short timers: Episode 2b

The edge of the roof got closer and closer. He could see the pale yellow glow of lamplight, and a stop light like a set of crimson eyes far below him on the street. As he leapt, the roof of his building disappeared and that sick gut pulling motion of freefall sent his adrenal glands into high gear.

He never really left the field, he tried to sort of ‘super impose’ it onto his normal vision. When he leapt from the roof, his sense of vibration took a massive surge of impression. He felt everything within the city below him, sending him signals of sound, light, depth, and reflection. He realized, he was ‘pinging’; a technique that Jance had described to him, but he hadn’t tried. The overstimulation of his mind sent him very close to panic in that moment, but he quickly regained his control. In a split second of freefall, he actuated the button that released the wing from the backpack. He felt the sudden lurch, and then upward movement of his body. And gradually he got control of his ‘pinging’ and the vibrations calmed down considerably.

The Field was  layer of impression over his usual senses. He saw the rippling ghosts of the men in the building as he drifted closer to them. He thought, If any one of those men see’s me, this mission isn’t going to last very long. They would beat him to the roof, and shoot him out of the sky before he landed. Even if the new armor was strong enough to handle small arms fire, Morgan doubted very much that his body could handle that much concussion. Anyone who’s ever been shot while wearing body armor knows that the shock wave alone, can cause enough damage to an individual to cause unconsciousness, and sometimes internal bleeding. Especially if these guys were using armor piercing rounds, which Morgan doubted, but was prepared to face.

He watched the slow upward drift of his ‘wing’ with a sense of impatience and anticipation. Tsang was above him about twenty feet and ten feet to the right. They were both watching the guards position on the roof with a vague sense of unease. If the closest man saw them crest the edge of the building and land their strange parachute/glider on the roof, they would certainly raise the alarm. Then Morgan and Tsang would have to battle their way down forty floors to the main floor. By the time they got there. if they got there, Papa Vincent would either be long gone, or locked away in his panic room. Morgan and Tsang would just about have to tear the building down to get to the man if that happened. The entire mission depended on them getting into the building unseen, and staying that way until he got to Papa Vincent.

Morgan, Tsang said. The guard is coming close to the edge.

S**t. Morgan thought. How well can these things steer?

Not very well at all. Tsang replied. Straight up, a little side to side, and forward and back. But not enough for us to get out of sight. Tsang paused for a second, and Morgan felt him consider something. He and Tsang were receiving impressions of each other's thought processes and emotional states. Reading the Field at the moment was fairly easy, provided Morgan’s concentration stayed loose and basically calm and detached. He could have some tense moments and hang onto the Field, but he doubted very much that he could grab onto it if he was in the midst of a major adrenaline rush. This posed a very serious problem if they found themselves in a situation that required that he call for backup. If he couldn’t calm down enough to use the Field, he couldn’t call for help.

I’m going to try something Morgan, try to move your wing further to the left, and hover. Tsang said, moving his wing to the right, and pausing his ascent.

Ok. Morgan said, and did what he was told. He hoped that whatever Tsang was about to try would be in a hurry. Morgan knew that the wings could only stay floating for short periods of time. Then the batteries to the ion drives would run low…then they were REALLY fucked.

He watched from beneath as the guard on the roof came closer and closer. It was almost like watching a very complicated version of a magnet held under a piece of paper or glass moving iron filings. The energy patterns he’d seen so far resembled that basic look, which intrigued him deeply. Each individual that he saw through the Field seemed to have a dull glow, surrounded by these flux lines of energy. Right now, Morgan was looking at the bottom of the guards feet, and seeing the dark lines emanate around him in strange curved pulses.

Suddenly the guard stopped coming towards the edge of the building. He stood there very still. Morgan wondered if they’d been spotted, maybe by the reflection of them coming up the building from the building they’d jumped off of. Morgan hadn’t thought of that until just that moment.

He felt Tsang’s thoughts…skew… just a little. Like he was having a conversation.

The bottom of the guards feet started pumping towards the edge of the building, not more than ten paces away from him.

F**k, Morgan thought. Here comes the bullets.

But the guard didn’t slow down, or miss a beat. He just jumped off of the building, spread eagle. His sports jacket flapped around his body like useless broken wings as he passed, screaming between Morgan and Tsang.

With the Field, Tsang and Morgan could hear some of the chatter over the microphones the bodyguards used.

‘Holy s**t!’ One of them said. ‘Mac just jumped off the roof!’ They could still hear him screaming through their headsets. Then he landed, and the screaming stopped.

Morgan expected a mass of people to head towards the roof, and look down. Then he realized; there wasn’t really anything to see from that point, everything interesting would be on the street below. It was still a gamble on Tsang’s part, but in this case it worked well. The other guard on the roof was looking in the direction of where Mac had leapt, but he wasn’t running over to the edge to look down. Instead he walked over to the door, exiting the roof, and headed to the elevator to go look at the body.

Next time give me a little more warning on what you plan to do would you? Morgan said to Tsang, as they both continued their rise to the now unoccupied roof.

But that wouldn’t be a surprise. Tsang replied, calm and serious, but his thoughts conveyed a grin. Let's get up there. When people start looking at the body, undoubtedly their going to look up.

Morgan spared a glance between his dangling feet. It was a long way down, but even at this distance he could see the hammered shape of the guard on the street. He’d expected a little more blood than the small pool that was surrounding the small body, bathed in the yellow lamplight of the street.

Morgan judged that about twenty of the guards were on their way down to check out the mayhem. One voice, still standing guard at the entrance of the panic room was shouting orders to people to clean up the body as quick as possible.

That must be the leader. Morgan thought he recognized the voice. It wouldn’t surprise him to find some of his old enemies and old friends working for the mob. Bosses tended to pay very good money to ‘personal security units’ comprising of mercenaries and retired military.

Agreed, Tsang said, as they crested the edge of the now deserted roof. Checking the field, they only had five guards between them and the panic room floor. At which point they faced about twenty armed guards, who all looked well trained and armed well.

He needs to be the first to die. Morgan said needlessly.

He checked himself against the instinctual desire to slide into commander mode. He realized, that by using the Field, he no longer really had to do that. Battle plans very rarely worked for very long in real life situations anyway. Tsang was very skilled at this kind of work, and Morgan needed to remember that his small and capable friend did not need to be told what to do.

They landed on the roof, removed and replaced their ‘wings’ in their packs, and stashed them someplace out of the way. All the while they monitored the guards throughout the building.

The leader was smart enough to keep the most capable of his crew with him near the client, and send the mob thugs downstairs to handle the cleanup of the jumper. They were paid very well to be smart, even if they were usually surrounded by total f**k ups.

‘What’s going on?’ Tsang and Morgan heard through the Field.

‘I guess a guy named ‘marc’ jumped off the roof’, the leader said.

‘Who the F**k is Marc? You mean Mac?’ It was Papa Vincent. ‘Jesus! What the F**k he do that for?’

‘No clue.’ The leader said. ‘But your boys are down cleaning up. Your safe while my men and I are here. I recommend you go back into your room though sir, I’m going to have a couple of my men go check the roof just in case.’ The leader barked another quick order through a headset, and Morgan and Tsang disappeared into the shadows and waited for the men to come up the stairway leading to the roof.

The nano cloud was active, and they were invisible within seconds. Waiting with intense stillness for the time to make their move.

‘What the f**k he do that for?’ Vincent asked again, seeming to talk to himself. ‘Jesus Christ,’

Morgan could feel the leader's mind dripping hate for his boss. He still couldn’t shake his recognition of the gruff voice. He wanted to explore the feeling deeper, but he was concerned that the well trained soldier might feel the invasion and set an alarm. His curiosity would have to wait.

I’ll see you downstairs. He said to Tsang, when they felt the two guards approaching the crash door to the roof.

The two men split up quickly, looking at everything through the red dot sights of their automatic weapons. They quickly checked the area, barking out basic quadrant locations and ‘clear!’ when they encountered no opposition. The men who’d been playing cards, had joined the other guard when he went down the elevator. It was only the two men, who after clearing the roof of any visible threats, reported their findings to the leader through their throat microphones, stood waiting for further orders.

‘Stay up there for now. Keep a lookout for signs of cops. We got scanners and their quiet, but I want you two up there for the moment. Something don’t feel right.’

‘yes sir.’ Both men said in unison, and each took position looking out on the city.

Yep, Morgan sent to Tsang. That leader has gotta go. I think if he’s out of commission, we’ll get this done a lot quicker.

The guards had their backs turned to Morgan and Tsang. Easy pickings. But Morgan wanted them alive for the moment. He wanted the leader thinking it was safe from the roof. Easier to do if they were sending him progress reports from the roof, which they did by having slow and basic conversation, while their eyes scanned around the area.

Tsang had snuck over to the crash door with an oily grace Morgan had never seen before, and eased it open. No more than a crack, just enough to let his body through. Morgan slid over to him, and followed him through the door.

Doors were a b***h. There were so many ways that they made noise. He used to keep a small oil spray with him at all times when he worked for the military for getting through doors as quietly as possible. He wished he had one now. The Short Timers themselves were almost impossible to detect on many different levels, but they could always disturb the surrounding area. Light through an open door, the creaking floor, shadows from backlighting…all of these things could give away their positions to an enemy, and all of their next generation technology wouldn’t count for s**t. Tsang had a natural instinct with sneakiness, Morgan admitted that Tsang was far better at it that he was. Tsang eased the door closed behind them, so slowly it was almost painful to watch. There was a doorstop to his left that he picked up and jammed between the casing and the door to keep it from clicking shut. That would surely have given away their position. Morgan respected Tsang completely, but after watching him move and operate he was in complete awe.

The next trick was going to be motion sensors and video feeds. Morgan doubted they’d go so far as laser systems, not while the leader still had men running around. But he used himself as a gage…if it was something he would have done, he expected this leader to have done it.

Ed.

Yeah boss.

Your turn. Locate all specific devices and mask our travel. We’re in the upper part of the building, and we need a path down.

Did you deal with the door sensor? Morgan’s heart did a violent skip. He looked up and noticed that Tsang had already jimmied the device so that it read ‘closed’ on some electrical alarm system, somewhere in the building. He looked at his small friend, who shrugged his shoulders, and winked at him through his black cloud of swirling nano’s.

I owe you one for that one my friend. Morgan said. I’m definitely rusty.

Not so rusty as you think Morgan. But follow my lead until you get back into the feel.

Agreed. Morgan said, and turned his attention back to Ed.

The door sensor is disabled. Morgan said, talking to Ed.

Ok, He replied, and gave them directions to avoid the next set of alarms.

Billy looked across the room, taking a mental count of the men he had available to him, and how he should scatter them to be the most effective. Something didn’t feel right. Guys just don’t jump off the roof, especially mob guys. They were just too spoiled.

“Ready up boys. I think we got company.” He considered locking down the panic room, but changed his mind. He had this place wired to go DEFCON 4 in a split second if there was so much as a mouse fart detected. His guys on the roof were still chatting away, and he doubted that anyone could get past them without being detected. Until they piped up, or one of the alarms was tripped, he was satisfied to tell his men to be ready.

They were good soldiers, and did what they were asked without complaint or question. Whereas the mob rats would probably give him a ton of s**t for being paranoid. F**k em’, He thought. He wouldn’t be heartbroken one damn little bit if any one of these overfed ego maniacs met with a bad day in a dark alley. The big boss on the other hand. He was the paycheck. Billy thought he was a babbling idiot, but he was a rich babbling idiot. That was enough for him.

Billy searched his senses. Trying to hear that tiny little voice that would warn him of danger, that intuitive beacon that had saved his life many times in the past. So far nothing. He thought long and hard about shutting the panic room door just in case, but decided against it.

He looked out across the room, locating the doors, locating the men in front of them, checking their readiness. When Billy issued the command for his men to ready up, they all fanned out, putting some space between each other, and watched the openings they were assigned to watch. Billy’s task was to stand in front of the panic room door, and trigger the switch if anything out of the ordinary were to take place. The s**t head who’d jumped off the roof, definitely belonged in that category of out of the ordinary, but not in such a way that Billy should be too spooked.

But he was spooked. Spooked enough to admit it, even to himself.

He looked around the room again.

It was huge. Luxurious. Wide open. It had a calm warming feel to it. Deep red carpets, with patterns of dark tan. A large crystal chandelier in the center, and two smaller ones to the left and right. The high ceiling expanded the feel of openness. There were three large dining room tables, all three must have cost a small fortune. The high wingback chairs, plush and covered in extravagant milk colored leather. Billy had learned that his client, like most mobsters he’d met, liked to mix business with dinner. And the three tables were adorned with beautiful hand crafted crystal center pieces of various nude women.

Far in front of him was the main entrances of the room. Three elevators. Privately controlled, and wired to alarm if anything entered them without a specific key and code. The elevator shafts were also wired with super sensitive equipment that monitored sound, and movement.

To the left, was the entrance to the main kitchen, which he had locked down except for one personal chef to handle when the client got the late night munchies. Other than air ducts and a service elevator, that likewise was wired to alarm should even a cockroach dare climb up, there was only the one entrance. During the day there were usually more in and out of the kitchen, but all were checked thoroughly (extremely thoroughly) before starting their shifts.

To the right, a private conference room, with only one entrance and one exit. It was used for the clients more…unpleasant…dealings. The floors were a dark heavy tile, that had seen more than their fair share of blood. Billy had seen some of the treatments that happened within that room. He’d seen worse tortures before…done worse tortures before…but not many. And not nearly so frequently.

The stairwell he’d sent his men up to check the roof was off to his left. He and two other men guarded it, as well as several types of electronic sensors. He and his men each had alarm monitors in their ear buds that would explain position and type of sensor disturbance. If a motion sensor went off in the elevator, they would all know which one and where. There were no loud alarms or metal gates that dropped. If something was disturbed, he’d simply flip a switch on a transmitter located on his belt, and the panic room door would close and seal off. No reason to panic. Just find the disturbance and kill it. Or bring it into the private conference room for ‘interrogation’.

In total, Billy had fourteen men stationed inside the main foyer, including himself. He also had two men on each elevator with the exception of the kitchen service elevator, which was locked down at night. One man was with the elevator at all times, and the other was positioned at the lower entrance. When the clients ’other’ associates were doing something other than clearing up the remains of their friend on the street, there was usually twenty men in the room. The two soldiers of his that he’d sent up to the roof were usually positioned within the stairwell, about halfway down. Everyone communicated through a state of the art radio system, and each of his men were trained by first the military, and then himself. He knew everyone.

Billy was very confident in his security abilities. He’d set the alarm system up personally, and he was very skilled. He’d studied each man in the client’s personal guard. He knew they were street trained and generally useless, but they were loyal to their boss. They weren’t assets, but at least they weren’t a major detriment. Billy had argued with the client about their presence there at night, but ultimately he’d lost. The client still didn’t trust Billy, which was fine by him. He was the man’s personal guard only. Not his buddy. And certainly not someone who would whimper and wag his tail when the fat f**k said ‘sit!’. That was really all that his entourage was good for, people to boost his ego while his kingdom came crumbling down.

Billy knew what was happening to this fat asses’ empire. He knew that at some point, whoever was ripping the organization apart was going to come to Papa Vincent’s door. And he knew that, no matter how capable this enemy was, (and whoever they were, they were very capable) they wouldn’t be hacking apart just mafia boys when they showed up here. They’d be up against him. He couldn’t wait to meet them.

But Billy was still listening for that voice…Something wasn’t right. Something just felt off.

He fingered his belt, feeling for the button that would lock down the panic room. His heart skipped a beat, and then stopped altogether when he realized the button, and the belt, were no longer there. He looked down at the spot where it should be.

Low to the floor and hovering over his detached belt sat a nightmare of black smoke. It looked at him with flashing silver eyes. It had a man’s shape, despite the thickness of the swirling mist. He saw a clenched fist holding a long curved sword. A black samurai sword. The mist suddenly collapsed and the man shaped thing with glowing eyes disappeared.

The lights went out.

Billy felt the blade sever his throat. Felt the strange vertigo of his head flying off his shoulders. He heard a strange clicking above him, but it was dark and growing darker, but in his ear bud he heard one of his men grunt. He heard another of his men start to scream, like he was being burned alive. He thought he could hear bones breaking. All sensation faded away. Except the burning cut on his neck. His consciousness faded away and he was gone.

Vincent heard strange things when the lights went out. His room was supposed to have a battery backup system, but it didn’t seem to be working. The doors were still open. How could that be? They were supposed to shut automatically. What the f**k? In the directionless blackness he couldn’t do anything except stand there, mouth open, listening. He knew what men sounded like when they were dying badly. That was what he was hearing now. Screams sound strange when they come through clenched teeth.

Where was Billy?

His heart pounded heavily, his stomach lurched. His throat and mouth dried almost instantly when his adrenaline and fear kicked into race mode. Total blackness, and men dying in the room beyond his door. He prayed for the heavy door to shut him in safety. Even though he knew the silent blackness would likely drive him into panic. The blackness was claustrophobic. The room and all it’s space and safety was a canvas airtight bag that he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he struggled.

Unconsciously he staggered in the darkness. Zero light. Now there was Zero sound, except his own panicked breathing and his heavy murmuring heartbeat in his chest. He groped around, panicking harder when he couldn’t see his hands. He backed away from where he thought the doorway was. The backs of his knees struck his Italian leather couch and he screamed when he lost his balance. His heavy butt buried itself in the soft texture, and he felt his bladder loosen. He was sobbing. His lower half covered in piss soaking into a fifteen thousand dollar sofa.

“Hi Vincent.” A low hissing voice spoke right into his right ear.

Papa Vincent shrieked long and loud until he felt a clawing grip bury into the fat of his cheeks. He felt the air pumping hard and fast out of his nostrils as he continued to try to scream with each exhale. He thought of the bodies of all his men that had been killed over the last six months. Some sliced open, others pulverized by fists or sticks or baseball bats. His own son's throat had been slit, and his body scorched. He wondered how they would kill him. He was hyperventilating.

“Shut up Vincent. Or I will kill you.” The voice was deep, confident, and terrifying.

He quit screaming, but he couldn’t quit panting through his nose. He felt something grab one of his shaking fingers, and pull it back painfully. He moaned behind the powerful claw over his mouth.

“Calm down or I’ll break this off.” Vincent instantly obeyed, believing the voice in the darkness at his ear. It was muffled, but only barely. Covered in something that kept the voice from being really clear. Somehow that was more terrifying. Like an old corpse speaking through a shroud. Like his father’s corpse, wild eyed, teeth bared, shrunken white skin hanging off his skull.

“He has a very active imagination.” A different voice, accented. Oriental. Japanese.

“Very good.” The hard voice in his ear said. “That’s the spirit. Pay attention, I have some instructions for you.”

Instructions. Vincent felt the first butterfly feeling of hope flutter across his mind. They wanted him to do something. He’d do anything, anything to live.

Both voices chuckled. The Japanese voice said: “Be careful fat man, there are very many states of ‘alive’. There are only a couple that we actually need you to be in.”

The fear slammed into him again full force. Jesus! Torture! He started hyperventilating again until the grip on his face tightened, and the fist yanked hard on his bent back finger. He sucked in air hard through his nose, and then calmed back down. His eyes were peeled all the way open, staring as hard as he could into the blackness. Trying to see anything, even the smallest glimmer of light. Nothing. He felt his muscles in his jaw and neck quivering as though he’d just fallen through the ice in a frozen river. He couldn’t control it no matter how hard he tried.

Vincent had been in tough spots before, he’d been threatened, beaten, shot and stabbed. He usually had a very tight reign on is fear. But tonight it felt like he was drugged, some sort of amplifying thing. He’d never been so panicked in all his life, and all his pride and self respect that he’d worked so hard to protect and maintain was gone. He was a ball of mush. He had to get a grip. Even if he was going to die, he needed to die with some dignity.

“Your little family enterprise, is falling apart. Has Fallen apart. The rest of the Syndicate has abandoned you, and the old family has written you off. The last choice you have is to call in reinforcements from some of your old rivals, in exchange for some very old ground rights. It’s your last gamble of survival. So you can bide your time. Hole up and invest smart. Right? Leave the country. Retire in Italy somewhere. Pawn off the business to one of your brothers. Or maybe a younger cousin.”

In Vincent’s fear streaked mind he heard all the statements and felt the shock and anger boil up. How the f**k did anyone else know this? He’d been planning this for months, ever since his shipments started getting hit, and the Columbians started threatening. Threatening with their silence. He knew that people were in the background, looking at his empire like wolves eyeing a dying buffalo. Deciding which parts would taste the best, and wouldn’t require too much fight to get into. He’d planned to bring in more people, tantalize more wolves, too distract them with their own fighting long enough that he could limp away. Losing only a few tufts of fur in the process.

Most of the Syndicate had been crippled. But there were still a few around, happy enough to nibble at Vincent’s power base, even while their own was being eaten. The wolves were starving, and waiting for one of their own to fall to it’s exhaustion and wounds, so they could eat of it’s carcass, and continue to live. Long enough at least, for the next weakest one to fail. They were all in a frenzy at the excitement of the alpha wolf’s blood though. Some were teaming up, eager to take his place.

“I’ll bet that pissed you off, didn’t it.” The voice said.

But really it didn’t. He hated this job. Hated the squabbling meetings, the nagging family. All the f*****g noise of it. He just wanted to retire to a vineyard somewhere, and die in obscurity. Leave the other ego’s to the ambitious wielding of false power.

“I can give you that retirement. But I want you to do something first.”

Vincent realized two things in that instant. One; that the voice in the blackness was reading his thoughts. He’d thought he’d been speaking the words running through his mind, but realized he wasn’t when he became aware of his hyperventilating breathing again, slowing and returning to normal. Two; that he was no longer afraid. His quivering muscles had relaxed and he felt calm. The grip on his finger had eased up to a light tension, and the claw was just a light palm over his hand. The voice was still low and powerful, but not terrifying anymore. They were in a bargaining process now. A process he understood very well. It was a process that always required two sides, it’s very hard to bargain with a corpse, and not nearly as effective.

Vincent waited patiently for the man to remove his hand, his mind was moving fast, trying to understand all the possibilities represented. Who was this guy? Who did these two work for? What the f**k was going on? He was sure that they must be involved with whoever was killing off his business. But, in the months of his digging for information he’d never come close to finding out who they were. He’d tortured druggies, intimidated senators, threatened FBI agents, without so much as a single clue as to who was behind the attacks on his trade. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, here they were. Poof! Just like that. Which meant one of two things to Vincent; either they wanted something from him, or they wanted him dead.

“I’m gonna pull my hand off, and we’ll chat. But understand this. I don’t absolutely need you in order to get business done. But, if you want to get out of this situation alive? And you want to have that retirement you’ve been stashing money away for? Then you had better make goddamn sure that you mind your manners, and play ball. Clear?”

Vincent did understand, and he nodded his head slowly and deliberately. He didn’t like being ordered around like this, but he was smart enough to know when to keep his trap shut. But his fear had been replaced by a severe and burning anger.

The hand pulled away, and Vincent let out a long sigh. He thought of going off on a tirade of questions, demanding answers for the damage done to his business. He wondered if they really did need something from him. He couldn’t imagine what it would be. The amount of damage these people had done to the syndicate was brutal. There was no way to account for all the money and drugs that had been either destroyed or stolen. And the damage from last night's destroyed shipment was enough to set the syndicate back to the earliest days of its existence, when the individual bosses fought heavily for power within the city.

The damage done to him personally, with the death of his son, was unforgivable.

“Now, now, Vincent. You were the one who sent him out on the street, when it’s been open season on your organization for the better part of six months. If you don’t want your kids dead, you’d better keep ‘em at home, not out f*****g around with your wise guys.” The darkness hid the location of the voice’s owner. But Vincent flipped him the bird anyway.

“What the hell do you want from me? You f*****g cocksucker.” Vincent spat into the darkness. His dignity mortally wounded, he was reduced to blind rage.

Morgan looked at the man sitting on the couch in front of him. Overweight and balding, a large crooked nose and short cropped beard. He stared up at the ceiling. The darkness meant nothing to Morgan’s eyes. Between the Field, and the procedure, pitch black looked like a very pleasant shade of grey dusk.

Vincent was trying to convince himself to be pissed, in an effort to save some sense of pride. Morgan almost felt bad for tweaking the syndicate boss’ emotions earlier. Morgan had latched onto the big man’s sense of fear, and amplified it. It had sent Vincent into a mad panic. A useful tool for later, but he had to deal with the repercussions of that now. He doubted very much that Vincent would cooperate with him now.

Morgan was curious, he wondered if he could bring Vincent back to copasetic. He honestly doubted it, and honestly didn’t care.

Morgan, Tsang said. We need to wrap this up. The group from the bottom floor are almost here. They are tired and fat, but they made it up the stairwell easily enough. They may still have some fight in them.

Are you really concerned about the fight left in a few overweight, untrained, mobsters? Morgan asked. Looking over at Tsang who was removing a hard drive from the main computer on Vincent’s desk.

Not really. But…There’s always Murphy’s law.

Mmm. Morgan thought. Good point.

Morgan looked back down at Vincent, daring him to do something stupid. Morgan could tell how angry he was, could literally taste it on the back of his throat like a heavy chemical. The old man did not want to play ball, and he was weighing his options, deciding whether it would be better to die now to Morgan, or die later at the hands of one of his underlings.

“You killed my son.” Vincent said, and heaved himself up off the couch. He stood with his urine soaked robe clinging to his legs. His fists were clenched at his sides. He’d made his choice.

“Yes.” Morgan said, and stood in front of the heavy man.

“I ain’t gonna do a f*****g thing for you a******s. Except spit on your f*****g grave.” He said, and spit on the ground. He swung a heavy fist, blindly in the dark. He was slow and Morgan had plenty of time to duck beyond the punch. Morgan pulled a six inch knife that shared the holster of his gun, and buried the blade into the old boss’ solar plexus.

“Yes you are old man.” Morgan hissed at him, as Vincent groaned and tried to collapse at the knees. Despite his massive body, Morgan held him up.

“You’re gonna do plenty for us, just by being another dead piece of s**t.” Morgan twisted the blade in Vincent’s stomach until he felt the knife grating against the underside of the dying man’s ribcage.

“Besides, you fat f**k. You killed my daughter.” Morgan twisted upward and shoved his blade further in. He was sawing his way up to the Syndicate bosses heart, his hand and half of his forearm buried in the man’s guts. The blade wasn’t poisoned like the other bladed weapons the Short Timers used, this one was something from the outside world. Something Morgan had held onto for a long time, with a specific purpose. A purpose it was fulfilling now.

Vincent was quivering now, in pain and death. His lungs were in spasm. His face in the grey light of the Field streaked with dark lines across his grimacing face.  

Once Vincent had been a young strong boy, growing up on the streets of Boston. Learning the world of the mafia from his father. Learning the rules of a predatory life. He’d watched men beaten to death. He’d helped with the beatings sometimes. He’d been beaten as well. That was life. Beatings.

Survival. People were cattle and wolves. Commodities and competition.

Vincent knew he was dying. A stretching burn in his stomach and chest. He could hear the blade scratching against his bones. He could feel the vibrations with the lightening ripples of pain. His nervous system gave up, he was blacking out. Going to sleep.

Vincent was in a pleasant landscape. A large red brick Victorian home with white painted shutters, and old growth maples standing sentry on either side of the amber door. It wasn’t a home he recognized. He felt his arm waving at a smiling girl's’ face staring out at him from the front window. He felt his lips smiling in return.

Comfortable and warm in the house. A beautiful place to be proud of. A reward for having a talented wife, who knew how to stretch a hard earned government dollar. Work was work. Home was home. Never the two should cross. Never.

Except it did. They found out who he was. Somebody burned him.

The warmth was gone in the house. It was dark. A heavy trail of blood along the hardwood floors. Dragging something into the kitchen. No, through the kitchen and down the hall. Into the library.

Two heavy cream colored couches sat face to face in a room walled in cherry wood book cases. Dark burgundy walls. Between the couches a mass of gore, splattered on the expensive carpet and leather. One clawing hand, bloodless and white. The flash of gold on the left ring finger.

He ran down the hallway. Pictures were tilted, disturbed by something. A door was kicked in at the end of the hall. Everything was dark, he could see silhouettes only. But he knew who it was. The smiling face of the girl was no longer smiling. She lay in the center of the bed. A heavy bladed machete pinned her to the bed.

He heard the roar of despair in his ears.  

There was a note, covering the face of the dead girl.

He watched a shaking hand reach in and pick up the paper. He felt the instinct. He crumpled the note in his fist and ran out of the room, down the hall, through the kitchen and leapt out the window of the front room. The home exploded behind him.

The note held the clue. The note directed his path.

Morgan was dead at that point. His soul burned in the fire that consumed his home and family.

He never turned back to look. The thing that walked away from the burning home was not a man.

Vincent watched all of this as he died, his consciousness caught in a strange limbo of half life, half death. The transition point.

Morgan and his group called this place the Psyche Field.

Vincent lay on the grass, in front of the burning home. He searched his memory for the time when he’d ordered such a hit. He couldn’t remember anything, everything seemed distant now. The knowledge that he was dead hadn’t really sunk in yet.

“Old man, you should have been a little more willing to play ball.”

Vincent looked up at a different version of the man he’d just watched walk away from the house. He was older, leaner, covered in a black suit except for his bald and severe looking head. His eyes held a deep silver glow in the pupils. The man smiled at him. Exposing his teeth. They were a dark colored metal, and looked sharp as hell.

“It looks like you and I get to have a chat after all… And even better. Before you go to hell, I get to have a turn with you.” The man suddenly opened his mouth and roared at Vincent, launching at him with claw shaped hands.

Vincent began to scream.

Morgan! Tsang yelled.

Wha..? Morgan asked, snapping out of the trance he’d been in.

We’ve got to get out of here! Now! Morgan could hear the urgency in Tsang’s voice, but he couldn’t see him. He was nowhere in the room.

Morgan had the body of Papa Vincent still on his arm. He looked into the gaping mouth and eyes of the dead Syndicate boss. His head was tipped back, blood pooled in his open mouth and dribbled down his chin and throat.

Morgan blinked a couple of times, a little confused, then he remembered.

He smiled inside his mask.

Morgan! Move your a*s! Now! Before somebody shuts it down and traps you inside.

The lights were still off, but he heard something from the other room. He looked out the doorway and saw a beam of light cut across the darkness, shining into the room. The other men had made it into the room and were now searching the bodies for their boss. They were on the alert and being very quiet. Morgan could see the shadows cast across the room as they moved into view.

Morgan went into the field. He could hear Vincent screaming in his mind.  

He counted twenty men surrounding the room in a random pattern. All were headed towards the door of the panic room, slowly sweeping their flashlights back and forth and keeping the barrels of their automatic weapons towards the opening.

Time to have a little fun, Tsang.

Morgan pulled his arm out of Vincent’s body, and held him up by the arm pits. He ran forward a couple of steps and threw the body as hard as he could towards the opening of the panic room. He used the force of his motion to direct himself into a forward roll. He reached behind his back and pulled his staff. He extended it, and ran out into the raised weapons.

He felt the rage pulling at his mind, felt the madness. Behind his mask he wore a grimace of pure malice.

Marko was the unofficial leader of the group, because he had the biggest mouth, and the biggest gun. In the flickering flashlight glow he saw the back of his boss, Vincent, standing in the darkness of the panic room. Marko knew he was dead, from all the bodies laying around the outer foyer, the big man Had to be dead. There was no question in anyone’s mind. But Marko hadn’t expected to see him standing, head tilted backward, like he was stuck laughing at some great joke.

Suddenly, like he was yanked by some invisible cable, his boss was hurtling toward him from the dark room. It was so quick that Marko couldn’t do anything but watch as the blood splattered old man’s face tilted towards him, trailing blood down the front of his chin and down his chest. Marko saw his wide open rolled up eyes. Amazingly, the old man flew past Marko and landed in the center of the room with a heavy thump.

Marko was just looking back into the room, and caught the impression of glowing eyes sailing at him from down low. He heard a ripping sound and realized he’d been stabbed!

A burning started in his spine. His muscles instantly cramped. His jaw clenched so hard that he heard his teeth breaking. He was bending further and further back, his spine folding in on itself. His hands clenched into fist, and the gun in his hand started to go off. He wasn’t aiming it, he was shooting into the floor, then the darkness of the panic room, then the ceiling. He collapsed in shrieking pain, he felt something rubbing against his the back of his skull. He realized, just before he died that it was the back of his own leg.

Tsang had slid out of the panic room before the other men made it into the room. He crouched down next to one of the tables, and prepared to hack his way out of the room.

Morgan had been unresponsive for almost a full minute now. But Tsang had had a glimpse of what was going on between Morgan and the dead mafia boss. Morgan had somehow managed to trap the man’s spirit, or consciousness, or whatever within himself.

Tsang was no longer a boy. No longer superstitious. But if there was one word that he could come up with to describe what he felt was going on with his partner it would be ‘evil’. This concerned him deeply, but he didn’t have time to worry about it.

Morgan came to, and succumbed to a sort of blood lust. He was hacking through anything that stood up in the room. Men fired blindly at the sounds of screaming. Some were firing because the poison blades on the ends of Morgan’s staff had caused them to go into convulsions. Tsang watched with a sense of concern and fascination as the men twisted into horrible contorted shapes, as if their bodies were made of putty or clay. The random firing of machine guns, and the jittering beams of the flashlights gave the room a strobe like feel. Like a dance club in hell. The sounds of screaming men, broken only by the rhythm of rattling gunfire…and the dull cracking sounds of bones snapped by convulsing muscles.  

A large man in a black leather jacket stepped close to Tsang’s position and aimed a heavy shotgun. Tsang, in one fluid movement of grace and accuracy severed his head from his body, and returned to his crouching position. He waited for Morgan to finish his mad dance. His suit went active, and Tsang was invisible again from the shouting panicked men.

Morgan felt a couple of slugs hit his back, and this sent him further into fury. He hacked at the men in the room, wishing his staff was a machete or a sword. He wanted to beat to death, all the men who worked for the syndicate…who had anything to do with the syndicate…everyone. He aimed to wound, so the men who felt his strike would feel the effects of the poison. He didn’t want them to die mercifully tonight. No quick deaths for this crowd.

A man was running for the open door that led to the stairwell. Morgan threw his staff like a spear, it was a sloppy throw. It still managed to hit the man in the leg, and he went down with a bark of pain. Morgan pulled his other staff, and watched as the downed thug began to writhe on the floor suffering the effects of the strong poison. It was horrible, but Morgan watched without pity.

The man curled into a fetal position, his face contorted in a teeth shattering grimace. His fingers pulled into claws around his face and head. He pulled at his skin, dislodging an eyeball. He shrieked through clenched teeth, until his chest cavity was affected and he could no longer control his breathing.

Morgan walked over to him, and looked down. He yanked the staff out of the leg, and turned around to face the empty room.

Are you finished? Tsang asked.

Morgan could sense him in the field, crouching easily next to one of the ornate tables. A headless man lay in front of him.

I think so. Morgan looked around the room with his eyes and his mind. I don’t think there’s anyone left.

There isn’t. Tsang said. What are you doing with the man we came here to talk to?

Morgan checked the field, and felt the tiny knot of energy that was Papa Vincent.

Mmm. Morgan thought. I think I’m going to hang on to him for a bit, see what information I can get out of him. I think I need to speak with Jance about this.

Perhaps. Tsang said. However, trapping dead men in the Field is probably not something that he’s going to understand. You may want to consider leaving Jance out of this one.

Why? Morgan asked. He didn’t see why it would cause a problem.

Keeping souls from passing on is not a good thing Morgan. Affect your vengeance if you must, but what do you think some of the other Short Timers would do with that ability?

Morgan thought about it, and decided Tsang was right.

Fair enough. Let's get out of here.

They climbed the stairs quickly enough, and got back up to the roof. The two men who been sent up there before had been alerted to the fire fight downstairs, and they came to assist. Their bodies were in the main room, still cooling down.

Morgan and Tsang grabbed their packs containing the ‘wing’ that they’d used to gain access to the tower. Before they leapt off the building, with the intention of returning home, Morgan sat for a few minutes. He needed to dispose of Vincent’s consciousness.

Keep an eye on things for me for a bit Tsang. Morgan said. I need to get rid of this s**t head.

As you wish. Tsang said. They were in no danger. Anyone who could fight was now dead. There may be people on the way, but Tsang doubted it. Everyone would hear the news tomorrow. Everyone would see the news too. This was one job they were not going to be able to keep quiet. The death of the East Coast Syndicate's Boss, would ring bells around the globe.

People would flock to this place. Some out of curiosity, some out of greed. Some would come for revenge, and some would come to fill the vacancy left. The Vacuum would bring criminals from all around the globe. Most would be worthless, but some would be tough. Far tougher than the men they’d slaughtered downstairs.

But word would get out about how the men in the room had been killed. Photo’s would get out. That would create a signature for some men to see. And a trail to track.

That was what Tsang wanted. To entice the hunter.

Morgan sat at the edge of the roof, looking out onto the city. He was deep in a trance, that Tsang couldn’t get into. The Field was very deep, and very wide. Sometimes Tsang had discovered dark waters in that ocean. He wondered what waters Morgan had discovered tonight. It seemed he was deliberately hiding his conversation with the dead mafia lord from Tsang. And though he was curious, Tsang didn’t mind. Vengeance was a personal thing.

Morgan, in the Field, looked down on the cowering fat man on the front lawn of his memory home.

He looked down and sneered. He felt the sharpness of his teeth with his tongue, felt the strange shadow pain as the needle points pierced his skin.

What was he doing? How was he doing this? Was it a sort of back closet of his Field? Could anyone else see this? Moran didn’t think so. He felt alone with this man.

Morgan wondered why his teeth were the way they were. But at the moment it didn’t matter.

He crouched down, and grabbed the back of Vincent’s head.

“Your dead Vincent.” He said. The fat man cringed, looking up at Morgan and then hiding his face. “I killed you.”

“What do you want from me?” Vincent asked. He was panicked.

“Oh I’d love to keep you here and torture you…See just how far we could take your pain.” Morgan felt how good that was to say. He felt his hand grip Vincent’s head tighter.

“But I have bigger fish to fry. And a lot of them. You’re going to tell me what I want to know, and then I’ll let you go.”

“Ok, ok. Anything you want. Anything.”

“Good. That’s a start.” Morgan said. “But just to make sure your not going to try to lie to me…”

Morgan bent over and bit off Vincent’s ear. Then smiled at the fat man’s scream. He spit the ear to the ground, and yanked up hard on Vincent’s head. They were face to face.

“That’s one little piece fat a*s. The next thing that goes will be more crunchy.”

Morgan looked over the Vincent’s shoulder at the blazing house…He became momentarily sad. Then insane. He pulled his lips back preparing to bite into Vincent’s face…but he stopped.

He needed to pay attention to what he was doing. He needed info.

“I need some names Vincent.” His voice had gone low and dangerous. “You’re going to give them to me.”

Vincent nodded his head fast, over and over.

“I’ll tell you anything. Who do you want?”

“Everyone. And I want to know everything you know about them.”

Vincent started talking instantly. When he was finished, he repeated over and over and over. “That’s all of them…that’s everyone I know. I swear. I swear. I swear…”

Morgan thought for a second. Decided he had enough information and said. “I believe you.”

Vincent seemed to deflate. Repeating the same words. “I swear, I swear…”

Morgan brought his other hand up to Vincent’s chin, and yanked the fat man’s head first one way, then the other. Vincent flopped onto the grass, and disappeared.

Morgan sat in a crouch for a second longer. Staring at the house that no longer existed in the real world. The windows breathed flames, and the door had blown outwards. In the flickering heat, Morgan saw two female silhouettes. They stood staring across the lawn at him from the depths of the inferno. Morgan wept. Got up. And left the darkest corner of his piece of the Field.

Is it done? Tsang asked.

Yes. Morgan Said. Let’s go home.

They both leapt off the building into the darkness.

Ed sat in the main control room, watching the monitors as Morgan and Tsang exited the area and made their way back to the complex. They showed up as two glowing spots on a three dimensional map of the high rise buildings of the city.

Morgan. He said, fairly certain that the two men were in the clear. You know there’s no way to keep this out of the papers and off the news, right?

Ed was speaking through the Field, projecting his inner voice across the ether to Morgan.

Yeah, I know. Was his reply.

So what’s the next move?

Morgan was silent for a moment before he answered. I think we’ll lay low for a minute, and let some of the dust settle. This is going to cause some very serious commotion across the world. We need to know what the other members of the syndicate are going to do before we resume operations.

Understood. Ed replied, and ended the conversation.

He switched over to his info monitor, half studying the patterns and allowed his mind to wander into the probability cloud that surrounded the nucleus of the evening's event. It was extremely gutsy for Morgan to kill Vincent. But it was also inevitable. They all knew it was coming, but were unsure of how and when he would do it. By slaughtering the main crime lord of the east coast syndicate, Morgan had effectively tossed down the gauntlet the rest of the world's criminal forces. Whoever was brave enough, desperate enough, or tough enough to enter the killing ground would already know they were hunted. They would come prepared and well armed for battle. The chess game had turned from its general sense of polite contest, to full contact no holds barred.

The Short Timers were hidden well. But that couldn’t last forever. Their technology and abilities were incredible, but everything had its weaknesses. Ed didn’t know what their weaknesses were, other than arrogance. The hope lay in the relatively short amount of time they had to live. If they were lucky, the current members of the group would be long dead before anyone discovered their existence. Ed pitied the future operatives the debt that they would undoubtedly have to settle with the criminal world.

The scrolling information scanner showed no signs that anyone knew of Vincent’s death. Probably because no one in the building was left alive. But soon, a concerned wife or girlfriend would call for one of the guards, or perhaps Vincent’s mistress. Either way, as soon as the a signal bounced into the building and went unanswered, the monitoring systems of the FBI would know that something was wrong.

Every man killed in that building was under constant electronic surveillance. As soon as the usual behavior patterns were broken, little alarms would go off on someone’s console in D.C.. When two or three little alarms went off, a big one would go off. The investigational organizations of the country would get extremely curious, and within a few seconds the secret would be out.

Beep. Oops. Ed thought, as one of the little alarms went off.

Someone had tried to call Vincent, and no one answered the phone.

Ed switched back to monitoring Morgan and Tsang. Still on their way, far enough away that any satellite over the area would have a hard time tracking them. That was one stroke of good luck. But probably the only one.

Beep. That’s two. He thought. One of the guards cell phones just received a text message. ‘U coming over to C me?’ It said. That one was going to require a response.

Ed looked down at the monitors again. He couldn’t risk sending a return text. As soon as it was discovered that Vincent was dead, the building would be ripped apart by signals. It was only a matter of time before….

Beep Beep Beep Beep. A high power scan coursed through the building, probably from a satellite aimed by the CIA, or NSA. Ten thousand little personal listening bugs went active inside the building. Some were so tiny they were placed in the ink used on dollar bills or imbedded in the plastic used to make buttons. The building became a giant microphone. Listening to its inhabitants. Well, the dead don’t have much to say.

It took 15 seconds for a series of rapid fire infra red signals to determine that everyone in the building was dead. Ed had jimmied his way into the satellite used to send it, and watched it scan through the cooling bodies on the floor. Vincent had broken his leg as a child, and had several fake teeth. The satellite identified his body, read the heat signature, scanned the heart pulse and brainwaves.

Ed wondered if the tech who discovered Vincent’s electronically represented corpse would get a raise and a promotion, or fired and blacklisted. Probably the latter, considering there was no satellite signal showing the actual demise of the crime boss. Also nothing to track who’d killed him. Ed had made certain of that. He’d jacked into the satellite system and blanked it out during the time that Morgan and Tsang had been operating in the building. No one would be able to run back the tape and watch the death of Papa Vincent. And that would probably piss off a great many over paid government officials.

He watched another satellite scan the surrounding area of the building, trying to decide where any possible threats may have come from. Nothing there either.

Over and over again he watched the surveillance systems try to find Morgan and Tsang’s trail. As each technique was tried, Ed remembered the exact keystrokes he used to use when he was in the NSA to program the aiming of satellite signals, and gain adjustments on microphones. He grinned, remembering what it felt like to be an electronic blood hound. Remembering the feel of the keys beneath his fingers, and the sound of the operations room. He knew that the techs knew nothing. He knew what they were telling their bosses, ‘We’re working on it sir.’ and ‘Let me try something else sir.’ and the worst, ‘I don’t know, sir.’. Oh yeah, that really sucked telling your boss that one. Ed had only done it once when he worked NSA, and vowed never to do it again. He’d fill them full of bullshit before he ever let that nasty phrase fall out from between his lips.

His ego wanted to take credit for the data hole he’d left. He knew he couldn’t, But God how he wanted to leave some little hacker fingerprint. Some little nasty joke. Something ridiculous like Darth Vader flipping the bird, or a Chihuahua taking a dump. That would be funny s**t. They’d be talking about that for years. What a lost opportunity.

His silence was in it’s own way a kind of fingerprint, also the event itself I fingerprint. He’d blocked no less than eighty signals that no one else in the world even knew existed. Data investigators would know almost instantly that someone trained by the NSA would have been involved with the hole. They’d look for an insider. Then they’d look for retiree’s. Then they’d look for the ‘deceased’ operatives. They’d come across Ed’s old name, and maybe even go to the grave site. He doubted they’d exhume the body, they had computer chips to tell them if there was a body there. They could test the DNA, and they’d find it was a match. His identity was clear.

But….

With tonight’s little event, he’d left a different kind of fingerprint. The NSA, Homeland security, CIA, and FBI would rip every absence of the data hole apart. They would be fooled once, but not twice. Ed would have to completely change his style from tonight’s actions. But even then, if he screwed with the satellite signals again, and blanked out the bugs again…. They would know. And they’d be all over his a*s in a heartbeat.

He’d explained all of this to Morgan, who said he understood and would shoulder the risk.

Ed trusted him...But damn. He felt like he’d just thrown out his last ace. From now on he’d have to play from a different deck, in a different game, in a different town, on a different planet. Otherwise they’d track him down, and damn quickly too.

He shook his head and continued to watch the building. He guessed that within a few minutes several vehicles would show up on the doorstep, oozing technicians and equipment designed for tracking and evidence identification.

The orange glow of the screen was starting to give him a headache. He decided to shut down the console and let the chips fall. There was nothing he could do now except watch and worry. He’d rather let his mind chew through the possibilities of the next leg of their journey, than agonize over the path of this one.

He sighed, and walked out the door, passing his wrist over the scanner on the way out. The door shut behind him silently. He needed to burn up some of his nervousness. Maybe Jimmy was up for a little workout.

Ed walked through the cold hallway towards the training gym. Computer systems on his mind. His future, and the future of his friends on his mind. His head thumping, and his bones aching.

Morgan sat down to his console after showering and getting another infusion.

The drive back to the complex had been quick and quiet. Tsang didn’t have much to say. They agreed they would meet up later, to discuss their meeting with Dr. Marcus, after they had a chance to get the evening's events out of their heads.

Morgan still felt a shadow of Papa Vincent in his head. He could still feel the lingering fear and pain of the man. There was a possibility that he was cross linking the dead man's feelings with those he felt the day that his wife and daughter were killed, but he doubted it. Morgan was uncertain what he’d done when he’d encapsulated the dead man’s spirit, or what the purpose of that ability was, or was meant for. It could very easily be just another strange mutation caused by the amplification of their minds. It didn’t matter. It was still a good way to get information from a dead man.

But Morgan was concerned about the cost of such a gift.

He shook the questions out of his mind, and set about his task. A letter, written to an old friend in the NSA. A man who had taught Morgan how to trust.

Hey Jack.

How are things in the NSA? I know you and Nate have been watching events progress on the East Coast. Because I’ve been watching you.

Sadly, I still can’t give you the full details of the organization I am currently involved with. It is truly regrettable. The people I work with, and the technology we wield would do wonders for the purpose of national security. However, Although you have my complete trust and faith, the organization with which you are associated remains now and forever in my ill favor. The NSA never did me any favors, and hung me out to dry when I needed it’s support the most.

All I am willing to tell you, for now, is that the East Coast Crime Syndicate is dead. Papa Vincent is dead, along with most of his closest friends and associates. This was accomplished with only a handful of individuals that I’ve had the distinct honor to lead.

I’m writing you this letter to convey my deepest hope, that with the syndicate destroyed, and its few remaining members scattered, your organization will consider this an opportunity to set in place appropriate contingencies to dissuade further criminal footholds in the area.

Honestly, old friend, I don’t believe my advice will be taken. But do what you can.

In the meantime, take care of yourself, and be safe. Tell Grace and the kids ‘hi’ for me, and congratulations to your brother for his promotion. I don’t expect I’ll see any of you again, which is a deep sore spot for me, but you are on my mind and in my heart. I hope that my actions here will allow your family to sleep a little easier at night.

One last thing I’d like to request of you. I saw the other day that you visited Marcy and Jenny’s graves. I want to thank you for that, and request that you continue to do so. At least every once in awhile.  

Goodbye old friend,

Morgan.

P.S.

Left you a little something in the chest cavity of Papa Vincent’s body. I think you’ll remember it. Consider it a gift from one old soldier to another.

Morgan sat back and read the letter several times, deciding whether or not to send it. It was a foolish thing to do, but he really did respect Jack. But, the bureaucratic current that surrounds anything government based can sweep up even the most honorable of men, and twist their loyalties.

He sighed. Gave the letter one last look, and sent it.

After it was gone, and he’d covered his tracks, he turned his thoughts to his next task; organizing the execution list. Vincent had actually given him some pretty startling information about who he’d been involved with around the time of his family’s murder. Most of the names the mob boss dropped were names that he already knew. But, towards the end, the old man let go a couple names that shocked Morgan. He needed to research these new names before he could move forward with their executions.

Morgan’s fingers flowed over the keyboard, and he began drinking the information given to him by the yellow glow of the computer. The room was dark, and so was his mood, unconsciously he slid into the Field, the inner field, the one that held the screams of the his wife and child, and the burning house.

He walked through the shattered memory landscape, taking in all the horrifying sights. He used the images to remind himself that there could be a hell on earth for those people who chose to know it. He heard the snapping of the fire as it consumed his former home. He could look over and still see the silhouetted shapes of his wife and daughter if he wanted to. But he didn’t.

He came here to hate. To seethe. The letters passing across the monitor in front of his real eyes filtered the information into his ethereal ones. They memorized everything. He put names to faces and vice versa. He updated his personal grudge library. More people to chat with in the near future, for certain.

He hadn’t thought enough about the problem associated with the ending of the syndicate. He needed to keep his people, and his aggression, moving forward or this little group of maniacs would rip itself to pieces. But, Tsang had offered him a temporary relief: The Yakuza. That would keep his people busy for a bit. At least long enough for Morgan to organize his next move. He needed some time to let Tsang work though, and this would require some patience.

The grass under his feet, the smell of hot brick and burning wood, kept the taste of his anger fresh and clear. Morgan’s war raged.