The Devils's Kitchen - Chapter 4

Syracuse University, 1967...
Elizabeth Creighton’s water broke at ten o’clock, the evening of May fifteenth. By eleven o'clock she’d been admitted to the hospital, and Doctor Hiram Weatherby arrived twenty minutes later.

“How are we doing, little lady?” he said.

“I've felt better.” She gritted her teeth against a stabbing contraction.

“Well, it shouldn't be long now.” He poked and prodded at her with thick, meaty fingers. Syringe in hand, he located a vein in her left arm.

“What's that?” she asked.

“Scopolamine, a sedative. Something to help you through the next few hours.” He smiled. “Nothing to worry about, Elizabeth.” He slipped the needle out of her arm. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Near as I can figure, we're two, two and a half hours, away.” He turned and strode out of the room.

He paid for his coffee, walked across the cafeteria floor, and slid into the already occupied booth.

“Well, Doc?”

“Should be only a couple of hours now, sir.”

“Excellent.” Colonel Prescott’s ever-present smile lit up the booth. “We've everything in order on our end. All you have to do is work your magic and we're home free.”

“You understand that you're going to have to give us a few days?" Weatherby told him.

“Of course. I’ve apprised Sister Angela that the baby is under observation and to not expect us until at least the end of the week.”

Weatherby slid out of the booth. “Right, then, I'd best get back. Nurse Baker will notify you when it’s time.” He turned, started away.

“Doc?”

“Sir?”

“Well done, my friend.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” With a innocuous grin, he added, “That's why you pay me the big bucks, right?”

#

They wheeled Elizabeth into the OR ninety minutes later.

“All right, my dear.” Weatherby stroked the hair out of her eyes while his assistants prepared her for the baby's entrance. “I'm going to give you another injection of scopolamine. It’s time to go to work, but you're going to have to help me with this, understand?”

“Yes.” Her voice was now weak with fatigue.

“All right.” He positioned himself at the end of the table between her splayed legs. “Let's get on with it, shall we?”

“Push, Liz,” he bellowed ten minutes later. “Again!”

Perspiration streamed down her face, and her heart hammered against her ribcage. The injection had eased the pain, yet the pressure between her legs threatened to rend her from crotch to sternum.

“We may have a problem here.”

“What's wrong?” Liz screamed.

“There’s some internal bleeding here, Elizabeth, and the umbilical cord is wrapped around the baby's neck. I can't take any chances, I'm going to have to put you out, prevent you from moving at the wrong time. Now, please, relax, take two or three deep breaths and let me get on with my work.” He nodded to Dr. Walker. “Put her under, Jack.”

#

“Elizabeth?” He touched the tips of his fingers to her cheek. "Wake up, sweetheart.”           

She opened her eyes, obviously struggling to focus on his face.

“Good stuff, huh?" he said. "Can you imagine if we bottled it and sold it over the counter? Talk about your all-time highs.” He’d begun to care for this one, an emotion that could prove risky in his business.

“The baby?” Liz moaned between dry, cracked lips.

“A girl, Elizabeth,” he replied, straight-faced. “But, there were complications.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, pinching his Roman nose between thumb and forefinger and wishing he hadn’t let Prescott talk him into this. Culpability festered like a malignancy in his bowels.   

Elizabeth’s eyes brimmed with tears.  

He stroked her face again and whispered, “She didn't make it, sweetheart.”

#

At eleven-fifteen, the evening of May nineteenth, Colonel Prescott's sleek, black Mercedes rolled up to St. Cecilia's.

He rang the bell. Waited.

A round, cherubic face peered out at him through the wrought iron bars. “May I help you?” 

“Sister Angela?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Tyrone Prescott, Sister.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Prescott, come in, please, we've been expecting you.”

“There now,” she said, forty-five minutes later, sitting at an ornate roll-top desk. “The baby is asleep in her new bedroom. You’re leaving her in capable hands, I assure you.”

“I’ve no doubt, Sister.”

“Does your niece have a name, Mr. Prescott?”

“Erika.” His voice cracked at precisely the right moment.  “Erika Kingston, named after her mother.”

“Again, I'm so very sorry about your sister's passing.”

“Thank you.”

“The father?”

“Her father, my brother-in-law, was killed in Vietnam six months ago. So, when my sister died in childbirth, it left only me to care for their daughter.”

“We’ll do everything within our power to look after her.”

“I have something here to help you do just that.” He handed her an envelope. “I want only the best for her, and although my vocation does not allow me to care for her directly, it does allow me the luxury of seeing that she is well taken care of.”

“Fifty-thousand dollars!”

“And there will be another fifty-thousand every year hereafter to cover expenses. I’ll add to the kitty when it’s time for her schooling. My niece will want for nothing, Sister. Now,” he added, his face bereft of emotion. “There are a few details you need to know. First, I work for the Government, and in my line of work one tends to amass adversaries.”

Later, as the limo prepared to pull away, Prescott rolled down the window, reached out and held Sister Angela's hand. “Remember, it’s imperative that no one, I repeat, no one, know of my niece's existence. I have sworn enemies out there, some of whom would stop at nothing to get to me. Should they find out about her, all the money in the world won’t provide her adequate protection, do you understand?”

“Fully, Mr. Prescott.”

“Thank you, Sister.” His smile was broad and warm, and his lips brushed the back of her hand. “You are an Angel of God.”

“No, sir.” Her cheeks reddened. “Just another of His servants.  Now along with you.” She shooed him away and turned toward the nunnery gate. “We’ll see you again next month, Mr. Prescott.”

The Devil's Kitchen - Chapter 2

Western, NY...

United flight 457 arrived Rochester International at seven-fifteen p.m. 

Timothy Williams moved through the concourse toward baggage claim, scanning the crowd for other than friendly faces.


COMMEX had taken every conceivable precaution to protect its agents. Still, there had been too damn many 'accidents': Delaney Curtiss, Beirut, stuffed into the trunk of his Saab, three bullets to the back of the head; Guy Tomasik, Hamburg, garroted in a hotel room, his dinner still on the table; Gregory Jacobs, Tunisia, found in an alley outside a popular nightclub, his spinal cord severed by a seven inch stiletto.

Christ, he thought, awaiting arrival of his overnight satchel. Other than himself, there were but two left from the old days--the days of 'Shadow Company'--Jerrod Martin and Brady Thomas. Jerrod was stateside, somewhere in the southeast, but God alone knew where Colonel Thomas had disappeared to.

He grabbed the satchel off the serpentine conveyor and exited the terminal.

"Holiday Inn, Downtown." He glanced from the cabby's face to the driver's license mounted on the dash, then back at the man's face, his left hand tucked inside his blazer, caressing the butt end of a .357 Magnum. Couldn’t be too careful.

The Checker pulled up in front of the hotel minutes later.  

He leaned in through the side window, handed the cabby a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change. And there's another fifty in it if you're back here tomorrow morning, five-fifteen sharp.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver beamed and rolled away, fantasizing a weekend tryst with one of Main Street's well-oiled urchins.

Williams strode up the steps and through the arched-glass entryway into the lobby.

“May I help you, sir?” The svelte, blond wore a plastic smile below her pert, upturned nose.

“Please. I have a reservation: 'Michelson, Anthony'.”

She punched his name into the computer, confirmed the reservation. “And, how long will you be with us, Mr. Michelson?”

“Just tonight.” He gave her a tired smile, aping perfectly the road-weary look of any number of salesmen who waltzed through the hotel.

Minutes later, he opened the door to his room, palmed the pistol, and entered. He checked the closets, the bath, the balcony, the desk and drawers, then the television, the table lamps, and the phone. Satisfied, he unpacked, took a long, hot shower, and then slipped into gray slacks and a muted, blue Ralph Lauren pullover.

Before leaving for dinner, he stretched a two-inch length of clear monofilament line from the base of the sliding glass door that led out onto the balcony to the metal casing surrounding it.

Once in the hallway, he locked the door to his room and stretched another piece of clear line from the base of the door to its wooden jamb, then turned and walked down the hallway. With the telltales in place, no one could get into the room without his knowing it.

He requested a corner table where he could monitor restaurant activity, ordered a Dewars on the rocks and a Porterhouse steak, medium rare, the S&W .38 strapped to his leg an easy reach.

He finished dinner and ordered a snifter of Brandy. Relax, old boy, he thought. All itineraries and assignments are transferred to and from the field via a sophisticated new program conjured up by Prescott’s programming wizards. Should someone backdoor the system, break the code, and access the files, they’d end up searching for me sometime tomorrow at the Desert Inn in Albuquerque. Damn clever, those COMMEX boys. He chuckled and ordered another Brandy.

Christian Richards sat across the room, camouflaged by a long mahogany bar. He spoke easily, laughing with the men at the table, his corporeal self dealing with the situation at hand, a wrap up of the day’s business activities and dinner and drinks with RichCo's newest franchisees. 

His spiritual, more disciplined self remained in contact with Agent Timothy Williams, monitoring the man’s every move, a master hunter, sizing up his prey. How he loved to observe them, watch them live out their paltry, feckless lives. It provided a perverse satisfaction knowing he held their destiny in his hands.

Williams beckoned the waitress, ordered a third Brandy, then crossed his arms on his chest and stared up at the ceiling, a tired smile creasing his face.

Yes, Richards thought. Sit back, relax. He’d witnessed it many times, these displays of ignorant confidence. Soon, Williams’s defenses would break down and he’d lose his combative edge. A deplorable lack of discipline, and these were Prescott’s finest? Why, they barely presented a challenge. The ultimate engagement, the final encounter, would come when this, the prelude to the overture he’d orchestrated was complete. “Only a matter of time, now, Kenjisan,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

Richards finished his tonic and lemon, excused himself, walked to the bar, and put his arm around the waitress’s shoulder, a charismatic smile on his face. “Pardon me, Miss?”

She turned. “Sir?”

“Would you get us another round when you get a chance?  The group right there.” He pointed toward his table.

She twisted her head, and Richards moved his hand over the snifter of Brandy. The top of the diamond encrusted, onyx ring on his little finger sprang open, and a thin stream of blue-green powder trickled into the drink, dissolving instantly. Visible for a moment, on the inside of his forearm, just above the wrist, was a tattoo, a small crimson crescent, a miniature wounded moon. 

“Yes, sir. Let me deliver this drink and I’ll be right with you.” She smiled and rushed off.

Richards returned to his table, bid his new RichCo associates good evening, then went upstairs where he remained in his room for a little over an hour, cleaning up paper work.

Finally, he stood, stretched, slipped out of his robe, and walked into the bathroom where he donned a black, skintight body stocking, a pair of soft, black slippers, and then applied a thin layer of jet-black to his smooth, tanned face.

A small pouch, attached by Velcro to the back of the body stocking, held a pair of thin, rubber surgical gloves, a long, flexible strip of stainless steel, a fifty milliliter syringe, and a small vile of clear, bluish liquid. To this cache, he added a roll of white surgical tape and three round, smooth objects that resembled the leather golfs ball popular in the late eighteen hundreds.

He checked his watch: eleven forty-five. His pronounced cheekbones pulled his face up and back into a skull-like grin.

He exited through the sliding glass door, dropping down minutes later onto the balcony outside Williams’s room. He rolled into a darkened corner, sat up, and peered through the glass.

Williams was asleep atop the bed, the drug having overcome him before he’d had a chance to strip off his clothes and crawl under the covers.

Richards slid the flexible metal strip through the space between the double doors, pried the safety bar from its latch, tripped the lock switch, and slipped into the room.

He found a vein, injected the antidote and Williams’s eyes slowly opened.

Richards grinned, watching the man fight to focus on a world gone hazy, knew that his hands and feet felt swollen and numb, as if they’d been pumped full of procaine, and that Azrael appeared little more than a strange, shadowy being speaking in obscure, tongue-thick phrases.

“Do you know who I am, Mr. Williams?”

He shook his head no, but his eyes said differently.

“Yes,” Richards muttered. “Then, you also know why I’m here, don’t you?”

“Please.” The words were muffled, slurred through drug-numbed lips.

“Don't beg,” he said, his voice the growl of an animal. “It's unbecoming. Besides, you knew the risks going in.”

For Richards, there was enormous exhilaration in having the power of life and death over another human being. His greatest thrill didn’t always come from acting on that power, it came, at times, from simply having his foes live with his dominion over them. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times.

Williams shook his head, his eyes swollen orbs of fear, and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.

Richards’s smile was
merciless. “Let's get this over with, shall we?” He pulled one of the small, round objects from his pouch and attached a ten-inch length of waterproof fuse to its center. He spoke throughout the procedure, softly, reassuringly, much as a surgeon would speak to a nervous patient. “We call these little beauties Yak-Paks. A device my father taught me how to make when I was a child. You do remember my father, don’t you?”

“No.” Williams’s voice squeaked with fear.

“No? Then let me refresh your memory. Does April ‘79 or Nepal ring familiar?” He stripped off three, six-inch lengths of surgical tape, attached one end of each strip to Williams left cheek.

“The Mezzhandi?”

“Ah, yes, The Mezzhandi. And the 'Druid'? You remember the 'Druid', do you not?” Richards's grin turned feral. “Of course you do. Well, I am Azrael, his son, and I have sworn a blood-oath to avenge him, to dispose of those responsible for his death. To destroy your precious COMMEX.”

Williams struggled against his imminent demise.

“Now, back to the Yak-Paks. We wrap the equivalent of one-third of a stick of dynamite into the dried and waterproofed skin of a yak.” Richards cradled the device in the tips of his slim, elegant fingers. "The seams are sewn together with gut. They are a powerful weapon, easily made, and just as easily concealed. Now, open wide.” He spread his hand across Williams's face, his thumb and index finger applied vice-like against the pressure points of the jaw hinge. 

Williams’s mouth dropped open and Richards stuffed the Yak-Pak home. He ran the fuse out of the corner of the man's mouth and then stretched the tape tightly across his face, sealing the charge within its newfound womb. He stood and looked down into Williams’s eyes, his voice flat and indifferent. “I promise you it will be quick and painless.” He gazed into the middle

distance and added, “Not like it will be with your Mr. Thomas. Oh, no, he will suffer, I guarantee it.” He picked up a book of hotel matches, tore one out, struck it, and lit the fuse.

Williams tussled with his ties, fighting the impending launch into the hereafter.

“You have fifteen minutes to make peace with whomever or whatever it is you worship.” Richards turned and walked out of the room onto the balcony.

His climbed up the side of the building onto the roof and moved off cat-like to the opposite side of the hotel, where he dropped down safely onto his own balcony. 

Ten minutes later, he sat in the lounge, dressed in a beige running suit, sipping Tonic with lemon, and chatting with the bartender.

When the Yak-Pak detonated, Williams’s head exploded like a ripe melon, specs of blood and bone and silky ropes of mucous painting the bedroom walls as his decapitated body convulsed on the crimson-stained bed.

“Christ-in-the-night.” The bartender grabbed onto the edge of the bar as the building seemed to sway on its foundation. He picked up the phone, dialed the front desk. “What the hell was that?”

Richards smiled. A COMMEX agent’s life was cheap, pointless. Still, each successive killing left him feeling more liberated, more powerful, more invincible. That, my friend, he thought, knocking down the last of a Tonic and lemon, is the resounding thunder of revenge.

As sweet as ever.

Devil's Kitchen - Chapter 1

Sedona, AZ, 1990...

Brady jerked bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, blood sluicing, runnels of icy sweat wetting a three-day growth of beard. 

He scanned his Spartan cabin, knew well he’d find nothing more than personal demons lurking in the shadows.

"Sweet Jesus." His voice was dry, raspy.

Though he and Elizabeth had shared many warm and wonderful memories, Hilton Head was the dream that pervaded his sleep, week after week, month after month.

An hour later, he sat alone on the front steps of his cabin, fighting off the effects of an on-going nightmare wherein he is always running toward her, trying to warn her, to save her. He still sees her as she was that night, as she will always be in the asylum of his mind, young and alive, filled with hope and dreams reborn.

Like an unwanted flower, the love they’d shared had been cut down as it began to bloom. 

Thank God she’d felt no pain. The coroner’s report stated that Liz died instantly, feeling little more than a dramatic increase in air pressure and a moment’s searing heat as she was jettisoned off the balcony into the cavernous maw of eternity.

The bomb had been meant for him; Liz an innocent victim of his sordid past, of his association with COMMEX.

He’d rectified that by resigning the following week, firebombing his bridges with Prescott and COMMEX, and moving to Oak Creek Canyon. A partial fulfillment of a shared dream.

But, what he could do nothing about, try as he might, was the never-ending goddamn guilt. If only he’d not stopped for the wine, he might have been back in time to do something, anything for chrissakes. He might even have died with her, which he’d often considered infinitely preferable to a life led without her.

At times like this, he felt emptiness, silent resignation.

He finished his coffee, drew heavily on a Winston Light, and leaned back on his elbows, his face turned toward a brightening dawn sky, his red-rimmed eyes squeezed shut.
"I miss you, Elizabeth,” he said, her name a keepsake knotted in the back of his throat.


He eyed Brady, began his silent approach, moving cautiously out from the safety of the trees, his almost super-natural ability to elude and endure bred by centuries of persecution.

He was a formidable creature, with bright yellow eyes, the kind of eyes that loom large in the darkened corners of childhood fantasies. He closed on the cabin, head low to the ground, moving in an ill-defined pattern, stopping briefly at a series of predetermined points along the invisible perimeter of his territory, never once taking his eyes off the man sitting on the front steps.  

The muffled sounds did not go unnoticed. "Morning, Lobo."  Brady opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, refrained from cocking his head toward the Mexican Gray wolf that stood twenty paces from the front porch. 

It had taken two years for the wolf to accept his presence in the valley. It had been a pup, an obvious orphan--its parents likely killed by poachers or ranchers--when he’d first spotted it.  

The wolf pup proved early on that it was a survivor. Brady often found it snoozing in the mid-morning sun beside a pile of picked over jackrabbit bones. He’d never attempted to care for it, nor had he tried to domesticate it, opting instead to let the wolf remain forever wild, to set the guidelines for their symbiotic relationship on its own terms.

Now, on those occasions when his predatory companion dropped by for a visit, Brady found himself talking to it, speaking openly to it, like he would to a close friend, of those things kept long buried in his heart. And the wolf appeared to almost listen, to somehow understand.

Lobo eyed him, and a low, raspy growl escaped its throat.

Brady turned slightly, cast the animal an expressionless glance. "Come to visit for a while?" He spoke softly, not locking eyes, purposefully maintaining a posture that displayed neither dominance nor submissiveness.

They sat for a while in silence, two Alpha males of distinct species who shared a common bond: they’d each lost a soulmate. Brady had seen neither the dominant female nor the litter of pups for over a year. It occurred to him that he and the wolf were destined to live out the remainder of their lives alone, as Alpha males are considered to be monogamous creatures, known to mate for life.
Moments later, Lobo pointed his shiny, black nose skyward and trumpeted a series of short, ear-piercing howls, then turned and sauntered off into the trees.

“Not today, huh?” Brady whispered. “See you next time, friend.”

The Devils's Kitchen - Chapter 3

At eight-fifteen the following morning, COMMEX Headquarters, an inconspicuous, three-story brick building, located on Healy Road, just off US 15, twenty miles southwest of Rochester, was a hive of activity.           

Lt. Marcus Kinnard strode past Mrs. Periwinkle's desk, his eyes riveted to the door leading into Colonel Prescott's office.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Her voice was cool, patronizing.  “The Colonel’s on the phone and cannot be disturbed.”

“Not to worry, Periwinkle,” he said, in his patented machine gun voice. “What I have to discuss with him won’t wait. You just keep answering phones, taking messages, and making coffee like a conscientious, little woman, okay?  Let me and the Colonel worry about running the organization.” 

“Up yours,” she whispered, casting him a homicidal grin.

Marcus Kinnard, second in command to Colonel Prescott, was a small, ratish-looking man, a badly preserved fifty-one, with a drinker's purple veined face, a nose the color and size of an overly ripe apple, and beady black eyes. Mrs. Periwinkle thought him a poisonous little man, secretly wondering how many times a year he shed his skin. 

Kinnard opened the door, waltzed into Prescott's office.

The Colonel glanced up, face flushed, eyes filled with quiet fury and pointed to a plush leather chair.

Kinnard sat, struck up a Chesterfield and waited for Prescott to finish his conversation.

“Yes, sir,” Prescott said, his voice controlled and expressionless. “The wheels are in motion even as we speak, sir. Lt. Kinnard’s arrived and my niece should be here any moment.” He glanced at Kinnard and shook his head as if to say, 'I need this desk-jockey telling me how to run my business'.

Kinnard sucked on the cigarette, blew a large white smoke ring toward the ceiling and cast his boss a hackneyed grin.

“Of course, sir,” Prescott said. “I’ll keep you apprised of our every move. Good bye, sir.” He muttered as he hung up the phone, “Oh my, yes, sir. But of course, sir”

“I just heard about Williams,” Kinnard said. “How, Colonel?  How in hell could anyone have known he was here?”

“I don’t know, Marcus. I thought we'd taken every conceivable precaution.”

“We’re certain it was Azrael?”

“Forensics confirms it was a Yak-Pak.” Prescott cradled his head in the palms of his hands, thick fingers toying with the thin, silver wisps sprouting from his balding pate.

“Well, then, there can be only one answer.” Kinnard spoke matter-of-factly. “Either Azrael or someone within his organization has happened upon the Key, accessed the computer.”

Prescott’s head snapped up. “I don't believe that for one minute. We've got a foolproof system here. The damn Key changes daily. Even if someone did manage to get hold of it, without the code they'd end up hiking a false trail.”

“Do you have a better explanation, Colonel?” Kinnard slumped back in his chair, his thin, colorless lips pulled back in a pompous, oily sneer.

“No, Marcus, I don't, and I’m not about to waste time looking for one. The President has 'strongly suggested' that I remedy the situation straight away. So, I'm going to put this to bed once and for all. I’ve asked Mrs. Periwinkle to find Erika and have her report to my office.”

“Somewhat drastic, Colonel.” Kinnard smiled, conjuring up blatantly sexual images of the Colonel's fair-haired niece.

“Drastic times and drastic measures, Lieutenant.” The intercom on the desk buzzed. “Yes?”            

“Ms. Kingston to see you, sir. Appears we caught her in the middle of a workout at the health club. She hasn't yet changed.”

“That's fine, Mrs. Periwinkle. Send her in, please.”

“I'm afraid you caught me at an awkward time, Uncle Tyrone.”  Erika walked into Prescott's office, running a towel through her mop of blond hair. “From the tone of Mrs. Periwinkle's message, I assumed 'immediately' meant skip the shower and the change of clothes.”

“Right, my dear.” He kissed her on the cheek, motioned to a chair. “Please, we’ve much to discuss.”

Kinnard stared hard. A pair of silk running shorts adorned her long, lean, tanned legs, and sassily uptilted breasts strained against the thin fabric of a tank top. She had a seductive young body, a flawless complexion and a sexy, breathy voice, alluring and taunting but with a sweet edge.

Prescott knew that she’d long been the focus of Kinnard's warped fantasies, knew, too, that she ‘d made it a point to counter his perversity by goading him at every conceivable opportunity.

She bent over, stuck her round, firm buttocks in his face, and ran the towel over the chair seat. “Lieutenant.” She sat, the patented Kingston pout enhancing a sensuous underlip.

“Erika.” Black pupils set into rheumy, yellow orbs traveled the length of her body, then returned to her ice-blue eyes.

Neither her intent nor her actions were lost on Prescott, who couldn’t help but admire the way she handled Kinnard. True, he’d been forced, at times, to mask his pride so as not to offend his second in command. Regardless of his penchant for young women, preferably slim and trashy, as well as an insatiable appetite for what might be considered deviant sexual practices, Marcus Kinnard was a resolute, energetic employee, indispensable to the organization.

“All right.” Prescott interrupted the histrionics. “Down to business, shall we?  Erika, I'm sure you’re aware that we’ve had a rash of 'accidents' lately.”

“If you mean the loss of our agents, then yes, I believe everyone’s aware of the problem.”

“Well, it appears we’ve lost another.”

“My God. Who? How?”

“Tim Williams.”

“You’ve heard about last night’s explosion at the Hilton?” Kinnard said.

“Yes. Has someone claimed responsibility?”

Prescott leaned forward, forearms on the desk. “No, but the work has a unique signature.”

Erika gazed into her Uncle's slate-gray eyes, waiting for him to get to the point.

“Lt. Kinnard and I have orders to put an end to the dilemma, and we need your help.”

“Sir?” Her forehead wrinkled.

Prescott had never before asked for Erika’s help, especially in a situation as delicate and dangerous as this. Throughout her formative years at Saint Cecilia’s, he’d kept her in the dark regarding COMMEX, of what he did for a living. Even now, though she actually worked for and received a monthly paycheck from the organization, Prescott continued to protect her, to keep her on the periphery, away from the big picture, offering only an occasional, cursory glimpse into the heart of COMMEX, and only at her insistence.

“We've reason to believe that a group called the Mezzhandi is responsible,” he said. “They are led by a calculating killer, one with an appropriate moniker: Azrael.”

“Mezzhandi?” she murmured, with a quizzical look

“The Mezzhandi are not unfamiliar to us,” Kinnard interjected. “Its members have been a stick in our craw since the mid-seventies, long before COMMEX became involved."

“Shadow Company,” she whispered. “Of course, the Mezzhandi were supposedly disbanded years ago by a team of agents known as 'Shadow Company'. But that’s conjecture, right? An urban legend? Scuttlebutt has it there are no files, either in the computer system or in the vault, that contain a single reference to 'Shadow Company'.”

Prescott nodded. “I purged the file on it years ago, though I still have hardcopy filed away. It was real, Erika, not just a figment of someone's overactive imagination. Best goddamn team of agents we ever put together. And the stories you’ve heard are closer to the truth than you'll ever care to know.”

“All right then, Uncle, what can I do to help?”

“We need you to locate someone for us,” Kinnard said.  “Someone,” he added with a lip-split sneer. “Who has made it perfectly clear he wants never to hear from us again.”

“I don't understand?” She ignored Kinnard, continued to stare at her uncle.

“The gentleman the lieutenant refers to was once the leader of 'Shadow Company'. One of our 'wet' agents, one of the most lethal the intelligence community ever produced.”

“Do I know of him?”

“I think not.” Prescott leaned back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, and stared down at the tips of his shoes. He had to be careful, this was dangerous ground. “His name’s Brady Thomas. Known also as Kenjisan. He left the organization eleven years ago. You see, there was a terrible accident...”

For the next two hours, Prescott and Kinnard recounted the history of the Mezzhandi, of 'Shadow Company's' involvement in its demise, and finally of the unfortunate incident that caused Brady Thomas to leave COMMEX.

“So,” Erika said. “Our agents are being systematically killed off by the Mezzhandi, a group thought disbanded years ago by Brady Thomas, and you believe the only way to stop the bleeding is to bring him back into the fold.”

“Exactly,” Kinnard said.

“But, you’ve already told me he wants nothing to do with us. Understandable, as he blames us for his fiancé’s death. What makes you think we can change his mind?”

“The Mezzhandi, Erika." Prescott said it deliberately. "The Mezzhandi and Azrael, the Druid’s son, were responsible for Elizabeth’s death.”

Prescott was renowned for his ability to coolly and assuredly intertwine threads of truth and fiction into the fabric of a story. And make the whole damn thing seem plausible. Erika was a living example of his ability to manipulate facts. After all these years, she still suspected nothing. It was said that, given enough time, he could talk a fish onto a hook.

“I see,” Erika said. “Sounds like a simple case of revenge.  Why not try to contact him yourself and explain the situation? I don't understand why you need me?”

“Oh, but that it were that simple, Erika.” Prescott shook his head, retaining the ever-present smile. "Unfortunately, we face two very real problems. First, although we know Brady lives in Arizona, somewhere in the Verde Valley, most likely the Sedona area, we’re not sure of his exact whereabouts. Second, Mr. Thomas, as Lt. Kinnard has alluded to, is not likely to be what you would call approachable.”

“What the Colonel is saying,” Kinnard interjected. “Is that Mr. Thomas is not likely to welcome us back with open arms, regardless of the reason. If he gets an inkling that we’re involved, he'll burrow in so quickly, so deeply, that we'll never find him.”

“Right,” Prescott added. “But, he doesn't know about you, Erika, has no idea you’re affiliated with our organization.  You are my ace in the hole.”

“All right, Uncle, shoot, what do you want me to do?” She smiled. “Don’t want to talk myself out of my first real assignment, now, do I?”

Prescott turned and logged onto his computer terminal. “I want you to go home and pack. You're going on an all expense paid vacation to Arizona.”

Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she watched him bang out a memo. “Alone?”

Prescott had taken her to the beach for a few days here and there, and once on a three-day long conference to the Catskills, but never for an extended period of time. And never by herself.

“Now.” Prescott spun on the chair, stared at her. “Listen carefully, my dear. The success of this mission is entirely dependent upon you following everything Lt. Kinnard and I have to say to the letter, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Prescott's intimidating demeanor reared its head, demanding attention.           

He handed her the memo. “On your way out, stop by petty cash and pick up some cash.”

“Fifty grand?”

“You’ll need to pick up a few items before you leave. I want you to stop by Carlton's Photo Emporium and buy the best equipment on the shelf, strictly first-class stuff: cameras, lenses, tripods, light meters, everything a professional would take on assignment. You know what's required. Given the number of classes you've taken at the University, you're the finest photographer on staff.”

“Thanks, Uncle T, but why buy new? Why not take what we already own?”

“He'd know, Ms. Kingston,” Kinnard said. “He knows that every piece of COMMEX equipment has an asset code etched onto it. He doesn't miss a trick.”

She looked at Prescott. “I…”

“Stay with us, it will fall into place. Now, after you purchase the appropriate equipment, run out to the airport and buy a first-class ticket to Phoenix, and for God's sake, pay cash, we don’t want him tracing you back to us through a credit card. Leave your return flight open, no telling how long this assignment will last. With me so far?”

“Yes.” 

“Good. Now, when you get to Phoenix, rent one of those fancy RVs, a large one, bedrooms, baths, all the accessories. Then, head north, toward Sedona. We’ve reserved a secluded campsite for you outside of town.” He rifled through a file. “Let’s see, yes, here we are, the Manzanita Campground. Here are your papers.” He handed her a manila envelope. “You've already been cleared through appropriate state and federal agencies.”

Erika glanced through the packet. “This is my cover? I'm on assignment from National Geographic? In the Verde Valley to photograph rock formations for an upcoming feature on northern Arizona?”

Prescott nodded. “Once you’ve settled in, it’s business as usual. Act as if you actually are on assignment.”

“And?”

“That’s it, my dear. Enjoy yourself, good food, lots of sun, and, from what I understand, spectacular photo opportunities. Oh, and yes, snoop around a bit, name drop, that sort of thing. You know the drill.”

“All right, then what?” 

“You wait. Tt will be only a matter of time before Brady finds you.”

“And, when he does?”

“Well,” Kinnard said, pulling at his lower lip. “That’s the tricky part. You must do your damnedest to convince him that you truly are there on behalf of National Geographic, but we also need you to slip up on occasion.”           

“Excuse me?”

“Listen, Erika,” Prescott said. “We've already told you what's likely to happen should Brady find out we’re searching for him. At the same time, as strange as this sounds, we want him to finally realize just that. But, it’s absolutely vital that he figure it out on his own. And, slowly, we can ill afford to be overly zealous or the least bit conspicuous.”

“So I drop subtle hints here and there, is that it?”

“Exactly, but keep them very subtle, and very infrequent. We need you to impart, over time, only enough information to make him suspicious, to make a move and contact us directly.”

“And believe me, Ms. Kingston,” Kinnard added. “If we pull off this little charade, Mr. Thomas be all over this place when he figures it out.”

“All right,” she said. “Any suggestions as to how and when to drop these pearls of suspicion?”

“Can't help you there, sweetheart,” Prescott said. “You're going to have to rely on your own tenacity and discretion. You’ve been fully trained, so use that knowledge to your advantage. But take your time and be very careful. You need to leave a trail, but do not, and I repeat, do not, make it appear as such. Brady can sniff a setup like a hound on a hunt, understand?” 

“Yes, Uncle.” She smiled with her mouth and her eyes. “Mr. Thomas sounds like an interesting man.”

"A thoroughly dangerous one and a man of enormous conviction. Regardless your extensive training, I want you out of there on a plane home at the first sign of trouble.”

“I understand.”

“Well, that's about it, my dear. Any questions?”

“None I can think of at the moment.”

“All right, then. Stay in touch with me daily.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood. “If I'm going to catch our man, I'd best get my fanny in motion.” 

She leaned over the desk, kissed him on the cheek.

“Please, be careful.” He was genuinely concerned.

“I promise, Uncle T. Hey, I've been trained by the best, right?”

“What would you have me say?” He smiled and put his arms around her neck.

“Is the pervert staring at me again?” she whispered.

“Of course, my dear. You're going to be the death of the man, but you already know that, don't you?”

“Oh, I hope so.” She smiled impishly, turned and sashayed out of the office.

Prescott smiled after her, Kinnard's face riveted to her backside.

“I'll check in when I get to Sedona.” She blew him a kiss and closed the door.

“Well?” Kinnard turned back to his boss.

“Well, what?”

“Do you think she can pull it off?”

“I believe so.” His smile broadened, as it did whenever he was nervous or agitated. “Then again, it doesn't really matter, does it? One way or another, Brady will come back here. It’s only a matter of time. Hell, that’s why I initiated this strategy all those years ago, isn’t it? In anticipation of a moment, a situation, precisely like this? I knew the day would come when we would once again require Mr. Thomas’s considerable talents in order to save COMMEX.” 

“Oh, I understand, Colonel,” Kinnard said, his voice a notch above a whisper. “But I'd certainly not want to be in your shoes should he have to be told the truth about Ms. Kingston.”

“Well, Lieutenant,” Prescott sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. “Let’s just hope it doesn't come to that.”

The Devil's Kitchen - Prologue

PROLOGUE

Nepal/Hilton Head Island, 1979...

This night would seal Brady Thomas’s fate, bruise the corners of his life for years to come.

The men of Shadow Company hunkered down at the base of the concrete wall surrounding the Mezzhandi compound, the clouds thick and ribbed with lightning, the wind portending an approaching storm.

These soldiers had little in common with ordinary military personnel. They comprised an autonomous unit whose missions were those that normal military units neither could not nor would not undertake. Only the President, his most trusted advisors, and COMMEX commander,Colonel Tyrone Prescott were aware of the unit’s existence, its actions, and the macabre details surrounding its clandestine assignments.

Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Brady Thomas spoke quietly with the team responsible for executing the latest presidential decree.

"Flannery?"

"Sir?"

"Give me ten minutes to get inside, five more to get up to the Druid's suite."
"Got it."

“Martin.” His ice-blue eyes flashed feral. "Once the fireworks start, you, Jacobs, and Williams go in fast and hard. And forget prisoners, the only thing the old man’s interested in is body count. I’ll take care of the Druid."

Jerrod Martin nodded, pearl-white teeth shining out of his chocolate-brown face.
Brady nodded at Flannery. “All set?”

"We're dancin." Flannery punched the red button on a transmitter, activating timers the team had attached to charges and planted in the compound the previous night. "Fifteen minutes from now, this place lights up like the fucking Fourth of July."

Minutes later, Brady crouched in the shadows at the north end of the fourth floor hallway, a dozen paces from the Druid's suite, and peered around the corner. Two thick-muscled guards listened attentively to a small, emaciated oriental whose darting, yellow eyes caromed the length of the corridor.
Liang Soo, 'The Iceman', the Druid's personal confidant, his eyes and ears, his shadow. He glanced toward Brady.3

"Shit, he muttered, jerking back into the shadows. Yellow-eyes could probably see in the dark, too.

Five seconds later, the building seemed to sway on its foundation, half-stepping south as the timers zeroed out and the charges detonated.

The triad outside the suite reacted out of pure instinct, Soo diving through the door screaming Mandarin rhetoric, the bodyguards bringing Uzis to bear and glancing left and right along the hallway.

Brady slipped around the corner and launched an eight-pointed Shuriken with fatal accuracy, catching the first guard below the left ear and buzz-sawing through the carotid artery, nearly severing his head from his shoulders.

The second guard turned, and Brady dove, rolled against the wall and came up on his knee, the nine-millimeter Colt coughing twice. The first round formed a neat, elliptical hole between the man's nose and upper lip. The second entered between his eyes, exited the back of his skull, and embedded itself in the wall.

Automatic rifle fire, the shriek of LAWS rockets, and the pungent odor of Cordite filled the compound as Brady closed on the Druid's suite.

He breathed rhythmically, centered his Chi, then kicked open and dove through the double doors into a dark-paneled room.

Nothing. No Druid, no Iceman. Stone-dead silence.

He stood and inched his way toward the French doors that led out onto the veranda.

"You've come for me, Kenjisan?" The voice was low and raspy.

Brady studied the shadows. Three times within the past year, the Druid had been within his reach and each time he’d escaped unharmed. "It ends here," Brady said, his voice calm, confident. He dropped to the floor, crawled across a plush oriental carpet, rolled behind and sat up against an ornate mahogany desk and scanned the room.
Nothing.

He recalled Otaka’s admonition: ‘Ba-Mahk’, feel the pulse. Attune yourself to the energy of the environment. Through Ba-Mahk you discover that which remains hidden from your bodily senses.

He shut his eyes, his mind soaring beyond the limits of corporeal sensation, and watched the play unfold; the lone spectator to the penultimate scene.

The Druid slipped out from behind a bookcase abutting the fireplace and brought the muzzle of a fully loaded Uzi to bear. "Goodbye, Kenjisan,” he said. With a bone-chilling grin, he squeezed the trigger and the desk exploded, dancing across the floor.

But, Otakasan trained his students well. Brady, having already rolled away from the desk, stepped out from behind the black curtains marking the exit to the veranda. His blue-eyes fixed the man. “Time to die, you sonovabitch.”

The leader of the Mezzhandi whirled, as the first bullet caught him in the neck, below the chin, the second above the left eye, and the third ripped through his breastbone, puncturing his black heart. He dropped to the floor, his cold, dead eyes gazing into the void.
Brady stared down at a man who personified evil in its purest form. The miserable bastard deserved more than he’d given him. He deserved a long, slow death filled with pain and agony.

The ‘Druid’, had been the leader of the Mezzhandi, a splinter cell of the terrorist group Hezbollah, headquartered in the Siwalik Hills region of Nepal in the central Himalayas. They had claimed responsibility for fifteen assassinations, a dozen firebombings, and a four plane crashes, one a mid-air explosion over a densely populated region of western Europe. Too, they had kidnapped, tortured, and summarily executed company officials across the globe. Accordingly, the order had come down to Colonel Prescott directly from the office of the Chief Executive: regardless of the cost, in time, in money, and in personnel, Mezzhandi activities were to be terminated.

Brady’s thoughts turned to Flannery, Martin, Jacobs, and Williams, and to the battle on the floors below him.

Movement, quick and cold as a gust of north wind, smacked him as the Iceman dashed out from behind the flagstone fireplace, through the French doors and up and over the veranda railing, dropping thirty feet to the ground.

Brady watched the man limp off across the compound, through the trellised garden gate, and up into the dark, thick forest.

"You can't run forever," he muttered.

Behind him, a singular, tear-filled eye peered through an inconspicuous hole in the far-left corner of a bookcase. A young man choked back salty tears. “You will pay,” he whispered. "The day will come when I will take threefold from you what you’ve taken from me."

Brady turned and left the room, the brown eye studying him, etching the visage into memory.


Five weeks later, Brady strolled the glistening beaches of Hilton Head Island, an exquisite jewel nestled off the coast of South Carolina, forty minutes north of Savannah, Georgia.

Jim Flannery had been killed during the assault on the compound. Greg Jacobs and Timothy Williams, though hospitalized, were expected to recover and return to the field within six months. Only Jerrod Martin and Brady had escaped unharmed. Martin had requested a three-week spring ski trip to Vale, Colorado, while Brady had opted for a bit of paradise and a well-earned R&R.

He stopped, feet awash in the incoming tide, and relished the serenity brought on by another spectacular southern sunset, the sky painted a hundred shades of pink and yellow, dappled with bright, crimson reds and exploding purples.

He gazed out over the expanse of blue-green Atlantic. He loved the sea in springtime. It was a time of new beginnings, a time to rest and to think, to regain power from the solitude and the silence. There would be no death here today, only rebirth, renourishment.

Behind him, in the gazebo juxtaposed to the International Hotel, a six-piece chamber orchestra struck up a familiar Vivaldi sonata.A half-hour of highbrow and a double Glenlivet would do nicely before heading back to his penthouse suite at the Shoreline Towers.

He sat down at a table to the left of the gazebo, ordered Scotch, then cozied back into the armchair and shut his eyes, allowing the music to launch him into a much-needed reverie.

Her melodic voice hitched a ride on a balmy ocean breeze.

"Elizabeth?" He sat ramrod-straight, eyes sweeping the crowd, then leaned back into the chair. Sweet Jesus, he thought. A biblical sunset, a touch of Vivaldi and a glass of Glenlivet and off yougo getting sentimental. The grin that touched the corners of his mouth didn’t reach his eyes.

"Gentlemen, please," she said, her smile brightening the terrace. "We’ll pick it up tomorrow." She led a clot of men onto the massive deck surrounding the gazebo. "All I want right now is a glass of wine, a touch of music, and then a soft, warm bed."
Brady sat bolt upright, his head on a swivel, and examined the crowd--caught up with her as she sat at a table on the far side of the gazebo.

She smiled at a waiter, ordered a drink and then turned toward the orchestra, her concentration fixed on the music.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, feeling a familiar ache he’d spent twelve years trying to assuage.

She shook her head, cleared the long, blond hair out of her eyes and turned, as if she’d somehow heard her name roll from his lips.

Their eyes locked, and the deck seemed to clear and the music stop, the two of them alone now, no longer separated by a dozen years and a couple of million miles but by meters. Then, they were up, dashing across the deck, stumbling over chairs and patrons alike and into each others arms.

They had come from different worlds: Liz, the progeny of a high level corporate executivedetermined that she follow family tradition, and Brady, an orphan of unknown origin, around whom there had existed an aura of mystery and a degree of alienation.
They had met in 1963, at a small, public school in western New York, Freshmen Elizabeth
Creighton and friends attending Jericho Falls’s Homecoming basketball game, Brady sitting alone in the gymnasium's nosebleed seats.

He not been close to his classmates, most of them having formed friendships and cliques long before he’d transferred from a cross-town rival school in the fall of ‘62. He was the newcomer who lived in the orphanage at the end of Mill Street. There seemed about him an unexplainable quality, something that didn’t invite raw, untested relationships. An introvert by nature, he exhibited an emotionless side, a profound intensity that distanced him from his peers. He was by no means disliked. Young girls whispered about his ice-blue eyes, his longish, black wavy hair, and what they’d do to him given the opportunity. His male classmates, though none would have admitted it, respected him, envied his rugged individuality.

Fate had intervened that night and they'd singled each other out, Brady finding her a striking, provocative young woman, Elizabeth finding him different, exciting and alarmingly attractive. Within a week, they were dating, their relationship moving forward, slowly at first, then full-throttle. By the time Brady graduated in June of '65, they had their future meticulously planned.

Now, here they were again, years later, neither knowing what to say or how to say it.
He held her at arm length and looked into her liquid, green eyes, his voice catching, "Sweet Jesus, Liz, it really is you."

"My God, Brady." A tear tracked down her face. "What are you doing here?"

“Gee, I'm happy to see you, too.” He cast her a familiar lopsided grin.

"It's...it's been a long time. Then, just when I thought I'd gotten over you, here you are again, my fondest hopes and worst nightmares come to life.”

They sat down, the orchestra kicking off a medley of violin concertos, and spent three hours recounting the past twelve years. Brady related his contempt for her parents--an opinionated, twisted mother who drank too much and an emasculated father who, out of a sense of self-preservation, was inclined to tolerate his wife’s drunken tantrums--and how he still held them responsible for what had transpired.

"They wouldn’t stop taking things away from us, building their damnable walls. When you left for school, I secretly wondered how long it would take you to forget about me.” He smiled, continued. “We’d spoken of marriage, sure, of a future together, but the differences in our backgrounds? Frankly, when I left the States I didn’t know if I was protecting you from a life to which you were unaccustomed or protecting myself from the day you’d decide you couldn’t take it anymore and leave.”

He then spoke of his training under Sensei Otaka in Okinawa and of his eight-year association with COMMEX, circumventing the grizzly details of his function within the organization. This trip was his first vacation in years and he was determined to spend it lazing in the sun, the sand, and the foam.

Elizabeth told him that after completing undergraduate work at Syracuse University, she’d transferred to Harvard, earned an MFA and then freelanced in the New England before landing a full-time position as creative director at a New York ad agency. She had leapfrogged to the forefront of the advertising world as the creative genius behind a bold, successful campaign for Gloria Vanderbilt's line of upscale sportswear. Overnight, she’d become one of the most sought after creative directors in the country and regularly received invitations to lecture at national meetings and regional fundraisers.

This week, she was guest lecturer and senior judge at the Southeast Advertising Association's Annual Conference, as well as chairperson of the awards committee.
As they spoke, the intervening years melted away. He made her laugh again and cry again, and she made him feel warm and safe in a world grown altogether cold and dangerous.

The morning after the awards selection meeting, Elizabeth packed her belongings and moved into Brady's suite. They then spent the afternoon strolling the solitary beaches at the south end of the island, discussing the children they’d been and the adults they had become.

That evening, as Liz showered, preparing for dinner at the Island Club, Brady waited on the veranda, smoking one of the six cigarettes he allowed himself each day.
Why not, he thought, eyes focused in the middle distance? He’d been paid outrageous money over the past eight years, most of it invested in dividend growth stocks and high-yield bonds. God knows he’d never had anything or anyone to spend it on. It was time. Time to bid adios to Prescott and to COMMEX and whisk Liz off to Arizona, begin the life they’d meticulously planned years earlier.3

"Liz." He moved through the living room toward the bath. "Get out here."

"Yes, sir." She stepped through the bathroom door wearing a towel, wrapped suggestively around her smooth, tanned body, and a coy, sexy smile. A smile Brady wanted desperately to wrap his arms around and pull close to his heart, to his spirit.

"Damn, you look good." She stirred feelings in him left long dormant.

"How good?" she whispered, dropping the towel to the floor.
He pulled her close, cupped her breasts in his hands and massaged the stiff nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

"Jesus, Elizabeth." He kissed her mouth, felt her hot breath mix with his, then picked her up and dropped her onto the bed. He moved up on her and she spread wide.
“Yes, my love.” She guided him, a soft cry escaping her lips as he slid into her.
Their lovemaking was frenzied, filled with an urgency and intensity reminiscent of their youth, carnal lust and animal instinct. They gained the crest, her legs wrapped tightly around his back, pulling him further into her depths, bucking beneath his pounding hips.

He rested atop of the covers, spent and contented, staring at the ceiling. Liz lie at his side, her head nestled into his shoulder, designing circles on his chest with her finger. "Now, what was it you wanted to see me about before we got sidetracked?"
He cast her a warm smile. "How would you feel about moving to Arizona? Somewhere near Sedona? We could start anew, make up for the years lost to us." He looked into her eyes. "Start that family we talked about way back when."

Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she leaned up on her left elbow, her head resting in her hand. "This is a bit quick, don’t you think? We have jobs and homes to consider. Besides, there's something I haven't told you, something that up until now...well, it didn't seem important anymore."

His brow twisted.

"Damn, I don't know where to start." She sat up cross-legged, arms on her knees.
"Start at the beginning, and take your time." He stroked her chin, sensing that what she had to say was important.

She thought for a moment, then said, “I can't have any more children, Brady.”

He sat up, stared. “More? What are you saying? That you've already had a child?”

“Actually, it’s a bit more precise than that. We had a child, back in ‘68. Remember the lake?"

He nodded, eyes riveted to hers, recalling their last summer together. As the days had begun to shorten and the air cool, the chemistry between them had blossomed, culminating on a late August night in the warm sands at the edge of the lakes.
He couldn’t hide the startled look on his face, or suppress the questions forming in his mind.

"Please,” she said. “Sit and listen until I’m finished, okay?"

He turned his back and sat on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor, elbows on his knees, head cupped in his hands, and listened, his heart filled at once with love and terror.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she began. "We had a daughter, but there were complications. She was stillborn and I was hemorrhaging, so Doc Weatherby, the campus OBGYN, performed a hysterectomy.” She bit her lower lip, sniffed back tears. “I named her Deirdre. We always said that if and when we had a daughter we’d call her Deirdre, remember?”

She spoke for forty-five minutes, explaining how she’d not known she was pregnant until her second semester at Syracuse. How she spent six months prior to the baby's birth and another half a year after the baby's death, trying to locate him. "It was as if you’d disappeared from the face of the earth. Nobody knew where you were. I even had Dad’s buddy, Senator Rumson, contact the Department of the Army, for all the good it did."
When she was done she touched his shoulder. “I'm sorry you had to find out this way.”

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

“Then, please talk to me. I've borne the burden alone for years. I need to share it, now.”

He turned and pulled her into his arms, his tears mixing with hers. "I love you, Elizabeth."

They talked, they laughed, and they wept, ruminated on the past and reveled in the joy of the present. Then, they made love, slowly and passionately this time, feelings and desires transferred by touch, hopes and dreams mirrored in their eyes.

"Brady?" she said sometime later, glancing at the clock hanging above a settee. "It's almost eleven and we never did get out to dinner. I'm not complaining, mind you." She grinned, pecked him on the cheek. "The appetizer was scrumptious, as was the main course, but if I don't get some nourishment, I may not get to dessert.” She reached beneath the covers and gave him a squeeze. “You are going to want dessert, aren’t you big fella?”

"Jesus, are you trying to kill me?"

She winked. "What a way to go, huh?"

“Tell you what.” He jumped off the bed and pulled on shorts and a sweatshirt. “There's a Chinese place down the road. How about I run over and get us lemon chicken, shrimp fried rice, and couple of greasy eggrolls?"

"Umm, just what the doctor ordered. I'll jump into the shower while you're gone."
She sat on the edge of the bed while he ran a comb through his thick, black hair. He grabbedhis wallet and keys, then kissed her. "Be right back."

He opened the door, turned back. “I love you Liz. I’ve always loved you. I've never said that to another woman. It's important to me that you know it.”

Her eyes glistened. "I love you, too.”

He walked out into the hallway and turned to close the door.

“Brady?”

“Yes?”

“When you get back, we'll talk about Arizona, okay?" She smiled and tossed her head to the side, clearing the silky blond hair out of her eyes.

It was an image he’d recall all the days of his life.


They watched him exit the hotel.

"Go," the man said, as Brady wheeled out of the parking lot. They scampered across the lawn, the larger of the two men toting a grappling hook attached to a length of nylon cord.

They stopped at the edge of the hotel, the small oriental glancing left and right.

"Now," he said, and the grappling hook soared upward, latching onto the railing sixty feet overhead.

They clambered up the rope and dropped onto the balcony.

Working in unison, they attached a plastique charge to the metal frame of the sliding glass door and inserted a detonator. Then, they mounted a microswitch and a miniature battery to the door jam and connected it to the charge with two lengths of thin copper wire. The slightest movement of the door would actuate the microswitch and send an electrical impulse to the detonator. The explosion would be instantaneous.

"Now," the oriental muttered. "What was it that Aeschylus once wrote? 'For a deadly blow let him pay with a deadly blow: it is for him who has done a deed to suffer'. Oh, that we could make you suffer for eternity, Kenjisan."

Brady motored west along Highway 278, the island's main artery, a bag of Chinese food in the front seat. “One more stop,” he muttered, pulling into the lot of Island Wine, renowned for stocking the most diverse mix of fine French and California wines in all the Low Country.

Ten minutes later, he was back on the road, a bottle of Chateau Beychevelle '66 added to the night's menu. He smiled, feeling better than he had in years. Liz had a calming influence on him, could still read his moods, ease his worries, draw him from the depths of dark introspection and fill his life with the promise of a brighter tomorrow. He’d found himself, all over again, the moment he’d looked into her eyes. It is said that the enthusiasms and joys of youth can be recalled but never regained. Well, they would do their best to disprove that old saw.

He parked in a spot reserved for those occupying the penthouse suites, then walked toward the front door, searching his pockets for the room key. He looked up, saw two men rappel noiselessly down the side of the hotel and drop to the ground. They scanned the parking lot and the grassy knoll adjacent to it, then scurried off toward the rear of the hotel, toward the wooden steps that led down onto the beach. One man moved swiftly, the other more slowly, a decided limp to his left leg.

"Iceman?" Brady glanced up, eyes traveling the length of rope from the ground to the fifth floor penthouse.

Elizabeth, fresh from the shower, her lithe, tanned body wrapped in a large white towel, stood at the glass door, peering out toward the ocean. She turned and spotted Brady staring up at her. Their eyes locked, and she smiled and reached out to slide open the door.

It hit home like a lightning strike.

“Sweet Jesus.” The bag of food and the bottle of wine slipped from his hands and dropped to the spongy ground. “Elizabeth…” He sprinted toward the hotel, a spray of icy tentacles wrapped around his heart. “No.”

He was thirty yards from the door when the explosion rent the still night air, the concussion driving him to his knees, the sky above him filled with a thousand fiery projectiles, bits of furniture, glass, and ragged drapery that had, moments before, been integral parts of his suite.