----------------------------------------
Back From the Dead
by Lianne Burwell
July 2000
----------------------------------------

Carl Lyons, former LAPD cop and more recently an agent of 
the Special Operations Group, grabbed his duffel and was 
already out of the helicopter before it had fully settled 
onto the pad. Over to the side, a jeep sat waiting. 
Assuming that this was his ride, Carl headed that way.

The red-head behind the wheel was dressed casually in blue 
jeans and a men's flannel shirt and her hair pulled back 
into a simple ponytail, but she still managed to look like 
she had just stepped off the cover of a men's magazine -- 
clothing optional. Carl pasted on his most ingratiating 
smile, fighting down a flash of jealousy. *He* was dressed 
in one of the two suits he owned, along with a tie. He 
hated wearing suits. Unfortunately, his job seemed to 
require them more and more these days. Hopefully with the 
new job he would be able to dump them.

"Hi, I'm..."

"Carl Lyons," she interrupted him. Carl's smile turned 
rueful. Of course she knew who he was.

The woman suddenly smiled, all impish mischief. "I know, 
not fair. My name is April Rose. I run this place."

Carl's eyebrows went up. "Run how?" he asked.

"I'm your mission controller. I'm also manager of the farm 
and all the personnel here."

Immediately, Carl was all business. Getting along with your 
boss was one thing. Trying to get into her pants was most 
definitely another. She had just joined the ranks of the 
untouchable as far as he was concerned. Pity. "Pleasure," 
he said.

Her smile said that she hadn't missed the sudden shift in 
attitude. "Toss your bag in back," she said, pointing with 
her thumb, "then climb in. I'll give you a mini-tour before 
we get you settled in."

Carl did as directed and she put the jeep in gear. "We have 
our own landing strip," she continued. "Although it can't 
handle anything too large, and a helipad that can handle 
any helicopter, no matter how large. Generally speaking, 
we're more likely to be using helicopters if anyone needs 
to fly in or out. Jack Grimaldi is our chief pilot, but we 
are recruiting a full complement of pilots, training them 
to use a variety of aircraft."

Carl winced slightly at the mention of Grimaldi. It wasn't 
that he didn't like the man; he barely knew him, after all. 
No, it was the fact that in his mind, Grimaldi was 
associated with one man. A dead man.

Mack Bolan.

Carl's jaw tensed as he listened with half his attention as 
April continued to explain how the Stony Farm, as well as 
serving as base for whatever it was he'd been drafted to, 
was also an actual working farm, for camouflage purposes.

The rest of him was lost in memories of the man he'd first 
fought against, then fought with. The man who had saved his 
life on more than one occasion.

Mack Bolan. The man was a legend, well on his way to 
becoming a myth. A Vietnam veteran who had lost all of his 
family except a younger brother to the organization 
poisoning their country, the Mafia. He'd gone on a one-man 
campaign to eradicate that organization and amazingly, it 
had seemed like he was winning.

Carl had met Mack during one of the battles in his 
campaign. They'd faced each other over the barrels of their 
guns in LA, back when Carl had been a cop and Mack had been 
hunted not only by the Mob, but by the law that considered 
him a dangerous vigilante and killer. Even though they'd 
met over the barrel of Carl's gun, Mack had let him live. 
Since then, Carl had come to sympathize with his cause, one 
of the reasons why he'd left the LAPD for the Special 
Operations Group, or SOG. It was a chance to take part in 
the larger war, rather than limiting himself to one city. 
From there, he'd been tapped for this new organization.

Mack was his inspiration, you could say, and his death had 
hit Carl hard. He still expected to wake up and find that 
it had all been some sort of strange dream, that Mack was 
still out there, still fighting the good fight.

But it had been several months and that hadn't happened 
yet.

"So, Mr. Lyons, what do you think of our organization?"

"Carl, please," he said, shaking off his dark mood. "And 
since I know next to nothing, I can't really say much."

She frowned, even the small wrinkles between her eyebrows 
looking attractive. Carl couldn't help wondering how 
someone so attractive could end up in her job. "What did 
they tell you?"

"That a new anti-terrorist team was being put together and 
that I'd been requested."

"And you came based just on that?" There was a note of 
disbelief in her voice.

Carl shrugged. "Why not? Someone needs to do it."

April shook her head. "Well," she finally said, "that is 
basically accurate. Terrorist activity, both homegrown and 
international types, are on the rise. Local law enforcement 
doesn't always have the training to deal with it, and the 
organizations that do often can't deploy fast enough. As 
well, red tape can cause problems that delay response until 
it's too late, as you probably well know."

Carl snorted. "Far too well. And then the politicos second 
guess you to death after the fact."

"Exactly. What we are building here is an organization that 
reports directly to the Oval Office and can deploy on a 
moments notice. The core will be two teams, one for 
domestic operations and one for foreign. The foreign team 
is being recruited internationally. We have a buy in from 
several first world countries. We've already recruited from 
England and Japan. We've got feelers out on a couple 
experts from Canada and Israel. With any luck, the team 
will be complete by week's end. We're planning on five core 
members."

From her tone, that wasn't the team he was intended for. 
Carl was a little relieved. While he liked the idea of the 
team she was talking about, he preferred to work a little 
closer to home. "And the other team?"

"The domestic team will be smaller, just three members. The 
other two will be arriving this afternoon. You'll meet them 
then. Your team will take on the domestic incidents that 
are too big for the locals. Your cover will be as agents of 
the Department of Justice -- appropriate since we report to 
the president through a member of that department."

"Really?" Carl asked curiously. "Who?"

"Hal Brognola. I believe you know him?"

The corner of Carl's mouth quirked up into a smile. "Yeah, 
I guess you could say that."

As they were talking, April aimed the jeep at the cluster 
of buildings that seemed to be the heart of the farm. Two 
small buildings flanked the main house, and he just could 
see a barn in behind them. She pulled the jeep to a stop in 
front of the main building's doors where a tall man stood 
waiting on the porch.

"You're in room seven, for now. We'll supply you with 
storage space on the third floor for personals, since rooms 
are being assigned on a per-visit basis, although that 
might change. Colonel Phoenix will show you the way."

Carl hopped out of the jeep, grabbing his duffel out of the 
back. Immediately, April pulled away, heading around the 
building. "Quite the lady," he commented before turning 
back to the waiting Colonel. He frowned. There was 
something familiar about the man who wore scars of recent 
cosmetic surgery. He just couldn't quite put his finger on 
it...

"Yeah, she's something else, isn't she," the man replied, a 
warm look in his eyes as he watched the jeep disappear from 
sight.

The sound of that voice shot through Carl. Without even 
noticing, he dropped his bags, staring in disbelief. The 
face was unfamiliar, but then the man had already had two 
in the time he'd known him. But even though the face 
changed, the voice didn't.

"Mack?" Carl's voice cracked.

The man's face twisted into a wry grin. "John Phoenix, 
now."

Carl tried to speak, but his voice didn't seem to be 
working. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, but 
nothing found its way past the large lump forming in his 
throat.

Mack waited sympathetically until Carl was able to control 
his emotions. When he was sure he wasn't going to do 
anything inappropriate -- like cry, for instance -- Carl 
stepped forward, then swept Mack into a bear hug.

Then he stepped back and clenched his fist, fighting the 
urge to nail the man, right on the jaw. "You son of a 
bitch..." he ground out.

Mack brought up his hands defensively. "Hey, easy Ironman. 
Couldn't let you know too soon. After all, we've worked 
together, and if they thought the death was faked, they 
might have been watching you to see if I contacted you."

"But damnit, couldn't you have told me sooner? I..." Carl 
shut his mouth. His emotions were running away with him. He 
took a moment to get them back under control.

Mack's expression softened. "I know. You're the first to 
find out. Pol and Gadgets won't know until they arrive. And 
Johnny... He won't know for a while yet. If ever."

Carl winced. He'd never actually met Mack's younger 
brother, but he knew that he was Mack's only surviving 
family. And if Carl was a potential target for surveillance 
from the mob, Johnny Bolan would be watched even closer. 
Carl knew that Mack would have arranged protection, but his 
absence was the best protection of all, no matter how much 
it might hurt.

Then he frowned. "Pol and Gadgets?" he asked.

He wasn't sure why he was surprised. Rosario "Politician" 
Blancanales and Hermann "Gadgets" Schwartz were long-time 
allies of Mac's, going back to his days in Vietnam, long 
before Carl ever met him. Now knowing that Mack was helping 
to set up this outfit, it stood to reason that they would 
be coming in too.

"Yep. I figure that the three of you should be able to 
handle just about anything that comes your way. Gadgets for 
the technical side, Pol for the liaison and negotiating. 
You for muscle and tactical."

"Where do you fit in?"

Mack shrugged, a movement as familiar as the voice was. 
"Agent at large, I guess you could say. I'll be working 
solo, mostly, with Grimaldi as backup. From time to time, 
I'll work with Able Team or Phoenix Force, or members of 
those teams." He snorted. "You know me, I don't play well 
with others."

Carl echoed the sound. "Everyone knows *that*," he said, 
although he was a little disappointed to hear that they 
wouldn't be working together on a more regular basis. "So 
the domestic team is Able Team and Phoenix Force is 
international?" he said more than asked. In Vietnam, 
Bolan's team, the one Pol and Gadgets had been part of, was 
called the Able Group. And Phoenix Force was no doubt named 
after his new moniker, to go along with the new mission.

And that new name... John Phoenix. Carl would bet money 
that the John part was for his brother. And Phoenix to 
symbolize the new life rising out of the ashes of Bolan's 
fiery death. An altogether fitting name.

As they talked, Mack had led him from the porch into the 
main house. "The first floor is pretty standard. Kitchen, 
dining room, den, the quarters for the house staff, as well 
as the security headquarters. The briefing rooms and 
offices are in the basement. Living quarters are on the 
second floor, and storage is on the third."

The stairs to the second floor were right inside the door 
and Mack headed for it immediately. At the top of the 
stairs, he turned left and headed almost to the end of the 
corridor. Each door had a brass number on it. Mack stopped 
and opened the door labeled with a seven. Inside was a 
simple, almost austere room. The only thing that stood out 
was the bed. It was a king-sized, four poster affair, which 
Carl was very glad to see. Topping six feet, he wouldn't 
want to sleep in anything smaller. He dropped his duffel on 
the floor next to the door and turned around.

Mack had shut the door and was now standing there leaning 
against the doorway, all long lines and grace. Even with a 
different face, Carl would have recognized him in a crowd 
looking like that. It was a sight that he'd finally 
resigned himself to never seeing again.

Carl felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

Then relief was followed by anger. He had spent *months* 
mourning the bastard, only to have him turn up alive and 
well, with a new face and a bunch of new friends, working 
for a new organization, and only a half-assed apology for 
putting everyone through...

This time, Carl didn't stop himself; his fist connected 
with Mack's jaw with enough force to knock the man off his 
feet. Mack went down hard and stayed there. He leaned back 
against the door, rubbing his chin. "Feel better?" he asked 
mildly.

Carl didn't say a word. He pulled the other man to his feet 
and briefly considered slugging him again. The idea was 
very tempting.

Instead, he settled for pinning the man against the door 
and kissing him. Hard.

And he found that while Mack might *look* different, like 
his voice and his walk, he still kissed the same. He was 
like a force of nature, sweeping along everything in his 
path. Carl just closed his eyes and hung on for the ride.

He vaguely processed the sound of the door being locked 
behind them, then callused hands were tearing at his 
clothes. The jacket of his suit hit the ground first in an 
undignified heap. His tie landed on top of it in a silky 
coil. Then Mack was attacking the buttons of his dress 
shirt.

"I'm still pissed at you," Carl groaned as a hot mouth 
fastened onto the side of his neck. His breath caught and 
his cock swelled: his neck had always been a hot spot for 
him.

Mack pulled away long enough to reply, "I know," before 
going back to what he was doing.

Actually, Carl was finding it difficult to hang onto his 
anger. Lust was short-circuiting his brain and everything 
in it. And Mack, damn him, knew exactly what sort of effect 
he was having, thanks to past experience.

The back of Carl's legs hit the edge of the bed and he 
realized suddenly that his pants were down around his 
ankles and that busy hands were pushing at the waistband of 
his briefs. Sighing, he decided to give up.

"Enough!" he said. He pulled away from Mack and sat down. 
He toed out of his shoes easily, then disposed of the rest 
of his clothing. His suit was going to need pressing before 
he could wear it again, but with any luck, he wouldn't have 
to for a very long time. Then he looked up at the man 
standing in front of him.

If Mack had looked smug, Carl's anger might have flared 
back to life, but all he saw in the man's eyes was a heat 
to match his own.

Fully naked now, Carl leaned back on his elbows, his legs 
splayed to display his very eager erection pointing at the 
ceiling. "Well?" he asked, one eyebrow up in challenge.

With the same quick, controlled motions he used in battle, 
Mack stripped bare, then advanced on Carl. Carl moved back 
on the bed to lie flat and Mack followed him until he was 
on all fours, straddling him. He paused and grinned a feral 
grin before moving forward again.

Carl licked his lips, his mouth filling with saliva and his 
eyes firmly fixed on the prize coming towards him. The 
heavy scent of male musk filled the air, making his nose 
prickle. His lips parted and he let his eyelids fall to 
half-mast as the fleshy crown pushed into his mouth. The 
angle didn't allow him to take all of Mack's cock down his 
throat, so he concentrated on the head and the sensitive 
flesh below it, his hands coming up to pump what wouldn't 
fit in. Above him, he heard Mack groan, a lush sound.

The flavor exploded on his tongue, making Carl groan too, 
and he threw himself into his work. He ran his tongue over 
the fleshy helmet in his mouth, then probed the slit with 
the tip of his tongue and was rewarded with a small squirt 
pre-cum. Then he released Mack's cock and sucked and -- 
very carefully -- nibbled his way down the underside until 
he reached the heavy balls hanging underneath. They were 
too large for Carl to fit both into his mouth at the same 
time, so he settled for sucking in first one, then the 
other.

He was going to move back up to Mack's cock when the other 
man pulled away. Carl growled and reached for the 
retreating hips. Then he saw the familiar tube in the man's 
hand and relaxed again.

"You stashed that here?" he asked with a grin, reaching 
down to pull his knees up and apart to give Mack better 
access. "You think I'm easy or something?"

Mack snorted. "If the shoe fits..." he said. He unscrewed 
the cap, then seemed to think twice. With a wicked 
expression, he reached down and pushed the tip into Carl's 
anus and squeezed.

Carl gasped as the cool gel hit sensitive tissues, then 
moaned as it was followed by thick and very warm fingers. 
He clenched his ass around them, certain that he could feel 
each individual callous, and they responded by forcing him 
open even wider.

Then the fingers were gone and he was experiencing the one 
sensation he loved more than just about any other: a hot 
cock forcing its way deep inside his bowels. Some might say 
it wasn't proper or manly to enjoy that feeling, but Carl 
didn't give a fuck. He loved it and he wasn't going to stop 
enjoying it simply because some no-neck yahoo hadn't been 
properly fucked yet. Certainly, he couldn't see anyone 
doing this and feeling it was wrong by the time they were 
done.

Of course, having a partner that knew what he (or she, with 
artificial attachments) was doing made all the difference 
in the world, and Mack certainly knew what he was doing. 
Once he was sure that Carl had adjusted, he set up the 
perfect pounding rhythm. He varied the angle on every 
thrust so that Carl couldn't tell when his prostate was 
going to be hit, making those hits all the more electric.

Carl wrapped his legs around Mack's torso and dug his heels 
into the small of the man's back, using them to urge him 
into a faster, harder, deeper tempo. Mack obliged him, and 
Carl grunted his approval. He reached down and started 
pumping his own cock. He could already feel his balls 
drawing up in preparation, then...

"Fuck, yessssssss," he groaned as he shot his wad, turning 
them both into a gooey mess. He was squeezing the last few 
dribbles out when he heard Mack's drawn out groan as he too 
finished.

Ever the considerate lover, Mack pulled out slowly, 
carefully, then moved to the side before dropping onto the 
mattress. Carl grinned at the ceiling, enjoying the feeling 
of the slow seep of fluids from his ass. He felt more 
relaxed that he could remember being since the day he'd 
seen the news report on the death of Mack Bolan, victim of 
an explosion in Central Park that completely destroyed his 
War Wagon.

That thought reminded him of just how pissed off he'd been 
earlier.

Carl rolled over to glare at Mack. "Don't *ever* do that 
again," he said, although there was little heat in the look 
or the words.

"Do what? Fuck you?"

Carl smacked the man on the arm, none too gently. "Don't 
die on us again."

"Can't promise that."

Carl rolled his eyes. "Fine, then promise me this. If you 
die again, it'll be for *real*. None of this fake death 
without telling anyone shit. *Some* of us care, you know."

Mack turned to face Carl. He was silent for a moment, then 
sighed. "Fine. If I ever fake my death again, I'll make 
sure you know about it."

"Or don't come back," Carl mark-growled. "And if you let me 
know ahead of time, maybe I can help you fake a slightly 
less melodramatic death."

"Deal." Mack paused, then went serious. "And the other 
comment..."

"Which one?"

"The one about not fucking you again." Mack looked almost 
guilty. Carl had a sneaking suspicion about what was 
coming. He'd seen the light in Mack's eyes when he watched 
April Rose drive away and had recognized it. Mack was in 
love, and from past history, he knew that Mack had a 
distressing tendency to go monogamous when he was really 
serious about someone.

"Let me guess," he said, deciding not to torture the man. 
"You and the young lady who picked me up are an item, which 
means this was a last fuck."

Mack nodded. "I know, it wasn't fair of me, but you so 
looked like you needed--"

"A good fuck," Carl finished for him with a grin that 
wasn't even forced. "And it was the best. So damned good 
that no one will ever be able to measure up. And since it 
was the last time, I suppose I'll just have to turn 
celibate."

Mack stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back 
and laughed. A great rolling laugh that filled the room 
with merriment. Carl found himself chuckling along, more 
than a little surprised. He couldn't remember having ever 
heard Mack laugh, at least not like that. And Mack looked 
so relaxed. Carl could have told himself that it was 
because he was good in the sack, but he guessed it was more 
due to the lady. It made accepting the no--more-sex rule a 
little easier to take.

"Carl, the day you become celibate is the day that the 
Earth stops spinning," Mack finally said, wiping away a 
stray tear of amusement.

Carl couldn't help snickering. Mack was right, he wasn't 
the celibate type. He loved sex and he loved everything 
that went with it. However, unlike Mack, fidelity wasn't 
something that came easy to him. Just ask his ex-wife. It 
was one of the reasons why he hadn't seen his son in years, 
along with the potential fatality of his work. "Point to 
you," he said, still chuckling. "But working around here, 
finding a good fuck might be a problem if you're off-
limits."

Mack's expression turned sly. "Oh, you might be surprised."

The sound of a plane flying low overhead -- probably one of 
those fancy personal jets -- interrupted them before Carl 
could demand an explanation for the comment. Immediately, 
Mack was out of bed and grabbing his clothes.

"That will be Pol and Gadgets," he said, pulling on his 
jeans. "I need to go meet them. Hopefully, *they* won't 
need to make their displeasure known with their fists, but 
I have the feeling they will." His lips quirked up. Carl 
could see the bruise already forming on the man's chin. It 
was going to be a doozy, and he agreed with Mack that it 
probably wasn't going to be lonely for long.

Still, "Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where 
to find me," Carl grinned. He would never be stupid enough 
to kick the man out of his bed. Mack fucked like he did 
everything else; focused and better than anyone else.

Mack headed for the door and unlocked it. Then he turned 
back. "Get your rest, Ironman. There's a briefing at dinner 
and training starts tomorrow. Somehow, I think Able Team is 
going to be needed sooner rather than later. Stay hard."

With his usual parting comment, he was gone.

Carl looked down, then snorted. He was definitely following 
*that* piece of advice. "Don't you ever get tired?" he 
asked the anatomy in question, then reached down to take 
care of that not-so-little problem. Shower and nap could 
wait.

Sometimes he wondered just where Mack had come up with that 
phrase, considering just how suggestive it was. And he 
wondered what the man knew that *he* didn't.

Already feeling the warning signs, he thought about his new 
partners. Pol, all silver-haired Hispanic elegance, older 
but in damned good shape. He could just imagine the talent 
in the man's long fingered hands. And Gadgets, with that 
gorgeous dark hair and bushy mustache that he could just 
imagine feeling against...

The imagery hit him where it counted and he added a second 
load to the one drying in sticky patches all over his 
stomach. Mack had to be feeling *very* uncomfortable by 
now, considering he'd dressed without cleaning up before 
going meet the plane.

A shower was a good idea, but Carl was too relaxed to move. 
He shifted his pillow to a more comfortable position, then 
closed his eyes for a little nap.

As he lay there, he though wistfully of Mack and his new 
love. It had been a long time since Carl had been in love 
himself, although he could have easily fallen for Mack. But 
falling in love with Mack would have been a *big* mistake, 
considering his one-man war on the Mob. His reaction to the 
man's 'death' in Central Park had pointed out just how wise 
that decision was.

Still, he wished someone would look at him the way Mack 
looked at April.

But in the meantime, as he drifted off, he wondered how he 
could convince his new partners to make his masturbation 
imagery reality.

After all, what were partners for?


NOT THE END