breath, held it momentarily, and then slowly exhaled the ill thoughts souring her mood. Her fingers left quickly fading imprints of moisture on the chrome door knob.

Inside, classical music and the inhale/exhale of the ventilator were the only sounds. Essence of strawberries, faint and pleasant, hung the in the air. By comparison with the hot afternoon, the room felt wonderfully cool, the air fresh and restful.

After securing the door she crept to the bedside of Suzanne Carla Durant. Suzy lay propped at a shallow angle facing the window. Her chest rhythmically rose and fell under the governance of the breathing machine.

In the last year, Genna had learned much about traumatic brain injury, or TBI. Anoxic, as the doctors called it, whereby brain cells die. Though the patient can remain stable while in coma, it guaranteed nothing– Suzanne could very well be irreversibly brain damaged; and if by modern day miracle she woke with her faculties intact, she would face arduous physical, cognitive, and occupational therapy. Waking up would certainly be no picnic.

One medical opinion declared all of this academic, claiming Suzanne was already clinically dead, and her brain waves merely involuntary electrical impulses that did not necessarily indicate cognizant thought. But others disagreed, believing Suzanne still heard those around her, still saw things, and to a degree remained moderately aware.

Genna gave no credence to the former theory. If the odds were a million to one that Suzanne was aware, Genna would still take them.

"Hi, Sis." She nudged the chair closer.

During the year Suzanne had spent in coma, her imposing physical appearance had steadily degenerated. She had dropped fifty pounds in weight; her skin had become dull and slack, drawing her features into a gaunt expression; her eyes had fallen back in her skull and her skin was ashen.

The life support machine beep-beeped, an indicator light came on, the ventilator stuttered. Genna knew this was quite normal; occurred frequently in fact. Only this occasion triggered a thought that struck Genna with such force and abruptness

( _Switch the damn machine off_ )

her heart skip-skip-skipped. The implications alone brought her to the brink of tears, the shakes returned, and her blood thudded in her temples.

Suzanne's eyes, which had been closed during the last two visits, slowly peeled open. The chill along Genna's spine deepened. Had her sister read her mind? She had read somewhere that the loss of one sense sometimes sharpened another. Perhaps having lost ninety-nine percent of her sensory awareness, Suzanne had developed incipient psychic ability.

( _Switch off the machine_ )

Genna was not a stranger to the idea. Euthanasia was a concept she had wrestled with for almost a year, though until now always on a subconscious level, in that safety zone that exists just beyond the realm of honest contemplation. And now she had she was horrorstruck; because deep down, beneath the moral reasoning of her beliefs, she knew Suzy wanted to die.

Somewhere outside, a car alarm whooped, a fitting punctuation to the revelation.

She would want to die.

_There_ , Genna thought bravely. _I said it._

She dropped her shoulders. Could she ever bring herself to take the life of another? The very thought staggered her, brought her to her knees, yet refused to be stilled. Genna believed in her heart that the taking of a life – any life, equated to the ultimate sin. And anyone who chose that road walked it forevermore.

Her sister's eyes remained open, staring at nothing, seeing nothing. "Oh Suzy," she said. "I'm so confused."

On the Medical Center parking lot, safely tucked amongst other cars, Joshua emerged tentatively from his Camaro. The ranks of vehicles gleamed in the sunshine.

Joshua glanced furtively to his left and right. Two rows down from his a woman and two children were getting into a car; none of them looked in his direction. He waited for them to drive away then threaded his way through to Genna Delucio's parked BMW.

A heat haze distorted the air above the hood. The cooling engine pinged. A hint of sweet cologne hung in the air. At the driver's side he cupped his hands to the glass and peered in. Genna Delucio's biological signature, more exclusive than fingerprints, clung to the paintwork. Those scents and sweat secretions told Joshua something he already knew:

Durant's daughter was not a renegade.

She was human.

He glanced across the lot at the hospital entrance. No sign yet of the young woman returning to her car. He tried the door, believing it would be locked. But to his surprise it clicked open. As the locking mechanism disengaged, a greater concentration of Genna Delucio's scent escaped on a push of warm air. The olfactory image distracted him for a second, and he leaned in, absorbing the scent. At that moment the BMW's piercing intruder alarm blew away the parking lot's tranquility.

Joshua recoiled like he'd been stung, slammed the door and fled, zigzagging swiftly and smoothly through the cars in the direction of the highway. Without looking where he was going he leapt over the Oleander flowerbeds that bordered the perimeter. He cleared the sidewalk and both feet came together in the road.

Horns blared and tires screeched. The nose of a sky-blue Cadillac dipped to a halt less than a foot from where he landed.

"Jesus Christ almighty," cried the woman driver in a drawling Texas accent as she trundled out of the car. "I might've squashed you like a jackrabbit." Though aged perhaps forty, she appeared much younger in denim cutoffs and a green halter top. A stupendous blaze of red hair tied above her head in a bouffant ball swung to and fro in perfect harmony with her sprightly gait.

"I'm sorry," Joshua said, peering anxiously over his shoulder.

" _You're_ sorry?" she said, her considerable chest bouncing in tandem with her considerable ball of hair. "I damn near ran you down." She put her hands on his shoulders, his arms and face, as though trying to guess his weight. She smelled of antiperspirant, sweat, and aniseed balls; one clicked against her teeth as she talked.

"I'm fine, really I am." Joshua gently removed her hands from his shoulders, turned and hurried away without looking back.

Hands on hips, head cocked appraisingly, she watched him go.

Only after footslogging westward for ten minutes, feeling hopelessly lost and a complete novice, did Joshua retrace his steps to the Medical Center. At the stretch of road where the Cadillac nearly hit him he noticed two short tire marks. He whistled. Mrs. Texas very nearly _had_ knocked him down. He pulled his gaze away from the road and scanned the lot.

To his relief the BMW's intruder alarm had ceased. No security guards – none that he could see, anyway – patrolled the grounds. He re-entered as he had left, through the bed of Oleander, careful not to step on the fragrant purple blossoms. He circled back through the cars to the slot where the BMW was parked. Only now the space was empty.

He looked up sharply and saw a flash of red heading toward the exit.

Damn - his Camaro was parked on the other side of the lot. He did the quick math in his head and concluded that he had no time to get his car and pick up the trail again. Any moment she would hit the junction and vanish into the traffic.

He slapped his forehead.

And then, finally, a spark of inspiration, which exploded in his mind like a flashgun. He credited his inspiration, ironically, to new experience. He was indeed learning as he went. Instead of rushing back to his car, he turned and went back the way he came.

Genna Delucio sat in her car at the stop sign, hands tight on the wheel, watching for a space. The concept of euthanasia echoed in her mind, bouncing off the walls like a freed bird. Was she seriously contemplating ending Suzy's life? At this point she was unconcerned with possible legal ramifications. Euthanasia, on the other hand, flew squarely in the face of her religious upbringing.

So engulfed was she in her thoughts, Genna did not immediately notice the dark Sedan crawling out of the parking lot behind her. She saw a gap in the traffic and hit the gas, glancing back at the hospital. The brown Sedan hastily joined the highway from the hospital exit ramp; its tires screeched. Genna looked up. Recognized the car immediately.

Fury swelled inside her. " _What_..."

For the second time in twenty minutes, Joshua leaped over the same bed of Oleander, planted one foot on the sidewalk, and stepped deliberately into the path of Genna Delucio's approaching car. She would hit the brakes, skid to a halt, jump out of the car and come to him. Mrs. Texas all over again.

Amazed and proud of his moment of spot ingenuity, he found himself grinning as he faced the BMW's growing silver radiator grill. Although the young woman had barely maneuvered onto the road, she was already up to speed. Sunlight flashed across the windshield, briefly dazzling him, and he turned his head away. When he turned back a moment later, he understood why the car wasn't slowing.

Genna Delucio was not watching the road – her attention was lost in the rearview mirror. _Oh shit_. He bent his knees, tensing in preparation for evasive action, when at last she did look up.

He saw her arms lock against the wheel as she stamped the brakes, applying sufficient force to stand her up in her seat. The BMW's tires screamed. Having gone through the emergency stop procedure yet still failing to halt her progress, Genna Delucio scrunched up her face and closed her eyes.

Joshua kept his eyes open. Chrome bit into his legs below his knees. His feet went from underneath him and he tumbled onto the hood. With both hands he shoved the paintwork and rode the BMW's weight as a boxer rides a punch. Like the world's clumsiest bird he flew for what would have been a world record long jump, landing in tangle of arms and legs.

For a moment his cheek was pressed hard against the sun-baked road surface, where he smelled the warm blacktop and carbon monoxide. Cars and trucks in the opposite carriageway roared by a few feet from his face, their backwash and exhaust fumes blowing his hair back.

From his road-kill perspective he saw the BMW's door swing open, the suspension rock, denim clad legs scissor out of the car and boot-heels skip with frantic haste across the tarmac to his side.

"Oh-my-God," Genna Delucio reached for his arm, but then withdrew and held her head in her hands. "Oh-my- _God._ "

Joshua gained a sitting position and craned his neck to look at her, squinting in the brightness, ignoring the dull throb in his legs. The fragrance that he first got wind of by her car was now strong in his nostrils. As was her natural, human scent – though now it was tainted with fear.

"I didn't see..." the young woman said. "I was, I wasn't..." she cupped a hand over her mouth.

Joshua said nothing for a moment; he just gazed at her. The first picture he ever saw of Durant's daughter was a faded, pixilated news-cutting Barlow pasted into the scrapbook. Next, fleeting glimpses through binoculars. Even from a distance she had appeared pretty. Up close, with a blue sky backdrop, she was stunning.

"Try...try to keep still," she instructed, looking round at the hospital, as though considering whether she could carry him. "My phone's in the car."

"I'm fine." Joshua said, and through her protestations rose to his feet, brushing the street dust from his clothes, trying to make clear by his poise that he was perfectly fine. But the stricken expression refused to leave the young woman's face. She patted her chest below her neck, as though to calm her racing heartbeat.

Behind her the stalled BMW was obstructing traffic flow. Other motorists slowed to steer a path through, heads poking from windows to swan-neck the carnage. When they saw no bodies lying in the road, they drove on looking somewhat disappointed.

"Come," Genna took his arm. "To my car." He allowed her to ease him into the passenger seat.

"I'm okay," Joshua said. "Nothing's broken."

Ignoring him, Genna hurried to the driver's side and slipped behind the wheel. Performed an illegal U-turn and headed back toward the hospital. She would not look him in the eye. "I simply don't know what to say to you," she said. "I really don't. I can't apologize enough."

In fear of bursting the bubble, Joshua said nothing. The hard part was over. He had made close encounters of the third kind - contact. Unconventionally so, to say the least, but he had landed at first base. Less than an hour ago he was watching her through binoculars. Now he was inside her car. It was a result. The next step was to keep her acquaintance for as long as it took him to investigate her father's syndicate.

The casualty department was cool and pleasant, quiet as a church, clinically clean. Genna booked in at reception and led Joshua to a row of seats. They sat down together, the vinyl squeaking and creaking. Joshua anticipated an uncomfortable silence, figuring that if anywhere, this would be where he could blow it; open his mouth to speak, and put his boot right in there.

But Genna Delucio was too shaken to notice anything untoward about his manner. She wrung her hands in her lap and tapped her heal, occasionally looking out of the glass doors to the outside. "This place gives me the willies."

"I've never been in a hospital." Joshua's eyes roamed the reception area.

"You're kidding?"

He shook his head.

"Never break an arm or a leg when you were a kid?" she said.

"No."

"Fall off your skateboard or bicycle? Gash your knees or...have your appendix removed...tonsils...wisdom teeth?"

He shook his head to each of them.

She gave a wry smile. "Your folks wrap you in cotton wool?"

Joshua dropped his gaze. "Just lucky I guess."

"Luck," Genna said. "I doubt it. A guardian angel, maybe." Talking seemed to relax her somewhat, though Joshua sensed apprehension lurking beneath her outward manner. Inside she was twitching and restless.

Speaking only because the silence made him uncomfortable, he said. "Maybe I do have a guardian angel."

"Then where the hell was he five minutes ago?" Her voice rose to one octave shy of outright anger. She quickly checked herself. "I'm sorry. You stepped in front of me on a bad day." She looked at the floor.

"I don't think I need to see a doctor," he said, hoping she would maybe forget the hospital and go have lunch with him instead.

"Oh, don't be a baby." She mocked.

"Oh I'm not afraid," he said. "I'd just be wasting his time."

"You should be seeing double." She held up three fingers. "How many?"

"Three," he replied promptly.

"Let me see your eyes."

When she moved close, he breathed her scent, a personal signature whose source lay beneath the vague aroma of cologne and the faint residue of scented soap; he sensed conflict, emotions that ran far deeper than her manner suggested.

Her closeness violated his space; he began to tremble. "Everything look okay?" he inquired, blinking several times.

"Well, I'm not a doctor," she said, touching her chin with her fingertips. "Your pupils are the same size."

"Is that good?"

She nodded. "You have strange eyes."

"Strange?"

"They're blue-brown with crimson striations. Kind of rare combination. My sister has blue-brown eyes – no crimson, though." She offered a perfunctory smile and quickly dropped her gaze. A minute later she resumed her furtive glancing at the exit doors.

Joshua figured if he was going to escape being examined, he'd better make his move now. He started to rise when a tall, sandy-haired doctor, his whites billowing out behind him, breezed through the swing-doors. He consulted a clip-board and called Joshua's name. When he saw Genna, he brightened instantly.

"How are you, Sam?" She rose and they embraced.

Doctor Samuel James Harper, according to his lapel badge, looked her up and down with unabashed affection. "Marvelous," he said in a refined English accent. "Even more so now I've seen you, dear girl." He pinched the tip of her chin. Then, adopting an air of concern, held her at arm's length. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm...I'm fine," she said, glancing at Joshua.

Joshua stood by impassively while Genna recounted, in a tone ranging from embarrassment to outright shame, her hapless collision. She then indicated Joshua with an air of further self-recrimination and disbelief, together with an abiding gratefulness to guardian angels that saved his life.

"I'm okay," Joshua said, feeling his face redden.

The doctor narrowed his eyes and addressed Joshua genially. "Well, dear boy; any tingling at all in your extremities? Numbness? Blurred vision? Headaches? Nausea?"

Joshua shook his head after each question. He smiled reassuringly at Genna. "I feel perfectly fine."

While Genna waited alone, Doctor Harper put Joshua through a standard examination. To Joshua's relief, Harper found nothing amiss. Only when he shone an ophthalmoscope into Joshua's eyes did the doctor hesitate. He looked long and hard into the small instrument; slowly, his smile melted away. Joshua heard the doctor's steady breathing change. "Though there's no apparent damage," Harper said. "The reaction to the light seems...my word."

Joshua became agitated. "If you're done, doctor?"

Reluctantly, the doctor switched off the instrument and backed off. "You pass the standard tests with colors. But I should like to run more – if only to be sure. And I ought to send you down to X-ray." All the while he fiddled with the ophthalmoscope. "But your eyes..."

Joshua stood and backed away, smiling weakly. "I feel fine, doctor. I don't want to keep you. I need to leave now."

Doctor Harper paused before putting away the Ophthalmoscope. "Then I guess we're through."

Back in the waiting room Doctor Harper relayed Joshua's examination results to Genna Delucio. Showing obvious relief, she smiled wanly and thanked him. Harper pecked her cheek, then turned and pumped Joshua's hand. "You've been more than gracious, for which you have my personal regards." Harper paused halfway through the swing doors. "One other question, Joshua," he said. "How's your night vision?"

Joshua looked askance at Genna. "Pretty good, I guess."

"I thought so." The doctor nodded.

Out in the parking lot Genna said. "Thank you again for being so generous about this. You could have made real trouble – and I'd have deserved it." Whenever a car drove by, Genna broke off the conversation and craned her neck to look at the driver. "If there's anything else I can do..."

"It was just an accident."

Genna smiled, sending a peach-colored wave of gratitude across to him. The breeze caught it, mingled the scent with the perfume of the Oleander blossoms, and carried it away across the cars. She fished out her car-keys and eased herself behind the wheel of her car.

Joshua noticed her hands were still shaking, and he looked away. He had dragged this girl, who had no real bad in her, and if not for a hoodlum father would probably spend her life being happy and making people happy, into a clandestine operation to snare killers. Treating her as an innocent, expendable pawn to trap the corrupt king. Standing on the parking lot, the sun casting his shadow over Genna's face, he found himself wishing he had met her in more ordinary circumstances.

_You are not an ordinary being._ He heard Barlow whisper, but the voice came from far, far away.

Genna Delucio sat in her car, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. She gunned the engine enough to make it clear she wanted to be moving, though not enough to appear rude.

Joshua extended his hand: "It's been a pleasure meeting you."

Genna released an exasperated laugh. "I'll bet it was." She accepted his hand.

For a moment, he thought he might not let go. For if he lost this connection now, it would put him right back at the start line. "You want to get a coffee, or a...a doughnut?" he said, wincing inwardly.

A sudden wave of dread came off her and filled the car; her pupils contracted and her mouth fell open, yet no words came out. She glanced over her shoulder. Although nobody was there, she spoke in a whisper. "I really can't," she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Some other time, perhaps."

"Sure," Joshua said quietly.

"Can I at least give you a ride?"

"That would be great," he said, and quickly and climbed into the passenger seat before she could change her mind.

"Seat belt might be wise." Genna suggested.

"Of course," he snapped it shut across his waist.

She regarded him with comic incredulity. "Glad I wasn't driving a bus."

Nathan and others

Situated at the end of a ten-yard driveway the single story house lay hidden from the street by trees and shrubs gone wild. Dandelions and tufts of grass erupted through cracks in the paving, the lawns had long since degraded back to meadowland and weeds choked the flowerbeds. Wild bundles of Star Jasmine grew unchecked from a wrought iron trestle over the gate, where the leafless stems scratched against the paving.

On the roof a loose terracotta tile poked at an angle from the gutter. Chunks of stucco were missing from the walls, exposing the brickwork. Porch timbers were twisted and cracked, the paint flaking away, revealing the previous, more garish color. Grime and guano coated the windows.

Inside the house was cool and dim, illuminated only by meager daylight filtering through gaps in the drapes. A plush carpet stretched along the hall and into the spacious living quarters. The room's centerpiece was a large black leather sofa flanked by two matching easy chairs. These sat on a Persian rug and faced a huge T.V screen tuned into a music channel. On either side of the screen were floor-standing, four-foot high loudspeakers.

Blayne Cortland sprawled across the sofa, wearing a pair of Levis and nothing else, his toes absently scratching at the leather. He felt for the remote control unit and flipped randomly through music channels. A Rolling Stones video appeared on the screen; after brief consideration, he tossed the remote and watched Mick Jagger scream _How does it feel to be on your own? With no direction home? A complete unknown? Like a rolling stone?_

Blayne's lips moved with the lyric, but his mind drifted elsewhere. On the plasma screen a spaced-out Patricia Arquette journeyed through her drug-induced fantasy. Blayne did not see Miss Arquette. He saw ghastly faces, open wounds, men fleeing, muzzle-flashes from automatic fire. He saw mortal terror.

Starting to squirm, Blayne sucked in air, slid his hand down to his crotch and explored, squeezing and pushing, gyrating against the pressure of his hand. Almost growling, he recalled the thrill of the streets, the downtown bars, the LA heartbeat he knew so well, where he would find a woman with a passion equal to his own.

_Like a Rolling Stone_ surrendered to Billy Idol singing _LA Woman._

Blayne's insular meanderings began to affect his body chemistry – as it always did. Muscles flexed almost of their own volition, his five senses effectively snapped alert. The want of quick sex became an overwhelming need. A maddening itch he could not scratch. He unzipped his jeans and grasped his erection, recalling memories of roughhouse sex. But after a minute he stopped, breathing hard and unsatisfied. His blood beat hard in his temples. Quick release was no longer sufficient. He had raised the bar too high. Imagination no longer exceeded the reality.

He secured his zipper and rolled off the sofa, craving physical movement, activity – anything to occupy his mind. The sun room at the back of the house offered panoramic views of Santa Monica. Through the haze he saw the outline of the college, the airport, and the vague movement of cross-town traffic.

The need for release burned in his loins. Straight forward fucking no longer satisfied him – it rarely ever did. But now his appetites were different. He needed a promiscuous, sleazy, no-holds-barred slut. A hopeless nymphet. As much a victim of her appetites as he was of his. Oh, he'd use her like she had never been used. Drag her beyond the outer limits of her experience, to depths her filthy mind never knew existed. Screw out of her every ounce of resistance. Pound her, pummel her, stick it in every orifice, slam her like a foaming stallion until she blacked out. He would invent a new superlative for the term 'fucked'. After he was sated, had emptied his seed into her, he would show her something else.

From inside one of the bedrooms came the heated sounds of coupling. Blayne narrowed his eyes; a wave of irritation rippling through him. Between jobs, Nathan spent his days either planning the next move or screwing Melissa. During daylight hours - when Nathan insisted they stay indoors- he would lose himself in marathon sex sessions with the horny bitch.

Angry and frustrated, Blayne sauntered out of earshot. Melissa had been his girl before Nathan appeared like a ghost and spirited her away from him. Over losing his girl Blayne held no particularly bitterness, for Nathan gave both him and Melissa something in return. A dark gift that redefined him as a being, elevated him to the summit of the evolutionary scale, made him more than human. He could own any car, fuck any girl, and he could kill any man.

MTV's _LA Woman_ gave way to Queen's _Princes of the Universe_ , from the film Highlander. "There can be only one," Christopher Lambert said in his husky accent. Blayne smiled; the French guy was cool. But just an actor.

"Nathan!" He bellowed, reaching for his shirt. "I gotta get out for a minute." In the dimness of the hall, his eyes glowed faintly crimson. Nathan usually forbade any of them to leave the house alone. Though in Los Angeles Blayne feared nothing and no one. _He_ was the Prince of this particular Universe

"Misdemeanors, muggings and murders," said Joshua, lowering his coffee cup. "Los Angeles has a dark side – doesn't that bother you?"

They faced each other across a narrow Formica table in a secluded booth at a coffee shop tucked away in a side street on the outskirts of Silver Lake. Genna had taken secondary roads and service alleys, sneaking through streets like a fugitive. Joshua had noted but neglected to question her furtive behavior.

Although his prime motive was to discover whether members of her father's syndicate were infected, right now nothing was further from his mind. He was eating a pleasant meal in a Los Angeles coffee shop with a beautiful girl. The ordinary social situation he found himself in surpassed his most daring dreams of interaction. By comparison the significance of his quest faded to gray.

While Genna mused over his question, her eyes strayed to the windows. "I keep meaning to split this city," she said. "But...a place gets hold of you. I don't know why. Maybe in LA we're all nuts." She twirled a finger at her temple.

The truth behind her reluctance to quit LA, thought Joshua, lurked behind the troubled look in her eyes, in the steady stream of negative vibes. Inexorably her eyes strayed to the window. Why was she afraid? A jealous boyfriend? Every now and then she settled into comfortable conversation, opened up to him, held his gaze and became involved. Then abruptly she would withdraw, become aloof and introspective. As though she were afraid of friendship.

Silence stretched between them, and Joshua feared she was preparing to conclude their mini-date: "So, you're an artist?" he said.

"Asp _iring_ ," She said. "I've neither sold nor had any of my work exhibited. Guess I'm in the LA wannabes Club."

"Sounds a grim place."

"Oh it is," she grinned. "A free membership to those who step off the bus. All you need is a bit of ambition, maybe some talent, and the customary dream. Reversing the trend is the tricky bit. I have stacks of dreams and a teeny bit of talent. I'm maybe a touch slack on the ambition front. But I enjoy what I do."

"Ambition might come later," he said. "But whether it does, I don't think time spent doing something you love is ever wasted."

Genna smiled at him. "No – no it isn't." She planted her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together and rested her chin on her knuckles. "Have you any creative leanings?"

"Not me." Joshua said. "I can't do anything."

"Everybody can do something." She narrowed her eyes. "I told you mine, now you tell me yours. What do you do for fun?"

"I guess I'm more of an observer than a doer. I like to...look at things," he said carefully. "New people and places. I like the different trees, and the coastline. I find the ocean _fascinating_ – but I can't say why. When I first saw the Pacific it took my breath. It was so..."

"Big?" Genna offered.

"Yes, big – but not _just_ big. It was... _there_ , like it or not, big and bold. No one and nothing could ever change it. Wave after wave crashed onto the beach and said, 'Howdy!' It reminded me of a cornfield I saw; sort of alive and aware... like a crowd of people all whispering together..." Joshua broke from his reverie and noticed Genna Delucio watching him closely, a tiny smile touching the corner of her mouth.

"I think maybe you found your niche." She narrowed one eye. "Joshua the reluctant poet."

He shrugged self-consciously.

Genna sipped her coffee. "So how do you fill your days – besides jaywalking yourself into bother." Her eyes went briefly skyward.

Joshua blinked. The art of conversation had lapsed on him. So wrapped up was he in this new world of human domesticity he had let down his guard. "College," he finally said.

"College," she said, settling in her seat. "What are you studying?"

"Oh," he said. "Anth- anthropology."

"Why Anthropology."

Joshua reached for the amulet, feeling the texture. "Guess I want to know where I come from."

Genna's gaze found the gold trinket. "So you're not religious, then?"

"I believe in God," he said thoughtfully. "But I'm not sure He's the God people think He is." He thought of Max Barlow praying behind closed doors.

She absorbed his words, shrugged noncommittally, and again resumed her frequent glances out of the window. Joshua's feel-good factor curled up and died. He cursed his lack of social skills.

"Where does your love of art come from," he heard himself say. "Your father?"

Genna's lip curled. "My father's artistic aspirations are financial. Like too many of us he subscribes only to the dollar philosophy." She drank the last of her coffee, grimacing as though tasting bad medicine.

"We all need money."

"True," Genna conceded. "But all too often money becomes its own reason – not what it can give you in terms of..." She checked herself, smiling a disarming smile. "Like the Fab four said. " _Can't buy me love_."'

Genna pushed away her cup and fired a quick glimpse at her watch.

It's her father, Joshua thought. She's worried about being seen. Her evasive, back-alley route through town made sense to him now. She was hiding from him.

"Do you live at....home?" he ventured.

"God, no," she answered. "My mother's dead, and...look, if it's all the same, I'd rather not discuss my family – my father and I don't see eye to eye."

"You don't?" Joshua said, immediately regretting it. "I'm sorry," he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Scratch that last question. It's none of my business."

But Genna was already rising from her chair "Look," she said. "I'm truly sorry about this morning. And I know buying you lunch isn't much compensation for knocking you down, but I gotta be going."

"But.... But..." Joshua started to rise. ".. I haven't seen your paintings."

Genna raised one eyebrow. "I don't recollect making the offer. I'm still learning, remember. My feelings are bone china."

"I promise an honest opinion."

She cocked her head. "It certainly isn't your opinion that scares me, Mr. Anthropologist."

"Scares you?" he said, genuinely puzzled. "Something scares you.... Me?" he planted his palm on his chest. "I scare you?"

"Come on now, Joshua." She said. "This is a Los Angeles. Crime capital of the West Coast. For all I know you could be anything from an encyclopedia salesman to a serial killer."

"Would a serial killer step in front of a speeding car?"

"A salesman might..."

"Well, in the absence of a suitcase....."

"Not so fast," she said. "Maybe you're a kamikaze serial killer." She nodded gravely. "Yes, but you're still a novice. Not quite the divine wind yet."

"Maybe I should hurl myself under a baby carriage."

"Well," Genna said. "This is Los Angeles."

"I sort of noticed."

Genna checked her watch again. "I like you, Joshua, but I have to go."

Joshua was all used up; he found no more witty repartee. Instead, he rounded the table and stepped toward her. "Can I... call you?"

"Hardly an original line, Joshua," she said. "No poetry to help your case?"

"I thought that _was_ poetic."

Genna observed him at length. Then she found a pencil in her bag and scribbled something on a napkin. "Give me a call – maybe we'll take a stroll on that beach of yours." And then she turned and left.

In the dimness at the back of the coffee shop Joshua stepped into the phone booth and closed the folding door. The tiny cubicle was moderately soundproofed and amplified his breathing. Blood thumped in his temples and his hands trembled as he dialed Barlow's number.

The old man answered on the fifth ring. "Hell _o_..." Barlow's voice disintegrated into a coughing fit.

"It's me," Joshua said, and fell silent. A small mirror scrawled with graffiti was riveted to the wall by the phone. He watched his reflection. His eyes had taken on a faint reddish tinge.

"What's happened?" asked Barlow when his cough was under control.

What could he say? _Hi, I've found nothing to connect Durant with the renegades yet, but I just met this real neat girl: 5'8', a hundred and twenty pounds, olive complexion-_

Staring out his reflection, Joshua said. "I've struck an acquaintance with one of Durant's people. I left her a minute ago-"

" _Her_?" Barlow cut in. "What _her_? Who's your contact?" A steely skim of fear edged his words.

"Durant's daughter," Joshua said levelly. "I was staking out Stromboli Mansion I followed a car to the hospital. She was the one driving. If anyone can get me near to the syndicate, she can."

"...one of them," Barlow was saying.

"What was that?"

"I said you're not one of them, Joshua." Barlow wheezed. "Don't forget."

"For _get_." Joshua said. "You've been telling me since I was six years old, how could I forget?"

Barlow coughed. "So long as you're clear. Big-city life is a culture shock for you, where all your beliefs will come into question, but you must be strong. You are not like the others, you are..."

"I know," Joshua squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm an abomination. An aberration of-"

"Stop it right now," Barlow said. "Self pity's a luxury we can't allow ourselves. Stick to the job. Forget the Durant woman. We'll have to think of something else."

Scarcely aware he was speaking, Joshua said. "Someone wants the phone."

"They can wait."

"I've no more change."

"Joshua!"

"I'll call tomorrow." He hung up.

He stood in the booth looking at the small mirror. His face expressionless as a puppet's. The moment of levity inspired by the girl's company fizzled away. In its place he found only disillusion. Barlow was right. Living among ordinary people wouldn't make him one of them any more than swimming in the ocean would make him a dolphin. At best he was a tourist. After all, he existed not to gallivant with the natives but to find and exterminate the renegades. It was the only reason he was here.

He left the booth and made for the exit, wondering how he was going to make the several miles back to the medical center where his car was still parked.

Directly he left the coffee shop and stepped into the sun, he sensed trouble. It came to him on the air before he saw the two men. The first, a statuesque dark-skinned South American dressed in a black suit, fell into step alongside him. Joshua looked down and saw a pistol jammed into his ribs. A second man, short and squat with a lopsided mouth, grabbed Joshua's other arm. Both men wore disarming smiles.

Durant's men. Wow, these guys moved quickly.

The gun pressed hard in his side. "That way, sonny."

Joshua allowed himself to be frog-marched into the service alley to a waiting Sedan. A third man got out of the car and opened the trunk.

Whilst he was manhandled to the back of the car, Joshua surreptitiously inspected each of the gangsters. All it took was a few seconds. None of them were renegades. Their scents were all characteristically human. So at least three of Durant's people – four including Genna, were human. Yet these represented only a tiny percentage of Durant's full strength; far from conclusive that their syndicate was clean.

The third man removed something from his pocket. A black silken hood. "For alley-cats like you the little lady's out of bounds," he said without looking directly at Joshua.

This confirmed Joshua's earlier suspicions. Since the moment he had met Genna she had continually looked over her shoulder, or in her mirrors, or out of the coffee shop window. These were the people she feared.

The big man, who Joshua recognized as from his scrapbook as Carlos Mondragon, raised his mouth to Joshua's ear, his breath warm and reeking of chewing tobacco. "I think you used up eight of your nine lives being hit by the car."

Joshua frowned. If they had witnessed the accident, it was also likely they saw him tailing Genna; watched him snooping around her car, too. They must have waited for her to leave the coffee shop. Ironically, his unconventional plot to infiltrate Durant's clan proved a resounding success. He half smiled to himself

"Find something amusing?" Mondragon half turned to his buddies and chuckled softly, shrugging his shoulders. "Hey Manny, he must be some kind of bad ass." With the butt of his pistol he cracked Joshua across the bridge of the nose.

"Easy," Manny Winkler said, placing the hood over Joshua's head. "The ki-ki-kid can't talk with no tuh-tuh-teeth in his head. Get him i-i-i- _in_ the truh-trunk."

"Jesus, Manny," the third gangster said. "You can't talk _with_ teeth in your head."

Joshua allowed them to lock him in the Sedan's trunk. For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles he experienced pangs of fear. In a matter of hours – or even minutes – he could be confronting his first renegade. More by good luck than good management, his plan had worked perfectly. He couldn't hope for a better opportunity to look at Durant's men. There was a small problem.

The Beretta was still cased and under the bed at the Hollywood Jewel.

After thirty minutes in the cloying confines of the trunk, listening to muffled conversation and the calming sounds of the engine's drone, Joshua felt the Sedan slow and ease gently along a winding incline. The car stopped briefly, he heard clipped dialogue, and then they were moving again. Pollen and pine resin smells slunk into the car. The Sedan's tires crunched gravel and the engine died. Doors opened and closed and the sound of a key in the trunk's lock preceded a blast of fresh air.

Several pairs of hands heaved him out of the trunk and set him on his feet. The flower-scented air smelled blessed after the stuffy ride, and he inhaled deeply.

Like a blind man with several guide dogs, Joshua was led up a flight of stairs, down a corridor, bustled through a doorway and guided across a room. A chair nudged into the backs of his knees, forcing him to sit. Though blinded by the hood, he nonetheless sensed the number of people present by their biological signatures. A sweaty gangster padded him down, removing items from his pockets – a few dollars, the news-clipping of Genna, and the motel receipt.

Fingers that smelled of sweat and nicotine fumbled with the drawstring at his throat; a moment later the hood was snatched from his head and daylight hit him like a flashgun. He blinked at the sudden brightness.

A dozen men were in the room with him. All wore suits of Italian design. Some stood, others leaned on furniture; but all of them glared, presenting a gallery of menacing expressions that varied from curiosity to outright hatred.

Nearest was a guy of about fifty-five, short and squat, whose enormous belly pushed at his shirt buttons. Patches of sweat darkened the armpits of his jacket. The whites of his eyes were yellowed; he emanated an aura of pure anger and aggression. One mean guy – but not a renegade.

The next man differed sharply from his portly counterpart. Slim and gaunt, he wore a full suit, mirror-shine shoes, and contact lenses – a sure sign the guy was not a renegade.

Frustration crept in into Joshua. All were human. He did not detect the faintest presence of anything untoward. These guys were clean.

The last person he inspected was also the youngest; a skinny guy who ceaselessly twitched and fidgeted, swapping his weight from foot to foot, touching his hair and checking his wristwatch. When Joshua made eye contact the young man stiffened. "Fuck are you looking at?" An expression of embittered disbelief drew itself on his face. As though appalled that someone dared to stare him out. A few of the other men sniggered.

"Lighten up, Franco," Mondragon said.

All conversation abruptly stopped when the door swung open and another man entered the room. Others stepped aside to allow him unrestricted access to the prisoner. Joshua recognized him instantly; Divo Serefini. Durant's bodyguard and second in command; the man Genna had encountered on the steps.

Serefini selected a chair, positioned it back-first in front of Joshua and sat astride it. He proceeded to observe Joshua like a Botanist might examine a new species of Dandelion. Though the gangster appeared outwardly calm, Joshua sensed the man was bursting with aggression. Yet, despite the hate and the fury, the darkness of his hidden emotions, he was no more a renegade than any of the others.

"Kid," he said. "I think you know who we are, so I won't bend your ear with biographies, chilling as some of them are." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "These guys would like nothing better than to beat out of you every word of your life-story."

Joshua raised his head.

Serefini smiled. "But I don't want your life story. Just the reason you're sniffing around the girl." His lips went thin and bloodless.

When Joshua spoke he barely recognized his own voice. Any affinity he previously felt with James Bond had fizzled out. "Genna ran me over," he said. "We had lunch."

"Ran you over?" Serefini repeated. "Now why would she do that? Could it be because you tailed her from Santa Monica? Or that you tried to break into her car?"

Joshua said nothing.

Serefini snatched a fistful of Joshua's hair and pulled his head back. "You'll talk, wiseass," he said, spittle glistening between his teeth. "You'll talk until you're fucking hoarse."

Genna Delucio returned to her apartment block and parked the BMW in the subterranean lot, looking back once as she engaged the alarm. It was then she noticed the damage to her car. The front fender and lower section of the hood were badly crimped. Clutching her keys she sank to her haunches, running her fingers over the buckled metal. The grill was twisted and one of the headlights was cracked.

" _What_?" She stood upright and sidled up to the car, positioning herself in the damage zone. Her knees fit roughly into the concavity. "You gotta be kidding."

She circled the car, inspecting the damage from several angles. This confirmed her suspicion. She was seeing the imprint of a man's legs, as though the metal had yielded like clay.

In the first floor room of Stromboli Mansion, while at the same time Genna Delucio examined her damaged BMW, two gangsters beat Joshua with Louisville Slugger baseball bats. They worked systematically on his arms and legs, aiming none of the blows at his head. And although every swing of the bats found its mark, Joshua made no sound. The only grunts came from the two men wielding the sluggers. They swung their clubs like railroad workers, sweaty and grunting and spitting. A stray swing caught Joshua a glancing blow to the head.

"Knock it off," Serefini said. "This guy doesn't know how to talk."

The two men lowered their clubs, exchanged feverish glances as they reluctantly backed away.

Joshua looked at the floor, breathing heavily, contemplating his position. Though his abduction had seen him beaten and tortured, it had nevertheless served a purpose. Afforded him a good look at who were surely the worst of the worst in Durant's crew. Although most were rotten to the core, none of them were renegades.

"Omerta," Serefini mocked, stepping up with the black silken hood; he kissed the fabric and placed it gently over Joshua's head. He then pulled his gun, and at point blank range, shot him in the face.

The weapon's hollow report startled those still in the room.

Joshua's whole body jerked spasmodically, then became still. He rolled sideways onto the floor, taking the chair with him. A thin line of blood trickled from under the hood, pooling in several dime sized splats on the carpet.

Serefini holstered his weapon. "Take him out to the pit," he said.

"That shaft's only sixty feet deep," said Carlos Mondragon. "We throw any more stiffs down there they'll start climbing out."

"Just do it." Serefini left the room.

Manny Winkler maneuvered the Sedan onto the off ramp, exited the San Diego freeway and joined a local road two miles north of Brentwood. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, winking off every reflective surface. Winkler kept one eye on the road and the other on the Speedo needle; with a body in the trunk he did not need to get pulled for speeding.

"Suh-Suh-Serefini's a luh-lunatic," he said. "His mamma must have balled a scuh-scuh- _scorpion_."

Mondragon said nothing.

After a while the Sedan left the local road and bumped along a dirt track, which meandered into gently undulating foothills in the foreground of the Santa Monica Mountains. The road became rough, full of potholes, working the sedan's suspension. One wheel dipped into a rut and Mondragon bumped his head on the roof. "Jesus, Manny, where the hell did you learn to drive, the funfair?"

The disused mine was located at the edge of woodland that had sprung up during the last thirty years. In the middle of a clearing strewn with rocks and splinters of wood, the shaft, five feet wide and over sixty feet straight down, yawned at the sky. Overlooking the clearing was a rocky hill riddled with natural caves and aborted digs, relics of the Gold Rush.

Mondragon eased his bulk from the car, crept cautiously to the edge of the pit and peered down into the festering darkness. The corrupt stench of decomposing flesh hit him like smelling salts. "Aghh!" he recoiled from the edge, stumbled on a rock, and fell onto his ass in the dust. "Son of a bitch."

Laughing, Winkler circled to the back of the car, selecting the key which opened the trunk. "They don't stuh-stay fresh long in this heat. Suh-suh-some of those poor bastards down there passed their suh-suh-sell-by date before Carter left the Oval office. Dig deep enough you might even fuh-find Jimmy Hoffa."

The big man dusted the seat of his pants and angrily kicked the lump of rock that tripped him; it tumbled end over end into the shaft. He shuffled away from the edge. If he were to lose his footing...

Winkler, still chuckling at his partner's squeamish nature, popped the Sedan's trunk. The lid flipped up and a wave of heat rushed out, forcing him to avert his face. When he looked closer he noticed the black silk hood had somehow worked free of the kid's head. "Hey...." Then something else caught his eye, reflecting a shaft of bright sunlight, drawing him in for a closer look. He saw what appeared to be a spent bullet.

He picked it up. "What the _fuh-fuh-fuh_ -."

With snake's speed the kid's hitherto stone dead hand sprang to life, lashed out, grabbed a fistful of Manny Winkler's shirt and yanked hard. The gangster's forehead struck the trunk lid with a sickening thud. He fell unconscious into the dirt.

Joshua sprang from the trunk like an alley cat and hit the ground running; he leaped over the unconscious gangster and circled the car. Accelerating as he went, he darted into the clearing and ran at Carlos Mondragon, who had drawn his pistol and was firing repeatedly, a stupefied expression eating up his face.

Kicking up clouds of dust and grit with his movement, Joshua jigged left and right through the dirt, presenting an elusive target. A stray round buzzed within an inch of his ear, smacking into bushes behind. He moved like a gazelle, and the dust disturbed by his movement swirled after him like slow hands.

An almost comical look of surprise appeared on Mondragon's large features as he shuffled backwards, putting distance between himself and his target. He took a final step back to widen his stance.

But his sole never touched the ground. The stink of putrefaction rose from behind. His left foot sank into space. Mondragon pin-wheeled his arms, the gun flew from his fingers, but gravity sucked him greedily into the earth. The last image he saw, before the brightness of day shrank to a distant square of light, was a pair of crimson eyes watching him fall.

Joshua saw the gangster falling, instinctively reached out to save him, but the man fell too quickly, his horror-struck face engulfed by the darkness. His fall into the shaft produced a displacement of air, forcing out a noxious gas cloud. Joshua, with his bloodhound sense of smell, recoiled as if scalded, withdrawing from the edge.

He turned his back on the mineshaft and returned to the Sedan, secured the trunk and plucked the keys from the lid. He climbed into the driver's seat and sped away. The opening of the mine shaft and the driver's prostrate form diminished in the rearview mirror.

Where the dirt track finally gave way to a smooth blacktop near the valley floor, Joshua took one hand off the steering and touched his cheek; the bullet wound beneath his left eye had completely healed. Though he no longer suffered discomfort from either the beating or the bullet, hunger gnawed at him. Tissue regeneration required a stupendous amount of energy, and today he had eaten only one meal. He needed sustenance right now. Inside him the furnace demanded to be fed. Failure to comply with the metabolism's demand would eventually cause his body to scavenge protein from his own reserves, ultimately resulting in weight loss.

Back on San Diego freeway, Joshua quickly assessed his newly gathered information. Durant's men were human after all. Renegade characteristics were there – they were extremely dangerous, ruthless people, who would kill without conscience; violent men who saw no importance in human life. Yet they were not renegades.

So who was the Invisible Assassin?

Something else occurred to him. If Durant was clean, then Joshua no longer needed to use his daughter as a channel. Business there was concluded. He should continue with the original plan – to concentrate wholly on the Jamaican Gang. Genna Delucio had served her purpose. She had served it well.

Confused and somewhat disillusioned, Joshua drove to within a block of the Medical Center to pick up his car. He abandoned the Sedan in the service entrance of a shuttered art gallery. The setting sun was dragging the remaining light from the sky when he finally belted up in the Camaro. Inside the car felt hot and stuffy. Joshua endured the heat and drove sedately across town back to Santa Monica.

Despite his success in eliminating a major crime family from the shortlist of suspects, he could not align his thoughts. Something circled his mind, elusive as an eel – a thought, a revelation that might ease his confusion. But one he could not pin down.

Back in his motel room, hearing only distant traffic and the occasional laugh or shout from the poolside, he lay on the bed staring into space. Occasionally, his eyes strayed to the news-clippings pinned to the wall and he thought about the Jamaicans.

Delbert Johnson, a thirty-nine year old ex-revolutionary from Kingston, was the leader. Johnson once ran for an administrative post in one of the parishes, until his campaign was thwarted when he was indicted for conspiring to murder his opposition. He escaped trial and fled to America, where his political charisma worked upon the disillusioned kids of west Los Angeles. With his ruthless and brutal methods, he rose swiftly, and within five years, achieved the status as one of the city's top six organized crime lords. Since none of his business interests clashed directly with those of the top five syndicates, he had been left alone to flourish.

Laughter and playful screaming from the pool roused Joshua from his thoughts. He got up to look out of the window. Night had fallen. The poolside lights were switched on, and through the shrubbery surrounding the parking lot he saw the glow of taillights on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Sighing, he turned from the window. He opened the scrapbook and picked up a news-cutting of Genna Delucio, smoothing the creases with his finger and thumb. The photographer had captured an expression Joshua found enormously appealing.

Outside, a girl laughed hysterically. A young man's voice rose above the others. "In the pool...the pool. Throw her in." A high-pitched squeal, a mighty splash, raucous laughter. Rock music vibrated the windows.

Joshua slid the Beretta from under the bed and placed it on the table next to the clipping of Genna Delucio. Looked long and hard at them both. Should he go straight for the Jamaicans – or should he call the girl. The gun or the girl. His gaze flicked from one to the other. Gun or the girl; girl or the gun....

He turned away and interlaced his fingers on the top of his head. He was under no illusion over what he ought to do next. The cycle of assassinations was turning full circle again. He ought to arm himself, get his ass street side in Inglewood.

What he wanted was to see Genna Delucio again.

Laughter from outside rose and culminated with another loud splash and patter of water. "Don't you dare, Jimmy," a girl hollered, trying to sound serious. "Not in the water I'm wearing my mother's _Rolex._ "

"Relax, Sally," Jimmy laughed, and by the sound of his voice he fleeing.

Relax, _Genna_. Joshua thought for no particular reason. A crazy scenario leaped into his mind with such clarity that for a moment he forgot to breathe. He saw himself with Genna, sitting by the pool drinking and talking, laughing at the antics of the young holiday makers. The quest concluded. All the renegades dead. Leaving him free to live as he wished. No longer constrained by his connection to Barlow.

This decided him. He quickly locked away the Beretta and slid the case back under the bed. He grabbed his car keys.

The apartment block was silent as he rode up in the elevator. He was unsure of the address he had got from the phonebook, and even less sure of himself. The carriage bumped to a gentle halt at the fifth floor and when the doors parted, his feet wouldn't move; only when the doors began to close did he slip through. Alone in the corridor, he crept along, reading the brass apartment numbers: 221..... 222. This was it.

He raised his hand to knock when fear pinned him to the spot. Even his breath caught in his throat. He knew she was in there; he could hear movement, he could smell her cologne, fancied he could almost taste her in the air.

Finally he got the muscles in his wrist to work and he knocked lightly on the blue door. His heart pounded in his chest, in his throat – even in his eyeballs. What was wrong with him? Lord, he was more afraid being here than he was when in the company of murderers.

A dog barked.

Light footsteps approached the door: "Who is it?"

He gulped. Licked his dry lips. Something inside urged him to flee; simply staying put required physical effort. "It's...it's Joshua," he croaked.

"Who?"

He cleared his throat. "The erm, the guy you knocked down this afternoon." Looking down, he saw that his knees were shaking, but quickly looked up when the door opened.

Genna's curious eye peered at him over the security chain. Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail and she had a speck of green paint on the tip of her chin. "You shouldn't have come _here_." Her voice was edged with hysteria.

Joshua's heart plummeted. "I thought you said..."

"I said _call_." She looked nervously over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he started to turn away.

"Wait....." Genna disengaged the security chain. After a quick glance into the corridor she pulled him roughly over the threshold and closed the door.

Joshua stood by while she re-engaged the chain.

She shrugged. "Err...thought I spotted a couple of Jehovah's witnesses."

He frowned at his watch. "At...nine-twenty in the evening?"

"This _is_ Los Angeles."

"Look," he said. "I know it's kind of late."

"And a bit unexpected," she admitted. "But...you're here now."

With her hair tied back off her face, she looked incredibly young and innocent, perhaps more so now after what he had witnessed.

"Why don't you sit down?" Genna said, removing the apron. "I'll be a minute." She went out of the room, leaving Joshua alone for a moment. At the back of his mind, Barlow's voice arose, commanding that he leave immediately and go stake out the Jamaicans. He turned away from the voice and instead concentrated on the apartment.

One wall displayed several works of art he presumed were Genna's. Each piece was signed with a modest letter G. The largest painting, and in Joshua's humble opinion the best, was of a sleeping girl, surrounded by wispy white horses. A single glossy tear rested on the girl's pallid face. The work invoked an impression of sadness, yet was also somewhat enchanting.

When Genna re-entered the room her pony tail was gone; her hair hung loosely at her shoulders. The top few buttons on her blouse were now fastened, and the speck of green paint was gone from her chin. A few tiny droplets of water glistened on her skin.

Joshua indicated the painting. "I like your work."

She looked past him at the watercolor, playing absently with her earlobe. A burst of body chemicals puffed from her like spores, tainting the air with a forlorn sensation.

"By the way," said Genna, turning from the painting. "How are your legs?"

He thought of the beating by the gangsters. "My legs?" Then he remembered the accident. "Oh. They're fine."

"That was one lucky escape."

"Yes. One of the reasons I'm here."

"Been speaking to your lawyer?" she asked half-jokingly.

"I don't have a lawyer," he said. "I was concerned about you."

"Me?"

"I wanted to be sure you were all right."

Genna rolled her eyes. "You were on the business end of the collision."

"Yeah – I was lucky." He found he couldn't hold her gaze, so he looked away.

"Doctor Harper called me earlier." Genna said after a moment. "As a rule he's not one to violate his Hippocratic Oath, but he did ask me whether I had your number."

"He did?"

"Those peepers of yours must have pricked his curiosity; he was very excited."

"My eyes..."

"Yeah; something about your pupils having a quick dilation response; so quick in fact you could probably see in the dark."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you could barely see in broad daylight."

Joshua laughed.

Ice broken, Genna laughed with him. "Can I offer you a drink? I don't have any beer I'm afraid – red wine okay?"

"Never tried wine," he followed her across the room and stood behind her. "What's it like?"

"You've never tasted wine?" She said, playfully mocking him. She poured half a glass and handed it to him. "Try it."

Remembering what Benjamin's light beer did to him, he accepted the glass warily and took a sip. The rich, fruity flavor wakened his taste buds, brought juices to his mouth and exploded down his throat, settling in a warm, fiery pool in his belly. Instantly the alcohol penetrated his stomach wall and swam through his blood. This affected him more quickly than Benjamin's light beer, and was tastier by far.

Genna watched him closely. "You like?"

Joshua gave a goofy grin. "It's good." The wine heightened his senses; he became aware of something else in the room, something he'd first noticed when crossing the threshold but had not pursued. An animal scent – perhaps a dog. Of course – the dog he had heard barking.

Genna motioned for him to sit. "You said the accident was just one of the reasons you're here. What's the other?" She searched the cupboard for another glass.

Joshua blinked, heat rose in his cheeks, he hid his gaze in his wine glass. Then he opened his mouth to tell her that, in truth, he just wanted to look at her again, to listen to her voice, to be near her, to pretend they were alike, to imagine friendship – or perhaps even romance. Yes, try to fool her into believing he was normal, perhaps in the process fool himself for a while. But instead of saying anything he simply stared woodenly ahead, his mouth open.

As if this answered her question, Genna smiled and for a moment, looked as coy as Joshua. "I see." She set the wine bottle down. "I need another glass. Back in two shakes." She disappeared into the kitchen.

Joshua closed his eyes and cursed his ineptitude. Were he not so scared he would have found it funny. Nevertheless, he made himself comfortable in the easy chair, and set about enjoying the moment. Every second that ticked by broke new ground for him – he was wandering like a tourist through the strange and wonderful landscape of another world – the ordinary world of talking and drinking, shooting the breeze, passing the time, chewing the fat.

Genna's voice drifted from the kitchen. Joshua opened his mouth to ask if she was ok when he realized the girl was not speaking to him.

"Benji, come here – Benji! _Oh shit_. Joshua!" she hollered. "Don't move! Keep still!"

A large Doberman barged through the kitchen door into the room, swung its brutish head left to right, then homed in on him, fangs bared and hackles raised. Its huge paws slipped on the rug as it freight-trained toward him, jowls bouncing up and down.

Genna was two running steps behind, her voice full of fear. "Benji!" She clawed for his collar, almost snagged it, but the dog easily outpaced her, leaving her stumbling in its wake.

Joshua quickly put down his wine glass. Instead of holding still he dropped to his haunches. He felt the dog's intention clearly in the air; Joshua was a trespasser, an interloper, a threat. The dog's automatic reaction to danger held sway over the desire to obey Genna's command. Instinct won out over awareness.

Before the Doberman reached him, Joshua established eye contact, held it, and released his own disarming signal, charging the air with a message only a dog would understand.

Abruptly, Benji stopped growling and cocked his head, as though hearing a doggy whistle. Unable to abort the attack altogether, he planted his paws in front of him and slid the last couple of feet on his haunches, like Scooby Doo shying from spooks. Joshua caught him and together they tumbled to the floor. Benji's snarls turned into whimpers and whines. He nuzzled Joshua's midriff.

Genna stopped halfway across the floor, head in hands, staring down in disbelief at Joshua and her dog. "What?" she said. "What's this?" Then she planted hands on hips. "Benji. Out. Come on. Get in your bed, fuzzball."

Benji refused to move. He chuffed softly. Joshua ruffled the dog's ears and played with his whiskers. Rolled together in a ball they looked familiar as life-long buddies. Joshua's shirt pulled out of his jeans, revealing his tanned, lean stomach.

"Hey!" Genna stamped one foot. "Mind what I say, fuzzball. Just remember who splits for the dog meat in this apartment."

Benji chuffed again, reluctantly padded back through the door, pausing to look back at Joshua. Genna closed the door after him. After a beat, one hand still resting on the door handle, she gaped at Joshua.

Tucking his shirt back in and straightening his hair, Joshua said. "What?"

"Benji's an academy-trained attack dog, only one of my neighbors can I handle him." She narrowed her eyes. "Now, I'm sure glad he didn't, but he should have grabbed your leg and run around my apartment."

"Dogs are perceptive." Joshua said. "He knows I'm not a threat."

Genna threw her hands skyward. "I don't know what to say. You walk away from a forty-mile an hour collision; now you tame my killer Doberman. I don't know who you remind me of more, Doc Savage or Dr. Doolittle." She observed Joshua's empty glass. "You want a refill?"

Joshua wondered how she might react if she knew that several hours ago her father ordered him to be killed and thrown down a disused mine shaft. He thrust the thought away with a tiny shake of his head. But the memory wandered his mind like a stray dog that wouldn't let him alone.

Genna topped up his glass.

Manny Winkler sat hunched at the large table in Salvatore Durant's Study nursing a sore head and a shot of whiskey. On the table lay a glossy photo of the kid, together with the chunk of lead Winkler found in his hand after regaining consciousness near the mineshaft.

"What happened to the kid's body?" Durant asked.

Winkler, his suit dusty and his nose scratched and flushed, knocked back the drink and wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. A purple bump protruded from his forehead. Clots of dried blood blocked both his nostrils and he spoke with an exaggerated nasal tone. "There's no buh-body because the kid was stuh-still alive."

Serefini inched closer to Winkler. " _Bullshit_ ," he said. "I put a bullet in his fucking eyeball."

"He was al-al-alive I'm tuh-tuh-telling you." Winkler kept his one good eye on his whiskey. "I opened the tru-tru-trunk and he...he reached out for me...when I came around, the car had guh-gone and so had Carlos. I had to walk out of the fuh-foothills – look at my puh-puh- _pants_!"

Durant zeroed his gaze at Serefini. "Well?"

Serefini glared in turn at Winkler. "Point blank. I shot that kid point blank. And if by the grace of all the angels and saints he did survive a bullet in the brain he was in no condition to take out two guys. He was deader than Elvis."

"He wuh-was alive," whispered a cowering Winkler.

Serefini drew his weapon. "Think you can take one in the head, wiseass?"

Durant said: "Find a better frame of reference than Elvis – the jury's still out on that one. And I don't want to compromise my safety with maybes."

Serefini holstered his gun and slapped Winkler across the top of the head. "If it wasn't for this stuttering _fool..._ " he said.

"Right now," Durant said. "I'm not interested in blame." He waved a finger at Joshua's photograph. "I want this cowboy six feet under before he takes it upon himself to call on my daughter again. Make no mistake - I want a signed death certificate."

Serefini straightened, twisted his neck, making the tendons crackle. "I'll take care of him myself. I'll bring back his liver-" He stared down at Winkler whilst saying this, and Winkler, head lowered and browbeaten, slumped over his empty glass.

"He's not your boy anymore." Durant tapped Joshua's photo. "At the next drop, give this to the assassin – an addition to the contract. There's an address on the Motel receipt you found on the kid."

"I can whack this guy." Serefini shouted. "I don't leave a job half finished." His ponytail started to slip out; veins bulged on his neck.

"You have a problem with my orders?" Durant looked every bit as menacing as the horror actor he resembled.

Serefini clenched his teeth. "I got no problem," he said.

Durant nodded. "Then do as I say."

Genna emerged from her bedroom delving inside her purse. Her head bent studiously over her hands, she counted out seventy dollars – all the folding currency in there. She offered it to Joshua.

Joshua took the wine glass from his lips, frowning at her outstretched hand.

"For the damage to your Levi's. I know it's not much of a gesture, but..." She smiled a deliberately lame smile.

"I don't...I can't," Joshua said, for some reason alarmed. "The accident wasn't your fault."

"I was speeding. I wasn't looking where I was going." She pushed the bundle into his hand and closed his fingers around the notes.

Joshua blinked at the money, looked up at Genna. He placed the notes on the end-table by his chair. "Making a new friend is enough," he said, surprising himself with his candor. The declaration left him feeling outside of himself, as though he had just doggy paddled into a quiet pool and then realized he had drifted out of his depth.

Genna pondered on his words, but her expression remained inscrutable. Finally she smiled at him. "You are so...odd."

At that moment Joshua heard footsteps out in the corridor. He cocked his head, listening, slowly turning toward the door. In the kitchen, at precisely the same moment, Benji started to growl.

Genna glanced from Joshua to the kitchen. "You and my pooch know something I don't?"

"Someone's here." Joshua said.

"I don't hear anything."

Someone rapped heavily on the door.

Genna looked at Joshua, her finger pressed to her lip. "Say nothing."

The bang on the door came again. "Open up, Miss Durant."

Genna stood, considered a moment, and then went to the kitchen to release her dog. The Doberman raced past her, barking furiously, sniffing at the foot of the door, scratching at the jamb.

Genna followed him and, leaving the security chain in place, opened the door a crack. Benji jammed his snarling snout against the gap.

Joshua cocked his head and listened.

"What the hell do you want?" he heard Genna whisper.

"Someone murdered one of your father's men, tonight." The caller said after a dramatic pause.

"I asked you what you wanted," she said.

Joshua believed this news affected Genna more than she let on. Her manner spread to the dog, which was coiled like a spring at her feet, nose pushed at the four inch gap, growling deeply.

A second voice spoke up. "We believe this guy's involved..." something was removed from an envelope. "...you er...know him?"

Joshua peered over his shoulder and saw Genna standing at the crack in the door, her head angled at something held up in front of her. She watched in silence for longer than he cared.

"Never saw him before," she said. "Now will you get out of...?"

"He came into this building fifteen minutes ago." The voice remained monotone. "This is serious, Miss Durant. Who's in your apartment?"

"Leave." Genna started to close the door when someone jammed his foot in the gap.

"We know that you know this guy," the caller said. "You ran him down and drove him to hospital. You paid his bill. We spoke to Doctor Harper. He wouldn't tell us much but he did say the guy was unhurt. Now, if you would secure the dog and open up."

Genna kicked lightly at the shoe in the door. "If you value the number of toes you have I'd move my foot if I were you."

Almost painfully compunctious, to the point of mewling, the guy sighed ruefully: "'fraid I can't do that, Miss Durant."

Genna stepped back from the door. "Benji," she said. "Sic him." Her face, whose profile Joshua saw from his position on the chair, remained calm and resolute.

Benji needed no persuading. He launched himself at the exposed shoe. Bulky as the Doberman was, he moved fast and sure, snagging the foot at his first attempt. Too late, the gangster tried to pull away. Benji dragged the foot through the gap, let go for an instant, and went for a meatier grip. The man in the hall shrieked.

"Benji," Genna said. "Stand down, Benji! Leave! Leave!" She patted his muscle-bound haunches, and with a show of almost comic reluctance, he relinquished his grip on the ankle. The foot disappeared back through the door amid wails of pain and profanity. "If you show up here again maybe I will open the door. Now get lost or I call the police." She closed the door.

After a brief pause, the two men went; their irregular footfalls receded down the corridor. Their voices, raised and argumentative, faded to nothing.

Genna spent a moment alone at the door with her dog. When she finally came back into the room proper, she wouldn't meet Joshua's gaze, nor did she re-take her seat. Her hand stayed close to the dog, drawing strength and maybe comfort from the contact. After returning Benji to the kitchen, she paced the floor in front of Joshua's chair. "I don't know how much of that you heard," she said.

"Nothing, really." Joshua said. "I wasn't listening."

Genna finally met his gaze evenly. "My father tends to be over-protective and...seems to think my destiny is to be raped and mutilated."

"You didn't tell them you had company."

"Are you kidding?" She said. "After pegging you as a serial killer with a penchant for single women they would burst in here as judge, jury, and executioners."

"They?" Joshua said.

Genna watched him a moment. "I still don't know anything about you, Joshua. For all I know you _could_ be a serial killer." She immediately regretted her words and held up a hand. "I'm sorry."

Joshua opened his mouth to respond but quickly closed it again. The evening had turned irretrievably sour. Everything about Genna's demeanor now said _go away._

"Don't you know who I am?" She searched his eyes. "Or what I am?"

Joshua stood, feeling big and awkward, pulling at his shirt and hitching up his jeans. "I don't understand."

"I'm bad news," she said. "Can't you see?"

"You're not bad news," was all he could think of saying. "I've never known anyone like you." Though he was sincere, he knew his words were futile.

Genna stared at the watercolor of the horse-girl. "Trust me; I'm not someone you want to know." A haunted look came into her eyes. "Joshua, you need to leave."

He put down his wine glass.

"Will you do something for me?" she asked.

"Sure," he answered. "Anything."

"Leave by the service door at the rear," she said. "Those men might still be out there."

"I'm not afraid," Joshua said.

"No, I don't believe you are. But I am," she said. "Please. The back way."

In the kitchen, Benji mewled. Joshua turned to leave and Genna followed, head down, ready to close the door after him.

As he stepped into the corridor he turned around: "I know it isn't my business, but if your father's the way he is why don't you move away? Quit this city for real?"

She held the door open, just a crack. "I wish I could."

"Can't I...call you?" he asked in a low voice.

"Oh Joshua," she said, smiling in spite of herself. "You really are sweet, but I've caused you too much pain already. I don't want to cause you anymore." She brought a hand to her mouth, quickly closing the door.

Joshua blinked at the blue paneling, feeling as welcome as the aforementioned Jehovah's Witnesses. Through the thickness of the apartment door, beyond the range of human hearing, he heard the girl crying softly.

He lowered his head, feeling a strange stillness about him. What had he been thinking? That she would ask him on a date? Invite him into her life? He had willfully taken a wrong turn and he knew it. Coming here was a mistake – he had made the wrong decision. Forsaken his real purpose to pursue fantasies. Acted foolishly and irresponsibly. Functioning within society was proving far more complex than he had dreamed. Lord, not only was it hard – it also hurt.

With the girl on his mind and heaviness in his chest, he left the building as Genna requested, by the service entrance.

The black limousine pulled up at the side-street bar and Divo Serefini climbed out. For the dispensing of contracts, they never used the same venue twice. This particular bar, a small earthy joint, catered for the solemn drinking soul; those for that Los Angeles swallowed as colorful wannabes and spat out as washed-out might-have-beens, forever bleached of the vitality that brought them west.

Serefini told his driver to wait in the car. Then he strode up to the modest entrance, ignoring the doorman's greeting as he stepped into the comparative gloom of the smoky interior.

Like a gunslinger just swaggered in through the bat-wing doors, he searched the booths for the snot-nosed cocky bastards, whose only role – which they exploited to embarrassing proportions – was to act merely as go-betweens, glorified couriers for the Invisible Assassin.

Smoldering with precisely the destructive kind of hate Durant had warned him against, Serefini stalked the line of dim booths. The whole place stank. The carpet stuck to the soles of his shoes. Clearly he didn't belong here. Not someone of his caliber. Three months ago, maybe – when liaising with the assassin's people was considered heavyweight

He reached the last table. Still no sign of the rowdy trio. A warm, almost silky string of anger issued from his heart, slipping through his veins, opening his pores to combat the heat prickling his skin. If that bunch of sassy-assed shit-kickers failed to turn up...

An object flew from the shadows and struck his jacket, leaving a cardboard flecked wet patch. A spitball. His eyes traced the missile's trajectory until he spotted the soles of Nike training shoes propped up on the table.

Serefini ground his teeth together and clenched his right fist hard as he could for five seconds. Then slowly relaxed his fingers and exhaled evenly. He placed a foot over the paper missile, crushing it in his stride toward the table. Sufficient light reached in for Serefini to see that only one of the usual three was here. Nathan whoever-the-fuck he was, feet up comfy as you please, eyes in shadow, swigging from a bottle.

"Where are your playmates?" Serefini asked.

"Playing with your mother, but don't fret, they're letting your father watch."

Serefini rode the wave of anger, which shot up like a rev-counter, burying the needle of his flaring temper in the red. The tips of his fingers started to quiver. A hot flush engulfed his neck. The skin on his back shrank and pricked. He felt a sudden wave of dislike not for the guy in front of him, but for his boss, who insisted he keep swallowing the chill pill.

As Serefini reached into his jacket for the manila envelope, his hand brushed his holstered sidearm. For a split second, he hesitated, wanting so much to plug fifteen rounds into the kid's impudent puss. Instead, he pulled out the envelope and dumped it on the table.

The kid leaned forward, and in the cone of light he tore open the seal. A wad of bank notes fell into his palm, which he pocketed absently. A sheet of notepaper came with the bills. Nathan smoothed out the folds and read the typed words. Then he looked up at Serefini, a knowing smile on his lips. "It's finally happened." He plucked the pack of matches from the ashtray, set fire to the sheet, allowing the paper burn out in his fingers.

"Particulars of the contract don't concern you."

"No," Nathan said. "But they concern Hector Kelvecion, Juan Martinez, and last, though by no means least, good old crusader, Delbert Johnson." He spoke with musical arrogance.

"In the same order," Serefini replied.

"All of them," Nathan said. "You want them _all_ whacking." He calmly swigged his beer. "What're you weasels going to do when the competition's gone? Hock your bullets and go sit on the beach humming _War is over_?"

"Live in peace," Serefini said.

"Dogshit, live in peace." Nathan said. "Weasels like you don't know how. In a couple of weeks you'll get tired, paranoid or pissed and before long start nailing each other. 'And then there'll be none,'" He laughed softly. "Who knows, maybe someone new will come along and take _you_ out."

Serefini's face twitched. He pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and threw it like a playing card onto the table. "We want this guy doing, as well." The snap landed face down, revealing on the reverse an address written in ballpoint.

Nathan flipped the picture and regarded the blurry image, taken with the use of a telephoto lens, of Joshua crossing a parking Lot. Nathan looked long and hard. "Who is this guy?"

"Another wiseass prick," Serefini turned to leave.

Nathan spat a gob of beer at Serefini's back. Serefini froze, continued to walk but managed only two steps. He squeezed his eyes shut and used all of his will-power to dampen his temper. His mouth was twisted and working.

The barkeeper, who had kept a wary eye on the proceedings, signaled for the Bouncer. The doorman came bounding in, looking left and right. When he saw the source of the trouble, he shook his head and scurried back outside.

Ever so slowly, Serefini turned around and raised a quivering hand. "You don't know how close you just came."

Nathan slid the beer-bottle to one side and squared up to Serefini, pressing his chest against Serefini's palm, their faces less than a foot apart. Standing this close made Serefini very uneasy, as if he were in striking distance of that unstable guard dog. Some primal instinct urged him to back off. He didn't.

Nathan mouthed his words with care. "Go butt-fuck your boss some more, you two-bit clammy-haired weasel."

Finally - somewhat inevitably - Divo snapped. His hand flew inside his jacket as he whirled, pulling his gun and jamming it in the younger man's face, finger squeezing the trigger, his voice broken with rage: " _Your fucking mouth_."

In his mind's eye, Serefini pulled the trigger, putting a bullet squarely between the cocky punk bastard's eyes, blowing out the back of his skull. Before the kid collapsed, Serefini would see daylight through his head.

But as he drew the bead, started to squeeze the trigger, he glimpsed a blurred band of pink to his right. Only this was no illusion, for it had form, and somehow snatched the weapon from his grip a microsecond before he fired. While his brain struggled to decipher what had happened, an explosion of light briefly blinded him. The thud that followed also had form. It was his backside hitting the barroom floor.

More stars fizzed and fell. The world slipped sideways and he quickly planted his hands to steady himself. Hot, moist breath hissed in his ear. "Human _slug_ ," Nathan spat. "Don't ever play king-shit with me. You're as big time as pubic lice on a dead pig. All you pricks are one-eyed men, Serefini; only LA ain't the country of the fucking blind anymore."

And then he was gone.

In the next booth an old-timer was mothering a shot of whiskey, staring impassively. Serefini half considered asking him what happened, but pride wired his mouth shut. All the same the old timer, raising his glass, said: "I never saw nothing so cock-knocking quick in my whole life." He gulped the whiskey. "And I'm eighty."

Serefini heaved himself off the floor and stumbled up to the bar: "Scotch," he said huskily. His reflection stared at him from the mirror behind the bar. Identical gashes marked both cheeks. Like Indian war paint. When he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief his hand brushed something hard and damp, and he held open his jacket to look inside.

His sidearm was back in its holster. "What..." A tide of unreality washed over him. Had he imagined pulling his gun? No – fresh blood stained the stock; his blood. A shiver ran along his scalp.

He drained his glass and quickly left.

Joshua

Unable to settle, Joshua paced his motel room.

Although Genna Delucio had ultimately sent him away, he could not keep her from his mind. But coiled like a serpent on the heels of the rejection were Barlow's teachings: humans were proud people, generous to a fault, but at the same time abhorred by freaks of nature.

But Genna knew nothing of his dubious identity; she believed he was an ordinary person, had invited him into her home where he had tasted her wine, tasted her life. Then sent him away. Whether for his own safety, she had wanted him to leave. A small glass of wine and a large farewell.

Joshua licked his lips; the wine had left him thirsty. He opened his door and went outside to the vending machine. His sudden inability to concentrate on anything but the girl troubled him deeply.

Moths buzzed into and bumped the overhead exterior light, casting soft, flitting shadows at his feet. He deposited several coins and selected Sprite. A cooled can thunked down into the plastic dispensing trough. He plucked out the drink and popped the ring-pull. The ice-cold liquid slipped down his throat in a continuous stream.

Three units along the promenade a door opened and a guy in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops rushed out, juggling a fist of loose change. He threw a quick look at Joshua while force-feeding quarters into the machine.

"Been another one," he said as he pushed the buttons. The soft drink landed in the trough; he whipped it out and inserted more coins.

"Another one?" Joshua asked.

A second can came down. "Some high caliber criminal lawyer from the Palisades – Henry-or-Harry Kelvecion or something."

Kelvecion.

"Dead as dogshit." He giggled like a schoolboy. "Got his head chewed totally off his shoulders – you believe that? I think I do."

"Kelvecion." Joshua's skin crawled.

Mr. Bermuda shorts hunkered down over his cache of drinks and lurched like Quasimodo back along the promenade. "Invisible Assassin. In- _fucking_ -visible. You believe that? I think I do." His shadow chased him through his door.

Joshua hurried back to his room and switched on the television; he tuned into CNN and sat on the bed. The flickering TV picture confirming his fears.

Kelvecion had been hit.

He suddenly lifted his head. If the lawyer had only recently been killed, then the crime scene should still harbor a trace of the killer. If he could get inside the house he could glean something from the aftermath that would tell him for sure whether Renegades were responsible.

As he slid the attaché case from beneath the bed and removed the gun, he caught sight of himself in the dark TV screen. _This lawyer died whilst you played at_ let's-be-human _with the girl._ He thrust the thought away and snatched the car keys off the nightstand.

Thunder rattled the panes and large splats of rain struck the window. Within thirty seconds, and before Joshua reached his car, the spits and spots became a downpour.

"Just one kid?" Salvatore Durant, dressed in a bath robe, paced the carpet in front of the table where his bodyguard sat. Durant's normally well-oiled hair was wet and straggly. A look of incredulity played on his face, but faltered, as though the muscles required for the expression were unpracticed.

Divo Serefini, a Band-Aid on both cheeks and yellow-purple bruising under his eyes, stood before his boss. Several hired heavies, each wearing a solemn expression, stood about the room. Underneath their stonewall facades brooded a certain tenseness, an unshakable belief that something stronger than they had begun to penetrate their previously impenetrable syndicate.

Serefini's stony gaze fell upon those present, daring them to challenge him, then turned back to his Boss. "He moved fast – so much faster than-" His voice fractured with temper and shame. "I should have plugged him....minute he opened his puke-hole I should have plugged him." His hands writhed into tight fists of frustration, his mouth twisted.

Durant gestured to one of his men. "Get him a drink."

Appearing less than willing to approach Serefini, the guard poured whiskey and set the glass down on the table. Serefini took the glass. "He was so _fast_."

Durant frowned, dabbing at his wet hair with a towel. "But he still took the contract?"

"Hell yes – unless Hector Kelvecion tore off his own head." He knocked back the whiskey in one, slammed the glass down, took a deep breath and wiped his mouth with his knuckles. Two of his fingers were cut. He opened his mouth to say something, blinked at his boss, and then looked away.

"What is it?" Durant asked.

Serefini grasped at the air in front of him, as though he might strain the answer from the ether. "That guy...so wick..." he left the sentence unfinished. "I think maybe we're looking too hard for the assassin."

Durant put his towel down. "You get slapped around by the kid and now you think he's the assassin?"

"It makes perfect sense," he said. "They came crawling to us with nothing. Penniless kids like the rest of LA's bums. We give them heavy contracts and all at once they're wearing up-market rip-wear and drive seventy grand cars. They're keeping the hit money."

Durant poured himself a drink. "A few high school dropouts did not take out Regan and his posse. That was professional. Hell, we couldn't have done it."

Serefini stood. Several wounds on his face were bleeding again. "I say we arrange the payoff on home soil. Surround them with muscle. Bring them in."

Durant considered. "I guess we've nothing to lose."

And then, as Serefini and Durant exchanged glances, something passed between them, something neither of them liked, and they dropped their gazes.

Joshua was grateful for the severe weather, for when he finally reached Hector Kelvecion's home in Pacific Heights, even the most ardent sightseers had deserted the rain-lashed streets. Hastily erected police _do-not-cross_ tape cordoned off the property and a section of sidewalk. Several of the yellow strips blew loose in the wind.

He turned off Sunset Boulevard onto Salerno Drive, slowed the car and glanced up at the house. A solitary uniformed officer stood beneath the porch, sheltering from the rain. The officer stepped into view and jerked his thumb up the street, no doubt taking him for a curious citizen indulging in a spot of gruesome sightseeing.

Joshua continued for half a mile along Salerno and then, rain battering the Camaro's rooftop, U-turned and pulled into the curb beside a palm tree. With the wipers switched off, the windshield became instantly opaque. The headlights of an Explorer ghosted by him. Joshua waited until the taillights dissolved before stepping out into the rain.

Staying as far away from the road as he could, he skirted the hedges and fences and headed west. Fifty yards from Kelvecion's house, he stopped and sheltered beneath overhanging boughs of a Eucalyptus. Rainwater rippled down the bark and joined the dirty torrents sluicing along the gutter, which was then swallowed up by the gargling drain. A brand new Adidas training shoe bobbed along on the current like a kid's boat until it became trapped in the mouth of the storm drain.

Joshua peered round the trunk. Kelvecion's house sat in a half acre of landscaped gardens, reasonably sheltered from the road by several date-palms, jacarandas, and trellises bearing masses of flower. The east side of the property opened out into clusters of dwarf shrubbery, lawns and flowerbeds. The neighboring property was surrounded by dense, unidentifiable shrubbery-gone-wild, protected by a wrought iron fence that sat atop a seven-foot high stone wall.

He looked up and down the road once more and, satisfied he was not being watched, took three short running steps, leaped up and grasped the top rail. He dangled briefly before vaulting nimbly over, landing quietly beside a large rhododendron. After quickly orienting himself he moved stealthily into the shrubbery west of the property until he reached the party wall.

Here he was afforded a view of the lawyer's rear garden, which lay sunken twelve or thirteen feet below. A manicured lawn swept through several kidney-shaped flowerbeds, past a fishpond with floating lily pads, terminating at a large natural-stone slab patio. French windows occupied a full one third of the rear wall.

Balanced atop the wall, holding onto the railing, he scanned the property for signs of life; each window reflected only blackness. Rain hammered the land, gushed along guttering and through downspouts, overflowing at the drains and spilling onto the patio.

Confident that he remained undetected, Joshua stepped off the wall into space and dropped thirteen feet into the garden. He landed with a dirty splash, hurried across the lawn and pressed himself against the wall near the French windows.

At waist height, he noticed the pane of glass nearest the handles was missing. Slim wooden beading that once surrounded the pane had gone, picked clean away. A draughty black square remained, which the rain angled through. Plastic ties secured the doors.

He reached through and snipped the ties with his fingernails. Directly the tension went out of the doors a gust of wind blew them wide open. Joshua threw out his hands and grabbed them as they swung outwards. Still holding the handles he stepped onto the squishy doormat, closed the doors behind him and wedged a tubular chrome kitchen chair under the handles. No lights burned inside the house.

With the doors secured, the sound of the storm became subdued. Joshua stepped cautiously across the kitchen, leaving a water trail in his wake. His heart started to pound.

The house reeked of death.

It hung in the air like the residue of burnt toast. He homed in on the source. A jumble of residual odors left by those who recently beheld the corpse of Hector Kelvecion was present. Joshua absorbed their horror and revulsion.

He entered the living quarters and froze.

On the floor, measuring three feet in diameter, a patch of congealing blood and strings of human tissue stained the carpet. The fibers were matted. He raised his head, following the dizzy lines of arterial spray spattered over the walls, several oil paintings, a grandfather clock and a large antique mirror.

A grim image entered Joshua's mind: Hector Kelvecion dancing a grotesque fandango around the room, watching himself die in the mirror, surrounded by laughing renegades. The unfortunate lawyer, during the final seconds of his life, must have thought hell had come to claim him.

Joshua stood upright, heart thumping and rain dripping from his hair as he faced his reflection in the bloodstained looking-glass. No more guessing. Everything about this murder bore the hallmark he sought: the skilled, undetected entry; the grisly method of snipping the carotid artery; and the decapitation. These alone were conclusive, yet there was more...

The renegades left a unique biological signature. Invisible to the scores of policeman, forensics and the paramedics, the signature was olfactory and detectable only by hyper-senses. To Joshua the sign was unmistakable. Renegade scent hung in the air like ground mist, clinging to everything; the carpets; the walls, though concentrated mainly in the blood. Traces of their saliva, though no longer carrying antigens specific to renegades, were still present in the lawyer's congealed blood. A toxicology report would reveal nothing abnormal in the saliva, for all renegade excretory products – blood or saliva, reverted to the human equivalent after a few minutes.

Joshua swallowed thickly. Barlow was right about Los Angeles; the renegades were here and they were, well – using it.

He felt compelled to spend a few moments standing in the blood-stained room. Then he turned, leaving as stealthily as he had arrived.

Back in his room at the Hollywood Jewel, Joshua stripped out of his wet clothes and dumped them in a pile in the bathroom. Naked except for the wolf's head amulet, he walked back and forth, drying his hair with a towel. The phone started to ring and he turned quickly. For a few seconds he stood unmoving, debating whether to answer it. Barlow – let him wait.

Joshua continued to dry his hair while the events of the last hour raced through his mind. Since the revelation that the lawyers' killers were unquestionably renegades, he had subconsciously contemplated the mechanics of tracking and killing them. Take up where he left off – with the Jamaicans. He already knew the location of their warehouse. And he carried the Beretta.

Every few minutes his muse teased him with thoughts of Genna Delucio; her pretty face; her voice; her scent; her complex personality, the red wine she gave him. Remembering the fruity taste, the pleasant influence it had on his mind, he felt juices flood his mouth.

But with unseemly haste he tore his thoughts away. He scrubbed his head briskly with the towel. A more pressing concern required his attention. He had a job to do.

Tomorrow, when darkness fell, he would infiltrate the Jamaicans.

Joshua awoke early to the sound of a truck rumbling along Santa Monica Boulevard. The bad dream that plagued his disjointed sleep dissolved into tenuous memory, already too vague to recall in any detail. For a few minutes he lay perfectly still, listening to the air-conditioning. On the ceiling above him a cockroach trundled busily toward the light flex, where it stopped, as though aware of being observed. Last night's incidents filtered through Joshua's haziness and he sat upright.

Once dressed, he sat by the phone rubbing his chin, contemplating calling Barlow. Last night, after he returned from Kelvecion's house drenched to the skin and had begun to peel off the wet clothing, the phone rang several more times. But he had neglected to answer it. This morning its silence seemed to taunt him.

Joshua turned away, opened the blinds and looked out. Morning pressed coolly against the glass, a cunning deception of the blistering heat behind its back. Light traffic rolled by on the boulevard. He saw no signs of activity on the promenade or on the sundeck. All the unit doors were closed. He let go of the blind and wandered back into the room, twiddling his fingers, tapping his feet.

Come nightfall he would leave his apartment with the Beretta and head South toward Inglewood. Take a close look at the Jamaicans. But sunset was twelve long hours away. He paced the floor, peering now and then at his reflection, debating with himself how he should pass the time until nightfall. Of course the wisest move would be to remain indoors and out of sight.

Eventually, thoughts of Genna Delucio drifted into his mind; not merely her company but the very concept her very _humanness_. He supposed that in one way they were very much alike. He was as much prisoner of his world as she was a prisoner of hers.

So why not simply pack her bags and leave? What held her to this city? Joshua had made her acquaintance as she left the hospital; had she an illness treatable only in Los Angeles? Genna Delucio suffered from no such illness. He knew the signs only too well. Barlow, who for years had suffered colon cancer, emanated its dark inhabitancy from every pore.

Genna Delucio displayed no symptoms of having, or of incubating, any kind of physical disorder. Her mind, however, harbored something rotten. Though she conveyed a strong will, her demeanor occasionally swung in the other direction and she transmitted a conflicting set of signals. Joshua sensed that her despair grew from an almost irresistible desire to flee; not only from her physical environment but also her psyche; a dark corner of her mind where something festered, eating away at her spirit. But the desperation hadn't bested her yet. Joshua hoped it never would.

With the blinds drawn and the lights and the television switched off, he lay motionless, staring implacably at the cockroach, wondering if perhaps the creepy crawly was returning the stare. Maybe the critters were mind readers; which would explain the unerring ease with which they managed to evade a well-aimed boot-heel or rolled newspaper.

Genna...

His thoughts wandered directionless. He found it hard to concentrate for longer than a minute. "The Jamaicans," he said to himself. If all he found were humans, be them good or bad, he would slink away. If he encountered renegades, then the Beretta would be ready to follow. Swift and clinical. One renegade, one silenced bullet. _Chm!_ In and out. Should there be more renegades than rounds of poisoned ammunition, then he would revert to the original method: hand to hand combat.

Genna Delucio

Genna Genna Genna

"Damn it." he swung his legs to the floor, went over to the mirror, leaned in.

You are not human.

But you _look_ human.

NOT HUMAN!

But you _look..._

Not........

Inhaling deeply, he flexed the latent power. His muscles snapped instantly alive and his senses became infinitely sharper. He heard the buzz of the refrigerator's motor, the scuttling of unseen cockroaches, the drone of a solitary mosquito. A subtle alteration rippled through his features and his eyes radiated a distinctive scarlet tinge. The topography of his face _shifted_.

Not human! Not! Not human!

He flexed the inner muscle again, casting his sensory net further afield; to the lapping of the outdoor pool; the splashing of its gleeful occupants; a phone conversation several units away; the newspaper cuttings rustling in a draft. He tracked a set of footsteps along the line of units. He waited for the usual rattle of coins in the coke machine. It never came.

Someone knocked on his door.

Joshua spun so quickly the chain around his neck hula-hooped and the amulet came to rest between his shoulder blades. A shadow played on the floor beneath his door. He looked frantically at his room, his eyes lighting on incriminating items, then back at the door.

The knock came again. Three loud raps.

Durant's men? Surely not here. Half a dozen people frolicked in the pool twenty feet from his door. Gangsters were particularly bold, though not particularly stupid. Then who was it? He imagined opening the door to the withered figure of Max Barlow.

"Hello?" A voice called.

It was Genna Delucio.

Forgetting himself for a moment, he jumped over the bed, quickly disengaged the lock and opened the door. Sunlight briefly dazzled him, but as his eyes became accustomed, Genna emerged from the overexposure stood in the doorway. She had on blue jeans over brown ankle boots, a cotton T-shirt and a thin, cream-colored short-sleeved cardigan. Sunglasses hid her eyes.

Joshua noticed her shoulders drop. Indeed, her whole body slowly settled and relaxed, her sigh of relief almost pantomime. She tried to look past him into the dim room. "Hi," she said. "I'm not disturbing you?"

"Not at all," he said numbly. "I was ...I was just. Genna, what are you doing here?" His hand moved to the chain around his neck, fumbling for the amulet and not finding it.

"Guess I wanted to apologize for last night." She looked away. "I didn't mean to kick you out. I was upset. I'd had a long day."

Joshua shrugged. "Forget it."

"My father's men showing up kinda freaked me out." She glanced over at the people sitting by the pool, then back at the road. "You think we could go inside?"

"Sure," Joshua said, and then remembered the news-cuttings strewn across his bed. "Wait!" he blocked the way.

Genna bumped into him and then stepped back. She peered over her sunglasses into the room's dimness. "I'm sorry; do you have company?" Her voice carried a suspicion of jealousy. "Not that it's any of my business, of course." She laughed and pushed the sunglasses back on her face.

"My room's a bit of a junk yard."

"Actually," Genna said, playing with her earlobe. "I was going to ask if you wanted to go for a ride. To that big ocean of yours, maybe. I don't know – get a coffee?"

Joshua gaped at her, looking like someone who expected to be pounded but had instead received a pat on the back. "Give me two minutes," he said. "I'll go put on a shirt."

"Ok. I'll wait for you in my car." Genna said. "I'm parked on Santa Monica."

Five minutes later they joined the coast road heading south. Last night's events followed Joshua like a stray dog on the periphery of his vision. He tried hard not to look at it. Instead he watched the other motorists.

Moderate to heavy traffic made the going slow, but Joshua was unconcerned – they were in no hurry. The farther south they drove the calmer he became.

In Huntington Genna parked the BMW on the coast road and led the way down onto the scorched sand. Joshua looked out onto the ocean, where a dozen surfers glided in on large swells. "Surf city itself." Genna said, pausing to remove her boots, going barefoot.

Joshua watched this, then removed his own shoes, knotted the laces together and slung them over his shoulder, where they bumped companionably against his shoulder blades. Sunshine blazed from a cloudless sky, but the ocean breeze kept the temperature cool and pleasant. When Joshua licked his lips, he tasted sea salt. "That sure looks difficult," he said, watching a surfer ride below the crest of a wave.

"I wouldn't know," Genna followed his seaward gaze. "I think the ocean's strictly for the fish and the Pelicans." A large shaggy dog ran by, speckling them with sea water. Genna wiped a hand across her cheek and laughed. Then, still watching the dog as it returned to its owner, she said. "I still can't understand why my dog accepted you so quickly. Even on a good day he's grumpy with strangers."

Joshua smiled. "He's a good dog." He watched the foam flowing over his toes; the seawater cool and refreshing on his skin; the heat of the sun pleasant against the back of his neck. The beach made him feel good. The day felt...

_Joshua, what are you doing_? A voice in his mind asked.

"Benji sure liked you." Genna said. "He's my people-barometer, like the king's chief taster. He can figure people out a lot quicker than I can. You're the first stranger he likes – heck, you're the only stranger he likes." A Blond guy with a walnut suntan rushed past them into the ocean with a bright blue surfboard under his arm, whooping with delight, paddling out toward the swell.

"So your dog approved," Joshua said, amused.

"I guess he did." Genna steadied herself with the use of Joshua's shoulder and wriggled her toes to free a small pebble.

By mutual consent they diverted away from the shoreline toward the entrance to a long pier. To Joshua the structure looked like the skeleton of a prehistoric insect that had waded into the ocean for a drink. Lines of matchstick people strolled along the boards or stood tilted against the railings, watching the surfers.

"So you know who my father is, then?" she asked after a short silence. She picked up a pebble and threw it into the sea.

Joshua stepped over a beach towel depicting the image of a huge Sun wearing raybans. "I'm not interested in your father."

"I sincerely hope not," Genna said, lightening the moment by putting on an English accent. "I saw you first."

Joshua dropped his gaze, struck by the sudden revelation that his lying to her bothered him, the realization that each lie served only to alienate him further. For a moment the connection he felt with her started to split. He drew a deep breath and held it.

Finally Genna turned to him, flipped up her sunglasses and searched his eyes. Joshua had to remind himself to breathe. In that moment, surrounded by everyday on-the-beach activity, he realized this girl wielded real power over him, and with it he experienced a vulnerability he found fresh and new and scary. "Being close to me _is_ dangerous." She said. "A friend of mine was...he was beaten up by three of my father's men."

Joshua remembered the baseball bats. "Sometimes a beating is worth it."

"Coming from anyone else but you, Joshua, that would sound goofy." She grinned and hooked her arm with his, squeezed his wrist. "Let's buy ice-cream cones and walk to the end of the pier. We can slurp pistachio and watch the surfers trying to drown themselves."

They weaved through the crowd away from the surf. Joshua kept glancing furtively at Genna. The intimacy of her bare arm against his skin, the normality of it, the everydayness – the _humanness_ , made his heart thump.

Pleasant though all of this was, a stubborn side of him refused to surrender to his unrealistic fancies, insisting that, regardless of this charade, he was still a wolf in sheep's clothing. That same implacable voice told him he should be elsewhere; that his meddling would cost him dear; but right now, with the sun shining, it was a small voice.

At the end of the pier they leaned against the railings. Here the wind blew harder. Waves crashed hard into the barnacle-stippled pilings below. A broken surf-board caught on one of the struts slammed against the steel with each successive wave. On the horizon just off to the right an island stood out against the sky. "What's that?" Joshua asked.

Genna followed his gaze. "The oil rigs?"

"Farther out. There's land, see?"

"Catalina," Genna said. "Part of the Santa Barbara Islands. I used to go there horseback riding with my sister. It's beautiful; and the air is clean." She tore her gaze away and watched the people in the water. A mighty swell raced past the pier toward the beach. Two surfers rode the same crest, collided in a mass of arms and legs and briefly disappeared beneath the foam.

Joshua gazed out over the ocean. Breakers rolled in relentlessly. Surfers paddled out in tight groups, shouting to each other above the roar, working to catch the big ones together. In and out. In and out. He felt on the verge of an important revelation about human ritual. Whatever it was it lingered maddeningly on the edge of his understanding, then inevitably drifted away.

"You all right?" Genna asked.

"The surfers move in packs."

Genna nodded. "Surfers are territorial. It's a cliquish sport. And if you don't belong...well. You get the idea."

Joshua squinted at the island of Catalina, at the stretch of ocean separating the resort from the mainland. A vast distance. As he gazed seaward, he became aware Genna was staring at him, and he turned to look at her. "Come on," she said, linking arms again and pulling at him. "Before you get bitten by the surf bug."

They returned along the cycle-way to the car. Genna keyed the ignition and switched on the air conditioning and while they waited for the interior to cool, she showed him the BMW's crimped front end. "I can't believe my car came off worse."

Joshua shrugged noncommittally. So far he had far survived the crisis of his pricked conscience, so instead of wrestling with himself, he simply went along with the wind. What he was doing certainly felt good, if not right. Though their beach stroll was over, the experience remained large in his mind, like an afterimage of the sun. But growing ever stronger in the back of his mind was the thought that later tonight he must abandon this whimsical, selfish streak and become the cold vigilante, infiltrating a probable den of murderers; but until then, he would just _be_.

When the car had sufficiently cooled, and they had shaken all the sand from their shoes, they climbed in and sat for a moment. He felt Genna's eyes on him and he looked at her. Prolonged exposure to the sun had given her complexion a healthy glow. A lock of hair blew across her face and she tucked the strands behind her ear with her thumb. "Beach bumming gives me an appetite – if you have nothing planned, you want to grab something to eat?" She said. "Maybe up in Silver Lake?"

Joshua did have something planned. An appointment with the Jamaicans at sundown. An appointment he had to keep. "I'd like that," he said. "But Silver Lake....I thought we came down here to get away..."

Genna's smile faltered. "We'll steer clear of my block."

Joshua belted up.

"You like Italian food?"

"I love it," he said, though had never in his life been in a restaurant. The imposter tag came back. He pushed it away.

"That's settled, then," Genna said. "I know just the place."

An hour later they drew up at the Italian Rose in Silver Lake. The setting sun hung low on the horizon, bathing Los Angeles in a soft orange glow. Genna switched off the ignition and looked across at Joshua. "You ready for some gourmet nosebag?"

"More than ready." He unclipped his seat belt.

They were greeted at the door by the owner; an almost handsome middle-aged Mediterranean called Carlo Del Piero who Genna appeared to know well. He fussed over her with the gusto of a favorite uncle, hugging her and kissing her cheeks.

"Is so good to see you," Carlo said in a thick Italian accent.

"This shady-looking character's Joshua," Genna said.

The favorite uncle pumped his hand vigorously, but Joshua sensed displeasure beneath the cordial facade. Once they were seated, Joshua leaned over to Genna. "I don't think your friend approves of me."

"Carlo approves of nobody I hang with except girlfriends. Acts like he's my big brother." She sipped her water, crunching delicately on crushed ice.

Joshua twisted in his seat and observed the room's candlelit ambience. The pure Italian decor and murals that lined the walls depicted various landmarks of both new and old Italy. Mediterranean music played softly from concealed speakers, just loud enough to be enjoyed.

When the moment came for him to select a dish, he blinked owlishly at the menu, and looked imploringly at Genna.

"Shall I order for you?" Genna asked.

"Please," Joshua said gratefully. "I'll have whatever you are having."

"You trust me?"

"More than I trust myself."

Fear that his lack of social grace might expose him won a reprieve when he happened on a strategy: act like the natives. He figured all he needed to do was keep a studious eye on Genna; copy her technique. This appeared to work well; he blended in seamlessly with the other diners, sipping the tepid lemon water, when Genna broke into fits of laughter.

He froze, wondering crazily what he had done to provoke the outburst. She raised a similar silver bowl containing a floating lemon slice and said. "Cheers."

Joshua, who had already taken a sip of the lemon water, mirrored her actions. "Cheers." Her laughter coaxed a smile from him. "I did something wrong, didn't I?"

When she regained control of herself, wiping her streaming eyes with a red napkin, she reached over and touched his hand. "I'm sorry, Joshua. I couldn't resist."

"Resist what?"

She took the bowl out of his hands. "You're new at this, aren't you?"

He fidgeted with his wine glass. "I don't mean to embarrass you."

"Hey, you're not embarrassing me, Joshua; the truth is I find your innocence quite refreshing."

Joshua thought of the lie he was living, of the secret he so cleverly concealed; a secret so mind-blowing that if Genna Delucio knew, she would probably scream, jump up and flee the restaurant, leaving a Genna shaped cartoon outline in the door.

"What's wrong, Joshua," she lowered her glass.

"Huh?"

"Every now and again you get this odd little frown, as if you're doing something you shouldn't." She narrowed her eyes, though not in a sinister fashion. "Like a schoolboy playing truant."

Salvatore Durant indicated the phone on the table. "Call Johnson. Warn him."

Serefini, his wounds suppurating through the bandages, gawped at Durant as though his boss had finally lost his mind. "Warn Delbert Johnson?"

"Let him know the assassin has got his number. If he wants to see another sunrise he'd better break out the artillery. Do it now. Johnson will take the warning seriously." Durant remained pokerfaced.

"Warn those Jungle bunnies?" Serefini's face contorted. A fine line of fresh blood trickled from under his dressing. "I just got pistol-whipped delivering the contract on those Jamaican ass-holes. Look at my face."

"I am looking at your face." Durant said, swiveling the chair. "If the Jamaicans are prepared they might take one or two of the assassins with them. We're the only major syndicate left. Before long they'll covet what we have. You think I want World War three on my front lawn with the Invisible Assassin?"

Serefini gingerly probed his wounds and reluctantly nodded.

"Call them."

"Okay."

"Then call Oliveira. Have him and Rolands bring in my daughter. She's at the Italian Rose in Silver Lake. Don't mess this up."

"Oops!" Genna Delucio said, stumbling off the curb outside the restaurant. "Too much Chardonnay, I think." She held onto Joshua's arm. Although the sun had set, its legacy of daytime heat still rose from the baked concrete.

"You want me to drive?" Joshua asked.

"Can you handle a stick-shift?"

"Stick shift?" He shrugged. "How tough can it be?"

She tossed him the keys. "Far out."

Joshua got in behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. After checking the road for traffic, he threw the transmission into first and pulled away from the curb at speed, leaving trails of burning rubber in his wake.

G-force pinned Genna to her seat. "Whoa!" She placed her hand over his on the gearshift. "Dip the clutch – there, now you're in third; slowly release the clutch and.... You got it." The BMW surged forwards more smoothly.

"Thanks," he said.

"Give yourself five minutes behind the wheel and you'll find this baby wants to drive itself." She grew distant for a moment, caressing the seat back with the tips of her fingers.

They drove northwest through light traffic along Ventura freeway.

Genna snapped her head up. "Take the next right." She said. "First turning after the gas station."

Joshua took the turning. "Where are we going?"

"Someone I'd like you to meet."

When Joshua frowned she patted his arm. "Don't worry, it isn't my father."

To his surprise, Genna's directions led to the parking lot at the Medical Center, and as he pulled onto the lot he was struck by déjà vu. Only a few days had passed since their first encounter, but to Joshua it felt so much longer. _But this is LA, remember_? And this gave rise to the realization something inside him had indeed started to change. The person of two days ago seemed like a stranger to him now. A stranger that should be staking out the Jamaicans, not out on a date with a young woman.

Is this a date?

They parked the BMW and entered the hospital. Expecting a defining revelation any moment, Joshua remained silent as a paid bodyguard and dutifully followed her through reception and along corridors, into elevators, finally to the door of a private room on the west wing.

Pausing briefly, Genna dipped her head and took several deep breaths, as though exhaling all outward traces of her somber mood. Joshua felt something leave her like warmth from a fire. Her face bright, her mood brighter still, she turned the handle and preceded Joshua through the door.

"Hi, Suzy." Genna held open the door. "I brought a friend."

It was large room, warm, but not uncomfortably so. A faint smell of strawberries hung in the air. Classical music, low and ambient, played from hidden speakers. Lying in the bed, resting on her side, was a girl whose face Joshua recognized from the watercolor hanging in Genna's apartment. Unlike in the painting, the girl's eyes were closed and very still; no dream induced activity moved beyond those pale lids.

Genna carefully shut the door and stepped up to the bedside. Only now did her expression truly soften. For the first time since meeting her, Joshua saw who he believed was the true Genna Delucio. The hard mask she wore outside slipped, exposing the raw persona of a sentient human being. A little girl lost. A frightened, despairing young woman, whose reserves of strength and resilience were frail and threadbare.

"Suzanne...this is Joshua." She pulled up a chair for him.

Feeling small and insignificant, maybe even a touch intimidated, he remained by the door. During the last few days he had witnessed human destruction and human ill will. Now he witnessed the depth of human compassion. He stood back, equally amazed and alarmed at the contradiction.

"Joshua," She motioned him over. "This is Suzanne; my sister."

After a brief pause, Joshua edged forward a couple of steps, rested his hands on the back of the chair, and leaned over the bed. "Hello, Suzanne. It's a pleasure to meet you." Though he did not expect an answer, he looked to Genna for direction. She nodded and winked at him, patting the chair again. Finally he sat down.

"What," he said. "Can she...hear us?"

Genna cocked one eyebrow and shrugged. Still holding her sister's pallid hand, she outlined Suzanne's condition, the conflicting medical opinions.

On an Impulse Joshua placed his hand on Genna's shoulder. The gesture felt strange but nonetheless right. After a moment, he started to withdraw but Genna reached up and grabbed his fingers, accepting the comfort hungrily, almost desperately. "If only I _knew_ she could hear me," she said quietly. "Just a small sign to let me know she's okay."

The sheet covering Suzanne slipped down her shoulders, and Genna leaned over to neaten things.

"Let me help you." Joshua reached over to the far side of the bed. As he straightened the linen, something subtle yet distinct rose and hit him, like warmth from a hotplate you thought was switched off. He froze, looking down at her, throwing out his extra-sensory feelers.

Genna touched his arm. "Joshua?"

He did not answer. But gazed intently at the deep-sleeping girl, picking up tenuous waves of her awareness through the confines of her coma.

"Joshua?" Genna repeated. "What's wrong?"

Eyes narrowed and head tilted to one side as though striving to hear a faint voice, he closed his eyes and held his breath, spread his hands over the bed as though warming them above an open fire.

"Joshua, you're scaring me." She started to rise.

Joshua finally turned to face her, moving slowly, until her breath was on his face. "Genna," he whispered. "...she can hear you."

Genna straightened. "What did you say?"

"Your sister's awake in there," he said. "She's real low but she knows you're here, Genna. She _knows._ "

Genna blinked. "You think so?" a tear spilled down her cheek, leaving a silvery trail. "You really think so?" Joshua could not tell whether this news elated or dismayed her. "But how..."

"Can't you feel it?" he asked quietly, pulling her hands over to him and placing them atop of the sheets.

She looked from Joshua to her sister. Though Suzanne lay still as ever, her eyes were now open. The random opening and closing of the eyes in coma patients was relatively commonplace, though again came at a moment that suggested awareness on a level yet unplumbed by medical science.

Though Genna was largely unaware of this, waves of both affection and misery emanated from her comatose sister. Although very clear to Joshua, to Genna the emanations were invisible...but not entirely; she sensed _something_ , but where Joshua was attuned to this sub-level of communication, she was unable to define what she felt.

Her brow knit and her face squinched in concentration. She received the message her sister released but was unable to decipher it. However, she appeared to accept that _something_ had occurred. She bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh, Suzanne. I'm so sorry."

Joshua said nothing else. He quietly rose and eased away from the bedside, watched Genna closely, hypnotized by the show of tears. Such raw emotion; such power. He wondered whether he should have kept the knowledge of Suzanne's awareness to himself.

What had he done?

Fifteen minutes later in the corridor outside Suzanne's room, Genna turned to Joshua and stared into his eyes. So intense was her gaze he almost flinched, but he remained solemn as she tiptoed and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. He tasted the salt of her tears, the sweet juices of her mouth. "Thank you," she said. "I can't pretend to understand how you know this about Suzanne – but I believe it. I _felt_ it."

In the elevator on their way out, after several minutes of silence, Genna said: "What if it were you?" She observed her distorted reflection in the steel plates of the elevator doors.

"I don't follow you."

A distant look came into her eyes. "If you were locked inside your head; trapped in a vacuum; helpless - unable to express even the simplest wish. Like the last person on Earth. Would you want to continue?"

The doors parted. They left the elevator and started toward the exit. Two doctors passed them, catching the doors. One of the doctors smiled at Genna. She did not notice him.

Her expression became haunted. "Do you think that sometimes death is kinder?"

Joshua looked away, his own demons stirring. _Death is kinder._

Outside the hospital in the cooling night air, Genna said. "If that was me in there, I would not want to exist like that. And neither would she... _neither would she_. But who should make the decision for her?"

"I really don't know," he said.

They were moving in the general of the direction of the car, but Genna tugged on Joshua's arm. "Would you mind if we...walked a while?"

"Whatever you want," he said. Genna's candor disturbed him. Listening to her problems dragged his into the spotlight.

The night was breezy, though thanks to the recent rainstorm, reasonably clear of the nigh on omnipresent Los Angeles pollution. They strolled out of the hospital boundary in the general direction of the San Gabriel foothills, the lights of which gave off star-like twinkles. They turned down a quieter road lined with enormous palm trees. The pavement surrounding the broad trunks was cracked and uneven. A few dead fronds littered the path. The road was free of traffic, lending the night a touch of the surreal.

It was Joshua who broke the silence. "I see now why you won't leave Los Angeles."

Genna sighed. "What am I to do? Leave her to my father's two-monthly calls and the brisk visit by nurses who turn her on her side to prevent bed sores, treating her like she wasn't there?" She sighed again. "I'm in jail. I can't take her with me; my father would fight me all the way."

"You miss her, don't you?" Joshua said.

"Suzy was so full of life," Genna said. "You should've seen her at twenty – biggest Tomboy this side of Vegas: five feet ten, a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, short hair, flat-chested, wrangler jeans, and high-arched cowboy boots." Genna laughed. "She was more a brother than a sister."

Twin headlights appeared at the road end. Nearby trees threw undulating shadows across the pavement.

"It comes to this," Genna said resolutely. "I'd want someone to pull the plug on that damn machine." She threw a desperate, helpless look at Joshua, pleading for his approval.

"It's a lot to ask of someone," he said.

Genna searched his face. "Surely not for someone who loves you."

"I've never known that kind of love," he said after a minute.

She squeezed his hands and leaned into him. He placed his arms tentatively around her shoulders and she sank into his embrace. "I know this sounds," she said into his shirt. "But I'm sort of glad I knocked you down."

Joshua looked over her shoulder. A car was crawling toward them along the curb. Behind it, another car – a Maroon Pontiac that seemed oddly familiar. With a squeal of tires, the vehicle swerved across the carriageway onto the wrong side of the road. Its high beams washed over them.

Genna turned one way and then the other, the headlights pinning her in the glare. Her look of surprise quickly tightened into a snarl of fury and her sensitivity quickly evaporated. She stepped in front of Joshua, feet apart, like a tennis player receiving a serve. "This is what I tried warning you about," she said.

"Friends of your father?"

"Employees," she said. "The sonofabitch has no friends."

Screeching brakes heralded the arrival of the two cars, angled to the sidewalk. Doors flew open and several men spilled out. Joshua recognized two of them from his visit to Durant's lair, Oliviera and Rolands. The rest were strangers. By unspoken agreement they moved away from the cars and slowly fanned out.

Genna stood her ground. "Stay the hell away from me and my friends."

Hugh Oliveira pointed at Joshua. "He's an imposter."

"Get lost," Genna said through gritted teeth. "I've already heard this."

"Not all of it." He grabbed a stack of photographs from his buddy and held them up in front of Genna's face. Left and right on the sidewalk, the other gangsters cut off any escape route.

Genna glanced at the photograph Oliveira held up. She saw the clear image of Joshua eyeing up her BMW. Oliviera flipped to the next picture, and then the next. They showed Joshua peering through the window, opening the door, fleeing the parking lot after triggering the BMW's alarm.

She turned and faced Joshua.

"I can...explain," he said.

Hugh Oliviera stepped closer to Genna. "Come with us, quickly."

Genna looked from Joshua to Oliviera, confused and hurt. "I'm going nowhere," she said.

Oliviera gave a barely perceptible nod to one of his men. At the same moment he lunged forward and grabbed Genna's arm, snatched her away from Joshua, using his superior weight to control her. Rolands snagged her other arm and they dragged her toward the nearest car. "What are you...let me _go_."

The men on the sidewalk drew guns and held them on Joshua. Their weapons, Joshua noted, were equipped with noise suppressors; these guys meant business. But, for the moment, they seemed content to hold him.

Genna's protesting broke his temporary paralysis.

He flexed the latent power.

The two men covering him stood to his left and right. Joshua feigned a lurch forward, deliberately drawing the men toward him. As they moved in, he threw out both hands, grabbed handfuls of their suits and bashed them together like cymbals. Instead of releasing them, he brought them together once again and they collapsed bonelessly.

Oliviera and Rolands were forcing Genna onto the Pontiac's back seat. She was not going quietly. Indeed, she fought harder than they had probably anticipated. Kicking, wriggling, and punching, she bopped Rolands with flailing fist and bloodied his nose. He straightened in shock, fingers flying to his leaking nostrils; they came away wet and red. The big man raised his fist, snarling and spitting.

Joshua got in his way.

He deflected Rolands' forearm and grabbed a handful of his shirt. The unfortunate gangster must have thought God Himself had reached down and plucked him from the surface of the earth. Joshua threw him ten feet onto the windscreen of the other car. Rolands landed like a beached fish, squirming in the web of windscreen cracks.

Oliviera made one last attempt to push Genna onto the Pontiac's back seat, thrust his hand into his jacket and pulled his gun, drew a lightning bead on Joshua, aiming for his chest, dead center.

Joshua moved his body left and right and snaked out a hand, snatching the sidearm. Oliveira blinked at his magically empty palms and his dislocated index finger. Joshua disengaged the clip and smashed the weapon against the pavement. Genna, still half in half out the car, kicked out and caught Oliviera squarely in the butt. He stumbled to his knees; Joshua caught him by the throat, lifted him off the floor and slammed him against the roof of the car, denting steel and shattering the smoked-glass sunroof.

Genna scrambled free, eyes flicking from left to right. Oliviera squirmed in the gutter at her feet. His partner rolled off the hood of the second car and hit his head on the curb, grunting and bleeding from several cuts on his face.

Joshua remained motionless on the sidewalk, hands by his sides, his expression solemn, like the naughty schoolboy caught playing truant. Less than a minute had elapsed since the cars drew up, yet four men lay incapacitated and moaning on the floor at his feet.

As the gangsters regrouped, Genna turned on them. "Get out of here."

She turned. "Joshua...I'm so sorry."

He couldn't look at her. On the floor at their feet were photographs of him clearly staking out her car.

"Miss Durant," Oliviera said, his forehead bleeding and his hair sticking up in an eagle's crest. He was armed now with a micro Uzi. "Pretty please – get in the fucking car."

Genna's mouth fell open. "You wouldn't _dare_."

Joshua leaped between her and the Uzi. At that moment Oliviera raised the barrel and started to squeeze the trigger. Joshua pushed Genna one way, and moved the other, drawing the fire away from her. Genna stumbled into the low hedgerow bordering the property overlooking the road. She lost her balance, arms pin-wheeling madly, and went down.

Fire spat from the Uzi, the noise suppressor damping the otherwise deafening bam-bam of bullets. Intermittent muzzle flash illuminated the immediate vicinity like muted fireworks, reflecting off the Sedan's paintwork. Several 9mm rounds smashed into Joshua's chest. The impact shuddered through his body but didn't knock him down. As Oliveira moved to squeeze off another burst, Joshua grabbed the weapon with both hands, and then twisted violently to the left. Oliviera's wrists twirled around each other like maypole ribbons, and he performed a half-assed cartwheel. Hands twisted and broken, he fell screaming to the floor.

Joshua spun the Uzi into a firing position and directed a three round burst into the pavement. Sparks flew. Bullets careened into the cars. One of the fleeing men caught a ricocheting round in the leg, and he announced to Jesus Christ Almighty that he had been shot.

Respectful of Joshua's superior firepower, the gangsters, tripping over one another, retreated to their cars, leaving Oliveira to crawl back on his knees.

Joshua loosed another burst of Uzi fire. "Leave, or I'll shoot you." His voice deepened and his eyes glimmered. His shoulders strained against the material of his shirt. Two of the seams gave with delicate ripping sounds. His respiration became labored. And his voice was no longer his own. "Go!" he roared.

One after the other the engines fired up and the vehicles grated against each other as they moved in opposite directions. One of them dragged a loose bumper, trailing a shower of sparks in its wake.

Joshua lowered the weapon. The glow in his eyes faded.

With leaves in her hair and dirt on her knees, Genna clambered to her feet and hurried to Joshua. Up at the nearest house a porch light flickered on. She stopped in front of him. "Oh my God," she sobbed. "I never believed they'd try _this._ "

Joshua fell back a step. His hand crept to his chest to cover the gunshot wounds. Blood seeped through his fingers, staining them red-black in the shade of the palm trees. With the weapon still in his hands, he crossed his arms over his chest, as though lying in state. He could not hide this. The Uzi had unveiled his secret. By all rights of the human world he should be dead now.

And then she did see the blood. "You've been _shot._ "

He retreated farther. "No. Don't...touch me."

"Oh, Joshua. Joshua...you're _bleeding._ "

Genna became aware of his apparent indifference to the trauma. She cocked her head; the look in her eye changed, and she withdrew her hands. Perhaps she realized the sequence of events was not unraveling as it should. Joshua had been shot at close range with an automatic weapon, but he was still on his feet. Tradition was being ignored.

A new look, one of damning revelation, formed on her face. And with it, his connection with Genna Delucio started to crumble. She drew away from him. "Joshua?" Each syllable carried its own damning emphasis.

The gulf separating them sprang wildly apart. The time they had spent, the special moments they had shared in the hospital and on the beach, curled up and died. Joshua felt stung by an over-bright moment of clarity. Lost and abandoned in the profound loneliness of his identity, he saw himself as the quasi-lupine creature he was, masquerading as a human in order to taste their sweet life. A liar; a cheat; a freak _._ All the lectures given by Barlow reared their heads and roared in his face.

Up at the houses more porch lights came on. Several people stood at their doors, shielding their eyes from the lights, looking over, all of them pointing, pointing at him. Joshua's eyes flitted left and right. All of a sudden it seemed the land itself had been alerted to his trespass.

Worst of all was Genna's expression. A look he had seen a thousand times in the darkest recesses of his mind, formed over the years by the steady influence of Barlow's systematic condemnation of Joshua's kind; a look of fear, of disbelief, of denial, and ultimately of revulsion. Seeing that look of horror he had nurtured like a dirty secret in the back of his mind finally find form in Genna's eyes was too much for him to take.

He dragged his gaze away from her face and looked down at the space between them, which widened as he took three lumbering backward steps, turned and almost tripped, and then fled. The wind roaring past his ears could not drown the whispers of the emerging residents. Their many voices melded into a single voice, branding him the outsider. Above this communal accusation rose Genna's voice, pleading for him to come back, but he paid it no heed.

Along the sidewalk he fled, his motion whipping up dust devils, his shadow growing and shrinking beneath the streetlights. Dimly he realized he still carried the Uzi, the very weapon that had exposed him. He drew back his arm, and in his stride, smashed the weapon into the trunk of a massive palm tree. Several strands of dead fronds sifted down in his wake.

The damning voices persisted, deep inside his head now. He was a liar, a cheat, _a freak!_

In the dimness of his motel room, with blood drying on his skin, Joshua tore off his shirt and dumped it in the waste-paper basket. Beneath the gold amulet, three partially healed bullet wounds described a diagonal slash across his chest. He examined them in the bathroom mirror, traced a path with his finger around the wound puckered edges – he felt the foreign objects inside him, shifting under peristaltic control. The flesh contracted, constricting the bullets, forcing them to the surface. His eyes became scarlet. He inhaled deeply, and on the exhale, each of the bullet wounds puckered, the flesh writhed, gave birth to the piece of lead that made it. Once the rounds were purged, the flesh pulsated, the wounds shrank and closed.

After rinsing his hands under the cold tap, he pulled on a fresh shirt and paced the room. He held the amulet tightly in his fist, drawing direction from it, a sense of purpose. Events of the last hour replayed in his mind. Finally he let go of the amulet and telephoned Barlow.

While waiting for an answer he listened to the sound of people frolicking by the pool beyond his window. A girl squealed; there was a splash, followed shortly by laughter. Their sounds of play a cruel reminder of the canyon separating his kind and...and their kind. Barlow trashed the concept of love, branding it a man-made emotion that defied logic and reason; when a man ventured into the realms of love, he placed himself at the mercy of another's whim.

Right now, those definitions made painful sense to Joshua. Could he have been falling in love with Genna Delucio? Is that why he was hurting so much?

Barlow finally answered, his voice frail. "Hello?"

Joshua found he could not speak.

"Who is this?"

Good question.

"Joshua?"

Joshua slapped the phone down and rose in front of mirror. He no longer needed Barlow to remind him who he was. He knew who he was; he knew _what_ he was. And he had learned the hard way. Perhaps in the end the only way. A steely resolution came over him.

He stared unflinching at his reflection. In the light of new experience the truth about who he was showed plainly in his eyes. His distraction with the girl, though short and bittersweet, was over. Maybe the brief affair had acted as a catalyst, forcing him to finally accept his identity. For the moment, he forgot about the girl.

He was not the same as the girl.

He was the last vigilante.

He was Joshua Grenire.

He was Wolfkind.

Delbert Johnson

Joshua drove across the city with an air of calm totally new to him. He found that when he discarded his doubts and embraced his instinct – to hunt and kill – all at once his life became simple, uncomplicated, black and white. As Nathanial always saw it.

He parked the Camaro two blocks from the Inglewood warehouse and waited a moment in the stillness of the car. He pressed a hand lightly against the shoulder holster. The Beretta's cold metal was warming against his skin. This was too easy. Hunting and tracking was proving significantly easier than masquerading as human.

This after all was the reason he came west. Like or not, he was in his niche. Somewhere along the way his brother had unfortunately failed. Now it was his turn. And it was imperative that he succeed. If he failed, there would be no one and nothing left to stop the assassin.

A sudden flicker of light somewhere amongst the buildings ahead caught his eye. He leaned forward and scanned the ranks of shadowy structures beyond the alleyway. There. Straight ahead – a flare of orange light, brief but bright, followed by quick bursts of automatic fire. A short, terrified scream rose distantly, as though the doors of Hell briefly opened.

It came from the warehouse.

Johnson was being hit.

Still buoyed by the hunter mindset, Joshua quickly abandoned the Camaro and ran alongside dilapidated buildings and onto the broad concrete forecourt. The smell of urban decay, old bricks, plaster, debris from falling-down buildings, assailed his nostrils. Johnson's warehouse loomed over him, in complete darkness except for the intermittent flash of muzzle-fire illuminating what looked like sniper slits in the brickwork.

The entrance, a denser wall of blackness, lay ahead of him. With the wind rushing by his ears, the sound of gunfire growing louder, Joshua angled his run across the forecourt. His movement was slick, sure-footed and silent. A burst of adrenaline heightened his animalistic senses. At the doorway he caught the smell of blood and cordite.

A twenty-five or- six-year-old Jamaican was slumped in the doorway, a micro Uzi still in his severed hand. It lay by the eviscerated body in a pile of steaming entrails. The weapon was unfired. The hand still twitched.

Joshua drew the Beretta, leaped over the corpse and was enveloped by the gloom. The only light reaching into the corridors came from the sniper slits, yet Joshua's vision of the interior was of almost daylight quality. His monochrome view of the floor revealed three more bodies. Throats steaming tangles of ripped flesh and cartilage. Arterial spray stained the floor, oozed down the walls.

Joshua felt no fear, only mounting anger. These murderers represented the side of him that alienated him from humankind; that forbade his living among the masses. He thought fleetingly of the stuffed Timber wolf in the glass case.

Confused by the building's acoustics, Joshua could not pin-point the source of shooting and screaming. Each scream, each shout, each volley of gunfire echoed repeatedly off the walls, creating a miss-matched cacophony of noises, like a hellish carnival. As though the warehouse had found a voice for the terror, screaming through its walls and floors and ceilings.

A man's voice that sounded near, though was perhaps many rooms distant: "Pleeeeaaaasssee, no-" ending with crunching suddenness and the deepest of growls.

Unsure which was the right direction, Joshua tried desperately to home in on the nearest sound, turning left and right along a maze of corridors, moving deeper into the structure. All he found were corpses, the blood still flowing, the echo of screams not quite faded into silence. Joshua was barely a whisker behind them. Fresh bullet holes criss-crossed the institutional-green walls. Dust from the blasted masonry ghosted across the bodies, eddying away from Joshua, as if still in the slip stream of the elusive killer.

The corridor he was in terminated at a t-junction. On the right hand wall, ten-feet from the junction, hung a pair of doors leading to bulk storage. Riveted to the lintel above the doors a dented tin sign read: _Authorized personnel only_.

A blaze of muzzle-fire illuminated the left hand branch of the t-junction. Joshua moved cautiously toward the corner. He smelled fear in the air. The terror as tangible as the solid walls that hemmed him in. A thick, coppery sensation, like blood and sweat. The atmosphere bled mortal terror.

At the end of this corridor he found another body, a Jamaican who appeared little more than a teenager. Eyes wide open, dreadlocks fanned around his head. Everything from his nose to his throat was missing. A gold necklace, which had somehow escaped undamaged, lay stretched across his lacerated throat. His hands were charred and smoking. It looked like the guy's weapon had exploded. Then Joshua saw why. The barrel was bent at a right angle.

The rapid, shallow respiration of someone driven half mad by fear reached Joshua's ears and jittery footsteps approached. A flashlight beam flicked through the darkness beyond the next corner. A human for sure – a renegade needed no flashlight.

Joshua stepped into view and found himself face to face with a Jamaican wearing a pair of thick-lensed spectacles. Sweat beaded on a forehead that reached to the top of his cranium, where tightly beaded plaits bounced and swayed. The waft of fear he radiated felt so potent that, for a moment, Joshua stared at the wide-eyed at Delbert Johnson. An almost comic question rose in Joshua's mind. _I guess this means you're not a renegade._

Though scared and confused, Johnson still moved quickly; swinging his assault rifle, squeezing on the trigger even before he drew a bead, backpedaling, firing and screaming.

Joshua stepped up accordingly, swatted the weapon, deflecting the shots into the wall. Then he snatched at the barrel, which burned his skin, jerking the weapon from the Jamaican's grasp. Still backpedaling, Johnson reached to his side and produced a pistol. His hand had barely touched the stock when Joshua struck him smartly on the temple with his palm. Johnson grunted and went limp. Joshua lowered him to the floor.

Sirens, distant at the moment, closed inexorably on the warehouse. Soon the place would be surrounded and if he didn't hurry, Joshua would be trapped.

He abandoned caution for haste and moved recklessly down the last of the corridors. In the rear quarters of the warehouse he found a steel door smashed against a wall, the hinges busted and the wood splintered. Several wicked claw marks scarred the plate steel. Bullet holes riddled the masonry surrounding the doorframe. Though no bodies lay in the doorway, small droplets of blood speckled the floor and one of the walls. Joshua touched the blood and brought his fingers to his nose.

His nostrils twitched fiercely. It was not human. It was the blood of a renegade. He wiped his fingertips on his jeans.

Farther along the corridor he came to another door, smashed and splintered like the first. Beyond the ruined door were overturned armchairs and tables. In one corner, an elaborate computer workstation, on which the monitor displayed a star-field screensaver. At the back of the room two bodies were stretched over a leather couch. Gun smoke hung in the air, mingling with steam from spilled entrails.

Somewhere up ahead a violent crash sent a shockwave through the floor. Then a triple or quadruple burst of sustained fire. Something roared, first in pain and then in rage. The Jamaicans were putting up a fight and clearly were having some success. Though it did not last long. The gunfire petered out and the screams which followed were clearly human.

Joshua sprinted down the corridor toward the pitiful pleas. All too soon the cries ended and Joshua stopped moving, listening hard, yet still unable to pin-point the source. He was all but out of time. From outside came the first in an endless series of tire screeches as more and more patrol cars arrived.

Inside the warehouse now all was quiet. The gunfire had ended with almost jarring abruptness, as did the chilling cries of terror. This surely meant the renegades had completed their business. The assassins had carried out another hit. They would be seeking their escape.

Joshua rushed through a doorway into the rearmost room. Sensing a presence, he held himself motionless as a startled deer. At the far end of the room, a dark and silent shape flew wraith-like across the floor toward the stair well. The displacement of air caused by the fleeting presence whipped up dust and bits of waste paper.

Joshua reacted almost as quick, and the Beretta spat fire. Three rounds slammed almost simultaneously into the plaster of the stairwell wall, missing their target by less than a foot.

The echo died. Joshua followed the point of his gun across the floor to the base of the stairwell, halting at the first step. At head height in the wall he saw the three Beretta rounds, each no more than an inch from the last.

Above him, the whisper-quiet sound of swift feet ascended.

"Freeze!" A flashlight beam poked in at the far end of the room, swung left and right, trying to pick him out. Then the effulgence found and briefly dazzled him. He sprang into the stairwell and ascended to the first landing. Several other flashlights joined the first, their beams converging at the foot of the stairs. Voices called to one another as half a dozen or more policemen entered the storage area.

He turned and rushed upwards, footfalls echoing, the Beretta thrust out in front of him. A sudden and deafening crash from above thrummed through the stairwell. A moment later fresh night air swept downward. Joshua cleared each flight with hardly a stride, quickly eating up the ground. At the top he found the stairwell door lying on the asphalt surrounded by splinters and chunks of concrete. The breeze blew flakes of paint and masonry dust in his face.

Voices echoed from below. "Standing here...must have gone up..."

Staying vigilant, set to defend against an attack, Joshua moved out on to the roof, spinning three hundred and sixty degrees, the Beretta held high. He saw movement to the left of the door and he snapped the gun in that direction.

A young Jamaican, blood staining the left side of his face, cowered on the floor clutching an automatic weapon. Whimpering and trembling, he smelled of vomit, urine and feces. Joshua frowned in pity and in horror.

"Which way did they go?" Joshua said.

The kid shied away, curling into a fetal position.

Joshua went to the edge of the roof and peered over. The forecourt was a car wreck of swirling blue and orange lights below; dozens of sirens competed for dominance. The previously dark façade now boasted brighter lights than a football stadium. SWAT teams converged on all corners. Someone bellowed orders into a bullhorn. In the distance he saw the searchlight of an approaching helicopter.

Joshua looked farther afield, his eye piercing the gloom of the neighboring streets and serviceways. In a darkened alley running ninety degrees to the warehouse, he spotted two dark shapes, moving swiftly away from the scene. One of the figures looked back – right at him it. Two malevolent eyes glowed red in the darkness.

In a micro-second Joshua drew a bead with the Beretta, but realized the range was too great.

Footsteps and voices neared the top of the stairwell behind him. He turned around and saw flashlight beams from the ascending troop. He turned left and right like a caged animal. None of the adjacent buildings stood within reasonable jumping distance. The Jamaicans had obviously planned ahead – no neighboring buildings reduced the likelihood of a rooftop assault by a rival gang. The nearest structure, another derelict storage building, stood sixty or seventy feet away, but thirty or forty feet lower.

Joshua drew a lungful of oxygen, coiled his muscles, and sprinted to the edge of the roof. Underfoot, the asphalt yielded and cracked under the pressure of forward thrust. At the lip of the roof, he stepped onto and kicked off the low wall, and for what seemed minutes rather than seconds, was airborne. Wind roared past his ears. Swirling blue lights swam far beneath his feet.

As he sailed toward his target he started to lose height, and for one horrible moment he feared he would slam into the warehouse wall. But he remained aloft just long enough to clear the warehouse's parapet. Both feet touched down heavily, the asphalt shattered, and his momentum pitched him across the smaller roof in a series of forward rolls. Like a wrecking ball he struck the far wall, his weight dislodging slabs of coping.

After a quick look back, he ran along the wall until he came to a drain. He swung himself over the edge and slid down a section of corroded downspout, fortunately leeward of the crime scene. When he got halfway down, dust and flakes of rust in his eyes, the pipe came away in his hands.

He hit the ground running in order to avoid being buried under the ton of old metal following him down. The noise was enormous, deafening, even with the dozen nearby sirens and shouting police officers.

Joshua crept through the graveyard of deserted buildings and made the two blocks back to his Camaro unseen. The door still hung open from his hasty departure only minutes ago. Sliding into the driver's seat, he looked through the windshield. On the roof of Johnson's warehouse a dozen silhouettes waxed and waned against the backdrop of sweeping flashlights.

Leaving the headlights off, Joshua keyed the ignition, put the car in reverse, and drove quietly away.

Genna Delucio arrived at the Hollywood Jewel and stopped the BMW on the tiny parking lot. She turned the key and the engine died, leaving behind a heavy silence. Looking through the windshield at Joshua's motel room, she swallowed thickly. Beyond the window blinds a light burned. Had Joshua left it switched on this morning before they left for Huntington Beach? She couldn't remember. Nor could she discern any movement beyond the orange glow. Fat raindrops struck car.

Genna drummed her fingers on the steering while two scenarios played on her mind: In the first, Joshua lay collapsed in a street somewhere. In the second, though severely injured, he had somehow made it back to his motel. If the latter were true, then he was in there right now, sprawled on the floor, maybe breathing his last.

She grimaced inwardly, climbed out of the car, and crossed the rain-spotted tarmac to Joshua's unit. In the shelter of the awning she pressed her ear against the door. Over the clunks and hisses rising from the bowels of the ice machine to her left, she heard nothing.

The leaden sky unleashed a series of gust-driven showers at the motel. The breeze picked up with the abruptness of a wind tunnel, almost knocking her off balance, snapping the calf of her jeans against her skin.

"Joshua!" Genna banged on the door. "Are you in there?"

Waiting, she thought not only of his injuries, but also the photographs of him snooping around her car at the hospital. This of course raised questions regarding her safety.

A car sluiced along Santa Monica Boulevard, dragging spray and the thump-thump of bass along with it. A dervish gusted through the tract of shrubbery bordering the parking lot. An empty soda can skittered across the sun deck, performed a serious of tumbles, the final one sending it into the swimming pool.

Genna looked over her shoulder. The windswept border was a mass of writhing, glistening foliage, reflecting glare from a million facets. She saw nothing particularly sinister, yet got the feeling she was being watched. Flags clung desperately to their poles. Strings of water trailed from their tips.

On the verge of fleeing, Genna turned, but instead of knocking, tried the door. To her surprise the handle turned easily in her grasp. The moment the lock mechanism disengaged, the door was yanked out of her grip, pulling her into the room. She almost screamed, half expecting to see Joshua standing there, ashen faced, close to death, accusing her of getting him shot.

But the room was empty. The storm, which rushed past her into the room, left a darkening calling card on the welcome mat.

Genna gave a quick glance up and down the promenade. None of the neighboring doors swung open, no curious slits appeared at the blinds. Reception was obscured by the swaying fronds of a palm tree.

She slipped into the room and secured the door.

Inside was several degrees cooler than outside – the air-conditioning gave off its varied hum, and a cool draft of refrigerated air played with the loose corners of a large map, which hung from the wall by only three tacks, the fourth corner hung loose, obscuring half of the chart.

Genna wiped the rain from her face and stepped deeper into the room, her boots squeaking, and her chest thumping. To her right the double bed was clearly unslept in, the sheets tucked neatly under the mattress. On the spread were a hold-all and a pile of newspaper-clippings. By the nightstand, a wastepaper basket, tipped on its side. Hanging half in half out was the shirt Joshua had been wearing this evening. The fabric stained with blood.

A finger of ice pressed against her heart and for a moment, eyes glued to the blood-stains, she couldn't breathe. He had made it home – maybe still was home.

"Joshua?" she said, startled by her own voice. She forced herself to walk to the far side of the bed, certain she would find him there, face down.

But he was not on the floor. Nor was he slumped against the wall. She licked her lips. Only the bathroom left to search. Her heart thudded in her temples. This would be where she found him, submerged in the calm, cold bath water, sightless eyes aimed skyward. Ah yes, she thought grimly. Wasn't Hollywood the place for bodies in bathtubs?

But the bathroom was empty and very quiet. She pulled the light cord, her fingers sliding on something wet and sticky. Under the naked bulb she saw blood on her fingers. More of it stained the sink and the floor. She quickly ran the water and proceeded to wash her hands when she noticed three dull objects on the back of the sink. She stood hunched over the basin with her hands submerged, staring at the objects, and saw they were spent rounds, misshapen from impact. She picked one up and held it before her eyes. It was dark red and tacky.

Part of her mind tumbled back to the moment she knocked Joshua down with the BMW; the subsequent examination by Sam Harper. Then she thought of the shooting itself. Although she had not actually seen Joshua shot, she had heard the weapon's report, she had seen his blood. But instead of falling down clutching his chest, Joshua sprinted off as though late for his own wedding.

Body armor? Perhaps, she rationalized; a bullet-proof jacket that the rounds penetrated deep enough to make him bleed, yet not deep enough to disable him. But if that were so, where was the jacket? Why didn't she feel it under his shirt when they embraced?

Genna left the bathroom and searched the bedroom. On the table she found a scrapbook with a blank cover. A few news-clippings poked out from the center pages. Two words printed in bold type caught her attention. **Salvatore Durant**. She stared at the headline. Then pulled out the loose clipping and held it under the light.

It was an old news-story detailing her father's alleged involvement in a mob war with Fletcher Regan. The accompanying article was a brief, thinly disguised accusation of 'local businessmen' and their links with drug cartels, racketeering, and corruption of local government. The clipping, dated eight months ago, came from a New Hampshire newspaper called the _Conway Daily Sun._

Sensing she was on the verge of a revealing insight into the strange man who had wandered into her life, she sat on the edge of the bed and opened the book. The stiff pages were crammed with news-clippings, many of them aged-yellowed. They chronicled gangland slayings and mob-wars. A large section of clippings, she noted, detailed her father and the other principal Los Angeles crime syndicates.

Tucked away in what she deemed her father's 'pile', she found three pictures of herself. These clippings, she noticed with mounting distress, bore pin holes in the corners.

Her mouth went dry.

Clearly the book represented a news-clipping history of the Invisible Assassin murders. Each killing carefully catalogued and documented in chronological order. In the index, names of the major players and their probable connection with the killings; gangsters who were possibly using some _thing_ or some _one_ referred to only as _renegades._

Her fear for Joshua's safety was replaced by an equally unsettling disquiet about his true identity. He had lied to her from day one. Evidently, his story was a sham. His being here in LA no accident. Nor his 'accidental' meeting with her.

Crack!

Someone was outside.

Genna whirled on the door, dropping the scrapbook. It was Joshua coming back. If he saw her car parked outside he would know she was inside. She thought briefly of the evening Joshua came to her apartment. Her father's men showing up, telling her Joshua had killed one of their men.

She fumbled to unzip her purse. Delved inside and pulled out the P7 pistol. Ten feet from the door, she adopted a shooter's stance, aiming at chest height. _Aim for_ _the breastbone_ , Suzanne once told her. _That way if you're off target chances are you'll at least wing 'em._ She wished Suzanne were here now.

Above the sound of the rain she heard footsteps. The silhouette of a hunched figure fell across the window; a silhouette she did not recognize as Joshua's. This person looked shorter and squatter.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door flew open and smacked against the wall hard enough to bury the handle in the plaster. She let out a shriek. Her first impression was that a giant had appeared, like he of the Beanstalk. Wind and rain and dead leaves punctuated the intruder's gatecrash.

The giant carried a gun.

Genna finally recognized the saturated, wild-haired man as one of her father's bodyguards. But during those furious, highly-charged seconds in which her panic surfaced, she pulled the P7s trigger three times, each successive report dragging a scream from her lips.

A blast of rain and dead leaves skittered in through the door creating a mini twister on the carpet. The intruder grunted, stumbled to one knee, and then fell face down at her feet, where he moved no more.

Finally she lowered the pistol and stared through the faint cloud of wind-shredded gun-smoke at the dead man. So distraught was she by her actions – the act itself, and the terrible knowledge she had become as her father, a killer – she didn't notice the second figure standing in the doorway, wind and rain tossing his long black hair, rippling the dark jogging suit he wore.

"Like father like daughter," he said, looking down at the body.

Genna cried out in shock.

When he lifted his gaze from the corpse, there was a gleam in his eye. "I guess this revokes your civilian status." Only when the door clicked shut did Genna realize he had moved inside the room.

Who the hell was this? Surely not one of her father's men. Nothing about his appearance suggested gangster. More like a rock singer. Similar in a way to Joshua in that he gave off an aura of effortless, almost balletic, grace. Unlike Joshua, this guy had cruelness about him; harder features, and a gaze that made his eyes chips of granite. He appeared to bristle with energy. Rain dripped from his sodden clothes and his hair. Genna looked down and saw that he was barefoot; mud and dead leaves were plastered to his feet.

She raised the gun once again. The intruder merely smirked and raised his hands in a parody of old stick-em-up movies. Genna frowned, but kept the gun as steady as her trembling hands allowed. Though she had killed one man already, she did not feel she had it in her to repeat the action so soon. Her thought process had crumbled. She was composed entirely of reflex; the speed of her actions raced ahead of her thoughts.

"Stay where you are." Genna said, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice. The unreality of the situation lent her the strength she lacked.

Ignoring her, the intruder bent down and grabbed a fist-full of the dead man's jacket scruff, and seemingly without real effort, actually lifted the corpse one handed off the floor. In the manner of offering the town's folk the head of an enemy warrior, he exhibited the body for Genna. "Neat work," he said. "Real neat work. Your old man will christen your bambinos." As though discarding a jacket, he threw the gangster back to the carpet. The floor vibrated beneath her feet.

Genna flinched, came within an ace of pulling the trigger. "If you come any closer so help me God I'll blow your head off."

He mimicked fear. "Ooooo."

"You think I won't?"

He merely shrugged. "Where's your boyfriend?"

Genna found his nonchalance increasingly disconcerting. With a warm gun pointed at his head and with the corpse of the previous uninvited guest cooling at his feet, this guy acted as if he were here to fix the air-conditioning. "Who are you?"

"The big bad wolf," he said, no longer smiling. "And you are Little Red Riding Hood. Now, where's your boyfriend?"

She thought of Joshua, the strange news-clippings, the scrapbook. And now this stranger whose poise so reminded her of Joshua. What was the connection? "What do you want with...my boyfriend?"

"Guess daddy doesn't want him as a son-in-law."

Feeding off her anger she took her own forward step and held the gun at arm's length. "Any closer and I'll fucking shoot you."

"While looking me in the eyes?"

"I looked _him_ in the eyes." She indicated the dead gangster.

"Bullet might go right through at this range; a small, neat entrance, peppered with gunshot residue. Double tap execution wound." He took a sudden slantwise step, head moving like a cobra, his eyes never leaving hers. She tracked his face with the point of the gun.

They remained locked in this way for half a minute, staring at each other across several feet of air electrified with tension. His unflinching gaze pierced Genna's defenses and bore straight into her resolve. It was then she noticed his eyes which, though menacing, were remarkably similar to Joshua's, right down to the uncommon crimson striations. Her aim wavered.

With a voice rasping with gruffness, he said: " _I'll make this easy_." Threw up his arms as though startling a horse. "AAARRRRGGGG!"

Genna screamed and pulled the trigger. Twice. The slugs struck him high in the chest. The impact drove him back several feet. Blood formed on his jogging shirt around two neat bullet holes an inch apart. Exactly as he'd described, the wounds were neat, each peppered with gunpowder residue.

With eyes of luminescent crimson, he looked down at his chest. "You're truly your father's child." A blur of movement caught Genna unawares, and suddenly her hand, of its own volition, jerked toward her intruder. And then the gun was gone from her grasp. She fell back a step, nursing her fingers.

The intruder now held the gun, turning it over in his hands. "Heckler and Koch P7. Neat piece. Designed for a bitch, you might say." He stuffed the barrel down the waistband of his pants. "My turn."

Genna broke for the exit. One second she saw the door, the next she saw a mass of swirling stars; her teeth came together with a crack; an orchestra composed entirely of symbols filled her ears; the world tipped sideways. Next she knew her elbow dug painfully into her ribs. A thin line of blood trickled down her chin. When her head cleared she found herself face to face with the dead gangster.

"Up-si-daisy!" said her attacker genially, his fingers closing around her neck. She fought against the restraining hand but to no avail. Black spots burst before her eyes. She was dimly aware of a gurgling sound, tasting blood at the back of her mouth.

As the world about her all but faded, the hand at her throat loosened, though did not altogether release her. She felt herself being lifted, and then thrown across the room as if she were no heavier than an infant. Dizzy with the pain, left with no sense of direction, she closed her eyes and brought up her arms to protect her face.

Her knees struck the edge of the mattress and she cart-wheeled into the wall, her shoulder smashing the picture that hung there. She hit the bed in a shower of wood and glass and rolled onto the musty carpet. When she tried to draw breath she inhaled a lungful of dust and fell into a coughing fit.

"I should kill you quickly," her attacker said as he rounded the bed and grasped her upper arm, his fingers digging like steel into her bicep. "But I want your old man to know you _suffered_." With this he threw her against wall.

Genna felt her arm, for the briefest moment, slip out of its socket, before her muscles and tendons popped it back in. Her feet trailed over the carpet like the tail of an airborne kite until she hit the wall. Another explosion of stars. The room swam away from her and the last thing she saw before darkness engulfed her was the grinning face of a demon coming for her.

Along the Pacific Coast Highway Joshua obeyed the speed limit, driving sensibly through the storm sweeping in off the ocean. The windshield was an opaque blur, cleared briefly by the wipers before blurring again. He saw neither the road nor the rain. He saw the carnage at the warehouse.

An eerie calm settled over him. Renegade or Wolfkind – what was the difference? One spawned the other. Perhaps a few thousand years ago there might have been a place for them, but with the advent of civilization, stability and order, Wolfkind had no place. Society's spoils turned them into monsters.

For Joshua, these thoughts were constant companions, introduced by Maximillian Barlow when Joshua and his brother were children. And although he had secretly hoped he might one day live among humans, he knew deep down he was just a monster with dreams of being a real boy. A ghastly version of Pinocchio. His finest hour lay in the past. Obliterated by Uzi fire. And with it any hopes of a relationship with the girl.

Genna.

He struggled to keep thoughts of her from his mind. But he found it hard – like pushing back the surf, which just kept coming and coming. He envisioned hard times ahead trying to forget her. The sooner he forced her from his mind the easier it would be living with himself. He managed to keep her from his mind for a full minute, right up until he saw her BMW outside his motel.

Her vision tuning in and out of focus, Genna slowly came back, and found herself face to face with two crimson, hateful eyes. Unable to move her arms or breathe properly, she blinked and tried to pull away, encased in a constricting blanket of suffocating heat. She came fully awake.

"With us again," said her crimson-eyed intruder, his warm breath hot in her face. Steam rose from his clothes as though he were afire. And the heat. Christ, the _heat_. He generated warmth like a boiler.

Genna knew she was going to die, and she was plain terrified. In the face of death she wished she had her sister's courage. She did not want to die. Though her life was no picnic, she was not quite ready to throw in the towel.

"Screw you," she said in his face.

He bear-hugged her tightly and pressed his nose to hers, his skin feverishly hot to the touch. "You can't fool me. I _feel_ your terror, lady."

"Go to hell."

He laughed at her, revealing more canine teeth. He stank of wet clothes. Heat rolled off him in waves. Something was happening. Genna felt his body shift against her own, muscles undulating, flexing, working against one another, moving under independent control.

Genna felt sure her back would break, at which point the pressure eased, enabling her to draw several quick gasps of air. The sudden influx of oxygen made her lightheaded. Only when her feet met the carpet did she realize they had left the floor at all. She fell gasping to her knees.

Her attacker meanwhile had turned toward the door, head cocked to one side, listening. The redness had gone from his eyes and the radiated heat-wave appeared to have subsided. Nothing about the geometry of his skull suggested the enormous teeth she had seen only a moment ago. She found herself doubting her own eyes.

" _What's this_?" he said, facing the door. Genna heard nothing. The hand that held her threw her to one side. She collided with the nightstand, sending the lamp onto the bed.

Then she _did_ hear something; a pitter-patter of quick feet through the puddles on the forecourt. Then a moment of quiet – even the storm lulled momentarily. And then for a second time in the same night the door crashed open. On this occasion the pale blue door exploded off its hinges as though Thor had swung his mighty axe through it.

But standing firmly in the doorway was the windblown silhouette of a man Genna instantly recognized. In the dim light from the overturned lamp, his rain soaked outline was unmistakable. It was Joshua. The voice that issued from the silhouette, however, seemed not to be his. It was deep and it was menacing.

"Get away from her," the voice commanded.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the intruder's hand come for her. She shrank back, but he moved too quickly, snagging several locks of her hair and tearing them from her scalp.

Joshua charged across the floor, snarling like a tiger, and slammed into her attacker like a footballer taking down a quarterback. The thump of impact loud and meaty. Both men crashed to the floor.

Genna scrambled away, still on all fours, chanced a look over her shoulder. Joshua had grappled the intruder into a vice-like headlock, but strain showed on his arms. In the darkness she thought she saw his muscles bunch and tear through his shirt sleeves.

Joshua threw her a quick, panicky look. In the dimness, she saw his eyes, full of concern, and the fear that he could not hold this tiger by the tail much longer. "Go," he said. " _Run_."

Genna clambered to her feet, slipping twice before making for the doorway on unsteady legs. On the verge of escape, she looked back.

In the dim light that filtered in from the outside she saw Joshua lose his grip. Almost too quick for the eye to see, he lashed out a hooked arm, grabbing at his opponent's head. But this strange adversary, slick as Joshua, cleverly slipped the arm-hold and brought up his head into Joshua's chin. Joshua fell away, momentarily stunned, and once again the intruder was free.

She resumed her lunge for the door when something snagged her ankle. Bones ground together. Her palms and her forehead slapped the floor, and she grabbed the nearest thing she could in order to prevent being dragged back into the room – the dead gangster. Her fingers hooked his firearm. She fumbled madly for purchase and tore the weapon from the dead man's hand, established a grip and turned to face what held her.

At first she could not make out what was there, and then she saw Joshua leap onto her attacker's back. Still the long fingers clung on to her ankle, but she gritted her teeth, steadied the gun, and fired repeatedly, careful not to hit Joshua. Five bullets found their mark. Only now did the grip on her ankle fail.

Joshua regained his hold on the guy's neck. He looked up at Genna, his face bruised and bleeding, his voice hoarse and strained: "Genna, go!" His opponent bucked like a rabid rodeo bull beneath him. " _Can't hold him..._ "

Genna felt several pieces of the puzzle slot into place. A crazy part of this seemingly senseless night made eerie logic. Not the kind that explained away recent events, but one that made sense within the crazy, unreal parameters her world of the past few days had set for itself.

Distantly, sirens wailed, breaking Genna's paralysis. She fled into the rain, splashing across the forecourt to her car. The BMW's door hung open. A shallow puddle had formed in the seat hollow. She dropped into the wetness and keyed the ignition. The engine roared.

Joshua locked his arms around the renegade's neck and squeezed. Tendons creaked until finally something popped. All at once the fight left the beast. The hard muscular arms went limp in his grip and became dead weight.

After a beat, Joshua quickly reached for his Beretta, but the instant he relaxed his grip the renegade sprang to life, forcing Joshua against the nightstand, reducing it to splinters. Powerful hands grabbed his shirt and threw him against the wall. He struck with such force the aging wall gave way, and he crashed through into the next unit. In a cloud of plaster and dust a section of the ceiling gave way.

Joshua came down in a shower of smashed bricks and chunks of plaster on the double bed in the neighboring unit. Fortunately no one occupied the room. Joshua rebounded off the mattress, twisted and pushed himself to his feet. Dust puffed into the air. He grabbed a chunk of smashed brick and raised his hand like a pitcher winding up to deliver a fast ball.

Like a bullet down a barrel the renegade sped though the dusty hole, moving swiftly and surely. Joshua pitched the brick as hard as he could, but the renegade dropped one shoulder, hands scraping the floor, and ducked the missile. At the same time Joshua sidestepped, grabbed the creature's wrist and hooked an arm around its neck, but again swiped at thin air. With balletic poise the renegade fell into a forward roll and tore free of Joshua's grip.

Joshua jumped back a stride, allowing himself a moment's break before another attack came. But the renegade allowed him no breather. It dove at him from a crouched position, aiming for his center of gravity. Joshua stepped into the attack and allowed himself to be tackled. Two powerful arms clasped his midriff and wrestled him off his feet. The renegade used its weight and came out on top of Joshua, effectively pinning him to the ground. Their combined weight striking the floor shook the window frames.

Outside, people were spilling out of the neighboring units. Someone yelled for the police. Several cupped hands appeared at the windows.

The renegade, sitting astride Joshua, growled and slashed him across the face with a clawed hand, the actions driven more by anger and frustration than by the will to stay alive. It lashed out again, with the other hand, pausing only to listen to the wailing sirens cut the night.

Joshua looked up into the creature's partly transformed features: red eyes, vicious canine teeth, lower mandible pushing against the surrounding flesh, carotid artery pulsating rapidly. Its black sweat-top was torn, revealing a dark chest, bulging with writhing muscle and bristling hair. Something within the hair glinted.

He drew the Beretta and jammed the barrel into the beast's side. Pumped a round into the chamber. Only one shot was required, be it a head shot, an abdomen, or even a leg shot. The creature stared down at the Beretta – and the snarl smoothed out.

A microsecond from squeezing the trigger and sending this renegade to oblivion, Joshua eased his finger away from the trigger. The object he saw glinting fell away from the renegade's chest and swung on a gold chain. A wolf's head amulet. Identical to his own. His mouth fell open

The renegade acknowledged Joshua's amazement with a wry smile. "Did Barlow instruct you to kill your own brother, Joshua Grenire?"

"Nathaniel?" Joshua said.

With rain hammering against the windows and the distant wail of sirens growing ever nearer, Joshua removed the pistol from his brother's side. Still wary of each other, they rose to their feet, stood face to face.

At first Joshua did not draw a breath, nor did he blink. He gazed, hypnotized by the chain around Nathaniel's neck. He reached inside his shirt and touched his own amulet. He felt no fraternal connection or lifting of the spirit at the knowledge his brother still lived. Only confusion, a persistent feeling something was dreadfully amiss. A million questions filled his whirling mind, jamming his brain with their incessant supplication. "We thought you were dead."

Nathan stared at Joshua searchingly, equally showing no sign of fraternal compassion. He cast a stony look at the Beretta clasped in Joshua's hand. "What you doing with that thing?"

Still too shocked to notice the steely edge to his brother's voice, Joshua numbly holstered the pistol. "The...The renegades!" he said. "For the renegades. I...we...I was on the trail of renegades and...Nathaniel, why did you attack the girl – she's human?"

Nathan pulled hastily away and stepped back through the demolished wall into Joshua's apartment. "Get your stuff," he said.

Outside, all of the floodlights were switched on. The whisper of anxious gossip drifted in. Sirens were very close now.

Joshua trailed his brother through to his windswept room. Nathan stepped over the dead gangster and stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the night. Flashing blue lights illuminated his face. "Nathaniel?" Joshua touched his arm.

"I said get your stuff."

Joshua frowned, staring at the side of his brother's head. His senses became overwhelmed by a feeling of wrongness. More than ever now he thought himself a stranger in a strange land. "But the renegades..."

Nathan turned and squared up him, eyes blazing. "Stop using that word. There are no renegades..." He pushed past Joshua and looked out of the window.

"But I saw renegades tonight," Joshua insisted as he stuffed clothes into a bag. "Two of them."

Nathan, who was peering through the drapes at the arriving cavalry, turned and gave Joshua a stare full of menace. "Did you kill any?"

Joshua ignored him. "What's gotten into you-?"

Nathan abruptly grabbed him. "I asked you a _question,_ " he roared, eyes churning with fire. As his body temperature rose, his clothes released tendrils of steam. His fingers sank into the flesh of Joshua's arms.

"I killed no one." Joshua said. "They got away."

Nathan scrutinized Joshua's face for a moment, then released him, smoothing out the creased material. Outside, car doors opened and closed. He offered a cold, enigmatic smile. "You got wheels?"

Joshua pointed. "Out on the street, the engine's probably still running, I-"

Nathan stepped up to the threshold, grinned over his shoulder, and then vanished into the storm.

Joshua followed.

As they broke from the motel they were assaulted by cries of 'Freeze' and 'Hit the ground' and 'Don't move'. Before the police could say or do anything else, Nathan and Joshua were thrashing through the bushes and bursting out onto Santa Monica Boulevard to the waiting Camaro. Nathan jumped behind the wheel like a bank robber in a getaway car, leaving Joshua no option but to ride shotgun.

Nathan threw the Camaro into gear and screeched away from the curb. He lowered the window and pulled the gun from his waistband. Then he yanked the wheel and tramped the brakes, drawing the Camaro into a ninety-degree skid that left them broadside in the road. Three police cars braked and skidded to similar sideways halts. Nathan poked the P7 out of the window and squeezed off several rounds. One after the other, tires blew on the police cruisers. Before the police returned fire, or even drew their weapons, Nathan punched the gas.

The Camaro was free-wheeling and away. Nathan glanced back once at the melee. No emotion showed on his face. At last he looked across at Joshua. "So," he said. "You still have my old Camaro." He stroked the steering. "Got myself the latest model. Beautiful - a fucking vision."

Part of what had happened to his brother became very clear to Joshua. Something had indeed gotten into him. _Los Angeles_ had. The glitz and the glamour, the materialistic outlook of the western way.

"Nathaniel?" Joshua straightened in his seat. "What have you been doing?"

"Nathan," he said. "Call me Nathan."

"Last I remember you were hunting Renegades." Joshua said.

Nathan shook his head pitifully. "Joshua, you dumb son of a bitch. How long have you been in Los Angeles?"

"I don't understand."

"There are no renegades." He reduced speed and fell in with the flow of traffic. "Remember the Blue flame killer out in Phoenix that Barlow sent me after, the one who raped and mutilated his victims – he was the last of them."

"But the _atrocities_ in Los Angeles-" Joshua said.

"The work of civilians," Nathan interrupted. "Just your run-of-the-mill regular working-class weasels. The shit we saw on CNN a year ago was a feud between a street gang and that Fox Hills kingpin, Reagan. Taking turns at butchering one another. In my role as 'Renegade hunter' I tailed some ghetto kids to the home of one of Regan's enforcers. Big guy called Garroto.

"They got him when he was sleeping. Dragged his kids out of bed and hauled them into the room. They shot them all, but only after gang raping his wife. Afterwards they rammed a Remington twelve gauge up her snatch and then fought amongst themselves for the privilege of pulling the trigger."

At first Joshua couldn't speak. "How...how do you know all of this?"

"Saw it all happen. I got up on the porch roof beneath the window. After killing Garroto they trashed the place, stealing anything not bolted down. My introduction to Los Angeles."

They joined the San Diego Freeway and proceeded south. Light drizzle softened the edges of the twilight city, and the wind kept it sweeping in horizontal veils.

Joshua expression was grim. "Nathaniel, back at the motel – you attacked the girl, but she isn't a renegade – and if you really believe the renegades are gone you must have known that."

Nathan dismissed his words with an impatient flick of his hand. "After the Garroto hit I laid low for a couple of weeks. I ran out of cash and found work with a guy I met in a bar. By then I'd cut myself off from Barlow."

"Why?" Joshua asked.

"I saw through him," Nathan said gravely. He negotiated a bend too sharply and the tires squealed. "All along the old bastard was lying to us. He wanted rid of us for his own song and dance. I know you thought his kill-all-the-renegades crusade noble and right, but scrape off the poetry and you're left with an old man who messed up and then found God. Didn't want to go to Hell so he tried to make amends by killing the people that his error – _his_ fuck-up, infected." Nathan's grip tightened on the steering; the column began to groan and buckle. The Speedo needle crept to sixty-five.

Joshua shook his head vehemently. "Barlow hunted renegades because of the threat they posed. Our being here is – always was – an error. He wanted to save _people,_ not himself." A voice at the back of Joshua's mind scoffed. He got the unsettling impression that he was playing Devil's Advocate.

"Bullshit." Nathan said. "The old man's intentions were selfish. Once all the renegades were gone he'd have killed the rest of us. Did you never wonder what happened to the others, Joshua?"

"The other Wolfkind?"

Nathan took his eyes off the road to look at him. "Barlow killed them – killed them all, but only after they'd done his dirty work. You were the last. After I played dead I knew that sooner or later he'd send you. Had you found and killed a renegade, he would've welcomed you back into the fold, tucked you up in bed and shot you in your sleep."

"I can't believe any of this," Joshua said, but something inside him sat up and started to take notice, a part of him that always suspected Barlow was hiding the truth.

Nathan laughed. "The old man's dying, terrified of hell, he wants peace with God. Joshua, he'd have killed you. And then the old bastard, with his penance paid in full and his soul smelling sweet, would have died a peaceful man. Welcome to the real world, Joshua."

Joshua felt his brother's eyes on him. He could not look into them. If what Nathaniel said was true then in less than an hour Joshua had gone from being a defender of the faithful, savior of the human race as he knew it, to a fool-hardy pawn carrying out the wishes of a desperate old man. Deep down he felt the crushing logic of his brother's claims.

And Genna. Lovely Genna. A twinge of hurt pressed against his chest, the tug of an indefinable emotion. His short acquaintance with the young woman represented the best moments of his life. In New Hampshire his life had amounted to a sterile backwater existence in a nondescript room, gazing through a window at a world in which he had dreamed of living. A world that did not want him.

For an hour Genna Delucio drove aimlessly through the storm-lashed streets of Santa Monica and West Adams. Turning randomly at junctions and stop lights until she became lost. At one point she braked late for a red light and overshot the line. A vagrant leaned over the hood, his dirty palm turned up. Genna did not see the vagrant; she saw a grinning monster; nor the grimy palm, but a hooked talon. When the light turned green she revved away, narrowly missing the hobo's feet.

She drove west until she hit the Pacific Coast Highway, where she took the southbound carriageway. The storm front barreled in off the ocean armed with squalls of rain and seawater. The car swerved in the gale. Several times Genna nearly lost control of the wheel and clung on tightly. Pain flared in her shoulder and a hiss of breath escaped her. She remembered tumbling across the room and thumping into the wall. Vague recollections of blacking out flitted at the fringes of her memory, teasing her with macabre scenes of a staring monster.

Tears filled her eyes, doubled and tripled her vision. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. But the tears kept coming so she pulled over to the roadside, flicked on the hazards, and wept. She cried for her comatose sister; she cried for the loss of herself to her father's world of mayhem and murder, she cried because she was simply frightened and alone and needed comfort. In the absence of a sympathetic shoulder she gripped her sides and hugged herself, crying and rocking gently, most of all mourning her fall from innocence.

She resurfaced several minutes later experiencing peculiar solemnity. Her sense of grief dwindled to a pinpoint until she felt nothing. No longer did the implication of her actions stab her conscience, nor did she attempt to rationalize an explanation of her inhuman attacker. She did not think of Joshua. A different mindset, one that did not insist she adhere to any moral code or practice, was pulling her strings.

Coldly, she pondered her new title: a murderer. And as a person already condemned to perdition, was prepared to contemplate a particular plan she had long neglected. Killing was no longer taboo.

She rejoined the highway and drove with purpose and direction.

And with a promise to keep.

As he steered the Camaro, Nathan talked feverishly of Barlow's elaborate deception and ultimate betrayal; the lies they were fed; the truths they were denied. Although Joshua was now aware of Barlow's hidden agenda, he was not altogether convinced his motives were entirely selfish. Whatever your politics, Wolfkind were a serious risk. If the infection became widespread (here Nathan lost himself to another outburst of anger claiming that the term 'infection' implied they were a disease), then any semblance of social order would disintegrate.

Nathan dismissed Joshua's pessimism as remnants of Barlow's indoctrination, fallout from the daily religious ravings, the near brain-washing they had endured through childhood. He assured Joshua that experience would erase Barlow's imposed ignorance.

The Camaro finally turned off the road and crunched along an overgrown drive until the headlights splashed the back wall of an empty garage. Instead of drawing the car into shelter, Nathan parked outside, leaving the keys swinging from the ignition. Overhead, hidden in the mist and rain, a plane cut through the sky, engines screaming.

"You live here?" Joshua craned his neck to look up at the house.

Nathan ignored him and slipped out of the car.

The wrongness Joshua detected earlier was in the air again. Every warning receptor in his mind jangled. Inside him a revelation formed, swimming at the fringes of his understanding, answers to what had happened to Nathaniel. He followed his brother up onto the porch.

Inside the house was cool and smelled of new leather. The art deco was ultra modern, clean, almost bare. A large-screened television played the haunting strains of a U2 ballad to an unoccupied leather sofa. Behind the sofa, a laminated table map stood beneath a suspended brass lamp. While Nathan busied himself at a drinks cabinet, Joshua wandered over to the map.

Nathan cracked open a bottle of scotch and poured triple measures into a pair of tumblers. He never took his eyes off Joshua for longer than a couple of seconds.

Joshua inspected the street-level map; the LA boroughs were intricately detailed, much like in the kind of maps police-precincts have pinned up in incident rooms. Joshua leaned close and noticed several locations were ringed with a red magic marker. One of them indicated Fletcher Regan's Fox Hills mansion. Another marked Delbert Johnson's warehouse in Inglewood. Joshua's belly tightened. A dreadful dawning realization came over him.

Nathan pressed a glass of scotch into Joshua's palm. He accepted it numbly but did not drink. His gaze wandered from Nathan to the points marked on the street-map. The location of his own motel was circled in red. He dragged his fingers through the marker pen, the tips came away stained red from the still wet ink.

"We are not abominations," Nathan said, and downed half of the scotch in one gulp. "In this last year, I stopped hating myself."

All pieces of the puzzle slipped into place. He looked up from the map to his brother.

"I was going to send for you."

Joshua's mouth fell open. "It's you. You're the Invisible Assassin." It made perfect sense. Only Wolfkind could have pulled off the hits. Renegades acting alone would have stumbled by now; their sway over the animal instinct was keen, but limited. Only a pure Wolfkind could be so systematic. "All along, it was you."

Nathan sneered. "What are you going to do," he said. "Shoot me?" He turned his back on Joshua and replenished his glass. "The world isn't the fairy tale we were led to believe. It's still a jungle, roads and buildings instead of trees and rivers, but the politics are the same. Natural selection, brother."

Trying to set down his drink, Joshua caught the edge of the table, sending the amber fluid to the floor. The tumbler smashed into hundreds of pieces. "You're the killer," he said again. "The renegade I saw tonight wasn't you...."

Nathan nodded. "I've taken steps. Including you, there are four of us. So far three have been sufficient."

"Sufficient for what?"

"For the hits, of course."

Joshua raised his hands to his temples as though suffering a migraine. He struggled for the right words. "Nathan, what you're doing here is...is not right. You can't kill people like they're cattle. One thing Barlow taught us that wasn't a lie is that you _cannot kill_ _people_. Even before Barlow we lived by certain codes. The cardinal rule - we do not harm humans." He banged his fist on the table for punctuation. "The rule was broken and now we have renegades."

"Humans are far more ruthless." Nathan started to pace. "They have a scrap-book detailing acts of self-destruction we could never surpass."

Joshua started to protest, but Nathan was not listening.

"Look at the last fifty years: armed conflict, riots, chemical and biological warfare, death camps, genocide, Vietnam and Korea. The world's regressing, Joshua. Civilization's peaked. It's had its shot. Out there on the streets everyone's at war. Over two hundred thousand gang members roam the boroughs of Los Angeles, every one devoted to killing, robbing and raping. It's not creation they thrive on it is self destruction." He said the last two words in Joshua's face, daring him to disagree.

Joshua became aware of the Beretta's weight against his ribcage. He believed now the gun condemned him. Not the renegade.

"Look me in the eye," said Nathan, "and tell me I should kill myself to protect this accumulation of human scum."

Joshua swallowed thickly. "It's no justification for what you're doing – it's an excuse. You're Wolfkind and are bound by different rules. Nathan, you know as well as I do: we don't belong here. This isn't our place."

Nathan searched Joshua's eyes. "Not our place? Not one of them? Then by that definition you were fucking Durant's daughter for recreation."

"Genna and I are not - we're friends." Joshua averted his eyes.

Nathan laughed. "Do you know why I was at your motel tonight? Your 'friend's' father offered me fifty thousand dollars to rub you out. I was paid to kill you, Joshua."

"You work for Durant?"

"A temporary arrangement. In six months I've reduced organized crime to a single family, one that's paid me to do the people I would have greased anyway. After I've made the pick-up for the Johnson hit, Durant and I are through. I'll take him out. Then I'll run the whole of the West Coast. I am untouchable."

Joshua swiveled his head at his brother. "The government will come down on you with all they've got. They'll crush you."

Nathan waved the comment away and beckoned Joshua to follow him to the back room. A picture window offered a stunning panoramic view of the lighted metropolis. The rain had stopped and the city's structures twinkled like diamonds in Aladdin's cave. Lights of incoming aircraft blinked over the city, lending the image a hint of the futuristic. "Look at it," Nathan said. "This is the focal point of the planet. The nucleus of the known universe. It's like a magnet that draws people from all over the country. It's all there for the taking, not to the highest bidder, but the strongest arm. We can run it, Joshua, you and I. The others we bring along, they'll revere you as the only other pure Wolfkind. You'll be a Prince."

His hypnotic voice worked on Joshua, the measured tones a persuasive cadence nudging at his confused mind. Almost against his will, he gazed out over the city sprawl, the criss-cross network of streetlights, the winking of headlamps and slow progress of an incoming airliner. Deep inside him an instinct, born of his primitive origins, tentatively welcomed his brother's apocalyptic vision. Whether that the only alternative was solitude, he found the notion of embracing his Wolfkind identity darkly attractive. The simplistic mischievousness felt restful and natural. In that moment he empathized with his brother.

"Yeeeess!" whispered Nathan, reacting to the vibrations that betrayed Joshua's thoughts. He sidled up to him. "You and me, running the city. Nothing will go down without our approval. We'll clear out the pitiful street gangs, smash all who stand in our way. It'll be the ultimate act of tribal cleansing. You like the Durant girl. Make her one of us. She's already seen what we are now so there's little choice either way."

"No!" Joshua tore his gaze away from the city view, the spell broken. "We can't infect others. It's not just wrong - it's rotten. And so long as I live I will never create a _renegade_."

Anger flew wildly out of Nathan. His eyes blazed fiery red, his skin _crawled_. For a moment Joshua thought Nathan would attack him. "I told you not to use that word."

"That's what they are," Joshua said. "You've given them a new name to hide from yourself. They're _renegades._ The downside of Wolfkind nature, savage and uncontrolled. Nathaniel, for God's sake think about what the hell you're doing."

"Maybe you'd better think about what _you're_ doing." He stepped toward him. "All of this will go down with or without you. This game plan was in motion while you were listening to midnight horror stories from Barlow. I run things. Me. If you want in, your seat's reserved. If you don't, leave now and stay gone. Don't be getting hung on the ideas Barlow stuffed your head with."

Joshua looked back across the city. Out there, somewhere beneath all of those lights, waited Genna. Warm and caring, beautiful Genna. In Nathan's world she would become a killer. Or Nathan would kill her.

"I can't let you do this."

"What?" Nathan spread his hands. "You gonna shoot me with Barlow's Beretta?" He held out the hand, his eyes dropping to Joshua's holster. "Give it to me – you no longer need it."

Joshua drew the gun. "You know I can't do that."

"Well, fuck me." Nathan said. "Great white hunter going to add my hide to his trophy cabinet? Barlow would slap your back, offer you milk and cookies then blow your head off before you could make crumbs on his carpet." He reached for the weapon.

Joshua pulled the trigger. The report was deafening and a thin cloud of smoke rose from the barrel. A side window blew out behind Nathan, showering the patio with glass. A breeze entered the room, lifting the hair from Nathan's face, where a Mona Lisa smile toyed at his lips. He seemed unfazed by the gunshot, though did not move any closer. His black sweat-top smoked where the Beretta's venom scraped.

"Murder is just not in you, Joshua." Nathan said with pity. "Who knows, maybe it never will be. Barlow was right leaving you until last. The rest of us were born killers, whereas yourself...you were born with a goddamn conscience. I think that scared Barlow more than anything. You were the youngest, and you had a human conscience. That's why I know you won't shoot."

Joshua slowly holstered the pistol. Nathan was right – he was not about to kill his brother.

Nathan smiled. Then all at once the bile green odor of his fury spewed forth, alerting Joshua to the imminent danger. In a micro second he discarded all thoughts and regrets, embraced his hair-trigger sense of self-preservation. At the last moment he saw the gleam of a Beretta, a pistol identical to Joshua's, loaded with similarly doctored rounds. Nathan produced the gun from the back of his waistband, an almost, but not altogether, sad expression on his face.

As Nathan drew a bead, Joshua deliberately tarried until he heard the trigger-mechanism being activated; only then did he act, when Nathan had fully committed himself to firing. Like a sprinter jumping the gun, Joshua cart-wheeled through the patio doors, falling in a glass rainfall down the steps to the paving below. The slug passed within inches of his head and blew out another window.

Joshua rolled over twice and came up running. A second shot ricocheted off the brickwork, sending shards of splintered masonry into his face. Before Nathan drew another bead, Joshua turned on the jets and sped around the side of the house.

Overgrown shrubbery pulled and snagged his clothes, retarding his progress. He burst through the Laurel hedge, breaking off several boughs which he kicked and dragged halfway across the drive. An instant later he leaped over the Camaro's hood and slid behind the wheel. The engine roared and the car lurched, spitting gravel, fishtailing onto the highway. In the mirror he caught a fleeting glimpse of Nathan leaping down the porch steps, the Beretta held out before him. A succession of bullets pinged into the driver's door. None found their target.

When he had put a hundred or so yards between him and the house, Joshua looked over his shoulder. Nathan did not appear at the gate. At the first opportunity Joshua turned off the street and took a series of right and left turns. Finally he joined the northbound lane of the San Diego Freeway.

Would Nathan come after him? He didn't think so. Genna Delucio was in the greater danger. She had witnessed Wolfkind first hand. Nathan would not stop until he found her.

_Genna_.

Joshua looked at his reflection – his eyes were wide and haunted. Regardless of what Genna now thought or believed, he had to find her before Nathaniel did.

The Medical Center parking lot was less than half full when Genna pulled up at ten after midnight. At this hour the hospital functioned with the serenity of a rest home. Inside the building her footsteps echoed eerily. Her heart thumped so heavily she fancied she could hear it pounding against her ribcage. Heading for the elevator she kept her eyes forward, unable to meet the gazes of passing nurses.

Once inside the carriage, with the doors wheezing across the gap, Genna removed her dark glasses and stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Her eyes were puffy and dark, bloodshot and weary; the eyes of a drug abuser. A Gallery of bruises ran from her right cheek to her forehead; flakes of dried blood clung to her chin. Hers was the face of a victim. Oh, but her eyes were the eyes of a culprit, a killer. She could _see_ it.

She functioned under the influence of that peculiar kind of detachment, not quite in control of her arms and legs, as if her soul was floating away. The upstanding citizen she always strived to be had all but departed. Cruelly detached from the simple righteousness that was the birthright of every man, woman and child. She was an outsider.

The elevator reached her floor. Two doctors stepped in as she stepped out. Realizing the state of her face she quickly put on her dark glasses and moved past them. Over her shoulder, the doors wheezed together.

She started down the corridor, her thoughts turning to Suzanne, who was imprisoned within the insensate shell of a redundant body. Helpless in every way. Profoundly alone. Suffering an eternity of silence from which she was powerless to turn her face; which indeed she would if only she were able. The reason Genna knew this was that Suzanne foresaw it after being shot. Genna had been first to her sister's side and before succumbing to her injuries, Suzanne had spoken.

From the room came the strident chords of Wagner's _Ride of the Valkyries_. She looked once more up and down the corridor and then slipped quietly into the room.

Suzanne stared sightlessly at the ceiling. A strong, almost sickly fragrance of strawberries circulated in the air. Right now Genna found the aroma cloying and offensive, a poor substitute for the real thing. She rounded the bed and switched off the CD player. Without the music to contend with, the noise from the life support machinery held sway. The ventilator cumbersome and ugly, Victorian, appearing to Genna what it represented to her sister – a manacle, shackling her to a half life she so no longer wanted.

Suzanne swallowed thickly and her throat clicked. A reflex action. But the remnant of what could be interpreted as a smile stayed on her lips. Genna dragged out the chair and sat down beside her, took her sister's limp hand, squeezed the cool fingers. The vestige of a smile remained on Suzanne's lips; as if she knew something Genna didn't.

"Oh Suzanne," Genna said. "Where to begin." Her eyes wandered to the window, where the lights of the city twinkled beyond the glass. "Something's happened to me." She pulled a weary hand along her face. Suzanne's unseeing gaze remained fixed implacably on the ceiling. Genna kissed her hand. Pressed the palm against her cheek. "...I'm ready now."

Suzanne swallowed again. The trace of the enigmatic smile remained. Genna considered telling her sister nothing of what had happened, and instead fill her mind with sweet stories of a content life; but if Suzanne was indeed aware, as Joshua believed, she would _know_. Deceit had never been a part of their rapport; to introduce falsity now, with the intent of coloring the gray from Genna's world, would hit Suzanne harder than a bullet.

"I killed a man tonight," Genna whispered.

After letting the phone ring for over two minutes Joshua hung up. Genna was either not at home or was not answering the phone. He picked up again and started to redial, but then thrust the receiver back into its cradle. Leaving his quarter in the returned coins cup he hurried back to his Camaro.

He gripped the wheel and stared pensively through the windshield. She would not go home. Nor would she go to the police. And by her own admission she had few friends. Her father's place was out of the question. She had no relatives to speak of and her only sibling lay in a coma at the-

"Damn!" he keyed the ignition.

Fifteen minutes later Joshua pulled onto the Medical Center parking lot. He looked up at the spot-lit building. White-clad figures moved across several of the brightly lit windows. An ambulance, its siren blaring and lights flashing, pulled out of a bay and onto the road. After it passed, Joshua found himself staring at the dented front bumper of Genna's BMW. She was here.

He exited his Camaro and hurried over to the BMW, cupped his hands to the windscreen. The car was empty, but he sensed Genna's presence. His spirits lifted. She was – fifteen minutes ago anyway – alive if not well. He pressed his palms against the BMW's hood. It was warm.

In reception Joshua encountered a minor disturbance involving an elderly patient hooked up to a saline suspended from a trolley. Two orderlies and a nurse ushered him away from the exit. "But I'm going fishin'," the old man insisted.

Joshua seized the moment and slipped by unchallenged. Alone in the elevator he quickly pressed the button for Suzanne's floor. The doors closed on reception. For a few moments he was alone. His reflection in the elevator mirrors startled him. Two deep, angry claw marks were slashed across his face where Nathan had caught him. His hair hung in knots over his eyes.

On a floor somewhere above him an alarm sounded. The elevator bounced to a spongy halt; the doors parted, revealing a line of doctors and nurses hurrying by; two of them wheeling a resuscitation trolley. Joshua left the elevator and tagged on at the end of the bustling entourage, which led right up to Suzanne Durant's door. At the threshold an obese Mexican nurse stood firmly in his way. On the bed behind her, Suzanne's emaciated body lay exposed; the sheets flung back; the medical team working frantically to revive her.

"You can't come in, sir," the husky nurse barred his way.

From the bedside, a woman's voice. " _Charging...charging_ – clear!" Then the electric thump of the defibrillator.

"You're blocking the doorway," said a doctor as he pushed past. Joshua caught one last glimpse of the resuscitation team hunkered over the bed. They worked well, bristling with business-like vigor, their faces stern and involved. Of all the expressions in the room, Joshua noted, only one remained unaffected and calm, at peace; Suzanne's. Joshua saw her serene countenance, one somehow more beautiful in death than when she was in coma.

He turned away and started back up the corridor – his gaze going straight into the second elevator. Standing beyond the doors, head slightly bowed, Genna Delucio was pushing a button on the control panel. Her eyes were dry, bearing no suggestion of sadness or loss; the inanimate expression of a shop-window mannequin.

"Genna!" he said, almost collided with a nurse who was carrying a tray of pills, nimbly sidestepped her, and ran toward the elevator.

Only when the doors came silently together did she look up, her face expressionless and bland, her eyes dull and vacant. Flakes of dried blood were on her temple. Briefly their gaze met, though no hint of recognition showed in her eyes, before the closing doors severed the contact. Joshua thumped into them. He ran to the other elevator, but an orderly wheeled in a gurney and blocked his way.

The fire escape.

When he burst out onto the parking lot he caught Genna as she was climbing into her car. "Genna please!"

She gave no sign that she heard him.

In his blind haste to catch up with her, he stepped into the path of an arriving ambulance, which clipped a glancing blow to his trail leg with its bumper; he stumbled, managing to stay upright by leaning against the BMW. The passenger door was unlocked. He pulled it open and clambered in.

"Genna," he began, but said no more. Her signals were dark and inactive; the equivalent of radio silence. In many ways similar to those he had got from her comatose sister.

His gaze wandered over the deep bruising on her forehead, the swelling at her temple; an angry purple graze stretched from her hair line to her left eyebrow. Nathan's work.

"I know you're a killer." Genna said without emotion or inflection. She raised her head and stared through the windshield where, in front of the car, moths circled and collided with a low-level bulkhead light. "I saw your scrapbook...the news clippings _._ "

Joshua started to drop his gaze, but held it. "I'm not a murderer," he said. "I came here to stop the killings."

"You stop killers?" Genna pinned him with a speculative expression. "So you've come back for me, then?"

"I don't understand."

Her eyes drifted away from his. "I'm a murderer, too."

Joshua remembered the crash team's fight to revive her sister.

Genna's face started to crumple, but she held on doggedly to her composure, wrestling her demons. "Suzy was never going to wake." She took a deep, shaky breath.

Dressed in her jeans and scuffed boots, her face cut and bruised, her long hair unkempt and hanging over her troubled expression, she looked hopelessly lost. Joshua longed to reach out for her, to pull her to his chest and protect her, to comfort her and...and just _hold_ her.

"You let her go," he said.

At last she lifted her head to look at him. Searched his eyes. For the briefest moment, they found a connection, a common level of understanding on which they both dwelled. Genna was no killer, and Joshua knew it.

Genna drew her arms around herself. "I swear to God she was waiting for me. I told her I was ready to keep my promise..." She fell silent for two full minutes while the incident replayed in her mind, her face twitching and working.

"You switched off the machine?" Joshua asked.

Genna's arms snaked around each other. "She was _expecting_ me. Knew why I was there; I don't know how I know – I just do. I took a bunch of wires from the machine." Her fist closed on imaginary wires. "While I was leaning over her, I think she looked at me. For a moment, she was there, at the surface."

Joshua wanted to reach for her. He didn't.

Genna stared into space. "And then she died. I didn't pull the plug – I did nothing, yet she died anyway. As if all this time she clung to a life she hated because _I_ needed _her,_ not the other way round."

Joshua captured the outpouring of helplessness and of loss, absorbed them, and responded to them. With tentative moves, he reached out and touched her shoulder. At first she flinched, then allowed herself to be eased into his embrace.

Warm, salty tears fell onto the back of his hands. He looked upon them with fascination. With thumb and forefinger he touched them, tasted them, wiped them on the skin below his eyes, as if he might somehow experience, and therefore understand, the turmoil occurring within Genna.

Gradually the sobs finally faded into hitches, hitches into sniffs. Soon Genna regained a delicate composure and pulled away from him. She dabbed her cheeks with a Kleenex from a box on the dashboard. The tissue came away tinged red from the dried blood.

Joshua saw the stained tissue and thought about what he was: a trespasser in the human race, in the human condition; his once fabulous disguise had begun to peel and flake away, revealing the monster beneath.

"What's happening, Joshua?" she asked. "Who are you? Who was at your motel?"

He almost flinched.

Genna half turned in her seat, the leather squeaking. "I know this involves the Invisible Assassin, and my father. What I don't understand is your place in all of this. Or how a man can take a point blank shot at his heart and walk away."

Joshua could not meet her gaze.

"Whoever attacked me..." She said, briefly narrowing her eyes. "Didn't look human."

"He wasn't," Joshua said. "He survived the gunshots because he was _not_ human. Not like you, your father – nor anyone you've ever met...he's like me."

Genna sank back in her seat and held still. Only her eyes moved; they dropped to the place on his chest where the Uzi's poison had struck, lingered there a moment before returning to his face. "You _were_ hit."

"The one who attacked you is my brother."

Genna gaped at his unwounded torso, her mouth falling open. Her gaze traveled from his head to his feet. She did not look particularly abhorred by this shocking revelation, which was reflected in the steady waves of curiosity she emitted.

"Not human," said Genna thoughtfully. "How the hell can you _not_ be human?"

At last he looked at her, his eyes darted in their sockets, uncomfortable wherever they rested. He looked at her throat. A pulse beat there; he watched her skin move under the systolic pressure, beating almost in harmony with his own heart. "I'll tell you everything," he said. "But not here; Nathanial will be looking for you."

She didn't move.

Joshua angled his head. "If you're still unsure about me..."

Genna keyed the ignition. "If you wanted me dead," she said. "You wouldn't have saved my life." She drew out of the lot and joined the highway.

Joshua stared at the dark road ahead.

It was out. He had told her. He was completely in her hands.

She headed north out of the city.

"Where are you taking me?" Joshua asked.

"A place we can talk."

### Part Two

Renegades.

Barely pushing the air in front of them as they moved, the two renegades slipped silently into the house. Nathan waited by the table map, nursing a whiskey bottle. A breeze from the smashed rear windows blew through the house. The television was dark and silent. Wind whistled and shrieked under the eaves.

Melissa and Blayne ghosted in from the hall. Nathan set the whiskey bottle down with a thump. "You're late..." his voice trailed off.

They stood before him like naughty children, only instead of dirt, they were smeared with blood. Nathan's eyes wandered over the scarred landscape of their bodies. Several wounds were unhealed. Some still bled.

Melissa's dark jogging suit hung on her like a hobo's rags; peppered with holes and crusted with blood. Her tousled hair imparted a used look, and hung over her face, which was drawn and gaunt. She could see out of only one eye – the other was an angry mass of raw flesh. She was shaking. The Jamaican hit had been a close run thing; too damn close. Nathan's grim expression turned to fury.

"We were set up," said Blayne as he went into the kitchen, returning a moment later clutching a chunk of uncooked steak in his fist.

Nathan raised his hand and brushed the hair off Melissa's face. At first she recoiled, raising her arm defensively, before allowing herself to be touched. She glanced nervously at Blayne emerging from the kitchen. He tore at the steak, pausing only to purge a bullet from his chest; the chunk of metal dinked onto the table. "Sons-o-bitches were ready."

Without warning Nathan grabbed him by the throat, turned and slammed him into the wall, cracking the plaster. "Watch out for her, I said." His arms and shoulders bunched and writhed with muscle as he threw Blayne into the television screen. The tube exploded and Blayne went down in a snowfall of glass.

"It's not his fault-" Melissa said.

Blayne rose unharmed, an expression of anger, hurt and fear on his face, which like Nathan's had begun to shift. Canine teeth glistened in his mouth; a bloody string of saliva looped to the floor. Nathan was already leaping over the couch after him, his fingernails slashing the leather. Again his fingers found Blayne's throat. Blayne struggled for breath. "It was a _trap_..."

Whoosh. Again Blayne hurtled through the air, clearing the table and thumping upside-down against the wall beside Melissa. He scrambled backwards and slid up the wall until he could go no farther. "It was a trap." He raised his hands defensively. "They were waiting for us."

"Is this how you look out for her?" Nathan's eyes turned scarlet. "Is this how I can trust you?" Grabbing him by the hair and his left arm, he pushed Blayne's face toward Melissa. "Look at her," he hissed. Several locks of hair tore away in Nathan's fist. He drove Blayne's arm so far up between his shoulder blades that Blayne touched the back of his own head. With a sickening crack, the arm fractured.

Blayne gritted his teeth. " _They were ready for us._ "

Melissa touched Nathan's forearm, the muscles of which bulged and writhed. "He's telling the truth, Nathan. _Please_."

Nathan closed his eyes and deep breathed. He cast a final, stony look at Blayne, then released him altogether, but not before tearing out a hank of Blayne's hair and shoving him to the floor.

Blayne gave him a sour stare as got up. "They hit us with everything."

Nathan turned away from them and faced the rear of the house, presenting only his back to the room. His chest rose and fell and he slowly regained his composure. "It was Durant," he said.

"Slimy son of a bitch." Blayne snarled. "I'll rip out his heart and make him eat it. _Eat it._ " He punched the wall.

"This was always his intention." Nathan remained calm.

Melissa moved a step in his direction. "Nathan?" she said, and then looked past him, only now noticing the broken window out back. "What's happened?"

Blayne continued ranting and raving, kicking furniture and punching walls and promising hell-fire and high-water to every greasy wop south of San Francisco.

Nathan, his eyes dark and unreadable, regarded them both unblinkingly. "Anything else strange about the Johnson hit?"

Melissa thought a moment. "Just that they seemed prepared."

Blayne's ears pricked up. "Yeah," he said, his eyes narrowing in remembrance. "One of Johnson's crew was white. Big, long-haired son-of-a-bitch. Took a shot at me. He appeared normal, except..."

"He was Wolfkind," Nathan said.

"Wolfkind?" Melissa and Blayne said together.

Nathan remained pensive.

Melissa stepped toward him. "I thought the only other was..." she left the sentence unfinished. Instead she snapped her head in the direction of the smashed window.

"My brother," Nathan said, facing them. "Had his aim been accurate you'd be dead right now."

Blayne threw his arms in the air. "That's just great."

Melissa watched Nathan closely. "You said he'd join us."

"I was wrong," he said. "But we go on as planned."

"With him creeping around?" Blayne asked.

"We go as planned."

Blayne held his tongue. Melissa sat down on the leather couch and stared at the floor.

Nathan turned to the map. "Durant's rivals are gone. His hold on organized crime is too strong to be properly threatened by any new fish. He must have hoped the Jamaicans would, I don't know – kill us off, maybe. When he hears they got wasted he'll turn his place into a fortress."

"What are we going to do?" Melissa asked.

Nathan half shrugged. "I'll go ahead with the pick-up. When I get a look at Serefini I'll know for sure whether they screwed us."

Blayne clapped his hands together. "Right on. We'll crush those fucking greasy..."

"I'll go alone," Nathan said. "Get some food and rest. Whether they set us up or not, we hit them tomorrow night. You'll need to be firing on all four."

Melissa didn't move. "Nathan," she said. "Your brother..."

He pulled the Beretta from his jeans. "Let me worry about him."

Solitude

The local road swept northeast and the city lights dwindled behind them. Up ahead the road branched and Genna selected the right hand fork, which curved westwards into the stately pines. A lop-sided tin sign, PRIVATE ROAD, reflected the headlights, where the tarmac ended and compacted dirt-and pine-needles began. The track wound unevenly northwest for a quarter of a mile and then due west in a straight line, still climbing for another half mile. Here and there branches poked and prodded from the sides, reclaiming the path, in places meeting several feet above the top of the car, creating a natural pine tunnel.

"Where does this lead," Joshua asked.

"We're nearly there," Genna said. A moment later the wall of trees fell away revealing a clearing and the dark shape of a large structure. At their arrival, exterior lights came on, illuminating an impressive log cabin constructed of interlocking pines and mortar. A dozen ground-level spots shone upward, brightening the decorative shrubs and trees, the lawns, the bark-chipping pathways.

As the car came to a stop near the entrance, a porch lantern flickered on, and then a succession of interior lights.

Joshua stiffened. "What..."

"Relax," Genna looked up at the cabin. "All the lights are triggered by a proximity sensor. They're supposed to discourage burglars. A timer switches them on and off."

"Who lives here?"

"Belongs to my father," Genna said. "He never uses it, though he still employs a grounds-keeper and a maid. The fridge is always stocked, fresh fruit in the bowls, a drinks cabinet, Satellite TV, and several phone lines. This place..." Genna plucked the ignition keys. "Is like a hotel without guests. Suzanne used to bring boyfriends up here." She gave him a wan smile.

Joshua found Genna's relaxed manner unsettling. She did not seem in the least bit apprehensive. Why was she so unafraid? He suspected perhaps that she had misheard his confession in the parking lot.

Genna doused the headlights, eased herself out of the car and walked up to the stoop, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Her boots clacked hollowly on the wooden porch steps, loud and clear in the mountain air. She dropped to her haunches and felt underneath the narrow overhang of the wooden step for a key. She unlocked the door. Warm light spilled out.

Joshua slid out of the car and followed her onto the porch. The suspicion that something was dreadfully amiss persisted. He hesitated in the doorway, rubbing the wolf-head amulet between thumb and forefinger furiously. Maybe revealing himself to Genna had been a mistake.

When she realized he was not following her inside, Genna glanced over her shoulder. "I promise you, Joshua, we're all alone up here."

Swallowing thickly, he trailed her into the house, through several cool, fully furnished rooms. Although many of the furnishings were late twentieth century, the log-cabin effect was respected. Dark wood floors shone, reflecting the beamed low ceilings. On the wall over a log fire in the sitting room a large mirror hung beneath two Stag's heads mounted on carved wooden shields, their faces frozen in death.

Genna waited for him at the rear of the house in a large, double-glazed sun room that ran the length of one wall. The dark wood used for the frames matched the wood floors, but this modern-day extension was too great a contrast to sit comfortably with the log cabin ideal.

A collection of wicker furniture arranged around a circular glass table gleamed in the soft luminescence from several ornate wall sconces. Against the wall stood a pine book case crammed with hardback titles ranging from Dickens to Dostoyevsky, Mario Puzo to Ian Fleming; encyclopedias and dictionaries, bibles, books on economics, theology, ethics, geography, and science. Joshua could not imagine a man such as Durant having the time nor the inclination to read a work of fiction.

Genna selected a decanter of brandy from a liquor cabinet and poured herself a large measure. As she busied herself, Joshua surreptitiously inspected her injuries. The deep swelling and attendant bruises on her temple, the angry graze on her forehead, her tousled hair. Dirt smeared the knees of her jeans. She never once complained, but grimaced when she took a swallow of Brandy.

None of this detracted from her appeal. These minor infractions served only to highlight her persistent loveliness. More than ever he wanted to protect her. She was Beauty and naturally, like it or not, he was the Beast.

Genna drained her glass and turned back to the liquor cabinet. With her back to him she said: "Now I'm up here, the last few days hardly seem real."

Joshua watched her closely.

She offered a quick, disarming smile. "Do you want a drink?"

His eyes wandered across the line of bottles: whiskey, tequila, brandy, "Wine," he said. "Red wine."

"Good choice." She poured a large measure and placed the glass in his half-raised hand. She stepped past him and looked out of the window at the gray outlines of the treetops sloping southwest. Beyond, central Los Angeles glistened like a diamond-encrusted circuit board, softening toward the horizon. Her voice, clear and soft, fogged the glass: "Talk to me, Joshua." She turned to look at him. "Tell me everything."

When Nathan Grenire arrived on foot outside the Galaxy Nightclub in West Hollywood, Divo Serefini was already standing by a limousine waiting for him. Only on this occasion the gangster was not alone. Two men dressed in black suits stood by the car. "What is this?" Nathan asked. "A school outing?"

The Limousine's rear door opened a few feet. Nathan looked down into the barrel of an Uzi. While he watched, the gunman screwed a large noise suppressor to the barrel.

"Get in," Serefini said.

A wry expression played on Nathan's face; he hooked a thumb at the nightclub. "Something wrong with this place?"

Serefini waved his hand at the neon lit building. "The music sucks and the clientele stinks." He placed a hand on the limousine's door. "I'm wearing my politeness suit right now, and it's starting to ride up in the crotch, so be a good boy and get in the fucking car."

Nathan spread his hands and stepped forward. "My kind of charm." He slipped nimbly and fluidly onto the rear seat; the suspension dipped sharply, as though he weighed far more than his build suggested. Inside the car three waiting gangsters drew their guns. Serefini took the front seat. The remaining two men joined Nathan in the back. They also drew their weapons. A total of five guns were now trained on him.

"Don't you think you guys are over doing it a bit?"

Serefini ignored him. "Frisk this comedian, and don't forget to check his nuts."

"We lived in a mountain valley somewhere in northern Canada," Joshua paced as he talked. "A remote region of the Saskatchewan – I couldn't tell you where because I honestly don't know."

Genna was seated on one of the wicker chairs, her eyes following Joshua around the room.

"We'd been there for longer than any of us remembered. Outside of human affairs; outside of society. That's how our group had always lived – or so Barlow assumed."

"That name again," Genna said.

Joshua nodded. "Max Barlow came to us twenty-seven years ago – before I was born. He was a Xaverian missionary – he'd traveled South America and Europe. Worked with under-privileged children on summer camps, that sort of thing. He was scouting remote locations when he stumbled into our settlement. No one knew what to do with him. We followed a rule, you see; never to harm humans." Joshua stared hard at the ornamental dragon on the table. "When Barlow learned what we were he was enthralled. Saw it as his vocation to help us.

"In time the elders grew to trust him. He knew of the outside world. On the strength of this he appointed himself as advisor and teacher, warned the elders that others would be searching for him, that sooner or later the settlement would be found. As the world shrank and civilization expanded we'd ultimately be forced deeper into the mountains.

"In the end Barlow suggested we should not retreat farther north, where we'd finish up on the fringes of the Arctic Circle, but that we ought to move south, into the lowlands. Not away from the people but closer. Survival, he said, would be determined by our willingness to live among you.

"Following Barlow's lead we left the mountain and lived in a religious commune on a ranch south of the Canadian border, masquerading as Xaverians. For a time everything seemed fine. We learned a great deal about modern civilization, religion, commerce, history, technology – the world we never knew. A lot of illusions were shattered by less superstitious beliefs."

Joshua took a large swallow of his wine. "As part of our assimilation Barlow escorted parties into nearby towns, acquaint them with customs and habits, but ignorance of simple things all too easily got them trouble. Nathan and I grew up on the commune, and so inherited a more natural human outlook that the others had to learn from scratch."

"How many of you were there?"

Joshua turned from the window and paced the room again. "Fewer than thirty. In the early days only two or three strayed from the ranch, but as time went by, everybody wanted to experience human society."

"Ah," Genna said.

"During one of these trips a scuffle broke out with locals. Someone pulled a knife and a farm boy was bitten. Nothing serious. Just teeth marks."

Joshua stared at the floor. "This boy became the first renegade. Until then no one even knew infection was possible. Something in the saliva, I don't know what, jumped the species gap like a...like a virus. Barlow just fell apart. Soon after the incident a young local girl was killed. More than that; she'd been mauled."

Genna shivered.

Pacing more quickly now, Joshua went on: "News of this reached us a day later. Barlow suspected one of us was responsible. He suspended all trips. In the days that followed, three more people died before we discovered the renegade. Barlow dispatched two of us to track down and kill him."

"What do these renegades look like?" Genna asked.

"Like the next man in the street. Only Wolfkind - or another renegade - can see through the disguise. Barlow decided that all such renegades should be tracked and killed. You see, if this farm boy attacked other humans and left them alive, they too would become infected; then the cycle would begin again."

Genna shivered again. "Dear God. If this spilled into the general population..."

Joshua nodded grimly. "Barlow got hold of a poison called cyanide sulfate. This stuff lingers in the blood stream and will kill a renegade in seconds – faster than it would kill a human being."

"Faster?"

"It's the metabolism. You see, when a renegade metamorphoses, however minutely, their metabolic rate soars. Introducing poison at precisely that moment will prove fatal. The blood carries the toxin to every point in the body; every organ, every muscle fiber, every cell. The poison acts before the body's defenses can flush it way."

A haunted look came into Genna's eyes; she glanced over Joshua's body, as though picturing total and irreversible organ damage.

Joshua said nothing for a minute. "Barlow... _changed_. No one was allowed to leave the ranch, not even to go into the hills. By then he was assumed leader of the group. No one presumed to question this. We were in his world.

"A month later a batch of the stored poison went missing and soon after, someone killed several colony members. Everyone was a suspect – except Nathan and me - we were barely teenagers.

"The killings continued – they averaged one a month. When there only a handful of us were left, Barlow made the decision that we should all leave the ranch. He secured a remote property in New Hampshire. Nathan and I were still young and he kept us away from the others – for our protection, he said. Told us to look upon him as a father; that we were to call him so if ever we had unannounced visitors. We lived in New Hampshire like this for a few years."

An owl screeched in the woods, startling Genna into spilling her brandy. She put down her glass and wiped her hand.

Joshua said nothing until she was settled again. "And then one night, Francis, one of the few remaining Wolfkind, stole some cash and took off. Barlow traced him to a town in rural Pennsylvania. That's where the renegades reappeared. This time we were too late – the infection got away from us."

Taking back roads and frequently driving in random circles, they drove Nathan to a nondescript building huddled among equally nondescript warehouses and walled up store-fronts in a back-alley district of Venice Beach.

Outside the car the gangsters' point-of-a gun escorted him across the cracked pavement to a dark green door. With a scree of un-oiled hinges the steel-plated door swung inward and tobacco smoke drifted from the entrance and up into darkness.

Serefini jabbed Nathan in the back with his gun. "After you, tough guy." All five gangsters, two in front and three behind, escorted him into the building. The door slammed heavily behind them, resonating in its reinforced-steel frame.

They led him down a corridor that terminated at a windowless room. The dimensions roughly fifteen by twenty feet, and furnished only by a cup-ringed card table and a couple of tubular-steel chairs. A naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling, its flex festooned with cobwebs. On the wall behind one of the seats Nathan saw several bullet holes and blood splats. He poked his finger into one of the holes and fished out a spent round.

Serefini grinned. "Something fluster you?"

"Only the thought that you guys can miss at this range," he tossed the bullet over his shoulder. Serefini grunted.

The remaining gangsters fanned out to the four walls. All kept their weapons raised; not for a moment did anyone let the tip of his gun barrel stray from Nathan's head. Wherever he moved, or swayed, the guns unerringly followed. Two of the men exchanged puzzled glances.

Serefini dragged out a chair and sat down. With his gun he indicated the other chair. "Have a seat."

After blowing the plaster dust from his fingers and rubbing them briskly together, Nathan took hold of the other chair, sat down and leaned on the table. His presence thrummed like a generator, sending a ripple of tension through the room, eliciting grunts and intakes of breath from the guards.

Nathan made eye contact with a few of the gangsters. "Little pigs," he said, redirecting his gaze at Serefini. "So, where's our... _fee_?"

Serefini patted his breast pocket, a quizzical expression on his face. "Damn," he said. "Appears I'm short on green. Hey Franco, you got two hundred and fifty thousand bucks on you?"

Franco, his gold tooth shining brightly, took a hand away from his gun in order to pat his pockets, his movements stiff and wooden. "Left my wallet at the office," he said, returning his hand to his weapon. His knuckles were white.

Nathan looked calmly at Serefini. "My Capo will be most upset."

Serefini jerked himself to a standing position. The backs of his knees sent the chair grating across the concrete floor. "Cut the horseplay, kid," he said. "It's over. You're busted. There ain't no 'Capo', no Leader, no super assassin sending kids to collect the spoils. What do you think we are, idiots?" He leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones, as though imparting a secret. "It's you, wiseass – you're the assassin. You're doing the hits. You wasted Kelvecion."

Nathan raised his eyebrows comically. "Me?"

"How?" Serefini shrugged. "Is a great question." He cocked his pistol and prodded Nathan's forehead. "But that makes no difference 'cause we got you nailed you cocky little shit."

"So the Jamaicans had a premonition?"

Serefini smirked, reclined in his chair, feet up on the table. He caressed the corner of his mouth with the muzzle of his gun. "I am curious about one particular detail..." All of the gangsters reacted as one and leaned in together.

"What detail?"

"How the hell did you take out Fletcher Regan?"

Nathan laughed softly.

"The other hits are a still mystery," Serefini said. "But tough as they were, compared to Regan they were side-salad. The Jamaicans were well armed, but hey, strip away the western clothing and all you got is one step up from the missing link that doesn't knows the butt end of a rifle from the business end – Regan surrounded himself with professionals. Taking him out was simply brilliant."

Nathan's smile was absolutely genuine. And when he smoothed back his hair, his hands did not shake. "Sounds to me like you're getting kinda tense up there in Santa Monica." he said. "Well, let me disappoint you: the secret of my success is the victim's privilege."

"Really?" Serefini aimed at Nathan's head and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed within a few inches of its target and buried itself in the plaster. In the enclosed space the noise was deafening. Several of the gangsters jumped in shock. Franco yipped like a puppy and discharged his automatic weapon. Three bullets plucked splinters in the table six inches from Nathan's hand. Serefini recoiled, all but falling out of his chair. He threw Franco a look of unbelief. Franco shrugged an apology, his gold tooth glinting.

Nathan didn't flinch. Such was his manner he might have been deaf and blind. "If I told you how we did Regan I'd have to kill you."

Serefini's composure slipped a notch; his lips thinned out, went bloodless. He pumped another round into the chamber. "I'll take you apart piece by piece."

"Regan was easy," Nathan said. "His house was sticks and straw, little man, sticks and straw."

Serefini rapped on the grimy walls with his knuckles. "Bricks and mortar in here, dead man, bricks and mortar. If the big bad wolf slides down my chimney Mr. '45 will be waiting for him. Come now – enthrall me."

Nathan sat up straight, planted his elbows on the table, leaning toward Serefini. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, "You wanna feel privileged, piggy? You want the secret that bad?" His voice had deepened and several of the gangsters exchanged uneasy glances. Something in Nathan's eyes made Serefini flinch. They glared at each other across the table. Neither backed down. A minute crawled by.

One of the gangsters, his face slick with perspiration, said: " _Let's kill this fucker_ _and get the hell out of here._ "

Nathan drummed his fingers on the table. " _Little pig...little pig...let me come in..._ "

Serefini jerked forward and jammed the barrel against Nathan's forehead hard enough to draw blood. Nathan did not complain. His mocking became more derisive: "Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!" With each subsequent word his voice grew deeper and harsher. Music from elsewhere in the building rose and thumped with bass so deep the door vibrated against the frame.

"Fuck you." Serefini pulled the trigger.

Joshua stared into space, his eyes slipping out of focus. "The story was covered on the six o'clock news. Three brothers; fishermen. Found in the woods. Newspapers likened the killer to Jack the Ripper."

"The McNally brothers' murders." Genna said, the color draining from her face. "I remember the story."

"Barlow now saw it as his vocation to hunt down renegades. Even when he came to us all those years ago he was religious, and as the years went by, he became obsessed. Believed tracking the renegades was his penance. A year and a half ago he developed intestinal cancer; he believes God is punishing him."

Genna nodded grimly.

"Soon after the New Hampshire murder, there was a copycat killing in Michigan. Barlow sent out the last Wolfkind to track the killers. But each time a renegade was found and killed, another popped up elsewhere, always one step ahead. They spread across the country, infecting others, moving on.

"My brother's first assignment finally came and he left for a neighboring town. He returned within four days. Hunting, tracking and killing came naturally to him – as to us all, I guess – only Nathanial expressed a _passion_ for it. And this impressed the hell out of Barlow. Only Nathanial and I were left by this time. Whenever Nathanial left I prayed for his return. I dreaded his not coming back because I was next in line."

"I guess he didn't return," she said.

"A year ago he left for Los Angeles. That was the last I saw of him – until tonight."

She stood up and started to pace alongside him, taking up the story. "So he abandons you and starts a fresh life of his own." She quit pacing to look at him. "Barlow figured he was dead. So he sent you."

Joshua stepped up to the window, pressed his forehead to the glass, and squeezed his eyes closed, as if ashamed at facing his faint reflection. "Barlow suspected your father was behind the assassinations – but only renegades could pull off the hits."

"Which brings us up to date," Genna circled the table. "Where you arrive in the city and infiltrate my father's organization."

"On the day we met, right after you left me at the diner, I was abducted and driven to his mansion and questioned. I was there long enough to discover that none of them were infected. They hadn't a clue who I was, or why I was there. They were concerned only about you."

"Ha!" Genna said. "That's a hoot."

"One of them, Serefini; he was particularly aggressive."

"Serefini is a snake and the only reason he picked you up was that he probably thought you were sleeping with me. My father's people are all the same – scum in expensive clothes." She eased her fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp, wincing.

Joshua stood watching her. Clouds drifted across the moon's face and the distant lights of the city faded under a blanket of mist.

"Okay." Genna took a moment to re-align her thoughts. "You arrive in LA to hunt these... _things_. Why come to me? Why not one of my father's men?"

Joshua blinked. "It wasn't something I planned."

"So you jumped in front of my speeding car?" Her eyes went skyward. "If that don't break the mould. You score for originality, even if I hold back a few points for ruining my bumper, but wasn't that foolish? Or are you indestructible?"

Unsure how to take Genna, he continued. "We can be beaten, shot, stabbed, and walk away from car wrecks. But enough bullets will kill. Injuries caused by the occasional hit will heal almost instantly, just as long as the body can still function. Once the cycle of cellular rebirth is sufficiently interrupted, then we'll die."

"And that's your only weakness?"

"Fire will kill us. And..." He produced the Beretta.

Genna lowered her gaze to the weapon.

"A single shot from this..." He offered her the Beretta and when she refused to take it he placed it in her hand. "...will kill a Wolfkind in seconds."

The report from Serefini's gun was shockingly loud in the confines of the windowless room. Nathan's head snapped back like the tip of a bullwhip, the momentum almost toppling him backwards; the chair teetered briefly on two legs before gravity pulled it back onto all fours, shoveling Nathan's limp form onto the table like a passed-out drunk. Dark blood pooled from beneath the tangle of thick hair. One of his hands quivered like a rattler's tail, vibrating on the greasy table.

Serefini stood over the body, breathing heavily, an almost erotic expression on his face. "I've wanted to do that for six months you two-bit punk." He raised the gun and put two rounds into the back of the kid's head. Nathan's body bucked with each shot.

Smoke from the barrel formed a haze over the table, drifting lazily over the slumped form. Serefini stood triumphantly over his kill, a lock of hair from his ponytail dangled in front of his eyes, beads of sweat pimpled on his tanned face, and a tiny string of saliva hung from his bared teeth.

The men dotted about the room lowered their weapons and issued a collective sigh. "Can we go now," Franco said, wiping his forehead.

The bluish gun-smoke above Nathan slowly started to rise, spiral upwards, like steam over a heat source.

Franco stepped toward the table. "You feel that?" he inquired. "The hell's it coming from?" Two of the other gangsters exchanged alarmed glances. Franco held his palm face down a couple of inches over Nathan's body. "It's coming from-"

Nathan raised his head and snapped upright. The color of his eyes now matched the dark red of his spilled blood. Air hissed through his gritted teeth. "For Melissa," he said.

"Fucker's _alive_." Franco squealed and stumbled backwards into another guard.

Serefini was first to react. He brought up his gun and squeezed the trigger.

But the kid was slick. Serefini saw the familiar blurring hand speed and before he could discharge his weapon a fourth time, the gun was yanked from his grip. Nathan jumped frog-like onto the table, and with Serefini's gun, smashed the solitary light bulb overhead.

The room plunged into complete and unbroken darkness.

Serefini dropped blindly to his haunches. As he fell, his chin clipped the edge of the table; he bit his tongue and he fell backwards, catching his head on the chair. Pain exploded in his skull and stars burst before his eyes, spangling the room with illusory light. He smelled gun smoke, tasted the coppery tang of his blood. Dimly he heard voices cry out. Men bumped into one another. Feet shuffled past him. Someone stepped on his fingers. He yelled and scrambled backwards until his head cracked against the wall.

Three seconds of darkness delivered the first scream. Off to his right, loud and brief and chilling. He recoiled and quickly shielded his face. Something heavy and wet thumped the floor in front of him. A guard shouted and opened fire. The noise was deafening. Muzzle flash lit the room in manic, strobe light spasms.

In the glow of intermittent light he saw rapid snapshots of a dark shape ghost around the room, leaping from guard to guard, almost too quick for him to follow. The darkness finally slammed into the guard pulling the trigger. The shooting abruptly ceased. The scream was brief. Thump! Another man down.

"Shoot!" Serefini found himself screaming. "Shoot the son of a bitch."

Instantly the room flickered with muzzle-flash, the noise earsplitting, the stench of gunpowder overpowering. One of the men screamed he had been shot.

Serefini remained on the floor, his hands scrambling for a dropped weapon. His probing hands sank into something warm and wet, and he shuddered.

Two guards from outside burst into the room, their silhouettes sharply defined from the string of corridor lights behind them. "There!" one of them shouted. Like a jack in the box the dark shadow sprang away, the gunfire carving a trail in the plaster two feet behind.

Then Serefini caught a glimpse of the kid. He grabbed the nearest man and threw him against the wall, knocking him unconscious. Then turned toward the other, who promptly dropped his weapon and yipped in fear. Nathan drove his fingers into the struggling gangster's lower abdomen, grabbed a fistful of his jacket, and then with what surely was an impossible show of strength, slammed him up against the ceiling, smashing the already cracked plaster into a network of spider webs. Half the crumbling ceiling rained down onto the table.

Serefini observed everything from the floor.

Though the room was semi-dark and he was dazed, he knew the dark figure killing his men could not be the kid they brought in minutes earlier. This walking nightmare stood much taller and broader. Its features had somehow acquired sharper angles. Its skin ten shades darker, almost black. And the eyes. Christ, they glowed under their own luminance.

Now those ferocious red eyes locked with Serefini's, and the gangster, who killed so frequently he found murder tedious, felt his bladder loosen, threatening to release its contents on a wave of pure terror.

" _Feel privileged, little pig_?" It was the voice of a dragon: deep and resonant, from vocal cords of rusty piano wire, heavy and grinding and dense. Then the face changed; melted, metamorphosed into something entirely alien. Those red eyes moved apart. With cracking, squelching sounds, the face became a snout. Black lips stretched taut across canine teeth and slaver fell steaming to the floor. Then the snout lashed forward with snake's speed and tore out the throat of the terrified gangster held in its grasp.

It spat the mass of steaming flesh in Serefini's face. Serefini recoiled, his back to the wall, sliding along the plaster away from the horror.

As quick as it had turned bestial, the face reassumed a quasi-human form. Moving slowly, he closed on Serefini, hands raised high, morphing them into claws. "Privileged?" Serefini understood; he averted his eyes.

" _Look at me_." The snout reappeared amid the sound of cracking, shifting bones. Prominent veins pulsed at over two hundred beats a minute. Heat radiated off him as though he were afire.

Serefini fumbled for a discarded Uzi by his feet. As his fingers played over the barrel, the creature opened its mouth and roared. Hot breath and specks of spittle stung his face. He gagged on the metallic aroma of fresh blood.

Sudden activity in the corridor alerted the beast. Within a second it was moving, rising, spinning away and rushing toward the doorway.

Pain corkscrewed through Serefini's shoulder. Only when he slammed against the door frame did he realize the Wolf-kid thing had grabbed his lapel and dragged him across the room. By good fortune he struck the door casing; his lapel tore free and he fell to the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

A draft from the adjacent room cooled the sweat on Serefini's forehead. He glanced in and saw that the window, though boarded, hung slightly ajar. Without further thought he struggled to his feet and fled. He felt slow and cumbersome, as though he were running through treacle, that any moment now he would be dragged back into the darkness to suffer the dreadful fate of his men. If the beast tore out his throat, would he live long enough to see his Adam's apple clasped in its jaw?

He ran at the window with a half-formed plan of kicking away the boards, lowering himself to the alley floor, then high-tailing his ass to the Limo. Before he got within five feet of the flimsy boards, however, fear assumed control of his body. Fists first and arms extended, he threw himself at the shuttered window. The rotting planks gave amid a crash of glass and splintering of wood.

Momentum propelled him into a forward somersault that allowed him to complete a full revolution and descend feet first to the alley twelve feet below. He hit the floor hard, his legs folded beneath him, driving his knees into his chin. For the second time he bit his tongue. The tip of the appendage flew across the dark alley and struck the far wall.

Fear rendering him temporarily impervious to pain, he scrambled on all fours away from the window toward the mouth of the alley where the Limousine was parked. He fell against the hood, banging his knees on the bumper, already hollering at the driver to start the goddamn engine.

But the car was empty. Serefini ran to the driver's side and yanked the door open. "Where the fu..." he began, then noticed the keys dangling from the ignition and he threw himself behind the wheel.

Movement beyond the windshield caught his eye, and for an instant before the engine roared to life, he observed tiny particles of diamonds tinkling on the limousine's hood. Small ones and large ones, tinkling and tumbling, end over end. As the engine caught, a large shadow dark as a storm cloud fell over the windshield. Then thunder struck as something plunged onto the hood, rocking the car on its springs.

What looked like a German Shepherd roared at the windscreen. Slaver and blood and particles of flesh spattered the glass. Glinting in the flecks of gore was Franco's gold tooth.

Serefini pressed himself into the seat and floored the pedal. With the tortured sound of tires tearing over the concrete alley floor, the limousine lurched forward, sending the beast bouncing and rolling over the roof. A clawed hand smashed through the sunroof, snared a fist-full of Serefini's hair and pulled. Serefini felt himself being pulled off the seat. He kicked at the accelerator, the car moved forward in a series of lurches, and the beast fell away, though not before tearing out a clump of Serefini's ponytail. He kept the accelerator floored, the powerful engine pulling him from the jaws of certain death.

With the grating sound of tearing metal, the Limousine shuddered, and then climbed swiftly through the gears. He glanced at the rearview mirror. Saw the figure leap to its feet, the Limo's rear bumper held aloft. It cast aside the steel strip and gave chase. Before Divo reached the end of the alley the limo was up to sixty miles an hour. When he looked back again, the alley was deserted.

Serefini looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He saw fear in his eyes. This affected him in a peculiar way. The stark reminder of his own mortality left him scared, yet strangely excited. He felt horny as a Stag. Blood thumped in his ears and in his pants. He glanced down at the bulge at his crotch, then stuffed a hand down there and quickly rearranged things. Thinking of the beast that chased him, he released a loon-like laugh, knowing it would be back. "Divo, baby," he said to his reflection. "You're doing this shit without a net."

He switched on the wipers, but succeeded only in smearing the blood across the windshield.

Genna stood facing Joshua like a reluctant gunfighter, the Beretta held loosely in her hands, heavy and threatening but pointed at the floor. "You had this?" she asked incredulously. "Tonight when I was attacked?"

He nodded.

"But you never used it."

"It was my brother-"

"You didn't know it was your brother until after I'd gone – you thought it was a renegade. You could have picked him off from the doorway." A speculative expression pinched her face.

Joshua shrugged. "I had no time, you would have been..."

Genna stepped up to him, the gun in her hand, though still pointed at the floor.

"Why did you come after me, Joshua?"

He couldn't look at her.

"Why let me drive you up here?"

He burst into conversation. "You've _seen_ Wolfkind, and must realize how wretched a species we are; how we all, every last one of us, must be wiped from the face of the earth. The very fabric of society, evolved through thousands of years of pain and struggle, would unravel and choke on its own blood. Wolfkind are bad – an affront to God..." He tailed off and blinked at Genna's stony expression. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because you're lying," she said. "You didn't come up here to convince _me_ of anything. What difference would my knowing make to the world at large?" She narrowed her eyes. "You came here to convince yourself."

He blinked; said nothing.

A sour look came over her face. "This Barlow character sure did some job on you – he almost succeeded, too. Only you're not sure anymore, are you? You needed me to help you decide." She mimicked haughtiness. "Well, excuse me, but I will not be the one to condemn you." She threw the gun down onto the table, the smoked glass shattered and the ornamental dragon fell through to the floor.

Joshua frowned. "Listen-"

"No Joshua. It's your turn to listen. While you told your tale, I watched you closely. Whenever you mentioned Wolfkind, or how dangerous you all were, you looked up as if you expected me to run screaming from the room." She shook her head. "I don't have a problem believing any of this. In the last few days I've seen some pretty strange stuff. I can't tell you why – but I feel no different."

"You don't?"

"Call me strange, if it helps you, call me weird, call me foolish, or call me a blasphemer. Call me what you will. Only don't ask me to condemn you to the...the _wretched_ image this Barlow character pinned on you."

"I'm _Wolfkind._ " Joshua said plaintively.

As though dealing with a timid child, Genna stepped up and reached for his hands, but he stepped back accordingly. "Look at me," she said.

He looked at her.

"If you truly value my opinion, here it is: Drop this... _mission;_ disregard everything Barlow told you; forget you even knew him. Take the only real option left: get the hell out of Los Angeles."

"Leave?"

"As soon as you can. Leave tonight – and forever. You said so yourself – it's no longer safe. Right now my father has pictures of you and will have no doubt circulated them to every bagman he has in the LAPD. By morning every cop in the city will know your face. And there's your brother, he'll come looking for you, too."

"I can't leave." he said. "Renegades are still active; I have a responsibility..."

Genna pulled hard on his shirt. "They'll kill you," She cried. "They'll kill you. Joshua, I don't want to lose somebody else I care for."

"Care?" His expression was grim. "Genna, I just told you I'm a –"

"You're a what?" she said, still clinging to his shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists. "Humanity isn't a birthright, Joshua; throughout all of this horror...this _madness_ , you've retained a sense of duty toward the common good I can scarcely believe. That's a virtue all of your own. What you are hasn't made you less than human – you're more than human. You just can't see the good in yourself."

Though he knew Barlow had betrayed them, he could not shed in the blink of an eye two decades of ingrained ideology. Though equally powerful was the longing, the lifelong wish to be as the next man, to be able to love like the next man, eat, drink and sleep like the next man.

Joshua floundered in the wake of his own beliefs, torn between what he knew as lies, and what he suspected as truths; the enormity of his burden weighed on him like a physical weight. " _Please_ ," he said. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"You saved my life." She punctuated each word with a tug of his shirt. Then carefully she extricated her hands from the material. Her skin was creased across the knuckles, the white skin blooming pink as the blood flowed back. She smoothed out the lines in his tattered shirt, craned her neck up, her warm breath on his skin, and kissed his mouth.

Joshua retreated all the way to the glass conservatory wall and could go no farther. Genna cornered him. She reached up and touched his face, the backs of her fingers trailing delicately over the deep scratches his brother inflicted.

So that she could properly inspect the wounds, Genna tiptoed and leaned forward. The full length of her body pressed lightly against his. At the same moment they both became aware of encroaching on each other's space. But neither of them saw it as a violation. Joshua became aware of affectionate tumescence in his loins. He blinked and altered his footing.

Genna reached for his hand. "Let's get cleaned up."

The bathroom was varnished wood and mauve tiles. As well as a sunken tub there was a sauna, a steam room, and a double shower. Genna ordered Joshua to sit on a wooden-slat bench whilst she attended to him. She filled the basin with warm water and wrung out a face cloth.

Joshua sat quietly, like an obedient school boy. He peeked under her arm and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror running the length of the tub. The face of a stranger stared back, startling him.

Genna pulled back from her first-aid. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head.

As he watched her face, which was etched with concentration, he toyed with the notion of abandoning the past. Take her advice. Hightail it out of Los Angeles. Forsake the cause, shed his dubious identity and assume a new one. Find a job. Rent an apartment. Live as a human being. Only Genna knew his secret.

Of course there was his brother, but Nathan would most likely stick to Los Angeles. The city had as strong a hold on him as he had on it. Nathan and Los Angeles fed off each other. Yes – leaving the city was a feasible option.

But if he left would he ever see Genna Delucio again?

She worked industriously at his wounds, moving from one cheek and starting on the next. He could smell her skin, her hair, her sweet breath, redolent of Napoleon brandy.

"Where would I go?"

"Let's clean you up first. Then we'll decide what we're going to do."

What _we_ are going to do?

She leaned in close, squinting at the delicate work. Again he became aware of her faint cologne, her natural, personal scent, her oh so sweet breath. The urge to kiss those ruby lips almost overwhelmed him. He felt her body heat, the blood surging through her veins, heard the pumping of her sturdy, yet fragile, human heart.

"There. Should do it." Genna handed him a dry towel.

He dabbed his face and stood.

Genna dried her hands and headed toward the door. "I'm going to change these clothes and take a shower," she said. "If you're hungry there should be plenty in the fridge."

"Thanks," Joshua said, and...Whoosh! That eerie sensation of domesticity. Ozzie and Harriet. His head reeled, the feeling slow to pass.

"I'll be twenty minutes." She closed the door. A few moments later the shower started up.

Divo Serefini arrived back at Stromboli Mansion wound so tightly that for a few minutes no one could get a single word of sense from him. Salvatore Durant suspected the beating Divo suffered might have taken away one or two of his marbles. In Durant's study Serefini paced the floor like a father in a delivery suite. His face swollen and bleeding; his jacket torn and dirty. Losing the tip of his tongue had given him a lisp. A coating of plaster dust in his hair gave the impression he had aged ten years. Clots of blood and God knew what else stuck to his clothes.

Independent reports were already coming in that corroborated much of Serefini's ravings, but Salvatore Durant did not attain his lofty position by believing in werewolves and demons – not of the supernatural kind, anyway. He did, however, believe that his second in command _thought_ he had seen a monster. The cold light of day would probably yield a less outlandish report.

But Durant listened attentively. Whenever Divo became overly anxious and stopped making sense, Durant poured him another drink. Serefini blinked at the latest shot-glass before snatching it off the table. Grimacing, he guzzled the fiery liquid, losing most of it down his chin, where it joined the blood soaked into his shirt. A section of his ponytail, torn from his scalp, still hung by the hank of leather.

Serefini slammed the empty glass on the table. "I don't know what the hell we're going to do. That fucking kid-wolf thing took a dozen direct hits. One of the guys sprayed him with automatic fire, but that did no more damage than my pea-shooter." He laughed crazily, a high-pitched, unhinged sound.

Salvatore Durant narrowed his eyes. Serefini was obviously scared, but his terror was blended with wild excitement. Usually Serefini fed off other people's fear, but here he was feeding off his own, eating it like popcorn. The spectacle was ghastly.

Durant suddenly felt privy to a disturbing piece of insight; Serefini had not been driven to the edge of madness, but to the brink of sanity. "Where would such a... _thing_ come from?" Durant asked, hoping he wouldn't get: _Oh, from hell I'm sure, that's where they all come from boss!_

Serefini threw his hands up. "Search me sideways, in my ears and up my ass." he said, but his words came out ' _therch me thideway, in my ear and up my ath._ ' He winced and sucked at his tongue. "All I know for sure is those babies weren't grown in a regular womb. Probably the result of a government experiment that went wrong."

"Or right," one of the guards said.

"Of course." Serefini said, snapping his head round. "Government's been meddling with this silly shit since the war. That's where the taxpayer's dollars disappear to. Bogus trips to the Moon, arming foreign countries, and laboratories all over the goddam country, bent on doing things the bible told us to leave alone. They probably gene-spliced the chromosomes of a wolf and a man; maybe edited in a resistance to pain."

Durant shook his head. "A resistance to pain, maybe. Resistance to automatic gunfire, I don't think so. Right now whatever these things are is not important. What is important is that we're prepared."

Serefini nodded vigorously. "We have to beef up security; more men – a lot more, and we need better weapons."

"All right," Durant said at last. "Get Sanderman here from the arms dump. Pull in all our guys who are on the outside. We shut up shop. Turn this place into a fortress."

A crazy expression danced across Serefini's face. "Let's do it."

"My daughter," Durant said while he poured himself a double scotch.

Serefini blinked stupidly. "Your daughter?"

"Up at the cabin someone punched in the code for the alarm. She's the only one who knows the sequence. After you've dealt with Sanderman, I want you to go get her. Take George Decarius with you. Let him deal with my daughter – you handle security."

As he spoke, Durant felt a slender string of muscle beneath his left eye start to twitch. _Tic-tic-ti_ c. He brought up a hand and touched the muscle, massaged the strands with his finger tips, a tiny prick of fear piercing his icy control.

After eating they returned to the sun room. A second weather front had since moved in from the mountains. Mist and blackness swirled beyond the glass. While rain battered the house in a series of brisk squalls, they sat apart on the two-seater wicker chair, staring out of the window into the roiling darkness.

"Suzanne loved this room," Genna said distantly, and then her expression became troubled.

"What happened to your sister?" Joshua asked softly.

For a long moment, Genna didn't respond, her gaze lost in her wine glass. "She got in the way of a bullet meant for me." Genna squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. "It happened a year ago, but it still feels like it was only yesterday. There isn't a day goes by I don't think about what happened. Not a single day."

"You don't have to-" Joshua said.

"I want to." Genna drained her glass and inhaled deeply, as though preparing for a strenuous physical act. "Every Saturday Suzanne and I took lunch at Mandolin's. Suzy had a thing for one of the waiters, Emmanuel Cicero. They played a never-ending charade of innuendo and suggestion. It was tiring just watching them. Suzy referred to it as non-contact foreplay."

Genna fell silent for a moment. "We were having coffee when a man came into the restaurant. I noticed him because he never took his eyes me. I remember it all so well; it was real hot that day but this guy was wearing a three-quarter length leather coat. I was frowning at the coat when he threw it open and pulled out a shotgun."

She swallowed hard, and her eyes widened. "I couldn't move. I think Suzy was asking me if I was okay. I tried to tell her to run. A part of me believed nothing would hurt us. I don't know why. Maybe God would reach down and swat this guy.

"I was still staring at the gunman when something flew past me," she swept her hand past her ear like she was throwing a Javelin. "...and hit him in the face. It was Suzanne's coffee, cup and all. His face took a scalding but it didn't stop him.

"He pulled the trigger but the shot went high." She shuddered.

"He was so close I could have reached out and touched him. I still see it in dreams. I could probably draw it blindfolded. Next thing I knew my backside thumped on the floor and a second shotgun blast went over my head – I even felt the draft. Afterward, witnesses told me Suzanne had kicked my chair from under me.

"Before the gunman could pull off another shot, Suzanne put three bullets into him. Bang! Bang! Bang! One after the other. Suzy's face... so full of hate and fury, that air of confidence and control. Oh, Joshua, you should have seen her."

"She killed him?"

"Instantly." Genna said. "But he had an accomplice. Again, I saw him first. He had on a sweat-stained yellow shirt and a gray shoulder holster beneath a black jacket.

"I could have ducked; I could have run, dodged, or thrown coffee at him," she said. "But all I did was shout for Suzanne. She was my big sister. So while I stood like the dumbest bitch in the dumbest B-movie of the year, I screamed for my sister to save me."

A viscous gust of wind slapped the side of the conservatory, but Genna did not flinch. Her eyes were wide, staring fixedly out of the window.

"Suzanne didn't have her gun anymore. She must have put it away or dropped it – I don't know. I saw her jump up from the floor and throw herself at the gunman.

"The first bullet caught her in the shoulder. Somehow she stayed on her feet, but the bastard kept shooting. Every bullet pitched her closer to me. Two rounds passed right through. Her blood was on my face. I caught her as she fell down.

"Before the gunman could finish the job, one of the waiters shot and killed him." Genna said. "I couldn't move – Suzanne was lying on top of me. She'd taken five direct hits, five, but incredibly she was still conscious.

"'Doesn't even hurt', Suzanne said to me. She was crying. I'll never forget those tears, or the way she looked. I held one of her hands, and – oh Joshua her skin was so _cold_. She said to me. 'Promise you won't let me be _crippled."_ Genna's face crumpled, but she held on.

"She never spoke another word. Suzanne was very strong. Five bullets couldn't finish her. So she survived, all right, but in the end her strength was her undoing, because it kept her in her coma."

Genna buried her face in her hands.

Joshua reached out and took her in his arms. She clung to him fiercely. "I left her." She sobbed. "For a whole year she waited. I can't live up to her. It's with me every day. It smothers everything I do or feel. Why did she have to play the hero?"

Joshua lifted her chin. "She cared, Genna; and died hoping you'd be all right. And you will be. I can't begin to fill the gap your sister left, but if you let me I'll try to...to help you." He held her while she cried. Before long the sobs became hitches and murmurs, then the murmurs gradually became even respiration. She had actually fallen asleep.

Joshua raised his hand, gently stroked her hair that spilled across his knees. A torrent of newly born emotions flowed through him, each begging questions he was too inexperienced to answer. Love, anger, fear. Everything that had touched him since he left New Hampshire had influenced his psyche in one way or another, and he had tried to adapt accordingly. He wondered exactly how wide his capacity for change could stretch.

Through the windows he saw that a blanket of rain hid the city lights. Leaves and specks of bark blew against the windowpanes.

Genna moaned softly in her sleep; murmured something he did not quite catch. Another gust struck the house and the timbers creaked. Joshua rose from the sofa, cradling Genna in his arms. She stirred but did not wake, her twitching eyelids a flickering remnant of her dreams. He carried her to one of the back rooms and lowered her onto the bed, where she curled into a pillow, gripping it fiercely.

Joshua stepped back and for a minute watched her sleeping, then retreated to the bathroom and quietly closed the door. But for the wind and rain battering the exterior the house was quiet. He stepped up to the large mirror. For several minutes he met his own eyes, challenging himself, wondering which side of him bore the strongest will.

Deep in his own eyes he saw faint whirlpools of crimson, a manifestation of what lay within. He knew that outwardly he appeared human; looked, acted and sounded like any other man. He would age like any other man, he would eat, sleep, wake, make love like any other man. The difference was that he could not be physically hurt like any other man. But all other things being equal, he could live the remainder of his life without ever reverting to his alter ego. No one would know.

Apart from Genna.

"But you are different," he said to his reflection. "Aren't you?"

As if confronting his human side with his alter-ego, he allowed the beast within to rise. The dorsal fin of his inner self slowly surfaced. His eyes swam with brilliant color and his skin darkened. He unfastened his shirt and touched his chest. No more bullet wounds. Just flawless skin.

As he watched, the flesh started to writhe; he felt his bones shifting, heard the crunching and reforming of joints. Adrenaline coursed through his veins at the speed of an express train. Canine teeth pushed at his lips. The beast rose within him, eager to be born, and with it, the attendant consciousness of the animal – a primal force straining at its leash.

He squeezed his eyes closed and brought his jaw together with an audible crack. Clenched his teeth and made fists, pushing back the power with as much effort as he could produce. When he opened his eyes, they were back to their natural color. Their human color. He touched the Wolf's head amulet Barlow gave to him. The gold felt cold as a sliver of ice against his skin. "Damn you," he whispered.

He quickly undressed, switched on the shower, and stepped in. He tried to imagine that every rub of soap on his skin, every cleansing wave of shower spray, helped him shed his dubious identity. He cranked up the temperature as high as it would go, as though he might sweat the beast out of his pores and send it down the drain.

On the shelf he found a long-handled body brush, and with it he scrubbed his skin until sure he'd evacuated every dead skin cell, every particle of the past few days.

At last he shut off the water and climbed out of the shower, selected one of three toothbrushes, smothered it with paste, and scrubbed his teeth until he broke the plastic handle; the bristles came apart and fell into the sink. He rinsed his mouth and swilled the basin.

Standing naked, he cleared away the condensation from the body length mirror and stared hard at his reflection. The tiniest of frowns touched his brow – a speculative expression. The action of showering had a positive effect. He saw only the reflection of a man. With curious hands he explored his body; his face, his chest, the outline of his ribs, the forest of his pubic hair, he cupped his genitals and squeezed them, ran his hand over his thigh, the small of his back, returning at last to his face.

"Joshua." Genna tapped at the door. Dread had put a tremor in her voice. "Are you in there?" She knocked again before trying the door. It was unlocked, and so she went straight in.

Though mist from the shower filled the room, she could see well enough to realize Joshua was naked. Nevertheless, she did not look down upon his nakedness, but straight into his eyes. When she saw him standing there, her shoulders relaxed. Lying on the bed had messed her hair, but her complexion was ruddy, her eyes bright and alert.

"Are you all right?" Joshua asked her.

Genna nodded. "Sure – I just...I didn't know where you were." She ran a hand through her hair, stifled a yawn, and then suddenly acknowledged he was naked. She blinked, looking down at him, and only after seeing everything he had to show did it occur to her she might avert her eyes. "Ooops!" she backed out of the room. "Sorry!"

A touch nonplussed, Joshua glanced down at his body. Although he knew of the embarrassment most people felt about nudity, he never understood why.

Later, dressed in his jeans and a shirt, his hair still damp, Joshua sat on the edge of the bed while Genna held onto one of his hands. If she felt any embarrassment over seeing him naked, she hid it well.

"You'll leave Los Angeles?"

"Where would I go?" he answered. "What would I do?"

"America's a pretty big place," she said. "We could head east."

He hung a moment on her words. "You'd come with me?"

Genna smiled wanly. "There's nothing left here."

On the exterior Joshua remained solemn, but inside he swooned under a rush of gratitude. Genna's blessing the final element, the one thing he needed from her that enabled him to go forward.

Then why the persistent apprehension _?_

Genna drew closer to him. At first he resisted, hardly trusting himself not to take her in his arms, crush her in his embrace, refuse to let go, fearing that if he did he would never again hold her.

"Don't you like being near me?" she asked.

Joshua looked down at her hand in his. "Oh yes," he said. "But I feel something strange – something I've never felt before." He held a hand to his chest. "Right here. Like I'm afraid of something...but I don't know what."

She placed a finger on his lips, kissed them tenderly, lingering for a moment. Her eyes only inches from his. "I think that's the way it's supposed to feel."

Genna pulled him close to her, holding the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair. She became breathless and pulled away. She looked into his eyes, where the striations of crimson caught and reflected the light from the two wall sconces. She kissed his eyelids and in return he kissed her throat. Pulsing arteries drummed against his lips, sending a shudder of longing through him. She pushed her tongue into his mouth and made gentle probing, teasing movements. The juices of their mouths mingled; they tasted each other.

At last they parted. Both were slightly breathless. Joshua's lips glistened from Genna's tongue, and she brushed her thumb across them. "Come," she took his hand and led him to the master bedroom.

Joshua allowed himself to be led. Sensual excitement burst in the air, in the touch of Genna's hand, the look in her eyes. His own sexual energy responded accordingly, unspooling, gaining momentum.

Standing before the king-sized, silken-sheeted bed, Genna pulled Joshua toward her. She touched his face, pressed her lips to his, teasing his tongue with her own; just as Joshua had done with her, tasted him with exquisite relish. Her fingers fumbled at his shirt buttons.

They stood apart and began to undress, all the while retaining eye contact. Genna unfastened her robe and unceremoniously dumped it on the floor. Joshua stepped out of his jeans. A moment later they stood naked in the soft light. Neither made a move; nor did they speak. Instead they held onto the moment, staring at each other. Genna made the first move and closed the gap between them. She touched him lightly with her fingertips. His skin, several shades darker than hers, was smooth and flawless. His body muscular and symmetric; a build of athletic perfection of which he seemed unaware.

By comparison Genna looked girlish: her smooth skin bore few freckles, and in the coolness of the room her ample breasts pouted.

Genna kissed and gently used her teeth on his chest, tracing a silvery path from left to right. Her fingertips traced a delicate line down through his pubic hair, she grasped him and gently squeezed, moved her hand against his warmth. He pulsed in her hand.

As one they collapsed onto the sheets, kissing and grabbing and pulling at each other. Joshua outweighed Genna by nearly seventy pounds, but she did not allow him to dominate. She fought playfully against him until she finally came out on top, her thighs astride him. She grinned through her hair, one hand pressed against his chest.

Joshua relaxed his head into the pillows. Genna took him in her hand, squeezed him and then with a silent though near desperate cry of pleasure, lowered herself. Her inner thighs met Joshua's outer thighs and gravity held her there. With unhurried movements she started gyrating her hips smoothly left and right, never farther than a couple of inches in either direction.

Locked in perfect motion with her movements, Joshua slid his hands along the ivory smoothness of her thighs, though never did his caresses become so eager that he impeded her movement.

Time and space melted as they lost themselves in their union. Soft light cast a bright sheen on the plumpness of her breasts. Her expression of concentration became one of pleasure so close to pain. She grasped the bed-sheets and cried out. The moment, though in real time only brief, seemed to stretch for an eternity.

Finally she opened her eyes, breathless and smiling, holding him deep inside her.

Joshua rolled over so that he lay atop of her, his own climax held off with careful control. He propped himself up on his elbows to ease his weight off her.

Through the pores of his skin, through the sensory receptors exclusive to the animal kingdom, through his mouth and his touch, he tasted the beautiful woman he was making love to; her saliva mingled with his, her sweat he drank with his own skin, and her musky warmth embraced him. He experienced her through a hundred individual receptors; absorbing her mood and drinking it like wine. He felt accepted with every moan of pleasure Genna made, every pull of her hands that drew him closer to her. She raised her knees but did not grip him. In that moment, he believed that there were not two people in the bed, but only one.

Afterwards they remained locked together for several minutes. Neither of them spoke. Only their heavy breathing broke the room's stillness.

Joshua finally raised his head and looked into Genna's eyes. A lock of damp hair clung to her forehead. Beads of perspiration rolled down her temples. She was still breathing heavily, panting almost, though Joshua had completely recovered. He delicately brushed the hair from her eyes. To allow this she closed them, and she didn't move until her respiration returned to normal.

When he finally rolled off her, they lay together in silence for several minutes. At last Genna kissed his mouth before sliding off him and disappearing into the bathroom.

Joshua swung his legs to the floor and looked into the mirror. He cocked his head and surveyed the contours of his naked body, first standing face on, and then sideways. Using his fingertips he explored his face and his chest, raked through his hair, swept it back from his forehead. He ran his hands over his entire body, needing to touch himself. Something had changed...

And then he realized his amulet was missing. He touched his chest, as though needing to affirm by touch that it was indeed gone. Then he saw it. On the crumpled bed-sheets, the chain links broken. He bent forward to retrieve it, but checked himself, and straightened. The locket did not define him.

He turned back to his reflection, marveling at his decidedly human form. Behind him, muffled by the door, came the sound of the shower kicking in and the spatter of water against the shower-guard. His girl; bathing after a session of lovemaking. He sensed the changes in him as they occurred. They felt good. They felt right.

But something else had changed. This new direction in his life came at a price. He cared greatly for Genna - more than he cared for himself - and he feared for her. The thought of losing her, the mere idea, filled him with knee-weakening fear.

Salvatore Durant stood behind the seats of his Surveillance controllers, watching them operate the hardware for which he had paid over two million dollars: the motion detectors, the heat sensors, the trip wires, the electrified fence, the generator, and the electronic eyes. Over two dozen closed-circuit cameras held strategic positions throughout the complex. Every scrap of ground from the exterior fence inward was covered by the control room's lidless eye. Several cameras came equipped with infra red capabilities, including the master cam, which sat at the highest point of the building and could whip and pan to all point of the compass.

Durant watched the screens pensively. A wide angle view picked out armed men patrolling the fence-lines in pairs. On one screen a mean-looking Doberman paced back and forth along the outer fence, shoulder blades moving lithely under a smooth, glossy coat.

"What's that?" Durant pointed to the largest screen in the bank of monitors, where a monochrome image displayed the heat signatures of the guards, the lights, and the dogs. Durant's finger tracked the progress of an elusive heat source that darted from one secluded position to another. The outline of a guard passed to within a meter of it. Durant noticed his finger trembling; he snatched the hand back into a fist.

Oblivious of his boss's apprehension, the controller squinted at the monitor. "Probably a squirrel," he said. "The camera will pick up anything that produces heat. I see them all the time; raccoons, squirrels, even feral cats. They bypass the fences using the trees."

Durant nodded but didn't feel in the least bit assured everything was fine and dandy. Regardless of the cutting-edge technology, the weight of tremendous firepower, he could not dispel the persistent tingle of fear. Even standing close to the screens that displayed the exterior made him feel nervous, exposed to the outside, as though the terror that stalked them might reach through the monitor and strike him down.

He returned to the panic room behind the false paneling at the top of the hall, locking the door behind him, and in the stillness released a shaky breath. Alone now, he held his hand out in front of him and watched his fingers tremble. Seeing the movement, feeling the coiled sensation of fear in his gut, he slapped a hand to his forehead and squeezed the flesh. He dropped stiffly into the leather chair, staring at the weapons on the desktop in front of him. An MP5 together with five magazines, an AK47, several other automatic weapons, and a surface to air Stinger rocket launcher. He dragged the MP5 across the desk and jammed in a clip.

He glanced up at the mirror above the drinks cabinet, and was startled by his reflection. His usually slicked-back silver hair now rose from his skull in a parrot's crest. With the MP5 slung over his shoulder, the dark bulletproof vest covering his torso, he looked like the world's oldest G.I. Joe, though far from the world's bravest. In that moment he glimpsed an unwelcome insight of the limits of his powers. His cheeks were pinched and drawn, his eyes bloodshot and wide, the flaps of his nostrils flared. A far more alarming revelation emerged like a grinning skull through his skin: he was afraid. The nervous tic in his cheek threatened to return.

Leaving Genna sleeping peacefully beneath the satin sheets, Joshua crept out of the bedroom and sat before the telephone in the living quarters. Wearing only his jeans, he reached for the handset and dialed Barlow's number, swallowing thickly as he waited for the old man to answer. While listening to the phone ring three thousand miles away, he looked over his shoulder at the bedroom door, hearing Genna's steady respiration. Knowing she was there gave him strength.

After falling asleep together, Joshua had slept fitfully until the cry of a coyote woke him. He had been unable to drift off again, for in his mind he saw Barlow pacing the worn carpet in tattered slippers, clinging tenuously to his fading spirit, his body clenched around the raging disease that all but consumed him; waiting, waiting for the phone call. After an hour of sleeplessness Joshua realized he would be unable to rest until he spoke to Barlow. Officially severed the tie.

But the phone rang and rang. Joshua reluctantly started to replace the handset, suspecting (hoping) that Barlow had finally succumbed to the disease, and lay dead on the kitchen floor, the quest dead along with him, when a weak and fragmented voice came on the line. " _Joshua_...?"

Joshua snapped the phone back to his ear. What he had to say was for Barlow's ears only. But before he said his piece, Joshua felt impelled first to make a token attempt at reconciliation. Despite the deception and ultimate betrayal, Joshua pitied him. "It's me." Joshua whispered _._

"Where the hell have you been?" Though his voice crumbled, Barlow kept his coughing under precarious control. "I've been trying to re...reach you for two da- da- _days._ "

Joshua's own throat constricted. No words came forth. When he felt the old man's predominance asserting itself on his will, he squeezed the handset and closed his eyes. On the screen of his mind he saw Nathaniel clutching Genna, preparing to tear out her throat. The horror. Then he thought of last night, of holding her, making love to her, falling asleep beside her.

"... are you there?" Barlow asked. "Joshua? Jo..." his voice fragmented and he wheezed for a minute.

Although three thousand miles of road stretched between him and the old man, he might have been sitting right beside him, occupying the same space, breathing the same air. All the years of indoctrination worked against him. To escape from his psychological shackles, burst free of the dark pool on which Barlow weaned him, Joshua knew he must sever links with brutal honesty.

"Listen to me," Joshua said. "I'm going to talk and you will listen. Interrupt me just once, and I'll hang up."

Barlow listened.

Joshua talked uninterrupted for twenty minutes. He told Barlow everything, from his encounter with Durant's guards outside the hospital to the existence of Nathaniel and the renegades. Here Barlow uttered a deep sigh, a soft, withered sound that sank to the bottom of his soul. But deep inside, Joshua suspected Barlow already knew of Nathaniel's betrayal.

"Joshua," he said. "You have to stop him."

Joshua gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"You know I'm right – your silence says it all. This girl – he'll kill her, Joshua. Is that what you want?"

"We're getting out,"

"You can't flee this, Joshua – wherever you go it will follow. Whenever you lay eyes on that girl, you'll remember the thousands – maybe millions – you sacrificed just to fool around with her."

"That's not fair," he said quietly.

"You alone can stop them." Barlow said. "Therefore you alone are responsible. It's in your hands, Joshua. The fate of millions. But I sympathize with you; I understand this brief period of doubt; Los Angeles has changed your mindset; given you a broader perspective – and that's good. It will increase your chances of _pretending_ you are one of them-"

"I'm not an _animal_." Joshua shouted; anger flew crazily out of him. "I'm through with your dirty work. It's over. No more killing. You made your own rules and fooled us into living by them – you're a false prophet."

"You are Wolfkind," Barlow said calmly. "The girl's human. You're a separate species."

"Stop it!"

"It's a violation."

"You're wrong."

"You _debased_ this girl."

Joshua's hand crawled up his chest, his fingers searching for the wolf's head amulet. It was, of course, no longer there. He touched only his bare skin. At the back of his mind a sinister voice, one cultivated during the years he spent near Barlow, became quiet.

"You bastard," he said in a low voice. "You lousy, selfish bastard."

"I'm only doing what's _right;_ what is God's will."

Joshua swallowed the lump in his throat. Events from his childhood played at breakneck speed before his eyes: growing up under Barlow's watchful eye, spoon-fed stories of how they were remnants of a vanquished, forbidden race; spared only to track down and destroy the remaining few.

Joshua swallowed thickly. "You go to hell," he hung up.

He slumped in the chair and brought his hands to his face. Outside in the forest, a woodpecker drummed against a tree; farther down the mountain on one of the lakes, a water bird let out a forlorn cry. He looked out of the window toward the sound; at the misty treetops, the dew on the grass, and the prints of wild animals on the lawns.

He sensed someone else in the room.

Genna stood silhouetted in the doorway, a blanket draped across her shoulders. She came over and sat beside him, relinquishing her blanket to include him.

"That was Barlow..."

"I know," she said.

Small splinters of plastic from the phone lay sprinkled on his lap, and he brushed them off, almost self-consciously. "Barlow's right," he said.

Genna stiffened.

He gave her a warm smile, held her hand, touched her face. "Not about you and me – about the renegades."

"You'll be killed," Genna said, alarmed. "We're leaving Los Angeles – right?"

"I could stop them."

She held his face in her hands. "You have a responsibility toward me now. That means you have to change the way you care about yourself."

He searched her eyes for signs of doubt. But he saw only love, and the fear that accompanies the emotion. "I need you to promise me," she said.

Joshua thought of the machinations of hunting and tracking renegades, the possibility – the probability - of never again seeing her again.

" _Promise me_. "

He looked briefly at the phone. "Where will we go?"

"As far away as we can get."

An hour later they faced each other in the middle of the room, clothed and ready to travel. They had agreed they should depart by road rather than air, for Florida – a state far away from both Los Angeles and New Hampshire. They would stay in nondescript motels on the outskirts, from where Genna would maybe try obtaining fake ID.

But they found their immediate plan beset by two problems. Genna refused to leave without her dog, and neither of them had any cash on them.

"I need my bank cards." Genna said, mentally slapping her forehead.

"Won't the transactions be traced?" Joshua asked.

"I can make a single cash withdrawal."

All of her cards were back at the apartment. It was a fair bet that her father's goons were watching her building, too.

"Shit," Genna slapped the arm of the couch.

Joshua slid the car keys off the table. "I'll go," he said. "I can handle your father's men. I'll get your cards and bring the dog."

Genna started to protest but her lamentations were weak. They had no other option. She sighed and scratched the back of her head irritably. "You're right," she said.

He kissed her forehead. She kissed him back, clinging to him.

Then he was gone, ducking out of the door, starting up the car. Gravel spun against the BMW's under carriage. From the window Genna watched the taillights until they became lost in the trees. In dawn's early light, mist hung like a shroud over the forest, obscuring the view of the city. After a minute the sound of the engine faded.

"Please be careful," she said, touching the glass.

Joshua drove quietly through the light traffic, seeing only the occasional taxi cab or bread truck on the roads. He left the BMW three blocks from Genna's apartment building in Silver Lake. Across the road a digital clock above an office block read 6:09am.

Two minutes later he stood at the mouth of the down-ramp that sloped into the subterranean parking lot. The temperature below street level dipped several degrees, the air was damp. He crossed to the fire-escape, the gray walls and pillars echoing his stealthy footfalls.

Inside the stairwell was deathly quiet; it smelled vaguely of urine. Along the painted rails, the walls, and on each of the concrete steps were the overlapping biological signatures of a hundred people, leaving behind a pot-pourri of fleeting images and emotions. Amazingly, he divined Genna's presence. Though many more people had since passed over her trail, they had not completely drowned it.

Satisfied the corridors were deserted, he reached Genna's door, pressed his ear to the blue panels. The hum of a refrigerator...the ticking of one or more clocks...the gentle buzzing of a dimmer switch. He looked down; light spilled from under the door. He heard no people in there – only the dog.

He had no key so he threw his shoulder against the lock. The door gave with a loud crack, and something clattered faintly to the floor inside the apartment. Joshua hurried inside and pushed the door to behind him. He heard Benji scratching at the kitchen door.

After several circuits of the apartment, he still could not find the credit cards. They were not on the table beside the telephone, as Genna had suggested. Nor were they in any of the drawers, nor were they resting on any of the work surfaces in the kitchen. He spent a couple of minutes methodically going through drawers and cupboards, but had no luck.

Desperation gnawed at the corners of his mind. No credit cards meant they had no money. If Genna requested replacements the transaction would burn time they didn't have.

And of course there was Benji. Joshua sighed; his progress was poor to terrible. So far he couldn't find the credit cards and the damn pooch had begun howling to be let out of the kitchen. After a further bout of fruitless searching, he gave up.

He opened the kitchen door and the Doberman leaped out, going straight for the exit. He had left the door slightly ajar and Benji used his paw to pry it open all the way. Joshua followed him out into the corridor. They made it back through the deserted streets to the waiting car unaccosted. Joshua pulled open the driver's door and Benji leaped in, parking himself on the passenger seat, eyes studiously forward, front paws splayed against the dash, as though in anticipation of a white knuckle ride.

"Going to make it, big fella," Joshua said.

Genna stood on the porch hugging her arms against the morning chill and staring through the mist, watching for signs of Joshua's return. Two long hours had passed since he left. Twice she thought she had heard a car's engine, but when she eagerly pressed her face to the glass, she saw only the early morning fog above the trees. Surely he should have been back by now.

Dread had made her edgy, and now she was hearing things. Furtive footsteps on the deck outside; doors being tampered with; windows being forced; voices whispering at the very limit of her hearing. But her investigations revealed nothing but an over-wrought imagination.

Feeling the chill of the mountain air in her bones, she returned to the comparative warmth of the cabin. Permitting herself to fret helped nobody – least of all herself. If anyone could look after himself it was Joshua.

As she passed through the hallway that served the bedrooms she noticed several damp footprints on the floor leading to one of the doors. She froze; a shiver crawled up her back, and she recalled hearing noises earlier. The footprints were large - definitely not hers; probably not Joshua's. They led into led into the room, but not back out. They were very fresh.

The door creaked open, startling her.

Divo Serefini stood a couple of feet inside the room, leaning against the wall like a fed-up teenager, a 32 pistol in his hand. His scarred and bandaged face bearing the smug expression she knew all too well. Before Genna could react, he snagged her by the wrist and dragged her into the room. He back-heeled the door closed behind him. She managed to squirm free but he stood blocking the exit. From his breast pocket he plucked a cellular phone and punched a number; his black eyes regarded her stonily. "I've got her," he said. "She's alone all right."

For a moment Genna did nothing - her mind raced. When did they arrive? How did they break in without her hearing? "Okay," she said. "You had better move the hell out of my way."

Serefini stood his ground. His eyes wandered to the unkempt bed behind. He sighed like a scorned husband who had caught his wife with another man. "You actually _balled_ some guy up here?"

Genna no longer felt molested by his eyes, nor particularly offended by his insults. Serefini was walking scum, no more, no less. Almost unbidden, her hand came up to slap his face. But he raised a forearm block, jammed the pistol into his waistband, planted one hand against her chest shoved her onto the bed. "Instead of slumming with some punk you might have considered me..."

Still shocked that Serefini had actually touched her, Genna tried to climb off the bed but the man quickly pounced on her. She beat at him with her fists but he used his weight to pin her down. He pressed his nose to the sheets and inhaled. "So, this where you tipped out." He moved his face to within an inch of hers; his breath whistled through his teeth. "Lucky guy," he whispered, imitating a sexual thrust.

Genna winced. The thirty-two in his waistband dug into her pubic bone. "You're... _hurting_ me."

"Oh, say it again, please." Serefini thrust again. "I've wanted to hurt you since I first saw you."

Quick footsteps on the hard floor outside and then the bedroom door swung open. George Decarius rushed in. "We just got word -" He broke off at sight of the boss's daughter crushed under Serefini's weight. He met Serefini's gaze, and Serefini raised his eyebrows. George Decarius cleared his throat. "...a red BMW is coming up the dirt-road." He looked past Serefini at Genna.

"I'll be right out," Serefini said.

Decarius didn't move.

"Something wrong with your legs?"

Decarius shook his head.

"There will be if you're not gone in three seconds."

Decarius went.

Genna ceased her struggling. A red BMW?

"Your boyfriend?" Serefini dragged his tongue from the corner of her mouth to her forehead, forcing her to shut her eyes. "Was fucking you his last request?" He rolled off the bed and dragged her to her feet.

By the time Joshua pulled on to the private road leading to the log cabin, the early morning mist had begun to dissipate. Sunshine burned away the haze from the eastern horizon. Nature came alive with bird song and the cries of animals. From the west blew a gentle breeze, a pleasant contrast to last night's gales.

In a shallow depression half a mile from the cabin the track became boggy, dirt splashed up the sides of the car, the steering wandered in his grip. Here on the dirt road Joshua saw tire marks where a car must have slued off the track. He frowned. He recalled seeing no such tire marks on his journey down. At no point last night did Genna stray off the track.

Another car?

He reduced his speed and scanned the woods ahead of him.

He looked at the dog. The dog looked straight back at him. Abruptly Benji's studious look snapped into canine alertness. "You smell something?"

At that very moment the car emitted dozens of pinging sounds. As if by magic these pinging sounds plucked holes in the bodywork. The wing mirror disintegrated.

Then he saw them. Several gunmen seconded in the trees ahead of them, leaning into their weapons. Orange light spat from the barrels in a blaze of muzzle fire. A sustained hail of bullets smacked into the car's body. Suddenly the windshield exploded, and the world became instantly opaque. Stray rounds whizzed through the air and cracked through the branches of the nearby trees.

Joshua stamped on the brakes and jammed the car into reverse. Another smash, behind him this time. In a fountain of glass the rear window blew out. Benji barked once more and then, as though being shot at was a commonplace occurrence, dropped out of sight into the foot-well below the seat. There he huddled, head down, mouth closed.

Bullets plucked at the seat leather and pinged into the metal body. Then, one after the other, the remaining windows blew. Another short burst disintegrated the shattered windshield.

Through the opening Joshua saw a third man rush forward and join the turkey shoot. Beyond them, through twists and turns of the path, he saw two cars.

One of the front tires blew and Joshua lost control. The wheel jerked in his grip, but the momentum kept the vehicle rolling backwards. Three gunmen jogged after him, reloading as they came. Bullets slammed unrelenting into the car, peppering the bodywork and plucking at the leather. With a surge, the car gripped a dryer section of path and spun violently a hundred and eighty degrees. Facing away from the advancing gunmen, Joshua threw the car into first and planted his foot on the gas. The wheels spun briefly before finally biting. But the flat tire caused the rear end to fishtail.

He threw a quick glance into the rearview mirror, and to his horror, saw one of the gangsters aiming a tubular device in his direction, but the very moment the weapon flared. He held his breath and heard the blast of the rocket's tail fire, the whoosh of the projectile slicing the air. He braced himself.

In a bone jarring split second the world upended.

When he opened his eyes he saw trees growing out of an earthen sky. The BMW had flipped and landed on its roof, crushing the support pillars so the sunroof met the head rests. Flames engulfed the wreck, embracing the whole car, and before the hulk settled under its own weight, the gas tank blew. The secondary explosion sent a mushroom cloud through the canopy.

A wall of blistering heat enclosed Joshua, burning through his clothes and singeing his hair, sucked the oxygen from his lungs. Pain greater than he had ever experienced screamed down his nerves and seared his brain. Fast as his tremendously accelerated metabolism repaired damaged tissue, the intense heat worked more quickly and took away his skin. He became trapped in a loop of continuous, flaring agony.

He realized dimly that he was face down with the weight of the car on his legs. He clawed frantically at the squashed roof, but could not efficiently shift the weight to free himself. Flames raged through the interior, heat upon heat bore down on him, he could smell his own flesh burning, feel his strength departing. To the left he saw only buckled steel and broken glass. To the right the incline of the forest floor allowed him a narrow window to the outside. Through darting, lapping flames he saw the two cars negotiate the road.

Beyond the rear window of the first car he caught a glimpse of Genna, her hands pressed to the glass, her horrified expression. Beside her, the silhouette of someone holding her back.

Seeing Genna gave him strength; he called upon the terrible power within him. He wriggled and kicked and fought in the blazing inferno. His clothes were all but burned off him. His hair was gone and his skin blackened. The energy flow required to fuel his partial metamorphosis became interrupted and began to ebb away.

With his free hand he clawed and scraped at the wet earth, dragged a fistful of mud and smeared over his face. He thrust the hand out again and his probing fingers clutched a protruding tree root. With all his might he pulled on this, dragging his trapped body free. The whole car moved with him as he wriggled and squirmed and pulled. Inch by inch he dragged himself away until only his feet were trapped. With two hands he gripped the bole of a pine and dragged himself clear. A sharp edge of buckled steel gouged the flesh from his left calf. Red hot steel scraped his bone.

Fire raged through the BMW, its rubber burned and its metal buckled under the heat, and acrid smoke billowed from the burning seats and flooded his lungs. He lost all knowledge of his quest, his brother, Barlow and Genna. He abandoned all cognizant thought and became composed entirely of instinct, wishing only to free himself of the all agony shrieking along his nerves.

With the last dregs of strength in his body, he rolled over, away from the burning wreck. Faintly aware that he was still on fire, he rolled again, the declination of the land aiding him. He came to rest in a hollow at the base of a tree fifteen feet from the gutted car; his strength all but gone.

The crackling of the wreck and the rays of sunshine filtering through the swaying branches faded. He felt himself tumble headlong into an oil-black nightmare in which he held Genna Delucio in his arms. She was streaked with blood. She wasn't breathing. Genna was dead, and he could do nothing to bring her back.

Through the Sedan's rear window the ensuing fireball reflecting in Genna's pupils. Although flames swallowed the wreck, she thought she saw flailing arms and legs, burning with the rest of the car.

"No!" she pressed her hands to the window. Even through the glass she felt the heat. By Joshua's own admission, fire would kill him. Surely no one and nothing could survive that furnace. Not even Joshua. She caught one last glimpse of the searing pyre before the car spirited her away.

Serefini dragged her away from the window and slammed her into the seat, letting his hands linger on her breasts. He leered at her.

The suddenness of Joshua's demise rendered her momentarily catatonic. Her breath caught in her throat. Their ruination had come about swiftly and completely. The time they shared painfully brief; had passed so abruptly that for a moment her mind refused to accept it. Her mother was gone, Suzanne was gone, now Joshua was gone – she had no one left.

The horrific image of Joshua, thrashing in agony against the flames, imprinted on her mind like a branding iron. She recoiled from the though, turning her head and gasping. After a moment, she finally remembered to breathe. A wall of blackness threatened to overwhelm her and she bit her lip, drawing blood. At last she looked round at Serefini.

He sneered. "Now that's what I call a 'fuck and die' movie."

Genna swung her hand to his face with all her strength. The resulting slap was loud as a starting pistol. Her palm tingled from the blow. Several of his wounds reopened, and more to the point, it wiped the look off his face.

George Decarius' eyes were wide in the rearview mirror.

Serefini's lips went gray and his jaw tensed. He slapped her back – hard, rocking her head on her shoulders. Then he grabbed her by her chin, slammed her against the seat back, and thrust his hand between her legs, squeezing hard. He moved his face to within an inch of hers. His breath stank. "Be nice to me, and I'll be nice to you." He then let go and playfully slapped her cheek.

The moment the pressure of his hand left her chin, she hawked up as much spit as she could and put it in his face. The saliva struck his left eye, closing it. "Be nice to that you sack of shit coward."

Serefini's face turned bright red. Only his lips remained bloodless, stretched thin as string over his teeth. He drew back his hand, his fingers curling into a tight fist.

"Hold it down." George Decarius said from the front seat. "If a cop sees you struggling in the back...."

Serefini wiped the spit from his face and glared at George Decarius until the older man dropped his gaze. To Genna, Serefini said. "I owe you some fluid."

So crushed was she by Joshua's fate, Genna did not notice the tension in the car until they rolled up to the entrance of Stromboli Mansion. Serefini phoned ahead, and as the car pulled up the gates were already swinging open. Those in the car became increasingly restless, staring owlishly at one another, Serefini included.

Genna frowned dully, looking through the window as the car turned. The usual number of two or three gatehouse guards had increased to nine or ten, most of them new faces. At least four of them wore body armor. Others were armed with machine guns. But the expression of dread was universal. Tension hung around them like flies around a dead crow.

Curious, Genna sat upright and pressed her face closer to the glass. Posted at regular intervals along the driveway were more armed guards. Several technicians were perched atop stepladders, installing floodlights. Between the two outer fences over a dozen Doberman Pincers padded to and fro; their continual sentry work carving paths in the mown grass. Closer to the house, tucked away in a corner, she made out what appeared to be a gun emplacement, protected by a short wall of concrete building blocks. Two wide-eyed guards dressed in combat fatigues manned the weapon.

"What's going on here?" she asked no one in particular. Serefini's demeanor had darkened markedly. The intrinsic smugness evaporated. The restless look in his eyes told of a more pressing concern.

"I want to see my father." She demanded. Since passing through the gates, Serefini had made no further attempt to restrain her. Perhaps because he knew that her fleeing now would be pointless. Stromboli Mansion was a fortified cage, designed and manned to keep out intruders. Preventing one unarmed girl from escaping would not be too difficult. The car drew to a halt right of the main entrance.

Serefini politely opened the door. "After you."

She clambered out and hurried up the steps. Four gunmen flanked the entrance, each of them armed with brand new automatic weapons. On the west corner of the building she saw another gun emplacement.

Entering the building, Genna felt a prick of fear at the base of her neck; the charged air, the sense of impending doom and the over-population of guards painted a grim picture. A pregnant silence held sway, creating the atmosphere of a library or a funeral parlor.

Finally it dawned on her. Her father feared no rival gangsters because none were left in the city. He was fortifying his defenses against an attack from the Invisible Assassin. Of course.

They had brought her back to his house presumably to be 'safe'.

Into the Lion's den.

"Dear God." She turned to Serefini. "You don't know what you're up against."

"Believe me," he said grimly. "We know." He grabbed her shoulders and steered her toward the stairs. "Your father's relocated to the east wing."

She pulled away from him and ran up the stairs, stopping at the first guard. "Where's my father?" The guard ignored her.

Serefini strode past her. "This way."

"You've got to listen to me," she said, trailing him down the corridor. "You try to defend this place you'll all die. You have to get out."

He didn't answer her, but he gave her a curious look, perhaps wondering how much she actually knew. Along the east wing he led her to a door, turned the handle, and pushed it open. "Go tell it to your father."

She pushed past Serefini and marched into the room. "You son of a bi-" Her words caught in her mouth. No one was in the room. Just a conference table and a few other items of furniture, a drinks cabinet, and a large couch. Steel bars shielded the windows. "What-"

Serefini shoved her smartly between the shoulder blades, knocking the wind from her. She tumbled headlong, colliding with the table. Sunlight glinted off a glass decanter in the table's center. It toppled over, didn't smash, but rolled off the table and dinked onto the wooden floor. "Your old man's busy," Serefini quickly closed the door and locked her inside.

Genna threw herself at the door. "You fools! Let me out. For Christ's sake you don't know what you're doing." She banged the wood with her fists. "You have to let me go."

His footsteps receded down the corridor.

Genna turned and looked frantically at the barred window. Two other doors led to adjoining rooms; she tried them, but they were locked. Her window looked down on the front gardens. Through gaps in the trees she saw sections of the electric fence, beyond which the guard dogs endlessly patrolled. Beyond that the view became obscured by denser shrubbery and the outermost fence. She could see nothing of the street. Pairs of armed guards patrolled every scrap of land.

She gripped the bars and in frustration shook the steel. They were immovable. She might as well have been in prison. "Oh no."

While the fire that engulfed the wreck burnt itself out, Joshua slipped into a state of disunion with his physical self. So great was the extent of his injuries and so low were his reserves of energy he could not exist on both a physical and a psychological plane. He sensed the cellular activity endeavoring to regenerate his damaged tissue. Much of this occurred on a sub-atomic level, molecules jumping about erratically, cells rebuilding, dividing – the supernatural mitosis fueled by the protein scavenged from his body. Unless he found sustenance soon, he knew he might never reconstitute.

First to benefit from the recuperation was his brain, and then his nervous system, synapses snapping and neuron's conveying messages of pain and relief. All too slowly his body worked to recover from the massive trauma. Whenever his disembodied thoughts turned to Genna's kidnap, he instantly encountered a power drain. The simple act of contemplating her fate consumed him. He dragged his thoughts away.

Gradually his five senses returned; he became aware of the damp forest floor pressed against his back, the smell of burning, the gentle breeze. And then something touched his face; something alive. The alien appendage, wet and curious, was followed by the exhale of a wild animal. His spirit sank. If this was a bear or a coyote, or even a wolf, he was in trouble.

His fear grew at the touch of a heavy tongue lapping across his cheek, evidently tasting his flesh, most likely a prelude to devouring it. Eaten alive by a wild animal – an end he never foresaw. Even in his depressed state, he still saw the irony.

At a rate too slow to assist him, a precarious state of consciousness slipped back into place. Through one eye he saw the wild animal about to make him its lunch. Sizable canine teeth glowered over his face, slaver dripped from jet black jowls onto his cheeks. A single word, frail as tissue paper, escaped his throat. "Benji?"

His coat blackened by soot and singed in several places, Benji whined and nuzzled his cheek, licked his wounds and sniffed at him. The dog was alive and reasonably well, and had not, as Joshua had feared, perished in the fireball. How the pooch escaped only the pooch knew. Probably he was thrown clear after the car flipped, for the fire damage to Benji's coat was minimal.

Unfortunately the dog could not bring Joshua any food. Lassie he wasn't.

Already the process of cellular regeneration was sapping his strength. Wave upon wave of dizziness rippled through him. His mind swooned, as though he had drunk too much wine. Abruptly he withdrew from the world. For one horrible moment he felt a sensation of plunging down a black well, with the concerned canine peering down over the rim, unable to offer assistance.

Sometime later when the dizziness subsided, his eyes regained focus and presented him with a sideways view of Benji lying close by, head on paws, watching him. The sun had reached past the tree tops, its brightness dappling his face through the upper branches. How long he had lain unconscious he had no way of knowing. He felt weak as a kitten and confused, and when he moved, the world rocked sickeningly on its axis.

As his vision reluctantly righted itself, and the land became still, he made the first agonizing movement toward the cabin. All but drained of strength, he pulled himself along no farther than a few yards before succumbing to euphoria. The cabin stood a hundred or so yards distant. At this pace he figured to cover the distance in about two hours – if at all.

He dragged and pulled at the ground. Inching himself along snake-like on his belly. Drag-pull, drag- pull. Six feet into his journey he passed out again. He came round fifteen or so minutes later. To his dismay, when he finally opened his eyes, the cabin appeared no closer than before. He clawed at the forest floor, drag pull, drag pull.

No amount of shouting, kicking the door, or throwing items of furniture provoked a response from Genna's captors. The guard assigned to her door proved beyond persuasion. He spoke only once, to inform her that Serefini forbade him to communicate. She heard him shuffling his feet, un-shouldering his weapon, checking the workings.

Fixed to a bracket near the ceiling, a miniature closed-circuit camera pointed down into the room. Genna stood below it, staring stonily into the lens, knowing those in the surveillance room watched her every move. She concluded there was no point in trying to escape under live surveillance. Instead she gave the camera the middle finger.

Wherever she stood or sat she remained in the camera's range. Her eyes wandered the room. By the door she saw a rack filled with walking-sticks.

In the dim Surveillance room George Decarius observed the black and white image of Genna swinging the cane at the security camera in her room. On the third successive swing, the ornate brass walking-stick handle filled the screen and _pooosh_. In went the lens; the picture imploded and dark static replaced the image.

"Shit," Decarius picked up a phone and called Serefini. "Big man's daughter just totaled the surveillance in her room."

The line went quiet. George Decarius picked out Serefini on another camera. Divo looked up at him, and then furtively over his shoulder, as though the man was thinking thoughts he ought not to be thinking. "Is Markus still guarding the door?"

"Yeah."

"Leave it to me," Serefini said.

When Joshua finally stumbled up to the cabin's side door the sun had long since begun its inexorable slide down into the western half of the sky. He remembered nothing of his snake-like journey across the lawn, but when he looked back, he saw his trail through the grass.

Once on the sundeck he reached up and pulled on the handle; the door creaked open. Benji nuzzled through and raced into the house, ears pricked up, chuffing an enquiry into each room.

Joshua fell across the threshold. Crawled through to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. Both his eyes were open now and the wedge of light made him blink. A stream of frosty air flowed out, partly reviving him. Leaning against the unit next to the fridge he grabbed a half full carton of long life milk, and drank.

As soon as the fluid reached his stomach his enzymes started working, creating a super-fast biochemical feeding frenzy. The calcium and proteins and fats instantly absorbed, and before the next carton touched his lips, were completely assimilated by his accelerated metabolism. Sensation flowed through his body from his stomach to his extremities, tingling, healing, repairing, like a colony of a trillion tireless termites crawling over every inch of his being, inside and out. While he ate, he became aware of the dog running from room to room, searching for Genna.

Joshua discarded the empty carton and reached into the fridge, grabbing anything edible. The shelves were well stocked with cooked and uncooked meat; Joshua needed most, if not all of it, to reanimate his fallen biological machine.

His strength increased at a geometric rate. Flakes of burned skin peeled off his wounds revealing new, unblemished flesh beneath. Hair sprouted from his scalp and the charred remains of his clothes fell away from him and lay on the carpet like a reptilian carapace. Just like the mythical phoenix he grew from his own ashes. But with the accelerated healing came the fresh, sensitive nerves that transmitted fresh pain signals. He groaned in agony, closing his eyes, chewing on raw meat.

With the surveillance camera disabled, Genna searched the room. In the cupboards and drawers she found only maps and old newspapers, alarm schematics, a cop's nightstick, and other blunt weapons. Among them she found a genuine Swiss army knife. She picked it up and extended the four inch blade.

The door to the right of the window led directly to a room she remembered playing in as a child. Through the keyhole she saw a four-poster bed, a closet and French windows that opened onto the balcony. She stepped up to the window, pressed her face against the bars, her breath fogging the glass. Yes – and beneath the balcony she saw roofs of the two cars used to kidnap her. Three other vehicles were parked alongside – two limos and a Bronco. No doubt these had keys dangling in the ignitions.

Perfect. The drop from the balcony was roughly fifteen feet. And if she climbed over and hung by her fingertips she would reduce the distance to less than nine feet. So long as no one saw her Spiderman impersonation, she would have perhaps five seconds to recover from her landing and scramble into a car. Surely her father's men would not open fire on her. She imagined herself accelerating toward the exit, grinning demonically over the wheel, scattering gangsters like bowling pins.

She dropped to her knees and probed the keyhole with the penknife. The workings appeared clunky and outmoded; not like the newfangled five-lever mortise locks that were virtually un-pickable. Her father's security advisors obviously believed replacing this lock unnecessary.

Through the window behind her the daylight faded fast, leaving the western horizon a fiery orange, which was gradually turning purple, for sweeping in from the southwest were colossal thunderheads. The heavens swollen and angry, the color of gunmetal. A stiffening breeze stirred the tree tops and whistled under the eaves.

As she worked the lock, Genna thought of the incident at the Cabin. Suzanne's car burning with Joshua trapped inside. Blame rested squarely on her shoulders; of that she was under no illusion. They killed Joshua. Killed him because of her.

Thunder rumbled distantly and the very noise seemed to strain daylight from the sky. Beyond the barred windows, one after the other, several light-sensitive floodlights flickered on, illuminating the grounds brightly as a ball park.

Genna stood and gazed through the bars. The floodlights burned so brightly the men stationed below resembled extras on a film set, practicing their actions, retracing their steps until they attained perfection. If they knew the horror awaiting them Genna doubted they would risk their lives so readily.

A sudden bolt of purpose jolted her and she got busy with the penknife again, angry with herself. She owed it to those who died for her to stay alive. "Come on, Genna," she said.

Outside, the sky dimmed and the shadows grew as the dark clouds drifted inexorably inland. Genna threw a look over her shoulder at the dying light. The clock was ticking for both her and the others in the building. She needed to be out of Stromboli Mansion by nightfall.

Thunder rumbled again. The Dobermans barked and howled.

The thunderclap Genna heard echoed inland toward the San Gabriel Mountains, reverberating off the sheer ramparts of rock and canyon walls, gradually fading into low frequency rumbles. The land appeared to shiver and cower beneath the storm's threat.

Dressed in a blue jogging suit he found in one of the wardrobes, looking nothing like the barbecued lamb he did before, Joshua leaned against the kitchen worktop, eating a chunk of part-cooked steak. No gastronomic delight, but taste was not the issue. Though he had regained much of his former strength he would not be at his peak for maybe twenty-four hours.

Nathaniel and his troop must have done this countless times, Joshua thought as he chewed. Performed assassinations, taken repeated hits, and then limped home to gorge themselves and heal.

Benji sat patiently at Joshua's feet, drooling, repeatedly offering a perfectly good paw in return for the half-cooked steak. Although Joshua needed the food, he gave the remaining meat to the begging dog. After a token attempt at chewing, Benji swallowed the chunk whole. Up came the paw.

"Selling me the same paw, there," he said.

Benji grunted, withdrawing his offer.

Still suffering the heady effects of his ordeal by fire, occasionally struck by bouts of dizziness, Joshua left the kitchen. In the hall he found a hiker's knapsack, which he loaded with food supplies, then slipped the straps over his shoulders.

In the conservatory he stood over the smashed table. Half buried amongst the glass, the Beretta waited for him, silent and enigmatic. _Knew you'd be back_. The weapon lay where Genna had thrown it last night, pointing directly at Joshua.

Benji trailed him into the room, sat near him and followed his gaze out of the large picture window at the western horizon. An orange bank of wispy cirrus clouds hid the sun. Inky black nimbostratus bubbled in from the southwest. A thunderstorm, still several miles out over the Pacific, gathered momentum as it barreled inland.

Joshua hitched up the knapsack. "I gotta go, fella," he said to the dog. "Going to bring her back."

After jogging for a hundred yards he passed the gutted wreck that a few hours ago had almost become his steely sarcophagus. Wisps of smoke snaked out of the rusted, creaking hulk. Jogging down-wind of the burned out BMW, he could smell the acrid stench of charred leather and vinyl and, he thought grimly, his own flesh.

Though he moved quicker than a human, an hour and ten minutes raced by before he reached the valley floor, macadam roads, white lines, and the outer limits of civilization.

Darkness snapped at his heals. Yet he was still many miles from his destination. Fear gnawed at him. He knew that at this pace he would not reach Stromboli Mansion before nightfall.

Headlights appeared behind him on the eastward horizon. Joshua stepped into the road and waved his hands. But the driver did not slow. During the next fifteen minutes several cars passed, but none pulled over. He recalled Genna's grim opinion of Los Angeles' seedier denizens, and realized the likelihood of hitching a ride was slim to zero.

His frequent efforts coaxed no sympathy at all from the motorists. So he continued westward on foot, chasing the setting sun. Minute by minute the encroaching night sucked the light from the sky. Banks of pitch black cloud bubbled and roiled along the horizon, rolling in off the Pacific like troubled surf.

An unexpected a wave of dizziness fell over him; he stumbled on the road, pin-wheeling his arms to stay upright. Still running, he unhooked his knapsack and fished inside. He grabbed a chunk of meatloaf, re-shouldered the pack, and ate while he ran.

Stromboli Mansion, even as the crow flew, stood thirty or more miles from his present position. On foot he would take an hour to complete the distance, which in itself would take too much out of him. By then night would have fallen, the storm upon them, the assault under way.

He needed a ride.

Another car appeared on the road behind him, headlights winking on as the vehicle topped the gentle rise. Stuffing the last chunk of meatloaf into his mouth, he stepped out into the middle of the road and waved his arms, ready to leap to safety should the driver decide to hold his course.

Luck finally smiled at him. Twice in quick succession, the driver flashed his high-beams, slowed, and pulled over to the roadside.

Momentarily blinded by the headlights, he could see neither the driver nor how many passengers there were. But that was unimportant – he just needed a ride. As he neared the stationary vehicle, listening to the engine ticking over, he noticed the familiar shape.

A strident metallic voice ordered. "Approach the car and put your hands on the hood."

A police car.

Hands held high, Joshua approached the cruiser. As instructed by the disembodied voice, he placed his palms on the hood. For a moment nothing happened. Then the driver's door swung open and a tall, handlebar-moustached, black-haired Hispanic deputy climbed out. When he planted his feet on the blacktop and eased out his considerable bulk, the cruiser's suspension sighed with relief. He sniffed, hitched up his trousers, pushed at his hat brim.

"Spread your legs," he instructed, and proceeded to pat him down. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and took out a penknife, cut the straps at Joshua's shoulders and tossed the knapsack to one side. "I said _spread_ 'em."

"I'm in a hurry, officer." Joshua said, turning. "If you'll tell me what the problem is-"

"I'll ask the questions," the deputy said. "Keep your eyes front and your noise down. Stand with your feet wider apart."

"I'm not breaking any laws." Joshua said. "I needed a ride..." He glanced down at the cruiser. What vehicle could be more appropriate than a police car to scoot unchallenged through downtown traffic? Other road users made way for sirens. It was ideal.

Meanwhile, the deputy's hand froze when he touched the Beretta tucked in Joshua's waistband. "What have we here?" he removed the gun and tucked it in his own belt. He unhooked his handcuffs: "Okay, my hitch-hiking friend. You give me no trouble, and you'll get none back." He grabbed Joshua's wrist and started to cuff him.

Joshua peered at the road between his feet, noting precisely where the cop stood. He needed to make a move. At the touch of cold steel on his wrist, he grabbed the deputy's forearm and in a wrestler's move, slammed him against the hood. The element of surprise allowed Joshua the opportunity to snag the guy's hands and bring them together. In less than three seconds he had secured the deputy in his own handcuffs. The deputy struggled hard but Joshua held him fast against the hood. He retrieved his Beretta.

"I just need your car," Joshua said.

"Sure," the deputy said, and then, perhaps fearing a bullet in the back of the head, he grunted and horse-kicked at Joshua's crotch. He missed, brought back his knee to try again, but succeeded only in barking his shin against the wheel arch. He grunted and slumped on the hood. His shirt pulled out of his trousers and his exposed belly squeaked against the cruiser's paintwork. His hat rolled off his head onto the floor. "Okay, okay!" The deputy yelled. "Take it easy. _Take it easy_ – you don't want to hurt anyone."

Twin headlights appeared half a mile distant along the highway, carving bright slashes in the darkness. Joshua snapped his head in that direction, calculating the distance. In a few seconds the car would be upon them.

Holding onto the cuffs, he steered the cop to the rear of the car, pulled open the door and bundled him in.

Joshua hurried to the driver's side, snatched the lawman's hat and planted it on his own head. He slipped nimbly behind the wheel, brim pulled low, pretending to read. The car passed by without slowing.

Okay – now he was mobile – but time was still short. He didn't know for sure where Genna was – but the smartest money was on Stromboli Mansion. Where else would they take her?

The police-band suddenly piped up with a static-ridden voice from dispatch. "Unit seven – how's it going with the hitcher? Come back...Eduardo, you there..." Joshua switched the radio off and punched the accelerator, quickly climbing through the gears, the engine racing, the tires churning up roadside grit.

"Wha...what are you doin'?" Inquired a dazed voice from the back. Eduardo struggled to sit upright. He pressed his face against the mesh partition, the squares of steel digging into his skin.

"Lie down flat on the seat." Joshua said. "If you keep still and don't make a sound I promise not to hurt you." In the mirror he saw the guy's mistrustful eyes.

"Sure kid. Whatever you want," Eduardo said. "You take it easy, okay?"

Joshua said nothing. The light on the westward horizon had shrunk to a slender orange strip separating the land from the sky. He floored the accelerator.

By the time Genna performed the twist of the penknife that finally disengaged the locking levers inside the keyhole, none of the sun's rays showed above the horizon. Black clouds boiled in off the Pacific, gaining momentum and volume, blotting out the meager vestiges of remaining light. With the darkness came higher winds, pushing against the side of the house, whistling over the roof tiles.

With a firm click, the tumblers fell and the lock tongue retracted. Genna held her breath, astonished she had actually picked the lock. She tossed the small blade aside and grabbed the handle, pausing briefly to peep through the keyhole again. She saw only vague shapes in the semi-darkness, the only light source the ambient glow coming through the French windows.

Her heart thudded as she turned the handle and quickly slipped through the door. Nothing in the room seemed to have changed since the days of her short childhood when she and her sister used to hide in here. Ironically, she had reassumed that roll – but the punishment for getting caught considerably worse than just a verbal bashing. If she blew this escape...

She pushed the thought away. How much time she had before they noted her absence she could only guess. But she assumed minutes rather than hours. Right now a technician could be on his way to replace the camera she had smashed.

Genna sidled along the wall and peered through the French windows onto the narrow balcony. The balustrade was composed of decorative stone pillars and an ornate stone rail. Bolted to the rail, angled down at forty-five degrees, shone a large floodlight. All the fixtures shiny and new – obviously recently installed. She realized if she stood behind the floodlight the glare would make her invisible to anyone down below. So long as she didn't jump around waving her arms, the glare should hide her outline.

Safe in this knowledge, she opened the catch and stepped out, hunching low. A gust of wind almost tore the doors from her grasp.

Distant lightning flashed, followed by a peel of thunder that echoed into brooding quiet. Inky cloud filled the heavens east to west. The sky's underbelly, bruised and black and swirling, swelled to bursting point. The hairs on her arms prickled.

Below, the grounds were bright as a floodlit tennis match. Left of the main entrance she saw the gun emplacements. Inside them, wrapped tightly in combat fatigues and huddled behind the weapons, were the gunners. To her right she saw a second emplacement. Two guards watched the main steps; many more patrolled the fences, each of them bearing the solemn expression of the reluctant soldier.

Genna leaned over the wall, her belly pressing against the rough stone, and looked down. Directly beneath her was the car in which she'd been abducted. Ankles permitting, she could drop from the balcony and slip behind the wheel before anyone saw her – provided that the keys were indeed still in the ignition. A risk she'd have to take.

"Come on." she whispered intensely. She was stalling, doing precisely what she had done in the restaurant a year ago; allowing her nerves to get the better of her. What on earth was she waiting for? Someone else to rescue her?

She raised herself to full height and swung one leg onto the rail. Glare from the flood-light washed the ground below with the brightness of a flashgun. She realized that the moment she let go of the rail she would become California's most conspicuous escapee.

Move your ass, she urged herself, and hooked the other leg onto the rail. She balanced precariously across the top, the concrete cold and rough against her chest. She needed only to slide her legs over, take her weight, hang for a moment...and then let go.

She heard voices. Directly beneath her.

She tightened her grip on the stone, the cuts from the knife blade chaffed on the rough edges, further tearing them open. She teetered, using her fingers and the toe of one boot to steady herself. With the left half of her face pressed against the stone, she looked straight down at the cars. She heard shoes crunching gravel, the click of a Zippo lighter; a moment later she could smell tobacco smoke as the wind tore it to ribbons. She looked down and saw two men.

"Storm front's here," one of them said.

"I got a bad feeling about this," the other replied.

"You and everyone else."

Genna clung to the wall, only the floodlight's glare preventing her discovery. The stone rail dug into her breastbone. The backs of her knees tingled madly. _Move_ , she silently urged the men below her. _Get out of the damn way._ And then, looking down, she saw a drop of her blood dangling from her grazed knuckle. At that moment it fell, gravity turning it into a perfect crimson sphere.

Splat!

The drop landed plum in the middle of the guard's balding head. He looked up, straight into Genna's eyes, held her gaze for a second - or so she feared - until the brightness forced him to look away.

As she was preparing to retreat to the room, the first heavy raindrop smacked shockingly onto the back of her neck. Dozens of heavy splats plinked against the cars below her. The guard below, apparently mistaking the splat of blood for a raindrop, backed into shelter beneath the balcony.

A deafening crack of thunder smote the earth; several of the patrolling guards cowered, as though the sky itself had taken a swing at them. Rain fell now in steady squalls; fat drops that left marks the size of quarters. Hundreds of icicle fingers poked at Genna's clothing, seeping through to her skin, stinging her wounded hand.

She clung to the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the men below to move on. Escape became less and less likely.

Alone and sequestered in the panic room, Salvatore Durant shuddered at the sound of thunder. His whisky glass skittered across the table, spilling its contents, finally coming to rest balanced precariously on the edge. "Damn it," he whispered to himself. He closed his eyes and squeezed his hands together, the tension reverberating in his teeth. Nothing he did stopped his hands from trembling. The illusion of control had all but disappeared. Only now did he realize how greatly he had depended on it.

_Tic-tic-tic_ went the tiny muscle beneath his left eye _._ Careful not to poke out his own eye, he slapped his cheek with his fingertips until the twitching finally stopped. But he felt the snake of fear coil around his windpipe.

He determined that if he survived the next twelve hours he would leave Los Angeles – perhaps for good. He had screwed this town for years, suckled on the spoils from day one, but the bitch had grown mean and finally turned on him. Fortunately he'd already salted away over eighty-seven million dollars from his one-sided courtship. With such a balance he could travel anywhere he wished. Europe perhaps the safest option. Maybe Paris or even Timbuktu. Anywhere but Los Angeles.

If perchance security suffered a breach tonight, he would remain in hiding and ride out the attack. Get under the damn table if need be. Not all the guards knew of the panic room, and those that did would be too busy to divulge its location. Should any of his men try to enter the room during an assault, he would shoot them.

Someone rapped on the door. Durant nearly jumped out of his chair. He looked up at the monitor and saw it was Serefini. Durant turned to the mirror and looked at his face, swept a hand over his hair, straightened his collar. Then he hit the door control.

Serefini, his hair and his clothes drenched, entered with a HK MP5 slung over each shoulder. With one hand he wiped the rain off his face, dislodging several band-aids in the process.

Durant recognized the look in Serefini's eyes; an unclassifiable guise most people mistook for bravado – but bravado it wasn't. As a man resigned to his fate, he had nothing else to fear, and so became unpredictable. Right now, Serefini looked more dangerous than ever. Durant felt both amazed and repulsed by the realization he feared his bodyguard.

Dripping rainwater as he paced, Serefini complained that the guards couldn't maintain maximum alertness in the storm. "They're bitching like a bunch of wiseass school-kids," he said.

"This is war," Durant said. "Not a picnic."

Serefini said nothing. He stared at Durant, holding his gaze a few seconds longer than he had ever dared to in the past. Durant almost flinched. "Was there something else?"

The bodyguard shook his head, but didn't drop his gaze.

Another ripple of fear coursed through Durant. Never before had the hired help dared to stare at him for longer than a couple of seconds. And never before had one of his men made him feel as exposed as he felt right now. Perhaps Serefini had brushed so close to his own death that he now recognized fear of dying in others. Durant then realized the precisely why Serefini was staring.

The whole of the left side of Durant's face was twitching spasmodically, pulling at the corners of his mouth. He brought up a hand, wiping the palm over his face, hiding the twitching muscle.

"Nah," Serefini said. "There's nothing else."

Durant wiped his hand roughly down the side of his face, massaging the point of his cheek that twitched. He moved to face his number two, using his height to intimidate. A huge thunderclap made the glasses clink. "Then what are you standing here for?"

Serefini did not move. "You know we're a list of dead people?"

"So long as you're clear on who's last on that list."

Serefini smiled. "Crystal clear."

Genna shivered and sighed. Her clothes were thoroughly soaked. And her fingertips were so cold she needed to look at them to be sure they still clung to the wall. Through dripping tendrils of her saturated hair she watched the men finally break across the lawn, where they joined several others sheltering beneath the boughs of a massive oak. Their weapons clattering heavily as they went.

At the risk of being spotted, she leaned as far over the balcony as she dared, playing a perilous game with her balance. At the limit of her stretch, she could see down to the foundations of the house. No one else sheltered there. With rainwater running into her eyes and up her nose, she pulled her head back up, light-headed from the blood-rush. To her left those manning the gun emplacements were tightly huddled beneath army-issue waterproofs; to her right the sentries at the main entrance had retreated under the porch.

Come on, she urged herself. Now or never. She took a breath and prepared to swing herself into a dead hang position. Her fingers were so numb she figured she could hang on for only a few seconds, but that was ample for her to orient herself with a landing.

As she gripped the inner edge of the rail and tipped her balance toward the drop, she heard footsteps squelching on the saturated carpet inside the French windows. Instead of quickly dropping she hesitated and looked round.

Divo Serefini stood maybe five feet away, hands raised like the creature in _curse of the mummy_ , creeping up on her. Their eyes met. For half a second the pair of them froze. Then Serefini abandoned stealth for blitz and launched himself at her.

Genna tried to both dodge his lunge and simultaneously throw herself over the balcony, counting on providence to grant her a soft landing on one of the cars. But as she tensed her legs, water squeezing and bubbling from the fabric of her jeans, Serefini grabbed a fistful of her hair. His other hand found her throat, and he squeezed her windpipe. Black spots bloomed before her eyes, and when they finally cleared, she looked up and saw not the sky but the bedroom ceiling.

Serefini stood silhouetted against the window, the curtains billowing above him as he cast aside his weapons. His chest rose and fell rapidly; he started panting like a dog, teeth clenched and nostrils flared. The usual arrogant and slightly unhinged look he carried had become a wild-eyed look of mischief. "No goodbye kiss?"

Leaning against the baseboard, Genna massaged her throat. Pain burned in her scalp. When she touched her head, she came away with several strands of hair, fingers warm and bloody.

Serefini sidled toward her. "You're some tease." One of his Band-Aids hung by only a corner, revealing a suppurating wound beneath. The hank of leather holding in his ponytail had worked loose. Twists of hair dangled over his eyes.

Genna made a lunge for Serefini's weapon, but he anticipated this, and laughing, grabbed her arms at the wrists, dragged her up off the floor slammed her down on the bed. He moved his face to within inches of hers. "If you tease, then you has to please." He nuzzled his head into her neck, kissing and sucking and biting.

"What are you _doing?_ "

"We're all dead men," he said, pawing at her.

She fought as hard as she could, but the man was nearly twice her weight. He pinned her to the bed with one hand whilst tugging at her clothes with the other. Her blouse buttons popped open and he forced his hand along her belly and down the front of her jeans, straining against the button. A look of manic concentration twisted his features as he probed.

Unable to prevent this, she deliberately relaxed. Serefini quickly shifted himself into a deeper position. As he did so, Genna took a deep breath and brought up her knee with all the effort she could muster. But her wet jeans restricted her movement, which gave Serefini the half second he needed to bring in one of his own knees to protect himself.

"If you had balls," he said in her face. "You'd know how naughty that was." Still holding her fast, he wrapped his fingers tighter around her windpipe. Then, raising himself, drew back a fist and struck her an inch below her breast bone.

Sickening pain exploded in her stomach and she could not draw breath. All the fight left her at the speed of sound. Bile filled her mouth but she lacked the strength to retch. Using both hands now, Serefini started to tear feverishly at her buttons.

With all the fight gone, she fell limply to the bed sheets, desperately trying to draw breath. Her chest hitched, pulling in short, inadequate snatches of oxygen.

Serefini became feverish, frustrated at being unable to remove her soaked jeans. Instead he struggled with his own zipper. Tore off his jacket. "Oh yes!" he said. "Oh yes...oh yes. Going to tear you up, bitch. Gonna work you so hard standing upright will give you a nose bleed."

She tried to say something to him, but only a soft hiss escaped her lips. Serefini slapped her. "Shut!" he slapped her again. "-the fuck up." He finally dropped his pants and grabbed hold of his erection triumphantly. "Gonna teach you a lesson in obedience," he said.

### Part Three

### The Invisible Assassin

Despite the air-conditioning inside the surveillance room George Decarius felt hot and sticky and increasingly irritable. He loosened his neck-tie and unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt. His headset, with which he could communicate with any guard in the complex, hung askew on his face and he righted it.

His eyes stung and itched from staring at the large monitor in front of him. This particular screen linked to the thermal imaging camera bolted to a pole at the highest point in the grounds. Each guard outside appeared as an ill-defined heat signature. Several were sheltering beneath the trees. Others dutifully patrolled their pre-mapped routes. Using a joystick to remote operate the camera, Decarius continued his slow 360 degree scans of the perimeter. The image vibrated in the high wind.

A mighty thunderclap boomed above the house. Windows shook. Several closed circuit TVs briefly lost their images. The electric storm was playing ping-pong with the radio and television signals, though thankfully causing nothing more serious than snow and static. So far the surveillance loop was ticking over sweetly. Even if a lightning bolt were to take out L.A's power grid they would still have juice; in such an event the in-house generators would automatically kick in.

It was during his second sweep George noticed something that was not there on the first sweep. At the upper limit of his screen, barely in the camera's range, a white heat signature glowed through the screen's blackness. He remote tilted the camera and centered the pixilated image.

A large amorphous mass. Twenty or so meters beyond the outer fence in a tract of scrubland owned by the city. The presence emitted a significant heat signature, yet resembled no discernible shape. An animal?

He tilted the camera downward until he saw the familiar heat signatures of guards patrolling the perimeter. Along the narrow track on the other side three of the dogs raced back and forth. George frowned. Those nearest the fence were surely close enough to eyeball the heat source, but no one reported anything.

Abruptly the shapeless white heat mass broke into three separate entities, quickly fanned out and speeds far exceeding that of a man, closed on the fence. Along the dog-run circling the complex, the smaller infrared images of the Dobermans flew frenziedly back and forth.

One of the guards by the fence came on the radio, his voice subdued by rainfall and barking Dobermans. "Control, anything on the cameras? Fucking dogs are going ding-a-ling. Can't see shit in this rain."

Decarius broke from his paralysis and grabbed the radio. "Northeast quadrant! Look to the fence. The Fence! – Right in front of you. Jesus Christ can't you see anything they're..." he was on his feet now, squeezing the radio with one hand and panning the remote camera with the other. Three speeding - indeed accelerating - heat signatures reached the line that indicated the boundary, and without slowing-

-entered the compound.

"Inside!" Decarius' voice went soprano. "They're inside the perimeter."

The loud speaker in the control room cracked with the guard's voice: "Where? George I can't see shi-" His radio died.

Decarius panned the thermal imager down to the guard's last position. The infra-red imaging picked out the shape of a man lying on the ground, limbs splayed at odd angles. A fainter heat sources flowed from the guard's head or neck, carried away on the storm run-off. "Oh Jesus!"

He hit the alarm.

Genna Delucio lay helpless under Serefini's superior weight. The spider of pain that radiated from her solar plexus began to ease. As she gradually regained her wind, she became aware that Serefini had managed to free her right leg of her wet jeans. He had not bothered freeing the other leg. Grunting, he stretched himself out, prized her thighs apart with his own knees, paused to wet himself with a handful of spit, and then positioned himself to invade her body. His erection slid directionless about her inner thighs. Cursing, he let go of her in order to guide himself.

The instant she felt the pressure leave her throat, Genna craned her neck forward, opened her mouth, and sank her teeth into his face.

Serefini tried to pull away, but Genna hung on, her head coming up off the bed. Not content just to bite him, she brought up her knee, slammed it squarely into his exposed crotch. He grunted and clapped his own knees inward to protect himself. Still clinging on with her teeth, she clawed at his eyes with her fingernails, reopening his wounds.

Serefini shrieked in pain and outrage. He forced his fingers into her mouth and tried to pry open her jaws. She bit his fingers. He let go and drove his fist into her side; once, twice. Pain greater than anything she had known stabbed through her midsection. She cried out, but steeled herself and bit down until finally, her teeth came together. Serefini's blood, hot and coppery, flowed into her mouth and down her throat, making her retch.

Groaning like an angered Grizzly bear, Serefini punched her again, finally tearing free of her grip. "Bitch!"

Oh fuck, Genna thought wretchedly, and spat out a chunk of the man's flesh. She groaned. On each inhale, something sharp pricked at her insides. And when she coughed, blood welled up into her mouth.

Still astride her, breathing erratically, Serefini pressed one hand to his cheek and cupped his throbbing balls with the other. His fingers, which explored the somewhat unrecognizable terrain of his left cheek, came away gloved in blood. He stared in disbelief at his crimson fingers.

Then the blood-gloved hand screwed up into a fist. He punched her in the mouth. "Animal!"

Stars exploded before her eyes, swam on the periphery of her vision, clearing in time for her to see the fist coming down again. She hardly felt the second blow, for the first one had rendered the side of her face numb. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her up from the bed. "We could've _had_ something," he said. "And now _this._ " He spit in her face. "Frigid cock-teasing bitch _."_

Genna heard none of his cursing. Her chest pounded so hard she thought her ribs would break. Alarm bells tolled in her head, surely a forewarning she was perilously close to physical ruin. Indeed, the bell was so clear she frowned, swallowed a mouthful of blood, and listened to the ringing and the banging.

Even Serefini appeared to have heard it, for he stepped off her and pulled up his trousers, hopped over to the window and looked out, stooping for his discarded weapons.

A strident voice filtered through the ringing and pounding, unintelligible at first, then gradually words and phrases emerged from the confusion. "Attack! Attack!" the voice yelled. "Serefini? Are you in there? We're under attack." Someone in the corridor was hammering on the door. The alarm whooped shrilly.

Saved by the bell, she thought dazedly, and then retched onto the sheets, bringing up only a clot of blood. Oh Genna baby, she thought dismally, you are in one hell of a mess. Though compared with being violated by her father's bodyguard, she believed she had landed the lesser of two evils.

The sub-tropical storm, screaming toward its peak, roared in through the French windows, freezing her exposed legs, peppering her skin with icy raindrops. She retched again, but only dry heaved. The exertion drove her to the edge of consciousness. The world blackened, swung sideways, then finally settled.

Abruptly as a jack-in-the-box Serefini appeared at the foot of the bed, his eyes wide with fright, fear or flight. She met his lunatic gaze. The slimy son of a bitch actually grinned at her. She thought maybe he was preparing to open fire, but instead he leered at her semi-naked body. "Don't go anywhere, sweets," he said, and then ducked out of the door. The key turned in the lock; quick footsteps receded down the corridor.

Shivering and semi-naked, feeling dirty and indecent, Genna reached for her jeans, but needed to rest a moment. Her tongue explored the shockingly unfamiliar terrain of her teeth. She figured at least two of her incisors were chipped.

A savage blast of wind tore through the curtains. The shrill alarm whooped and whooped, each peak more distressing than the last. The implications of the alarm made a slow burning impact and finally she forced herself to move.

Escape was clearly no longer an option. If she tried dropping from the balcony in her condition she would probably break a leg. And anyway... _they_ were out there.

She needed to hide.

Within ten seconds of Stromboli Mansion's security breach, every guard in the complex was alerted. The alarm shrieked and the few remaining floodlights duly flashed on, their brilliance dimmed only slightly by the incessant rain. Lightning whip-cracked directly overhead, the subsequent thunderclap rattling the window panes.

Dobermans charged up and down the space between the inner and outer fence, snapping at thin air, at each other. Their coats heavy and dripping, their feet muddy and their bellies splashed with dirt. Two of them fought like pit-bulls, all teeth and muscle, tearing at each other. They brushed against the inner fence and were instantly electrocuted. Several floodlights blew.

Gregory Harman, one of Sanderman's hirelings, ran along the fence to where a guard lay face down. Harman unbuckled his radio and screamed into it. "Man down here; repeat, we got a man down." When he rolled the casualty onto his back he immediately recognized Steve Melio, another of Sanderman's men. "Ste-" Then Harman saw the throat injury.

"Aghh!" To his immediate right the Dobermans were going bat shit. Sections of the perimeter the fence were shorting out. Several more floodlights blew. Harman looked up. Ahead of him, running along the fence cradling an automatic weapon was another guard, dressed in heavy combat gear, splashing over the soaked lawn.

"It's Steve." Harman shouted over the din. "He's dead."

As Harman watched, a dark figure leaped from the tree line and fell into stride with the guard and with the speed of a cobra appeared to head but him. Whatever venom the attacker spat must have been super toxic, for the unfortunate guard was dead before he fell; his legs collapsed beneath him as though he were a puppet with its strings cut. Before the body even hit the ground, the attacker leaned into a sprint and flew at Harman, eating ground with terrifying ease.

One thought shot through Harman's mind before his soldier instinct snatched the reins. That thought: _It isn't human._

Harman dropped into a one-kneed crouch, shouldered the MP5, flicked the selector to full automatic fire and was already squeezing the trigger. High velocity 9mm slugs traced a 700 rounds per minute splash-path along the wet grass that ultimately intercepted the advancing killer. But as the columns of water reached the target, the wraith-like entity nimbly sidestepped the fire-line, and before Harman readjusted his aim, the figure was upon him. With jarring suddenness his weapon was gone.

His training and discipline stepped meekly aside in favor of a more primal instinct; he raised his hands defensively, pleas for mercy trembling on his lips. The last things he saw were a bloody, dripping set of canine teeth and blazing red eyes full of seething hate and dark intelligence. Darkness struck him like the snap of a bullwhip. His pain, though intense, was mercifully brief. And before he tumbled face down in the dirt, the creature was gone.

Serefini burst into the surveillance room. Blood dripped from his face and down his shirt, but no one commented. Had he waltzed in with his head on backwards and wearing a Hawaiian hula skirt he'd have drawn no more than a cursory glance from any of the controllers. Their collective attention was super-glued to the bank of monitors and the unfolding assault.

"What the fuck are they?" Someone cried.

"There!" George Decarius jabbed a finger at a monitor. On screen, two guards fired sub-machine guns at an elusive Will-o'-the-wisp form. The fleet footed figure moved impossibly fast, never still long enough for the cameras to capture a likeness, leaping from guard to guard with inhuman agility, tracing a zig-zag path through them, sending up fountains of rain water where the lizard-quick feet came down, always one step ahead of the bullets.

At the west corner of the house, tucked away and partly hidden by the building's architecture, was one of the GPMG emplacements. The creature stood in range of the emplacement, but the gunners remained inactive. "The fuck is wrong with you clowns." Decarius grabbed his radio. "Shoot it, for Christ's sake, shoot it." The creature spirited itself to a position between the two guards, and with what seemed to Decarius a nine foot arm span, reached out, grabbed them by their heads and brought them together. Before their bodies splashed down, the creature loped away, churning clods of turf with its feet.

Finally the GPMG gunners opened fire. Although the exterior cameras were without sound capabilities, they heard the heavy machine guns through the natural acoustics of the house. The high velocity rounds tore up the lawn where the creature stood, but the gunners hit nothing.

At the opposite end of the building, another of the GPMG's rattled into life. A tempest of raised voices bustled for air-time on the radio; each of the monitor screens depicted frantic activity, several displayed abandoned posts, one screen broadcast a close up of a guard's lifeless expression, the rain pummeling his open eyes; other monitors showed guards running to and fro, shouting, running, screaming. Several cameras had blown, either from stray bullets or from sabotage; four of the monitors displayed only static.

"Christ, how many of them are there?" Decarius asked.

"Three," Serefini said. "Two male, one female."

"Two male and a female what?"

Serefini leaned on the console, his eyes flicking across the screens. "Pull everybody back," he ordered. "Back to the house. Do it now."

Decarius grabbed the radio. "All guards, all guards – fall back to the house. Get your goddamn backs to the wall. Repeat, drop what you're doing and fall back."

On three of the screens several groups of guards ran along paths and through shrubbery, their weapons held high. Someone slipped on the saturated lawn, went down heavily, murky water splashing up around him. No one stopped to help.

"Bar the doors and the windows," Serefini told others in the room. "Get to it!"

"The men aren't inside yet..." Decarius said.

"Fuck the men," he said, grimacing. "They're history."

Manning the machine gun nest at the southeast corner of the house, forty-five year old Harry Corrigan crouched behind his weapon. His fingers gripped the trigger handles so tightly his forearms trembled. A sudden rustle of movement in the bushes directly ahead of him and he swung the GPMG in that direction, his fingers straining at the trigger.

The disturbance shook the branches, releasing a fall of water from the leaves above, which further saturated the several guards that burst from the tree line. They were slipping and sliding in the mud, fighting to stay ahead of one another. "What the hell..."

Then he saw the creature they fled. All the strength drained from his arms. It stood seven feet tall, and though shaped like a man, looked anything but. It walked upright on legs whose architecture appeared a human-canine hybrid. Remnants of dark clothing clung to the odd angles and twisted bone structure. It looked as though it might fall over if it tried to walk, but that proved deceptive to the nth degree.

It moved on its toes, and with cheetah speed intercepted the trio of men as they burst onto the lawn, its wolf-like head snapping at their faces. One after the other they fell. A fourth guard broke from the trees and tried to flee, but with a single stride the beast caught him, clamped an enormous mouth over his shoulder, and shook him as a dog shakes a bone.

Finally, Harry Corrigan's inertia snapped. He leaned into the GPMG and opened fire. With the first rounds he scored several direct hits. They punched into the creature with the force of a riot cannon, sending it cart-wheeling across the ground. But then like an alley-cat, it twisted back onto its feet.

Moving more quickly than he could adjust his aim, it raced in a decreasing arc toward him. Harry Corrigan didn't scream – he howled, his hands fisted around the trigger, the bullets sending up columns of rainwater at the creature's heels. Several more rounds smashed into the monster, jerked its shoulder, but failed to bring it down.

The weapon fell silent as the bullets dried up; the trigger fell on an empty chamber. Harry struggled to unsling his HK, falling backwards against the wall. But the creature pounced into the nest, and before Harry Corrigan fell, he saw his attacker spring away from him and disappear down the side of the building. Steam rose from both his torn throat and the GPMG's red hot barrel, which had begun to melt. Raindrops hissed on contact with the metal.

Only ninety seconds had elapsed since the alarm first sounded.

Several guards clustered at the front entrance, hammering on the door with the butts of their weapons. Their pleas went unanswered. Three of them stood back to back, fighting for space, as though playing a kid's game.

A guard in full infantry garb moved across the front lawn in slow circles, a HK in both hands, firing indiscriminately. Bullets careened off the stonework, smashed windows, terracotta pots exploded, half a dozen floodlights blew, casting sudden shadows over the building's facade. The guard was baptized in blood, but had no visible wounds. He drew a line of fire low across the front of the building, hitting two fellow guards who were scaling the barred windows.

George Decarius stared at the monitors, his eyes eating up the rest of his face. He thought briefly of Fletcher Regan's assassination, the similar horrors their surveillance people must have witnessed. The carnage. The breaching of Durant's high level security had proved swift, devastating, and now all but complete. Only those in the house remained.

Outside, the firing ceased; the only sounds the alarm, the pounding rain and the frequent rumble of thunder. The bank of monitors covering exterior surveillance showed nothing but lines of rain pummeling dead bodies, abandoned guard posts; half a dozen monitors were dark. The assassins had collectively blitzed exterior security in less than two minutes.

With the siren blaring and the blue lights flashing, Joshua threaded the car through the traffic, which parted like the Red Sea for him. But Stromboli Mansion still lay several miles away. The worm of dread in the pit of his stomach began to squirm. The clock was at zero – the hourglass empty. Darkness settled like a suffocating blanket over the city. He shook the steering wheel, snarled at the speedometer, willing the vehicle to go faster.

Swirling blue lights suddenly washed the cruiser's interior. Joshua checked his rearview mirror. A line of four or five police cars came up behind him, moving fast. The nearest car flashed its stop lights. "Give yourself up, son." Eduardo said from the back seat. "Don't make it worse."

Joshua put his foot down.

With a heavy splintering smash, the double doors of Stromboli Mansion finally gave. Before the debris settled, Nathan Grenire sprang through the gap. A dozen automatic weapons fired on him; few found their target. With a burst of acceleration he crossed the main hall and scooted down the west corridor. His head snapped slickly left and right. His lupine instinct rose and matched his human awareness, became its equal, the two existing in perfect harmony. Every sound, every scent, every incidence of movement he absorbed and deciphered with his super-charged senses in a fraction of a second. By comparison, the guards moved in slow motion. Nothing in his path challenged him. The gangsters docile, virtually defenseless. He was unrivalled.

Two men dressed in combat fatigues burst from Durant's study. In the characteristic sluggishness raised and fired their puny weapons. Nathan dodged left and right and then dropped into a forward roll. Bullets flew harmlessly over his head. He emerged from a coiled crouch three feet from the guards. Too late to readjust their aim, the guards could only look down in horror as Nathan sprang from his tuck, driving clawed hands into their throats.

Caught in the landslide of his own racing metabolism and the wild panic of the guards, Blayne Cortland abandoned awareness and fully embraced the instinctive pull of his bestial alter-ego. Specifics of the assassination lay buried so far beneath his aggression they all but ceased to exist. He crashed through the mansion with abandon. Blood never tasted so sweet, the kill never so gratifying, the screams of his victims never so musical.

A burst of nearby gunfire drew him like a beacon. He snapped his head toward the sound, homed in on its source, striding over a trail of bodies. At the far end of a corridor he saw the other of his kind, Melissa, as she chased down a fleeing guard. With a heron like dip of her head she opened his jugular. The man fell, his hands clawing and fumbling at his spurting throat.

Melissa saw Blayne.

Their eyes locked. She cocked her head, the snarl smoothing away as she reassumed the appearance of a girl. Took several paces toward him. " _What are you doing"?_

Words were a nonsensical jumble; sounds and sibilance he could not decipher, could not hold in his head - did not _want_ to hold in his head. The killing instinct raged through him and he snapped at the air like a rabid dog. The desire had a narcotic affect on him, and like an addict, was unable to ignore the call. He spun away from Melissa and retraced his path along the upper corridor.

Nathan searched the remaining ground floor rooms on the west wing but found neither Durant nor Serefini. A growing sense of urgency put him on edge. He and the others should be gone by now. They had overshot their stay, and so risked confrontation with the authorities.

But only after Durant and Serefini were corpses would he leave. They were here somewhere. Or they would not have gone to so much trouble aligning defenses. Oh yes, they were still here, all right. They were _hiding_.

Deliberately assuming a quasi-human form, he stalked the corridors, shouting. "Durant!" He struck the walls along the way, plaster dust puffed out, doorframes buckled. "Duraaaaaannnnt!"

Brief gunfire rumbled in the opposite wing. An out of control roar shook the windows; a guard shrieked the high pitched wail of a hysterical woman. Nathan looked up, narrowed his eyes, and cursed. Blayne was misbehaving; should he find Durant while in this state, he would tear him apart. Durant was his.

Nathan stalked the corridors until he found Blayne in an upstairs room. Three corpses lay at his feet; a fourth man, still alive but choking on his own blood, tried to crawl away. Blayne held a chunk of flesh in his claws; he tore at the meat, gorging himself on the fresh blood, ravenous as a wild dog starved to the point of insanity.

At Nathan's arrival Blayne rose to his feet, blazing crimson fire in his eyes, and he dropped the pieces of flesh. He no longer resembled the human he once was; his renegade side held sway; he retained the animal features: a snout instead of a mouth; completely furred body; hind legs that defied logic. His flesh haltingly churned and changed, and he half reassumed a human guise.

"Durant." Nathan said, stepping up to him. "Find him and bring him to me." He raised a sharp-clawed index finger. "I want him alive."

The rabid dog look never leaving his eyes, Blayne made a lunge for the door. A deep growl rumbled in his throat: " _Durant_!"

Nathan grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. Paintings fell from the picture rail and the domed glass of a wall sconce shattered. Blayne growled and instinctively fought back, but could not overcome the superior strength of his creator. Nathan held him off the floor. His fingers disappeared into the flesh of Blayne's throat. " _Alive_."

Several minutes after she crawled into the closet, Genna heard the first of the doors adjacent to hers being broken down. Several short bursts of gunfire followed. And then the inevitable screaming, a desperate, chilling sound. She realized the assassins were methodically cleansing the rooms, killing the men, working their way down to her.

She hugged a pile of linen and tried to stay as still as she could. Light from the outside shone through the louver slats into her hiding place. From where she hunkered down she could not see the door, but she thought she heard someone right outside the room. Floorboards creaked.

Crash!

Locks and hinges exploded in a shower of screws and splinters. Six and a half feet of solid oak back-flipped across the room and hit the far wall beside the exposed balcony. She cried out reflexively, but the racket the intruder made drowned out her voice, or so she hoped. The wooden floor creaked under heavy footsteps. She heard deep, fierce respiration. She felt horribly sure the sinister presence knew she was here, sniffing out her whereabouts like a bloodhound.

She pressed her face into the linen, not daring to breathe. Her mouth slowly filled with blood and she desperately needed to cough, so she pressed harder, sucking oxygen through a dozen layers of fabric. Blood bubbled from her mouth and wet the cloth. She gagged, came within a second of vomiting, but somehow held it back. Lack of oxygen made her dizzy. The dim closet started to darken further. Her heartbeat became a bass drum in her head, surely loud enough for anyone within normal earshot to pick up.

Her body was too tense, rigid almost, and she willed herself to relax. Twenty seconds passed, during which she managed to stay quiet. But instead of leaving the room, the intruder paused in the doorway, its shadow stretching across the floor, reaching to where she hid.

One of the patrol cars drew alongside Joshua, gave a brief whoop of its siren, the driver indicating for him to pull over. Joshua ignored him and stamped on the pedal. The car surged ahead, weaving through traffic, almost tail-gated a car in front, managing to avoid it by swerving into the opposite lane.

Then surprisingly he found himself drawing level with Stromboli Mansion.

He yanked the steering and the car skidded across the opposite carriageway and through the oncoming traffic, several cars tail-gated the ones in front, but Joshua slipped through unscathed. At the last moment he saw that the gates were closed. He locked his arms against the steering and stamped again on the accelerator, grimacing as he rammed the point where the double gates met. The impact threw him against the dashboard. The windshield shattered and the hood sprang up, but the gates held. Behind him, one after the other, police cars stopped behind him.

Joshua kicked open the door and scrambled out into the rain. Steam billowed from the cruiser's radiator, shredded in the wind and blew away. Joshua grabbed the bars of the gate. A light burned in the gatehouse, but it was ominously deserted. Fear tightened his chest. Flowing down the left hand camber of the drive, a stream of murky run-off carried leaves and twigs and grass clippings, and then a man's brown loafer. As he watched, the murky water became discolored with the darker hue of blood. The smell confirmed his suspicions.

A voice behind him. "Freeze!"

Without looking back, he leapt up and vaulted nimbly over the gate. He heard the report of a pistol and a bullet chiseled paint off the gate next to his hand.

Thirty yards along the driveway a guard in combat fatigues and body armor lay with his head and shoulders in the gutter. Something had taken a bite out of him.

Joshua saw the wound and terror filled his heart. He sprinted toward the house. "Genna!" Automatic gunfire and shouting issued from several locations within the building; the shouting became shrieks – the high-pitched, chilling sounds of mortal terror.

Rain hammered the grounds mercilessly. A flash of lightning, followed instantly by thunder, illuminated the complex. Muted outlines of numerous bodies littered the forecourt. Weapons were scattered among the dead, dozens upon dozens of spent shell casings, and here and there, diluted splats of blood. A battlefield of fallen soldiers.

Joshua climbed the steps among chunks of broken masonry. The heavy oak door rested on the hall floor, its splintered frame still attached; broad claw marks scarred the varnished surface. He paused at the threshold. An overpowering smell of death emanated from the opening. Gun-smoke and plaster dust swirled in a bluish haze in the center of the hall.

Joshua stepped inside where he instantly came under fire. Two guards standing side by side against the wall beneath the balcony fired as one. Several rounds punched into his midriff before he cut left down the nearest corridor. Bullets chased him out of sight. And as he fled the gunfire, he felt and absorbed the overwhelming presence of renegades.

Bodies were strewn along the corridors. The walls, the floors, the ceilings, the very air he was breathing echoed with the heat of battle. Although these people were dead, their bodies cooling, Joshua still heard their screams; still saw their terror, he could taste it.

He opened his mouth to shout Genna's name, but at the last moment bit down on his words. If she were here and undiscovered, then her answering could draw the renegades to her location. "Damn," He moved quickly but cautiously along the corridor, turned the first corner and came face to face another man. Joshua swung up the Beretta and almost fired. But then realized the wild-eyed stranger was his own reflection in a mirror. He lowered the gun.

Since he was a child his mirror image had intrigued him. He would spend long minutes staring into the looking-glass. He had never formed a real understanding of identity, and all those peculiar, speculative forays into his image were an exploration of who he might be. Barlow called him a beast. But something deep inside Joshua stood in denial. He was composed of more than basic animal instinct. And wasn't that what separated man from beasts – the ability to reason, the capacity for love and compassion?

Joshua smashed the mirror with the butt of his weapon.

A full minute passed and Genna dared to pull the linen from her mouth so she could breathe properly. She tried to look over her shoulder. Doing so hurt her neck and her head pounded. Straining, she peered out through the louver slats.

Two large crimson eyes stared right back in at her. At first she could not make out what she was seeing. And then the harsh breathing resumed. The creature had held its breath, fooling her into believing it had gone.

A broad fist crashed through the slats and claws dug into her shoulders, piercing her flesh to the bone. She winced and sucked in air, the pain in her lungs forbidding her to scream. As though she were no heavier than a child, she was dragged through the broken slats. The linen sheets fell away. Her head swam with vertigo as she was hoisted into the air to within a few inches of the ceiling. A large rank mouth, dripping with gore and saliva, opened before her face. She gagged. In the dim light she caught glimpses of her assailant. Long arms and broad shoulders, muscles bunching and flexing, writhing under bristling fur. The horror she had escaped at Joshua's motel had come to reclaim her.

Part of her mind recalled the gangsters' horrifying screams, the chilling pleas for mercy. She had shared, had silently screamed in sympathy, with every murdered guard. Looking down into that rancid throat, she finally knew their terror. She did not for one moment consider her father's fate – something told her he would have escaped the horror.

And now that death had found her, she could summon no last minute plea for salvation. She lacked the strength to express her fear. Perhaps to die now in the arms of a monster was fair.

But the fatal bite never came.

She forced open her eyes and beheld her captor. A blast of foul breath hit her in the face. " _Duraaaaant_."

Joshua found a route to the next floor via a spiral staircase at the termination of the west wing. Leading with the Beretta, he crept along corridors, searching each of the rooms in turn.

Gun-smoke drifted at head height throughout the complex, but the movement of air kept it eddying toward the exit. Wherever a corpse lay, arterial spray decorated the walls. Corpses were all he found. No renegades. No gangsters. No Genna. Stromboli Mansion resembled what he imagined would be the innermost circle of hell. A Charnel house.

Perhaps Genna wasn't here after all. Maybe the gangsters were more aware of the enemy than he thought, and as an extra precaution taken her elsewhere. He prayed that they had.

As he neared the landing, moving silently and quickly, he heard a man's high-pitched scream for help.

Ahead of him, he saw the first of the renegades.

With its back to Joshua, the beast hurled the screaming man over the balcony to the hard floor below. This beast, fully transformed, bore no human characteristics. Its arms and upper torso appeared to have been dipped in vermilion. Intense heat generated by the transformation baked the spilled blood, accelerating decomposition, releasing a noxious stench.

So far the renegade had not sensed his approach. Joshua raised the Beretta, slipped his finger inside the trigger guard, began to apply pressure, then realized this would be his first ever kill. A small voice in his head spoke up, Genna's voice, telling him killing was wrong. His aim, together with his resolve, wavered.

He stepped out onto the landing and drew a bead. Only now did the renegade become aware of him. It turned slowly. Its wolf-like features churned and melted and returned to human form.

This was no renegade.

"What do you know," Nathan said. "It's the still, small voice."

Joshua's aim faltered.

"Looking for absolution?"

"Maybe I am." Joshua admitted.

"You won't find it staring down the barrel of a gun." Nathan moved a few steps to his right and the safety of the East wing.

Joshua cocked the Beretta.

Nathan gave a sardonic smile. "Barlow should have called us Cain and Abel."

"This..." Joshua indicated the carnage, "it has to end."

"Sure it does." Nathan said, and stole another step to his right.

Joshua steadied the pistol. "Nathaniel," his voice cracked with anguish and indecision. But he did not know what to say to him. Perhaps there was nothing left to say. Nathan hid behind the excuse that they were victims of another's mistake. But be that as it may, they had moved amongst the population, and people were dying.

"It's your call, _brother_." Nathan said.

In the corridor behind Nathan a girl screamed.

Joshua recognized Genna's voice.

The scream was drowned out by an inhuman cry of perverse pleasure. "Durant!" the voice roared. "I got Durant." Genna didn't scream this time – she wailed. Cries not of terror, but of pain.

Joshua looked from Nathan to the corridor behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Genna's screams ate into him, ground into his bone marrow, and he removed his finger from the trigger. Anger welled up in him. His eyes glowed red and his stature altered. But he quickly reversed the process, forcing back the beast within. He did not want Genna to see him in any form other than human.

"Why resist what you are?" Nathan said.

One of the renegades emerged from the east corridor behind Nathan. Still partly transformed, it pushed Genna ahead, keeping one hand at her throat, the talons, harder than tempered steel, pressed into her carotid artery. A single muscle spasm would kill her.

"Stay behind me," Nathan said to his renegade, and to Joshua, with teeth clenched. "Lose the weapon."

Genna set eyes on Joshua; for a moment the expression of pain left her face. She tried to say his name, though barely a whisper left her lips. Joshua realized she must have thought he had burned alive in the BMW. Finally he looked back at his brother.

Joshua's only edge was the Beretta. He knew that with his great speed and accuracy, he could shoot them both, but not before the renegade could open Genna's carotid artery. If he killed them both now, he sacrificed Genna.

"Well, this is interesting," Nathan mocked. "If Barlow could see you now. This bitch must mean something to you."

Genna Delucio was barely recognizable. Both cheeks were bloodied and bruised; the left side of her jaw was badly swollen; one eye had squeezed shut and rivulets of blood stretched from the corners of her mouth to the tip of her chin. Her clothes were damp and dirty; her shoulders dark with the blood from several puncture wounds.

She swallowed hard and said: " _Shoot them..._ "

"Drop the gun." Nathan said.

"Josh-." Genna coughed blood.

Joshua lowered the weapon but he did not drop it.

Nathan said. "On the count of three, he snips her artery. "One...two..."

Blayne pulled Genna up from the floor and pressed his mouth to her throat.

"Three."

Joshua raised his free hand. "Wait!"

Eyes never leaving the claw hovering over Genna's carotid artery, Joshua let the Beretta slip from his hand.

Genna's gaze followed the chrome handgun; it tumbled, bounced once on its muzzle, finally coming to rest facing her feet.

"Now you let her go." Joshua said.

"Show her," Nathan said. "Show her what you are."

Joshua looked appalled. He glanced at Genna. She was very pale. "I won't do it."

"Then she dies," he said simply.

"No," Joshua looked once more at Genna, then tore his gaze away. Fine hair began to sprout on his face. Canine teeth pushed at his lips. His eyes swirled with redness and his mandible elongated to form a snout.

Genna tried to avert her gaze. Blayne grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. "Keep watching."

Joshua halted the transformation. He reversed the changes. They were never going to release Genna. They would kill her regardless of what he did.

Nathan cocked his head. "You disappoint me, Joshua."

Blayne straightened and promptly spun Genna by the shoulders so she faced him. She raised her hands and recoiled from the wolf's morphing snout, which opened impossibly wide and descended upon her. The claw held an inch from her carotid artery finally retracted.

Only then did Joshua move.

He swooped quicker than gravity alone allowed. Scooped up the Beretta, rolled once, and brought up the weapon one handed in front of him, his other hand flung out wide. In lightning succession he squeezed off two shots. The first at Blayne, the second at Nathan. In a blur of movement Nathan ducked down the east wing. The bullet meant for him tore a chunk of plaster from the wall.

But the first shot found Blayne's left shoulder, the hollow point fragmenting on impact, opening up a fist-sized wound. Not particularly hurt, Blayne cast a mildly irritated look at Joshua, before moving to bite Genna's throat.

The Beretta sang again. Three poisoned rounds tore open Blayne's chest. Blood splashed into Genna's upturned face and she gagged, struggling to free herself. The claws digging into her arms loosened and she slipped to the floor. She grunted and scampered backwards, her feet sliding on the carpet. Joshua hurried to her side and dragged her away.

A confused look insinuated itself on Blayne Cortland's face; he frowned at his chest wounds, brought a hand to them. Then abruptly his limbs stiffened, his teeth came together, slicing through his lips. He stood upright, a tree about to fall. His face bulged and swelled. From semi human he metamorphosed into full beast, aggressively revealing to Genna what Wolfkind – and therefore Joshua – really were. His height increased to eight feet, his shoulders bunched and his arms elongated. The head became that of an over-developed Timber wolf.

And then the process began to arrest, decay, go into spontaneous meltdown as the cyanide acted simultaneously on every cell and fiber. The creature's frenetic metabolism became the enemy. As the blood raced importantly around the body to facilitate the massive changes, so the poison hitched a ride to every biological port of call, starving the body of oxygen. The organic speedway became total genetic chaos. The metabolic cycle became grid-locked, seized, and Blayne collapsed.

The entire process lasted only seven or eight seconds.

Genna tore her eyes away. Trembling uncontrollably, she used Joshua to pull herself to her feet. She looked deathly pale; the blood on her face stood out bright as clown's make-up. She hugged him fiercely, pressing her face into his chest. Then she pulled him toward the stairs. "We gotta get out."

But Joshua did not move. He stared at Blayne Cortland's body.

" _Please,_ Joshua," Genna pulled him toward the stairs. "I need to get out of here. You promised me...you prom..." She stumbled on a discarded weapon and he steadied her. Her face looked pale as a fish's belly. Shivering wracked her body.

His expression was solemn. "After all you've seen..."

She touched his face with a weak, trembling hand. "Killing is an act of freewill, Joshua." Trickles of fresh blood on her lips against that pale skin looked artificial. But her injuries were real. She had lost a lot of blood. This decided him.

He put away the Beretta. "Let's go." When she stumbled a second time, he picked her up, cradled her in his arms. He stepped over the renegade's corpse and headed for the top of the stairs, moving with extreme caution. Joshua was largely bullet proof. Genna was not.

He descended, stepping carefully over the many corpses in his path, picking his way down. Genna winced whenever he swapped his weight from one foot to the other. He held still for a moment. This morning when he had left her she was a healthy, sturdy young woman – now she was as fragile as a newborn kitten. Her arms crept around his neck, her head rested against his chest. He felt the rapid patter of her frail heart, struggling to keep her alive. A sinister hush had fallen on the house. Only the sound of the wind and the distant sirens broke the quiet.

About to resume his descent down the stairs, Joshua paused and looked over his shoulder, listening. He heard light, deliberate footsteps over the debris.

Someone was approaching from the west corridor.

Through the spindles below the stair rail he saw the tip of gun barrel poke out from beyond the wall, the movement cautious, tentative. After a short pause Divo Serefini appeared behind the weapon; eyes wide and wary; he moved in a crouched, tip-toe posture toward the stairs.

Seeing Joshua, he halted in mid step, like a schoolboy caught sneaking out before the final bell. He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes moving from Joshua, who was clearly unarmed, to the weapon in his own hands.

In those few seconds Joshua prayed the gangster would turn and flee, but he did not. Serefini stepped to up to the rail, jammed the butt of the MP5 into his shoulder, widened his stance and opened fire.

Recoil sent the first couple of rounds high and wide. They zipped by Joshua's ears and punched dusty holes in the plaster near his head. Had the shots been on target they would have hit Genna, for he was holding her against his chest, inadvertently using her as a shield.

Before the next rounds left the rifle, Joshua released Genna's legs and she slipped into a standing position. In the same movement he grabbed her more roughly than he would have liked, spun and pushed her against the wall, shielding her with his body.

At this range, Serefini could not easily miss, and almost every round found its target. Bullets slammed into Joshua's back, his shoulders, his legs, pitching him forward against Genna. Their eyes met and locked. In that one gaze, thoughts and feelings passed between them that words alone could not have conveyed. Genna communicated all of her love, all of her hate, all of her fear. And her guilt.

Joshua gritted his teeth as the bullets struck. The pain transferred instantaneously to Genna, as though they shared the same body, for she stiffened and cried out with every shot that found its mark. He saw his reflection in her eyes, and knew then he would die before he let her go.

Genna grabbed his shirt and clung onto it. "Don't..." she said.

Enough bullets would kill. He had told her that, and he was aware of it now. He saw by the look in Genna's eyes she was aware of it, too.

As he absorbed more and more shots he weakened, one hand pressed against the wall for support. His legs buckled, but he clung on doggedly. Stray rounds smashed the plaster and fragments rained down, landing in Genna's hair and on her shoulders.

Joshua's eyes swirled with scarlet; his will to protect Genna turned to anger at Serefini. Becoming a separate entity from his will, the beast in him stirred. The skin of his face changed, darkened. When he opened his mouth, the beginnings of several canine teeth were visible. He turned his head away so Genna didn't have to look at him. He glared at the gangster and released a fierce growl in his direction. The noise, loud and deep, rivaled that of the gangster's weapon.

Joshua stumbled to one knee but quickly got up. Genna held onto him tightly, hugged him briefly but fiercely, and then pushed him away, exposing herself to the gunfire.

Serefini had changed weapons and laughed crazily, strafing on the balcony, firing the second Heckler and Koch MP5. Three bullets, one after the other, hit the plaster, the fourth caught Genna in her right shoulder, pitching her against the wall. Joshua threw himself across to shield her. A volley of rounds pummeled his body, but he could not intercept the bullet that caught Genna squarely in the chest. She collapsed onto the stairs by his feet.

Serefini turned and fled along the corridor, cackling crazily, letting off random bursts of gunfire into the ceiling.

Joshua carried Genna's lifeless body to the top of the stairs. He gently laid her on the carpet. Raised himself to full height. At first he felt emptiness, which slowly turned into a crushing sense of loss. As though someone had reached inside him and tore out all that was good, leaving behind a shell containing only anger and hate. Stripped of the one thing he cared about, Joshua raised his head, the beast within him unleashed. He felt it waken. Like an approaching express train. He sucked in large volumes of oxygen, and on the third exhale he roared. Windows shook in their frames. One of them shattered, then another.

His Wolfkind consciousness bloomed. Shedding clothes, his body changing, he turned toward the sound of gunfire. In a moment he was up on his toes and moving silently. The ceiling, peppered with rounds from Serefini's gun, appeared lower than it did previously. Wolfkind instinct raged in him, obliterating all that had gone before him, and through his outrage he allowed himself to succumb to the dark power.

He was not hunting a renegade but a human being; one that murdered members of his fellow species, but nonetheless a human being. Joshua recited the cardinal rule in his mind:

Thou shall not harm the humans.

He knew now he would break it.

With these thoughts spinning crazily through his mind he tore down the passage, leaping over the mauled figures of the Durant dead. At the end of the corridor he saw two feet disappear into a ceiling hatch. A trapdoor slammed down over the dark square. A lock was engaged. Then footsteps passed hollowly over Joshua's head.

At that moment Joshua planted his left foot and transferred his forward momentum into upward thrust. He rose like a basketball player performing a slam-dunk; his arms smashed into and through the ceiling, bringing down wads of plaster and slats and splintered floorboards. The gangster fell through the hole and into Joshua's grasp. Somehow Serefini managed to maintain his grip on the HK and incredibly, opened fire as he fell. Several shots caught Joshua, but they went unfelt. He deflected the weapon and at the same time snapped at the wrist, severing the arm below the elbow.

Divo Serefini looked at his arm and squealed. Joshua grabbed him one handed by the lapels and walked back along the corridor. He needed answers. Needed to know why Genna had to die. But he already knew: she didn't have to die. "Why?" Joshua shouted anyway.

He slammed Serefini against the wall. " _Why!_ " The image of Genna, wounded and bleeding, fed his anger. "Why Why! Why!" He slammed him into the opposite wall. Again, then again... When he reached the stairway, the man was no longer struggling.

Joshua brought before his eyes Divo Serefini's gore streaked face. With his neck broken, his head lolled so far forward he appeared to be listening for his own heartbeat. A futile operation, for this man's heart beat no more. In a final act of fury, he roared in the gangster's face.

Joshua returned to the stairs. Genna's body was as he had left it. Her eyes were closed and her mouth hung slightly open. He turned his face away and conjured an image of Genna on the beach. She was smiling. At home and happy along the sun-kissed Pacific shoreline.

Lovely Genna. Always in the shadow of her sister's martyrdom. Her flesh was weak, but her heart was strong.

He found he could not look at her body, so he turned away, and started down the stairs. When he got halfway down he saw the Beretta lying on a riser. He blinked, thinking he must have dropped the gun whilst shielding Genna. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands.

The gun symbolized his mission. Hunt. Kill. He looked up. Any concept of right and wrong obliterated in the midst of such carnage. Nathan insisted humans were as violent and ruthless as the renegades. Perhaps he had been right all along. Although capable of deep compassion, humans were also capable of horror beyond belief. The world was far from perfect – it was greatly flawed, yet it was precisely that which made Wolfkind dangerous.

Joshua became aware of footsteps, quiet and slow, in the corridor at the foot of the stairs. He raised the Beretta, realizing this episode was not yet over. Two assassins remained – Nathaniel and the girl. Silently, Joshua stepped off the stairs and in full view of the corridor and confronted who walked there.

It was his brother.

At sight of Joshua Nathanial stopped. In his arms he cradled the body of a naked girl. Her flesh peppered with bullet wounds and blackened by fire. Her left leg had been burned or blasted off below the knee. Renegades were not as resilient as Wolfkind. She must have been overwhelmed.

Instinctively, Joshua thrust out the Beretta, aiming for his brother's chest. He no longer had any compunction about using the gun. He was blooded now. All his inhibitions crushed. No doubt in his mind. But he did not pull the trigger.

Though fully aware of the Beretta's fatal sting, Nathaniel made no leap for safety. He appeared fully human – even his eyes were normal, with no trace of crimson. For the moment, the beast in him lay dormant. His human identity was totally dominant. His eyes conveyed no anger, no blame – only hurt. But it was not the hurt in his brother's eyes that made Joshua falter.

It was the tears. Real tears on his brother's cheeks, discolored by the blood on his face. This stone-cold assassin, who had brutally murdered more than a hundred a fifty people, this creature who existed only to kill and to spread the Wolfkind disease, weeping over the death of one of his kind. Wolfkind did not shed tears – could not shed tears. It was one of the subtle, yet fundamental differences Barlow highlighted to illustrate that they were not human.

A first for Wolfkind; or Barlow had lied.

Perhaps their introduction into society and the close interaction with humans had triggered an evolutionary process. Maybe all the horror and mutilation acted as a necessary catalyst for this change to occur. If that were the case then the development of a species, the turnabout of behavior, was possible. Sadly for Joshua this breakthrough came too late in the day. Genna was dead and so were hundreds of people. Too high a price.

Embracing the instinctive side offered a life uncomplicated by conscience or reason. A human existence was infinitely richer, doubly rewarding, but carried much emotional baggage. Nathaniel had opted for the bestial side, but in doing so perhaps learned a few human truths. Standing with the gun thrust out in front of him now, Joshua saw the revelation in his brother's eyes.

What should he do now? In the light of this realization, could he still kill his brother? Assassinate him?

He started to lower the weapon, when he sensed a sudden and dramatic shift in Nathaniel's chemical balance. Quick as a cat his brother's animalistic side reasserted itself. Nathanial went into transformation.

"Nathaniel, wait..." Joshua reluctantly reset his aim. But he found he still could not pull the trigger.

His brother made the decision for him. Nathaniel moved with the swiftness and surety of his kind. He placed the girl's body on the floor and launched himself at Joshua. His ruby eyes blazed with so much hate and fury that Joshua saw no option but to shoot. The alternative was a fight to the death.

But as the Beretta bucked in his hands, as the chunk of doctored ammunition buried itself in his brother's collarbone, he noticed that the look of seething hatred in Nathaniel's eyes was directed not at him, but at a point beyond his shoulder. But then Nathaniel fell, the poison acting upon him. His snarl of anger became a cry of pain.

Joshua spun around.

On the balcony by the rail, the tube of a rocket launcher perched on his shoulder, his eye squinting as he aligned the sights, stood Salvatore Durant. Joshua could see the old man trembling. Behind Durant, where several minutes ago was only a paneled wall, he saw a dark, oblong doorway that opened inwards, revealing a secret room. Durant stood in the foreground, his finger applying pressure to the trigger.

_Click_! Behind Durant, the rocket's propulsion glow illuminated the room in which he'd been hiding.

As the rocket left the tube, Joshua leaped forward, his feet tearing up the wooden floor. His only hope to dip below the rocket's trajectory. A whip-like gust dragged at his hair; the rocket's exhaust, which passed within a foot of his face, burned his cheek.

His momentum carried him across the hall and into the side of the west staircase. As he struck the wall he turned to face his brother. One instant Nathaniel was there, the cyanide poison raging through his body, the next a ball of fire bloomed in the corridor, pushing out a wave of heat so intense several of the discarded weapons exploded. The ground heaved. Every window left intact in the house exploded. Flames mushroomed toward the ceiling, leaving the east wing in flames.

When the crashing noise of the explosion subsided Joshua heard screaming. On the balcony above him Salvatore Durant wailed from within a pillar of orange flame, thrashing and beating at his body with his hands. His hips struck the banister and like a trained gymnast he flipped over, but instead of landing on his feet, he landed on his back. His hysterical screams ended abruptly.

Joshua remained crouched, shielding his eyes from the flames. The Beretta lay on the floor by his knee. He stretched for it and pushed the barrel into the waistband of his torn jeans. Intense heat caused his skin to blister. Thick smoke and hungry flame lapped up against the ceiling.

At the top of the stairs he saw the outline of Genna's body. Horrified at the thought of leaving her at the mercy of the fire, he ran up the stairs, his face turned from the spreading flames. She lay as he had left her. Specks of soot and flecks of debris settled on her clothes and her face.

"Genna?" he whispered. " _Genna_..." He reached out desperately with his receptors, probing the air before him, searching for the slightest sign of awareness.

But he divined nothing. Only a hideous blankness. An empty vessel, a shell from which the Genna Delucio he knew had already departed. "If only you could hear me."

Weak as a distant radio transmission, as though straining through a hundred feet of deep, murky water, he sensed Genna's foundering spirit. He concentrated with all his strength. The signal became stronger and more persistent, reaching up to him. A tenuous, almost imperceptible connection occurred on a superhuman level, and her thoughts floated up from the depths of her condition.

But all too soon it was over. The gossamer-fine connection snapped and Genna retreated into that bottomless pool, sinking ever deeper below the surface, until the signals became too weak to detect.

An insane idea seized him, one that he had kept on the outskirts of serious contemplation. He knelt at her side and lifted her limp hand: "Forgive me, Genna," he said, and sank his teeth into her wrist, releasing copious amounts of his saliva to mingle with her blood, forcing the fluid into her veins.

Then he rose and stepped back.

Her blood on his lips.

From a near death state Genna Delucio suddenly inhaled, held it for a moment, and then exhaled. She started breathing for herself. Large, voluminous gulps of oxygen. Bruises on her face paled, shrank, disappeared. Puckered edges of wounds knitted seamlessly together. Color flooded her cheeks and her lips became voluptuous and red.

Her eyes opened.

" _Oh, Joshua_!"

The End
