Crime and Punishment by Ellison Wonderland Part I ac took his accustomed seat in the director's office, listening to the banter between Victor and Li Ann, watching them slide into their chairs next to him, oblivious to his dark mood. Or ignoring it. He didn't know which. Idly, Mac rubbed his chin with one hand and wondered which of them he loved, which he hated. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. All he knew was that he had almost died in the past week—twice for goddsakes—and the rest of the world seemed to be able to carry on as if nothing had happened. What was wrong with them? Didn't they see it? Couldn't they feel it? Didn't they know that the world was a different place now for Mac Ramsey? Jeez. You would think his friends would notice something. As if hearing his thoughts, Li Ann turned and gave him a half-frown, before swinging back to Vic's rambling story about some date or other that went horribly wrong. As though Mansfield could score with Mac in the room. Fuck them both, anyway. God, he was tired. If he could just get some sleep. He yawned noisily. The other two continued to ignore him. So what if he'd almost died of heart failure from some stupid poison in a seedy bar. And it had smelt like strawberries. He had liked the scent of it, breathed deep. And then keeled over, his heart stopping, unable to feel his arms and legs, unable to move. Somehow, after reading lots of new age crap, he was sure that that was some kind of fucking metaphor for his life. And then there had been the vision. Mac shuddered. People wrote about tunnels of light, relatives who had "passed over", angels and saints appearing to welcome them into heaven. He crushed his takeout coffee cup, mangling it as he thought about what he had seen. Fuck it, he wasn't going to go there. Not now. Not today. Not ever. Li Ann had saved him, of course. Injecting the antidote straight into his left ventricle. Not even breaking a sweat. He remembered the impassive, intent look of concentration on her face, and then he had seen... No, he was not going to go there. And as if that wasn't bad enough, some crazy environmentalist had forced him into a coffin and nailed it shut, sticking an oxygen mask on his face with gentle, politically correct fingers, before shipping him off to Hong Kong. To the Tangs. His loving family. Until Li Ann and Vic showed up and saved his ass for the second time. Thanks guys. And now there was the dream. Over and over. The same dream. What had Li Ann said once? Something about recurring dreams meaning something, premonitions of what was to come. Or who. Yeah, well, this dream didn't mean shit. Where was the director anyway? It wasn't like her to keep them idle on company time. As if conjured up by Mac's dark thoughts, the lady herself breezed in through the door, a large pile of folders in her arms, and leather like sin on every other part of her body. "Good morning children," she said, doing her usual sex-as-management routine. "I trust you're all your usual sweet selves." Here she looked closely at Mac, as though daring him to say something. When he didn't respond, she nodded as if satisfied, and proclaimed to the room: "Vassily Kostavich is in town." Mac glanced around quickly to make sure that everyone else looked as blank as he did. "Vassily Kostavich," repeated the director with a smirk, "the head of the Russian mafia, is in town, and I'm feeling a little literary. A little Dostoevsky, perhaps?" she said with an inquiring smile, impossibly sweet. "Or is it the bard?" Nobody replied. She seemed to be talking to herself anyway. Pursing her lips in annoyance, the director began tossing folders at Vic. "Dostoevsky," she said. A folder smacked in front of him. "Crime..." she said, dropping another five folders on Vic's hands as he reached for the first one. "And punishment," she continued, dropping one slim volume each in front of Mac and Li Ann. "Whose?" quipped Mac with a grin. He felt his black mood lifting a little. "Oh yours, I think," purred the director, snaking out a finger to trace a quick line across his throat. Mac swallowed uneasily. He could see Vic smirking at him out of the corner of one eye. He wanted to wipe the smirk off those soft, full lips. Shit. He looked guiltily at Li Ann, wondering if she had caught that last bit. Sometimes, he could swear that the damn woman could read his mind. Er, well, not damn woman really. No, still no change to her look of icy composure. Mac relaxed marginally. Psychic this, new age that, visions, dreams... he was turning into a one-man freakshow. And he was not happy. He wanted his simple, uncomplicated life back. Catch the bad guys, plague Vic, get laid, and then some Hong Kong prawns for afters. Was that too much to ask out of life? The director was talking again. He decided to pay attention. "...the capo of five New York crime families." She paused. It was alright. This all seemed to be directed at Vic. "More than a dozen of the best-connected crime lords have hit town in the last week. And your job is to find out why." She turned to Mac and Li Ann. "We already know one thing," she continued, gesturing at their folders. Mac opened his gingerly. It seemed to contain a programme for a play. "Summer Shakespeare?" he asked in surprise. "That's right," said the director, a huge grin on her face. This could not be good. He had never seen her smile so broadly before. It reminded him of a boa constrictor. "Bard on the beach," she continued, smile even bigger (if that was possible) at the giggles coming from next to Mac. Li Ann was giggling. Vic was looking as astonished as Mac felt. Li Ann was definitely giggling. Mac groaned—he remembered that look on her face. He had last seen it in Hong Kong. The happiest he had ever seen her. And it was not after making love. She had just won the lead in an amateur dramatics production of "Hamlet". Unbidden, the reviews flashed before his eyes as if he were dying. Of course, he knew what that felt like now. "Worst Ophelia since Britain annexed Hong Kong". And that had been the kindest one. With shaking fingers, he lifted the programme for a closer look. His eyes seemed to be having trouble focusing. Shit. He had known what it would say of course. Hamlet. Most of his groan was absorbed into his fists. At least he hoped it was. Li Ann was looking at him as if he had just offered her a strawberry- scented phial to sniff. "Li Ann," said the director, ignoring the glares flashing between the partners, "you are a minor actress from Hong Kong who happens to be related to one of the sponsors of this year's Summer Shakespeare. Nepotism being what it is in this bad old world, that was enough to get you the part of Ophelia. Which should be no trouble for you. I understand you've played it before?" There was a look of unholy glee on the director's face. Li Ann was smiling shyly. "Yes," she said. Shit. Did Li Ann just simper? "Very good," said the Director approvingly. "At least one of my children has some useful talents." Mac wondered if it was possible to die from suppressed laughter. "And you," she said, turning to Mac with an accusing finger, "will be an extra." "An extra?" he screeched with outrage. Vic's shout of laughter did nothing to endear the man to him. "I understand extras are very important to the overall success of the play." Mac choked. He could still hear Vic chortling. "Of course, there's more for a man of your, er, talents," the Director continued. "You will also be the duel choreographer, teaching the actors how to use their, er, fake swords, and choreographing every move of their duels." "There's a lot of fighting in Hamlet," said Li Ann encouragingly, as though she suddenly wanted the whole world to be happy. Mac couldn't remember the last time she'd looked at him like that. He didn't mean to, but even so he felt himself sitting a little straighter, feeling a little brighter. "Great," he said, and was rewarded with a beaming smile. Oh yes, he could get used to that. "Let me see if I've got this right," said Vic slowly. "I have to spy on twelve of the most powerful crime bosses in the world, and find out what they're doing in Vancouver, and they get to be in a play. Fucking Shakespeare, no less. What am I missing here?" "It's quite simple, Victor," said the director. Her sneer was firmly back in place. "I told you I was feeling literary." "And still, I'm in the dark," Vic sneered back, an edge to his voice. Despite himself, Mac was rooting for his partner. Oh shit. That was an image he could have done without. Mac shivered. "Well, Victor, the one thing we know for certain, is that someone from this little menagerie of criminals has put money into this year's production of Summer Shakespeare. And it may be political. The government is one of the other sponsors of this little actor-fest. There's also talk of taking the play on tour this year, to Washington DC. There's something going on here, interesting enough to have the CIA sniffing around in my backyard." She thumped the table suddenly. Mac jumped. "We do not like the CIA playing in my backyard, do we Mac?" "No ma'am," he assented automatically. "Ma'am?" he heard Mansfield snort. Asshole. "So your job, Mac and Li Ann, is to find out why one of the world's most powerful criminals is interested in a pissant little production of Shakespeare—in a tent, I believe." Her lip curled. It was not a pleasant sight. "It's a marquee," said Li Ann defensively. What, no barbed little comment from Mansfield this time? Anyone would think that he had it in for Mac. "Talk to the actors. Play your parts. And wait. You don't need me to tell you how to do your jobs?" "No ma'am," said Li Ann. Mac and Vic both snickered at the same time. "Besides, Victor, you won't be stalking organised crime all on your little lonesome." "I won't?" asked Vic cautiously. "Let's just say we have our own little piece of flawless camouflage for that particular world," she replied. "Jackie," groaned Vic. It was Mac's turn to laugh. Oh yes, he was definitely feeling better. So what if he'd almost died (twice), had a near death experience, and was haunted by fucking nightmares. Vic had to go visit crime bosses with Jackie in tow. Oh yes. Life had its sweet moments. "On your way, children. Li Ann, you have all those lines to learn. Oh and Mac..." The three agents were already on their way out the door. Mac turned back to face his boss/tormentor, while Vic and Li Ann carried on. Already leaving him behind, he thought morosely. "You might like to have a look at this." She tossed him something that he snatched out of the air reflexively. It was a book about dreams. The director's laughter followed him out the door. Part II Mac thought seriously about knocking on Li Ann's door. But his brain didn't seem to be working too clearly, and he decided that he didn't want to wake her up. He knew that he would have to wake her once he got inside, if he was actually going to go through with it and talk to her. Perhaps he could just slip into her bed and go to sleep like the old days. She might kill him when she woke up and found him there—nah, she needed his help to be the best damned Ophelia ever—or something. So Mac dug in his jacket pocket till he found his lock pick. Trouble was, it didn't seem to be working like it usually did. Perhaps it was the way his hands were shaking. Almost as though they belonged to someone else. He held out his hands and looked at them, really looked at them. Yep. Shaking. Shit. He fumbled the lock pick and dropped it, cursing quietly and fluently in Cantonese. He was going to have to get a new lock pick. Fucking useless piece of crap. Oh no, that was him, wasn't it? Mac slid down the wall and sat next to the door for a while, trying to get his breathing under control, sitting on his hands, trying to make them stop shaking. Ouch. He was sitting on the lock pick too. Fucking useless fucking sharp piece of crap. Or was that him as well? Welcome to my fucked up head, he thought to himself. Mac felt around for the lock pick. I'm touching my ass, he thought, with that same strange sense of displacement that he felt while inspecting his hands. He needed Li Ann. Now. She would know what to do, she would make this, this—whatever it was—go away. Hands shaking, breathing still out of control, he forced himself upright, leaning against the door as he slid sleek shiny metal into the lock and twisted. The door opened to a slight push, which was just as well. Mac didn't think he had the strength for anything more strenuous. Which was not so cool, really, when an arm like an iron band circled his throat and pulled him back against the wall, the cold muzzle of a gun pressing against his temple. Too tall, too muscular to be Li Ann. Shit. Someone was having a sleep-over, and they definitely didn't want a third wheel. Whoever it was flicked a switch, and Mac squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden flare of light. The arm around his neck was gone suddenly, and he sagged against the wall, finding it no easier to breathe with the constriction gone. He managed to raise his head and look at his attacker. Or was that his subduer? Vic. Oh no. Naked except for some rumpled, slept-in looking boxers. And a very pissed off look on his face. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Vic demanded in a cold voice. "It's 3 in the morning, for goddsakes." Mac struggled to breathe, not to panic, not to run. Vic was the last person on earth he wanted to see—well, maybe the second-last. And what was Vic doing in Li Ann's apartment anyway? Practically naked in the middle of the night. Briefly, Mac felt a stab of anger before that too was washed away in his tired brain, unable to compete with the panic, the sense of desperation that had driven him here in the first place. He tried, even so. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he demanded, shoving his traitorous shaking hands in his pockets, edging towards the door even as he tried to hold on to a sense of outrage. He didn't know what Vic could see in his eyes, in his face. Whatever it was, Vic threw the gun on the couch suddenly and dragged his hands through his soft, closely cropped hair. "Li Ann's away for the weekend. There have been some break-ins in this building and she asked me to house sit for her." Why you? Mac's eyes asked in mute accusation. The rest of him wanted to rub his own hands through Vic's hair. He didn't know why, but he thought that it might help him to calm down. It wasn't likely to have that effect on Vic though, so he decided not to try it. Vic was looking at him oddly. Was that shame? Embarrassment? "She trusts me to look after the place. To water her plants. And not to mess up her bathroom or break her CD player." Yes, there was a faint flush there. For the first time tonight, since the dream that had driven him here, Mac felt a little better. He liked to see Vic blush. Didn't happen often enough. "Sort of like a pet rabbit?" he suggested, enjoying the sight of Vic's cheeks getting redder. "Hey, can I help it if I'm fucking reliable?" he demanded, an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before, even when he'd been asking questions at gunpoint. You could push this man too far, thought Mac. The idea was oddly unsettling. He wanted to push Vic, and he really didn't know why. And this wasn't helping—or was it? He held out one hand for inspection. Yep. The shaking had stopped. "What are you doing?" asked Vic in astonishment, as they both watched Mac's outstretched hand. Mac ignored him. If he could go 20 seconds without a tremor, he was going home. Li Ann wasn't here anyway, so what was the fucking point? "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty," he counted out loud. Yep. Cured. Time to go home. "Mac, what's going on?" Vic asked, his voice soft, neutral, not quite as harsh as it usually was when aiming his barbs at Mac. "What's the matter, man? Why did you want to see Li Ann? You guys dating again?" Even Vic's eyes looked neutral now. Which answer will upset him the most? wondered Mac with a sense of enjoyment. So far he had lasted ten seconds with his other hand, stretched out motionless before him. Now if he could just make it through another ten, he was going to turn around and walk out the door, lock pick in hand, just another jaunty thief. Hey! No fair! How was the test going to work if Vic's fingers closed over his own, holding them steady? "Come and sit down," said Vic, tugging on his hand, pulling him over to the couch. Vic manhandled Mac onto the couch. Suddenly his legs didn't seem to be working so good. Like his brain. His shaky hands. His goddamn messed up life. He sat down heavily. Ouch. Again. This time he was sitting on Vic's gun. He felt the cold metal barrel between his cheeks, the denim of his jeans pulled so tight that it chafed him. How fitting, he thought. I'm wearing fuck-me pants that I haven't worn in five years, and I'm sitting on a pistol. If I let this cackle escape, will Vic tell the director? Will Dobrinsky come and take me away? All because of a dream? A lousy, stinking, nightmarish mother of a dream? Vic was closing and locking the door. Good little boyscout. Li Ann's little pet. Mac thought about moving over on the couch, shifting the gun, not having it pointing at his balls. But the effort seemed too great. He felt very tired all of a sudden. And he didn't care if his balls got shot off—in fact, it might be the best thing for the stupid, trouble-making bastards. "Drink this," snapped a voice above him, pulling his brains out of his pants. He looked up to see Vic hovering over him, a glass in one hand, bottle in the other. Mac reached blindly for the glass, felt Vic steady his shaking hand as he pushed the drink into it. He swallowed it in one go. Shit. Vodka. What a pissy little drink. He hated the stuff. "Bet Li Ann trusts you not to drink her booze too," he taunted, holding the glass out for a refill. "I'll tell her you did it," said Vic with the ghost of a smile. "And I'll have the advantage of truth on my side." Mac downed his second glass and held it out for a third time. The liquor was burning down his throat and settling in his empty stomach. Already he felt a slight buzz, as though the day's uneasiness was way behind him, the night's shattering dream a distant memory. Like it had happened to someone else. Some other Mac had heard at the morning's briefing that he was going to be an extra and teach fairies how to fight. Some other Mac had had the dream. Poor bastard. "Keep it coming," he hissed, not caring about the shakes. Now he could blame them on the booze. Excellent plan. So long as Vic didn't remember that he'd been shaking beforehand. Shit. The guy might be dumb, but he wasn't that dumb. "You're not that dumb," he said aloud to the man with the bottle, testing his theory. Vic grinned. "No I'm not," he agreed. "And since I'm the one with the bottle, you might want to be nice to me for a change." "Yeah right," muttered Mac. Sure. He could be nice to Vic. If he drank enough vodka, he could be nice to anyone. "So you want to tell me what's going on?" Vic asked, his tone still neutral. "Li Ann and I have an arrangement," Mac lied. "Sometimes, if we're horny, we get together. It's just sex. And a bit of cuddling," he added, deciding to be fair to Li Ann—if they had been having sex, there would definitely have been cuddling. "The team isn't disturbed," he continued, waving his half-full glass for emphasis. Vic swiped it out of his hand and threw it back himself, drawing Mac's eyes to his long, white throat, its muscles convulsing as they swallowed. Shit. Mac tried to think about Li Ann in a negligee but it didn't work. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything as erotic as Vic tossing back that vodka. Must be the dream. The dream he was not going to tell Vic about. No way, no how. "The director doesn't give a shit," he continued enthusiastically, getting into the swing of things. "Fuck, she probably sells the video tapes." "Uh huh," said Vic politely, not the slightest edge of scepticism in those faintly curving lips. "And you..." Mac faltered. "And I...?" Vic inquired, extending a refill towards his partner. "You..." the rest was muffled in the sounds of chugging. "Didn't catch that," said Vic, not quite smiling. "You don't seem to care much anymore," said Mac. "Either way." It came out more hesitantly than he had intended. Still, the strength of a lie was in the delivery—and this was surely a good one. "I see," said Vic. "So you turn up at Li Ann's apartment at 3 in the morning, white as a ghost, shaking like the proverbial leaf, banging around at the door and picking the lock so fucking loudly that you wake me up, and it's because you and Li Ann have a standing arrangement for casual sex. Excuse me while I run this past our panel of guest bullshit detectors." Vic looked around the room for a moment, as though consulting an imaginary panel, and then turned back to Mac, refilling his glass as he did so. Mac felt very small. Thank god the alcohol was cushioning him from it all - the pain, the fear, the memories, they all seemed a long way away. Vic, on the other hand, seemed entirely too close. "How do you think you scored in our bullshit stakes Mac?" asked Vic. But there was no biting sarcasm, just a gentle note of inquiry, as though he expected an honest answer from his inveterately dishonest partner. "Once a thief..." muttered Mac, trying to take the glass from Vic without having to look him in the eye. He missed. Shit. Vic was holding the glass out of reach. It felt like he was willing Mac to look up, forcing his eyes up from the floor. Mac squirmed on the gun. Its cool metal felt good against his ass. A good thief always had a way out. "I had...I had a dream," he heard himself say. Oh my god. He didn't just say that. He could not have said that. Please. "I just wanted to talk to her. Please." Great. Now he was begging. Vic handed him the glass and he drank it down in one go. Cheap, nasty vodka. How typical of Li Ann. Like her taste in men. Except Vic wasn't cheap, was he? He threw the glass against the wall, flinching as it struck, watching in disbelief as the wet fragments exploded outwards and rained down on Li Ann's beautiful, hand-woven carpet. As though somebody else had thrown it. "You are definitely getting the blame for that one," said Vic, handing him the bottle. "I should never have let you in," he added. "You didn't," said Mac, taking a swig from the bottle. "I broke in, remember?" "Tell me about the dream," said Vic quietly. Mac shuddered, dropped the bottle, shoved his shaking hands under his own body, holding them still by main force. His fingers connected with the gun barrel. It felt comforting, somehow. Vic was lightning fast. He snatched the bottle out of thin air, just before it hit the ground, and held it aloft like a grenade. He looked like he wanted to hit Mac with it. Fuck. Mac was willing to let him. "Tell me about the dream," Vic repeated, his voice harsher, his breathing rapid. Still, he had had to move pretty fast to save Li Ann from Mac. Her carpet, at least. Now who was going to save Mac from Mac? "I want to go home," he whispered, fingers curling around the gun. Fingers touching his ass. Another shudder ran through him, bone-deep. He felt like he would never stop shaking, never, ever again. "Tell me about the dream," Vic repeated. A fucking broken record. Out of time and out of place in this new age of CDs and computer theft. Just an old-fashioned boy. Like Mac could ever tell him about the dream. Officer "Pure Heart". "Shut the fuck up!" he screamed at Vic, pulling the gun out in one fluid movement and pointing it straight at his partner's chest. Where his heart would be. More damage to Li Ann's property, if he pulled the fucking trigger. Mac's hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't hold the gun still. Vic was looking at him in disbelief, shaking his head slowly as if Mac were a lost child and he the friendly policeman. He half expected Vic to say, "What's your mom's name, son?" As if Mac could have answered that one. "Tell me about the dream," Vic repeated firmly. The gun followed the glass, smash against the wall and then bouncing on the carpet. Vic didn't even move a muscle. "Tell me about the dream," he repeated gently. Mac sank back down on to the couch. As if he could have shot Vic. They were best friends, weren't they? "I'm so fucking tired," he whispered, head in his hands, giving in to Vic, as he had always known he would. "I'm sitting in a crowd of people. They're shouting, cheering. I look around and see that I'm in an audience, in an arena. Back in Hong Kong. There's a kick boxing match going on. They're really going at it. One of them is bleeding. I feel, I feel, I don't know, so fucking excited I guess, electric. And the noise, it's unbelievable. Like the shouts make each blow connect, like we're doing the fighting ourselves, somehow. "It's dark in the audience though. The spot light's on the ring. And it's smoky. Lots of drinking. I know that I've had a lot to drink. But I'm not sure what. Can't remember what. Just caught up in the moment, I guess. "And I'm so fucking excited. And then, then..." Mac stopped. He felt Vic's weight settle next to him on the couch. He didn't open his eyes. "And then?" Vic prompted, his voice neutral, perfectly calm. As though his partner hadn't just been waving a gun in his face. "I can't do this," pleaded Mac. Vic was inexorable, his voice commanding. "You were going to tell Li Ann," he pointed out. "Tell me." "There's a hand on my crotch," whispered Mac, turning his back on Vic, curling up on the couch, unable to bear the thought of his partner watching his face. "It's Michael. He's sitting next to me. And his hand's on my crotch. He tells me that I'm hard. He tells me that watching men hammer each other turns me on. He's turned on too, he says. He takes my hand. My hand is shaking, like it's wired or something. I don't know. He puts it on his cock. I can feel it through his suit trousers. Just a scrap of cloth between me and Michael Tang's cock. I've never touched another man like that before. It feels weird. But I still feel excited. Charged. There's something in the air. Like they're pumping coke out of the air vents, into my blood. "You like that, don't you, he whispers in my ear. He's so close. I can smell him. I can smell the blood from the ring. And then I realise it's not coming from there. He's cut me. Just a little scratch, from my ear, down my neck. And the knife's at my throat now. He tells me that I'm gonna suck him off, here, now, in front of everyone. Or he's gonna hurt me, hurt me bad. I'm gonna suck his fucking cock." Mac stopped. Vic's hand was on his shoulder, the fingers squeezing gently. He flashed to another nightmare; Vic in a broken barroom, holding in the sobs, Mac's hand on his shoulder, squeezing, comforting. Vic had patted his hand then. For just a moment. Comfort given and received. Like a karmic equation from one of his new age books, Mac thought that he could go on, that he could tell the rest, so long as those fingers stayed on his shoulder. The touch of those fingers—he could just feel that and not feel anything else, keep the world at bay until the story was done. What Vic would think of him afterwards, he didn't want to guess. "He held a knife to my throat. And he would have used it too. He leaned over, licked up a trickle of blood from my neck. Like a fucking vampire. And I was so excited. That's what I can't understand, can't forgive. I have never been so hard. "He made me undo his zip with my teeth, and take his cock out with my mouth. I had never done anything like this before, never even thought about it. It tasted, tasted like..." Mac stopped again, checked—the hand was still on his shoulder. Vic didn't hate him, not yet anyway. He could go on. "I swallowed him whole. Worked for it. It got so big in my mouth, stuffed down my throat. But he let me breathe. He was in a good mood that day. So I'm sucking his cock. In the dream that is. Just a dream." Vic gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "It's dark, but even so, people are starting to notice. I can hear them laughing, shouting things at us. At me. One guy, I hear him tell Michael that he wants to go next. He cuts me again then. A thin line across my throat. Not enough to scar. But enough to mark me. As his. This one's Tang property, I hear him snarl. "Tang property. That's me, you see. Every inch of my body, the property of Michael Tang. "Then...then... we're back at his apartment. In his bed. In the dream, that is. He's fucking me dry. It hurts so much. Like the time they ripped my toe nails out, you know? Just like that, but more personal somehow. More painful." Slow tears leaked their way down Mac's cheeks. Vic was spooned up behind him now, both arms around him, holding on for dear life. Whose life, Mac had no idea. "That's, that's it really. Just a dream. Just a fucking dream." He scrubbed his hands over his face, pushing Vic away with his shoulders. "None of it really happened of course. Don't know why my dumb subconscious chooses this to torture me with. Probably means I feel screwed by the Tangs, by Michael, you know." Mac leapt to his feet suddenly, waving his shaking hands in the air, sending Vic sprawling. "But why now?" he shouted. "Why now, after all this time? Why would I dream about it now?" "I don't know," said Vic, unmoving on the couch. His face was pale, he looked like he was shaking himself. "Of course you don't fucking know!" screamed Mac. "That's why I need Li Ann. She knows about dreams, she knows about shit like this, she could tell me..." "Tell you what?" asked Vic. His normally smooth voice sounded a little rough, a little forced. Mac jammed his hands in his pockets, looking wildly around the room. He wasn't sure if he was expecting Li Ann to suddenly come out of hiding somewhere, or if he was looking for the fucking gun. But there was no Li Ann. Only Vic, sitting white-faced on the couch, looking at Mac as if...as if...as if he gave a fucking damn. Mac sank to his heels, crouching there on the floor unable to stand up any more. "She would know what to do," he whispered brokenly. "I know what to do," said Vic, in motion suddenly, at his side before Mac even knew he'd moved, one arm supporting him around the shoulders. "You need to rest." He helped Mac up, moved him to the couch. "A good night's sleep and then you'll be able to see it all in perspective, work out what it means. Since it never actually happened?" This last was said tentatively, a question in those wide green eyes. "It never happened," whispered Mac. Not even he knew if he was lying. "We'll call Li Ann tomorrow," said Vic. "We'll get her here. Work out what it means. We're a team." Mac subsided on the couch, looking up at Victor, who seemed to have taken charge. He had never felt such gratitude in all his life. Vic knew what to do. It might be the vodka talking, but Vic would keep the bad dreams away. Surely. He couldn't go through that again. Didn't think his heart could take the strain. He had woken up screaming, screaming his agony to an empty room, his heart pounding like it would burst. He couldn't go through that again, he just couldn't. "I'm not going to sleep here on the couch, alone," he whispered fiercely to Vic, making it a challenge. They knew how to relate to each other on that kind of level. Vic looked at him as if he was mad. Perhaps he was. How else to explain the dream? "Of course not, Mac. Shit. Do you think I'm some kind of unfeeling asshole? I wouldn't leave Dobrinsky alone after something like that. And I don't even like him." "You like me?" whispered Mac stupidly. Shit. How much vodka had he had to drink anyway? "Of course I like you Mac. You're a loud mouthed, sarcastic, irresponsible, self-obssessed, over-sexed, wise-cracking asshole. What's not to like?" "And you said all that without stopping to think," said Mac, admiringly. This was better. This was right. This felt normal. "Yeah, well, I've had plenty of time to consider the matter," Vic responded with a smile. He helped Mac to get up from the couch, a supporting arm round his back, leading him towards the bedroom, his strong body taking Mac's shudders like some kind of human shock absorber. It wasn't till he saw the bed that Mac thought how weird this was, his heart still racing, his hands shaking, about to get into Li Ann's bed with Vic. If his partner, if his friend, made one joke about keeping his hands to himself or staying on his own side of the bed, just one, he was going to fucking kill him. And leave Li Ann to explain the body in her apartment. Part III Mac started, rolled over, and reached for his gun, wondering what had woken him. Shit. No gun—at least not where it normally was. God. He felt so exhausted. Too tired to think. Where the fuck had he left it? "Asshole." Mac froze. Perhaps that was what had woken him up. Rolling over cautiously, recognising now that he wasn't in his own bed, he sought the origins of the very masculine voice that had just insulted him. It was still dark. The radio clock on the bedside table flashed 6am at him. Shit, he had had, what? three hours' sleep? If that. And he was in bed with a man. And it wasn't Michael. Unless the dead were walking. Mac shook his head, groggy and disoriented. The figure in the bed next to him rolled towards him, whimpering, "No." Vic. There was no mistaking that leonine brow, those chiselled features, even with this little light. Of course, he was in Li Ann's bed with Vic. And was that a whimper? From manly Mansfield, the terror of bent cops and even more bent secret agents? "Asshole," hissed Vic again, moving restlessly in his sleep. Mac shivered at the level of venom in that voice. He was glad that he had never heard that directed at him. Vic was supposed to be chasing away Mac's bad dreams, not vice versa. "No, Jack, no." Another whimper. Who the fuck was Jack? Vic rolled and moved his arms, as though even in his sleep he was fighting the bad guys, and one of his brawny, muscular legs flopped on top of Mac's, trapping him, pinning him to the bed with surprising force. It looked like drifting back to sleep was not an option. "Vic," he whispered quietly, not loudly enough to wake his restless partner. What was the point of whispering to him if not to wake him? Or did Mac just like the sound of Vic's name on his lips? "Vic," he whispered again, stretching it out, enjoying the taste of it on his tongue, the weight of Vic's leg on his own. Vic's naked leg, the feel of his muscles and light golden hair tickling against his own, rubbing gently, moving without conscious thought or purpose. "Vic." A guilty pleasure. What was he doing, for godsakes? Where was this coming from? He knew exactly where this was coming from, of course. But why now, after all these years? And who was to know if, in the dark secret hours of the morning, a Hong Kong thief let his partner rub naked flesh against his own, all unknowing in his sleep? And enjoyed, for the first time in a long time, the feel of a man's body next to his in a woman's bed. Li Ann's bed. Just like the good old days. Vic was beautiful in the grey tinges of light through Li Ann's curtains, his hair tousled, his jaw working, his biceps clenching and relaxing. That must be some dream, thought Mac. And then felt immediately guilty, thinking how the other man had listened in silence about his own nightmare, and then offered him a haven against its return, however temporary, however futile. And here he was, enjoying Vic's misery, just to cop a feel of the man's leg? Mac had always known that he was lowlife scum. Michael had told him often enough. Lessons offered, lessons learnt. And he had learnt so much from Michael, hadn't he? Damn his black, vicious soul to hell. Wow, who knew that Mac's thoughts would take a religious turn, here in Li Ann's bed with Vic rubbing against him and moaning in his sleep? Fucking near-death experiences—can't live with them, can definitely live without them. But they change you. Mac was unwilling testament to that. For a moment, he thought about trying to sneak out to the bathroom and jerk off, disposing of the physical evidence of his very healthy interest in Vic. Who had never, it had to be said, shown the slightest interest in Mac or any other man, that the latter knew of. Did it make a difference, jerking off over someone if they were in the same apartment, or doing it later in your own bed at night? Mac decided that it did. For one thing, there was the chance of getting caught. "Vic," he said more loudly, shame warring with lust, wanting to put his own suffering and Vic's to an end. "Wake up man, you're having a bad dream." And I'm having a hard on that could cut glass. Fucking sicko. Oooof. Vic had responded to his voice by rolling over completely, covering Mac's body with his own, still squirming, still hissing in his sleep. "Vic," Mac squawked, an octave higher than his usual register, while the other man's thigh ground against his erect cock, trapping it between thigh and leg, crushing it with the impact of his sudden roll and clench. Mac howled with the sudden pain, and Vic roared, "Dirty fucking bent bastard!" pulling back his strong right arm and walloping Mac across the side of the head. The force of the blow carried them both out of bed. Mac's head rang, his throat gripped in sudden, crushing fingers, while a fist pounded his kidneys. His back protested at the sudden meeting of floor and spine, made all the sharper by the weight of another muscular body on top of his own. A knee to his partner's groin, delivered with great satisfaction, put a premature end to Vic's assault. Vic staggered back and upright, hands clutching his groin, eyes bulging. "Mac, what the fuck?" he roared, looking as if he would have punched Mac's lights out if only he could have moved. But clearly awake at long last. Mac risked a quick glimpse at his own groin, confirming with gratitude that the sudden pain had destroyed his guilty secret. Yep. Punches to the head and kidneys would do that to a guy. "That's what I was wondering," came a cool, cultivated voice, sounding out of place in the testosterone-charged air. Mac's head swung round, knowing that Vic's was mirroring his own. Li Ann was leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, looking immaculate in a tailored suit, swinging a book idly in one hand, surveying the room as if she owned it. Which of course she did. Vic was still short of breath, wheezing with the pain in his genitals. Mac allowed himself a secret smile while he tried to think up an answer to Li Ann's question. His instinctive reaction was to avoid the truth, to obfuscate, to not let her know what was really going on. He still couldn't believe that he had opened up to Vic last night, revealing so much of himself and his history to his sardonic partner. Who had gotten a knee in the balls for his pains. Served him right, for seeing Mac's weakness. His need. Well, not all his needs, thank Goc. Mac felt like shit. I am not gonna hate him just because I think I want him. Even so, he grinned while Vic wheezed and Li Ann waited patiently by the door. "Just a little sleep over," he ventured at last. "You know, we drank wine, watched the hockey, did each other's hair." He offered Li Ann a sarcastic smile. She responded in kind. "Good to see you two boys bonding," she said. Mac shot a quick look at Vic—yep, still speechless, still in too much pain to get a word in. "Vic asked me to come round. He was lonely, you know, no friends and all that. Plus, he drank all your vodka and broke a glass in the lounge. He wanted my powers of invention to come up with a good cover story for how it happened." Mac sat back with a satisfied smile. "Vic's always been able to tell his own lies," said Li Ann quietly, no longer smiling. Fuck. Mac heaved himself into a sitting position, opened his mouth to speak hotly. And then stopped. What was he doing? Vic didn't need Mac to defend his honour. And why did he want to, anyway? The level of tension in the room seemed to have increased. Mac wasn't sure what was going on between his partners. But Vic had turned away, his face in profile, no longer screwed up in pain but calm and composed, as if being found half naked in his ex-fiancée's bedroom with her ex-fiancée was an everyday occurrence. Mac felt a sudden compulsion to see Vic's eyes, to know what the man was thinking. But that would have required moving, and also doing something obviously vulnerable. He wasn't up to either. He scrubbed a hand across his tired eyes instead, and waited for the other two to speak. Mac wasn't usually comfortable with silences, but he might just drop off to sleep, he was so tired, so it was worth a try. Anything to get out of this awkward situation. "I thought you wouldn't be back till tomorrow. What happened to your need to be alone and isolated, to learn your lines and immerse yourself in your character?" Vic's voice was devoid of obvious sarcasm. But Mac had learnt to read its tones in the last year or so, and he could detect the subtle mockery. And if he could, so could Li Ann. But she seemed to ignore it, reaching up to brush her hair back, as though it could ever be out of place. Mac had a sudden memory of sucking a strand of that lovely dark hair, perfumed with some delicate scent, teasing his taste buds, heating his groin with arousal. He shifted uncomfortably. Shit. Weeks of nothing and now twice in one morning. What the fuck was wrong with him? "I wasn't going to come back this early but I wanted...I needed...what are you both doing here anyway? What's going on?" "Li Ann," murmured Vic, his amusement more obvious now, "that made no sense at all." He reached down to his boxers and grabbed his crotch, hefting it, giving it a squeeze. Mac's sleepiness was gone, and he knew that Li Ann was watching as mesmerised as he was. Fuck. A jolt of pure lust hit his body, leaving him dizzy and wanting. "Mac just kicked me in the balls," said Vic calmly, clearly checking for damage. "That's what's going on." Mac couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. Not with a mouth this dry. "Why...why did he do that?" "I guess you're gonna have to ask him that," said Vic with a cold smile, divided evenly between them. "I'm kinda wondering that myself." They both turned to look at Mac, who tried to pretend that he hadn't just been caught staring at his partner's crotch. But a ready story was never far from his lips. This time, the truth would do. "You were having a bad dream, man. Some kind of nightmare." He glanced at Li Ann. No need to mention Jack. Or jacking. "I tried to wake you up. You decided to beat the crap out of me. I stopped it with a blow to a part of your anatomy that we all know you don't use very much. Sorry." He knew that he didn't sound it. Vic wasn't the only one capable of mockery. Mac winced as Vic leaned over suddenly but all he did was touch the side of his head with a finger. Just a quick, fleeting touch. One of the fingers that had just been buried in his groin. Shit. Mac had never fought anything so hard as the urge to reach out with his tongue and take a taste. "You're gonna have a bruise there man. Guess I must have been pretty out of it." Vic shrugged. "So why are you back early?" This last to Li Ann, as though he had already dismissed Mac and the fight from his thoughts. "I wanted to talk to Mac, actually," came the unexpected response. Mac, who had been contemplating the practicalities of moving a hand to rub his aching head without exposing his erection, looked up in surprise. He knew that he should feel elated at that admission. Instead, he just felt sick and tired of everything, and a stupid, irrational desire to be alone with Vic and just look at him. Just look at him and masturbate till he came. Not in this lifetime, Ramsey. "You wanted to talk to me?" he asked, getting up, hunched over, pretending to hold his side while actually hiding his crotch, and manoeuvring himself back into bed without either of them seeing it. It was easier said than done. Li Ann raised one carefully plucked eyebrow at this performance, and simply said, "Yes." "Well, what about?" he asked with exasperation, realising that he was going to have to twist to the side to avoid tenting the sheet in an obvious fashion. Damn Vic. Damn Li Ann. And damn Michael while he was at it. "Have you ever had a recurring dream?" she asked him earnestly. Mac felt the colour drain out of his face. Suddenly, there seemed to be no air in the room, and he was finding it hard to breathe. Shit! She knew! Vic rose to his feet in one fluid motion and scooted up on to the bed, sitting next to Mac, not touching him, but definitely in his space. And oddly, it seemed to help. Mac felt his breathing ease, and all the while Vic looked as if he had nothing on his mind but the Sunday paper and a cup of coffee. Perhaps he didn't. Who knew? Li Ann, however, looked at them both as if they had sprouted an extra head. Mac moved his knees reflexively, hiding his wilting hard on from view. "As I was saying," she said, obviously deciding that there was no point in expecting normal behaviour from her partners this morning, "I've been having this dream. Over and over." Mac coughed. To conceal his discomfort, he fixed a mocking grin on his face and said, "Is it like the one where you end up downtown and realise you're naked. And it's cold out?" He wagged his little finger. Vic snorted and moved away from him in disgust. Or something. Li Ann grinned. "No," she said. "Not that it would make much difference to you in any case," she added disparagingly. Vic snickered. Mac elbowed him in the ribs. "Boys," said Li Ann in a threatening tone, before the violence could escalate. "I'm going to make coffee. I would like anyone who doesn't live in this apartment to be dressed and out of my bedroom by the time I'm finished." She walked away without a backward glance. Left alone with his male partner, Mac suddenly felt awkward and reached for his jeans, dragging them on over his muscular thighs, trying not to sneak peeks at Vic as he dressed. Caught. Vic was watching him dispassionately, making no effort to hide it. Sometimes, Mac wished that Vic was easier to read. So he decided to give the man a show, wiggling his thighs as he tugged his jeans on, jiggling his buttocks as he encased them in denim. Yes! Vic swallowed and looked away. Not quite the ice man after all. Of course, he could just be embarrassed at the sight of a 29 year old man trying to get into the jeans of a 24 year old. They had been skin-tight even then. Michael had bought them for him. He remembered the feel of Michael's fingers on his ass, probing him through the denim. He also remembered the day that the package had arrived in his jail cell, courtesy of the Tangs, of Michael Tang. The jeans had been inside. Those and... Mac hung his head as he pulled on his t-shirt, trying to breathe evenly, shutting his memories down. Live for the moment. Live in the moment. He could do it. He had been doing it for years. Until that Mac Ramsey had gone and gotten himself killed, twice in one week. What stupid, self-destructive impulse had led him to pull these worn, tight jeans out of his closet? To wear these as he scrambled into his car to drive over here and tell Li Ann the truth? A truth that he would now do anything to hide from her, in the cold light of day. He started when Vic put a hand on his back, steering him out the door and into the lounge. He wondered how long he'd been standing there motionless. A sock in one hand, looking like a dick. "Just in time," said Li Ann, coffee pot in hand. "You would not have enjoyed my methods for getting unwanted men out of my bedroom." "Hey, I was invited," smirked Vic. "He's the extra, remember?" "Put your socks on Mac," said Li Ann, looking at him in puzzlement. "I need coffee," he stuttered. "Not at my best in the morning. As you probably remember." Shut up Mac. Just shut up. Stop trying so hard. "I wonder if those feet are ticklish?" said Vic with a grin, his eyes twinkling. Li Ann looked from one to the other in astonishment. She shook her head, and obviously made a decision to ignore their odd behaviour. She poured coffee. "So," she said hesitantly, "I wanted to tell you about my dream." "You wanted to tell Mac," said Vic calmly. "Shall I go?" "No, of course I don't want you to go. What's with you two this morning?" "Just tell us about the dream, already," snapped Mac, reaching for the coffee with shaking hands. He hated the feel of the denim on his thighs, the memories in his head. "I've been dreaming about Michael," Li Ann said quietly, eyes fixed on Mac. "Fuck," he shouted as he dropped the coffee, watched it run in black, steaming rivulets over Li Ann's bench. The woman grabbed for a cloth, swabbing ineffectually at the coffee, her own slim hands shaking slightly. "Michael Tang?" he whispered. "No, Michael Jackson," she snapped. "Of course Michael Tang. You remember. Our brother? Our family?" "He was not our brother," hissed Mac, trying to control his shaking hands, his chattering teeth. "Calm down, both of you," said Vic quietly, pouring Mac another coffee, steering him over to the couch and sitting him down, as though he were 10 years old. Or more like a 10 year old than usual, Mac thought with a rueful smile, as he gulped the coffee and looked up at his partner gratefully. "Sorry," muttered Li Ann, still dabbing at the spilt coffee, her fingers clenching convulsively on the counter top. "I'm a little..." She paused, then hurled the cloth at the sink, both men starting at the sudden violence. Mac had always admired how Li Ann moved, how she seemed to glide across a floor, drawing every eye with her effortless elegance. But not today. She looked old and tired, and she almost shuffled as she joined them on the couch. "He was our brother, until I killed him." "You didn't kill Michael," said Mac, deadly earnest. He pictured the car, the ice cold water, a mangled body. And it felt good, very good. "Michael made his own choices." He could offer Li Ann that much comfort at least. "I killed Michael the day I left him for you," said Li Ann coldly, looking away. "The day we decided to steal the Tang money and get out of the family." Mac stared at her in disbelief. Could she really have been that blind? She didn't really still believe that, after all this time? Or did she need to cling to her own lies, just like he did? "He would have married me," as though she read the doubt in his eyes, but wasn't sure of itscause. "So would I," said Vic, but Mac barely heard him. He surged to his feet and took three steps towards the door. "I have to get out of here," he muttered. Vic's iron hand on his elbow stopped him, steered him back to the couch. Mac never even thought about fighting. "We're a team," said Vic. "We work this out together. Tell us about the dream." Mac shuddered, flashing back to the night before, Vic's arms around him on this couch, his heart racing, tears streaming down his face. Oh God. How humiliating. "I'm down on the docks," whispered Li Ann. "It's that night. Michael's in his car. There are police cars everywhere. Sirens wailing, lights flashing, strobing, I can see them even when I shut my eyes. I can see him even when I shut my eyes. "His eyes are wide. There's sweat running down his face. He's angry, scared, full of hate. I can feel all this. Somehow I know all this. It's as if I'm not there at all, it's just him, all him. "But there are too many police, too many cars, I—he—can't get passed them. So he turns, wrenches the wheel round, it hurts, everything hurts." Li Ann put her head in her hands. Vic had an arm round her shoulders, which were deceptively frail, and shaking slightly. A gentle look on his face. He probably had that look for me, if I'd been able to meet his eyes, thought Mac. He felt a sudden stab of angry, insane jealousy. How dare he touch Li Ann like that? He was his. Shit. She was his. Fuck. He had to get out of here. "I get out of my car. I'm blocking his only escape route. He accelerates towards me. I can almost see the expression on his face. He's shaking. I'm shaking. Will he kill me? Or will I kill him? That's what it comes down to. One of us is going to die. "A man that I've held in my arms. A man that I've fucked. I'd never killed anyone I'd fucked. Not before that, anyway." She had fucked Michael too. Mac had always thought it, known it, in the back of his mind. "The car's bearing down on me. But in the dream, it's like slow motion. I can see it inching forward. I can see the hate twisting his face. I can see his lips moving. But I can't hear what he's saying. And yet somehow I know. He's hissing: 'Goddamn you Li Ann. Why did you choose him over me?' And then he makes his choice. And I'm watching it, slowly, by inches, as he swerves...He's in the air now... closer to the water...closer..." Li Ann stopped. There was a muffled sob. But it wasn't hers. "No," whispered Mac. "He's saying: 'Goddamn you Mac. Why did you choose her over me?'" This time, no one tried to stop him as he walked out the door. Part IV Mac strolled into the lobby of the Grand Hotel as if he owned it, Li Ann on his arm, a slight and deliberate swagger in every step. The Grand was aptly named—plush velvet, crimson drapery, antique-looking chairs and couches everywhere, and wall-to-wall royalty. Crime family royalty, that was. Mac spotted Victor at once, scoping the room with a casual air, smooth in black leather jacket and shades, looking like someone's bit of muscle. Jackie's perhaps. The peroxided blond was all over Vic like the proverbial rash. It was disgusting really. He tightened his grip on Li Ann's arm and steered her towards—yep—a full-sized grand piano. There looked to be less criminal crush over there. "I think she might have told us," said Li Ann in a soft small voice. "Yes," said Mac, watching Vic, watching him shed Jackie like a reptile's skin and stand her upright with two firm hands on her pale, bare arms. "So did you really mean it?" he asked absently, intent on Jackie as she tried to reattach herself. Vic seemed to be whispering in her ear. The bitch was looking over their way and laughing. Now Vic was laughing too. Fuck it. "Mean what?" asked Li Ann, oblivious to the sexual assault being committed on her ex-fiancée. "About dreams. That they're premonitions. That something in your dreams always comes true?" "Yeah, sure, but you know, she might have mentioned something. Just a little hint. But oh no, not her style, is it?" "No," said Mac. "Not whose style?" he asked, suddenly paying attention when Li Ann planted a petite elbow rather firmly in his ribs. "The Director's, jerk," she hissed, removing her elbow and leaning casually against the piano. Mac turned his back on the Vic-and-Jackie floorshow and gave his full attention to Li Ann. "Yeah," he said, "wasn't she freaky? And what was with the masks?" "Not that director, our director—you know—the Director?" Mac could hear the capital letter and nodded solemnly. A grin threatened to emerge, he knew, but he did his best to conceal it. "What, you think she might have told us that you'd damn well better have memorised Ophelia's part four years ago cos we go on in a week?" Mac asked, schooling his features to an expression of polite disinterest. Li Ann directed a look of pure outrage at him. "Well, it's not exactly a pleasant surprise to find out that the previous Ophelia ran off three days ago with her understudy, and opening night is in eight days," she pointed out. Smiling at Li Ann's pout, Mac observed, "You think that's bad. How am I supposed to get those nancy boys with two left hands and three left feet ready to fight on stage in a week? The only way Laertes could kill Hamlet is if he tripped over him, and even then he'd have a fifty-fifty chance of sheathing his own sword—and not in a good way." Li Ann smiled, unwillingly, he could tell. "And what's with that director?" she bitched. "I know, I know, she might have told us..." "No, the other director, you know, crazy lady with the fans and masks." It had been somewhat disconcerting, to be greeted with an embrace from a 300 pound woman in a skin-tight body suit, waving a Chinese fan and holding a Venetian mask in front of her face. Fortunately, she dropped the mask to give Li Ann a big kiss, right on the lips. It had been losing the battle to conceal her broad face in any case. Mac's smile broadened. "I think Rosa likes you," he said, pulling out his own mask briefly and holding it between them. "Doesn't this make me look mysterious and deep?" The mask was a thin gold wire confection, dusted with black feathers and glitter, attached to a thin rod of ivory. Mac held it in front of his eyes, winking roguishly at his partner, and miming a big smoochy kiss. "Darhling," he whispered. "Welcome to our little commmm-pany. We are so glad to see you. What a winsome little Ophelia you will make, to be sure. Who's the stiff?" That last had been directed at Mac. Li Ann giggled, despite herself. "Put the mask away," she hissed. Rosa had rambled for ages about masks and fans, hiding and hands, characters concealing their true emotions behind disguises so thin that only our determination not to see them kept us all safe. And so on. What a crock. Still, at least he'd scored a free mask. And it was real ivory. "Nothing much seems to be happening here," Li Ann observed, watching the people mill aimlessly about the room, as though waiting for someone to tell them what to do. "Just a lot of networking and schmoozing," agreed Mac, keeping a surreptitious eye out for Vic. "Wonder who's behind it all?" "Look, since nothing's going on, I'm going home to learn my lines. How much trouble can you get into with Vic and Jackie looking after you?" "Hey," Mac protested, a practiced look of hurt on his face. "I don't need looking after. Go on—off you go. Unless you want to be the first Ophelia to read her lines from a book on stage." Li Ann gave him a brief look of terror, before it was gone behind her usual mask of calm. Shit. Mac hadn't seen her so rattled for years. He wondered if it was the dream—hers, not his. She still hadn't asked him for an explanation of his parting shot yesterday morning. Perhaps Vic had told her, but somehow, he didn't think so. Goddamn you Mac. Why did you choose her over me? The words still echoed in his brain, did a nasty little tap dance inside his stomach whenever he couldn't shut them out. Fuck. Perhaps it was just the play. He had forgotten what her face looked like transformed by rapture. Acting had done that to her, not him. He wondered if she had ever looked like that for Vic. Too late to be having these thoughts, he decided. He and Li Ann were long over. Even an illiterate could read the writing on that wall. "Off you go," he repeated, when she still hesitated, patting her on the back. She leaned up, then, and pressed a quick kiss against his cheek. After she was gone, in a whirl of perfume and determination, he leaned against the piano and thought about the kiss. Not conscious thought, really, just enjoying the memory of its pressure, the sensation of love. Or affection, anyway. She hadn't kissed him like that for a long time. Perhaps it was a theatre thing. "What's a petty thief like you doing in a place like this?" came a soft, smooth voice in his ear. No need to look around to know that it was Vic. Mac looked anyway, for the pleasure of it. "Just chatting with my pretty thief partner." "So what were you and Li Ann talking about, anyway?" asked Vic. "Oh, the usual," said Mac mysteriously, "you know, masks and fans and dreams." "Sounds like a crock," observed Vic, that little half-smile on his lips. "That's what I thought," said Mac, watching the darkness of Vic's shades, wondering what expression was lurking in those cool green eyes. "Unless it was the dream when you're downtown in your underwear," Vic added, almost a full smile now. "Interested in that one are you?" Mac challenged, licking his lips in a speculative fashion. No way that he was letting Victor away with that one. "Actually, I'm naked of course, and even though it's cold out..." He trailed off suggestively, wondering how the other man would react, what sort of game they were playing. "Thanks for sharing that and killing my appetite," quipped Vic, before pausing to sniff the air. "And now I've got it back again," he added, following the progress of a beautiful young woman with bags of takeaway food as she passed the piano on her way to the lifts. Mac froze. He could smell it too, the spicy scents of Asian food, piping hot, rushed special delivery to the Grand Hotel. Oh yes. Someone was going all out here to make a good impression. He sniffed the air again, following the woman towards the elevator, not sure what he was doing. There was just something—something familiar, he couldn't quite... Home. Those were the smells of home. Mac swallowed. It couldn't be, could it? "Excuse me, miss," catching the woman at the elevator door, thrusting a brawny arm between her and her goal, sure of the feel of Vic as he rushed up behind him. "Is that crispy eel, braised egg plant, and diced chicken in chilli sauce?" The woman laughed at him in delight. Mac felt sick inside. "Oh, you're good, you're very good. How did you know?" "Hunan style?" he whispered, knowing the answer before he heard it. "Yes it is. How did you know that?" "He has the nose of a blood hound," interposed Vic, a steadying touch on his arm for a moment, sensing perhaps that Mac wouldn't, couldn't answer. "The rest of the face too," Vic added, winking at the delivery woman. Mac laughed despite himself. The lift doors closed on the tang of spices and eel, and a moment later it was as if they had never been. But Mac knew that they had, and that he needed to face up to what they meant. "What's going on Mac? Why are you suddenly so interested in takeout?" "Food has always been the most important thing in my life," quipped Mac, but his heart wasn't in it. Vic seemed to sense that, moving him over to a quiet corner next to the rich, crimson drapes. "Come on, man, spill it. Why is crispy eel so damned important?" "Because it means the Tangs are in town, that's why," said Mac quietly, looking around to make sure that no one could overhear them. "And not just any old Tangs, but the godfather himself. My father." Vic pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Shit," he said at last. "I couldn't have put it more eloquently myself Vic," was Mac's rejoinder. "You need to get out of here," said Vic urgently. "There may not be Tangs hanging around down here but you could easily be known to their associates. The word is that there's gonna be some sort of meeting upstairs soon. I have to be in on that. I'll find some way to get in there. You get back to the Agency and let the director know what's going on, and warn Li Ann." "And tell her what, Vic?" asked Mac, stung. "That I smelt the godfather's favourite dishes so I know that he's running this—this—whatever it is. And there might be a hotel full of Tangs but I don't know cos all I saw was a room full of crooks and a fast food delivery woman." "Just get the fuck out of here," ordered Vic, his voice low but intense. "For once in your life, Mac, do the sensible thing and leave the frontline work to me and Jackie. The only Tangs who have seen me are dead, remember?" "The director's gonna want proof, not food appreciation," protested Mac. "I don't think she's gonna be that hard to convince," said Vic slowly. "Think about it. It all makes sense now. Why else do you think she wanted me and Jackie here, and you and Li Ann off doing some acting gig. Come on. Didn't that whole play story seem a bit far- fetched to you?" Mac looked at Vic in astonishment, and the ex-cop gave an apologetic shrug. "Kinda obvious, when you think about it," Vic added. "So,' Mac said calmly, "you don't buy the criminal sponsor bit, or that the play's the thing wherein we'll catch the wicked crime boss king?" His voice had gone sonorous and Vic shot him a suspicious look. "I went to school," he snarled. "Isn't it supposed to be `the play's the thing wherein we'll catch the conscience of the king'?" "Oh Vic, crime boss kings don't have consciences, I thought you cop types knew that." Mac took a long look around the room. "And nor do their families." "Some of them do, Mac, some of them do." Vic's voice was devoid of expression. There didn't seem to be much to say in answer to that. And Vic was getting that mulish look with which Mac was very familiar. Time to go along with his partner for appearance's sake and then sneak back to scope the joint properly, upstairs where the action was. "Mac," came a low, threatening growl. Shit. Vic was getting pretty good at reading him too. "This part is my operation. You're not even supposed to be here. You get out. Now. Go back to the Agency, let the Director and Li Ann know what's going on. Do not compromise your safety or Li Ann's till we know what we're dealing with and we have a plan for how to do it. I mean it Mac. Now!" Mac smiled, tried not to make it look calculated. "Okay, okay," hands extended in appeasement. Yep. Vic seemed to be buying it. "I hate the décor anyway," he shot over his shoulder as he headed swiftly, smoothly towards the exit. A quick sidestep to avoid an Italian-looking Mafioso, a dodge past the fat Elvis-impersonator, and he was almost at the door. The satisfying memory of Vic's puzzlement at his capitulation carried him out the door and on to the street. He looked at the huge portico of the grand entrance for a moment and shook his head. There was no going back that way, Vic would be watching—but hell, there were concealed alcoves and open windows all over that damn lobby. Slipping down a side street, working with the nonchalance of a thousand break-ins, Mac was up and over a windowsill before it could register on passers-by that that was what he had done. Since the only other person on the street was an old lady walking her dog, scolding little Mac (the irony killed him) for peeing on the sidewalk, he thought he was fairly safe. The alcove was a fairly narrow affair, basically a box window and seat concealed from the rest of the room by thick, crimson drapes. Mac twitched a small opening and looked out with one eye, trying to locate Vic and determine whether it was safe to make for the stairs. Oh fuck. Of all the typical Ramsey luck, this was just—well—typical! Vic and Jackie were right on the other side of the curtain, having what looked like some sort of altercation with the Elvis impersonator that Mac had laughed at earlier (only on the inside, of course). Vic was close enough to touch, his shoulders shaking in apparent amusement as the Elvis guy appeared to be killing Jackie with a lethal, bone-crunching hug. Right on. Mac continued to peer out of the crack in the curtains, convinced that he was pretty safe from detection. "Don't you worry none, little darlin', the King's gonna take care a ya," boomed a loud voice, sounding much closer than Mac had thought. He grinned, forgetting the Tangs, the vision, the dreams, just enjoying the moment. And what a moment it was. The "King" seemed to be eyeing Vic up and down now with evident enjoyment. Mac cursed that Vic's back was to him, so that he couldn't see his partner's expression. He just knew that it would be a good one. Still, it was safer that way. Vic was just the sort to notice a twitching curtain. "And who's this here?" demanded Elvis, clutching Vic's hand in a massive paw and pumping it up and down with great vigour. "My chiropractor," trilled Jackie, just as Vic said, "Her bodyguard." Priceless. Mac bit his tongue to keep from laughing. "I double as a deadly chiropractor," Vic deadpanned. There was a lot of emphasis on the "deadly". The King finally released his hand. Vic's attention seemed to be more on Elvis' bodyguard than either the King or Jackie—good, the more Vic was focussed on the players in front of him, the less likely he was to look behind him. Mac wouldn't put it past the ex-cop's intuitive nose to sniff him out behind the thick brocade. Vic'd noticed the crispy eel, hadn't he, long before its tantalising savour made it to Mac's nostrils? Shit. Now was not the time to be picturing Vic's nostrils, slightly flared, scenting the air, licking his lips, a hungry look on his face. It was the food. Just the food. And he doesn't even like eel. I like eel. Shut the fuck up Ramsey. "Bernie, this is Victor," Jackie was saying. "Victor, this is Bernie "the King" Chalmers." "Pleased to meet you, king," said Vic evenly. "Hell, not as pleased as I am boy," came the response. "You stick to Bernie little darlin'" (evidently addressed to Jackie) "and I'll get you in upstairs and back in the game. You leave it to old unca Bernie, baby." The King whirled back towards Vic, moving surprisingly fast for a man of such bulk. This was definitely not the Elvis of the early years. Vic was telling some sort of bad Elvis joke, making Mac cringe and drawing a look of outrage from Jackie, whose face and teased up hair were clearly visible to Mac from his hiding place. "Shut up Vic," she hissed, as Mac was privileged to see the King do a little shimmy, eyes eating up Vic as he did so. "Musta thrown somethin' outa whack , doin' that hip shakin' thang I do so well." He proceeded to demonstrate. Vic's shoulders were shaking again. Mac bit down on his fist to keep from laughing. "You stick to me boy, you and this little darlin' both. What I need from you, Mr Chiropractor sir, is a real deep glute massage. Yessirree. Get ready to give the king a deep rub down. Real deep." It was too much. Mac snorted. He just could not swallow it in time. Oh fuck. He saw Vic's shoulders stiffen. No one else seemed to be reacting. Perhaps no one had actually heard it. Vic was closest to him, of course. Shit! Vic was now a whole lot closer. He had stepped back, apparently retreating before the advancing king, his foot landing squarely up against the curtain and on top of Mac's toes. Vic ground his heel into Mac's shoe, talking smoothly to the king all the while. Mac's cry of pain was absorbed by his fist in his mouth and the heavy velvet of the curtain. Vic was backed up against the curtain, one outstretched arm halting the advancing Bernie. Mac couldn't see much now, what with Vic's frame cutting off his light and his foot cutting off the circulation to Mac's toes. "Well, king, that sounds like a serious problem. You can't be too careful with your lower back." He stamped his foot as if for emphasis. And behind his back, where only Mac could see it, a hand snaked through the gap in the curtain and latched onto Mac's crotch. Ohmigod. "You've gotta follow the chiropractor's orders, though." Vic continued. He stamped his foot again. "You do that, and there's no pain." His hand, in contrast to his punishing heel, was delivering soft little pats and touches to Mac's cloth-covered cock. Gentle rubs and pats that had him hard and leaking in seconds. "If you do what your chiropractor-bodyguard says, though, then it's nothing but nicely working body parts. No pain, only pleasure." He drew out the last syllable of "pleasure", working his hand on Mac's crotch. At the last foot stamping, Mac had managed to pull his mangled toes out of reach. Now, only his cock connected him to Victor. He could have pulled back easily, flattened himself against the box window, too far away for his partner to reach without making it obvious to Jackie and the others. But he did none of those things. Instead, he leaned into the caresses and tried not to vocalise his need for the benefit of the greasy king and his apparent admirers. "Well that's mighty fine to hear," boomed the king, his voice so close that Mac pulled back instinctively, losing the touch of Vic's hand, his cock howling in protest. He was going to have to push forward, make himself available to Vic. It was his choice. Did the other man know how cruel this punishment was? But Mac was not too carried away to know that he could not keep a low profile while prowling around a hotel in cum-soaked pants. He would draw every eye. Vic was clearly killing two birds with one stone. Unless, of course, he helped himself to some hapless guest's pants. Vic knew Mac too well though. If there was one thing he would not do, it was be seen in ill-fitting trousers. Damn the man and his treacherous fingers. "Hell, boy, I wish ya was workin' on ma glutes right now," proclaimed the king in a lascivious voice. Mac couldn't help himself. He thrust his crotch back into Vic's hand, and shuddered while those quickly working fingers drove him towards orgasm. `You know, king, I think your trouble might be right between your legs," said Vic calmly, his fingers working faster and faster. "Ya think so boy?" asked the king, a note of hope clear in his tone. "I surely do," said Vic, the mockery clear to Mac and (he assumed) Jackie. Not that he cared. Vic could be as much of an asshole as he wanted, so long as he didn't remove his hand. "Oh yes," said Vic, talking louder, possibly to cover Mac's ill- concealed gasps. "You see, if you weren't wearing a belt with a buckle the weight of a buick, your lower back would be much better off." "Why you little monkey," roared the king, and Vic was wrenched away in an apparent scuffle. His fingers made one last, hard grab at Mac's cock before they were gone out the crack in the curtain, and Mac came in his pants, his muffled groans drowned out by what sounded like a play-fight between Vic and the king. "Oh yeah, come with Bernie baby, we'll see what's cookin' upstairs. And the king is gonna get that rub down later. The king is ready for a real deep rub down..." The voice of Elvis faded into the distance, replaced by the general hum of the party on the other side of the curtain. Mac staggered back and collapsed on the window seat, heart racing, blood pounding, waves of pleasure still radiating from his groin. He looked down in dismay at the dark patch on his trousers. He had, as they say, cum a bucket. Stifling a giggle, Mac allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sensation, and the knowledge that Vic had done this to him, even if he thought it was a punishment, a humiliation. If that was what the other man had been thinking. Who knew with Vic? What to do now? He could do what Vic wanted, of course, and get the hell out of there. And it would be difficult to look inconspicuous while leaking semen on the floor. But that way, Vic would win, wouldn't he? Oh fuck it, if that was the price of a good hand job, Vic could have his little victory. Besides, he wanted to talk to Li Ann anyway, and find out if the director really had set them up with a bogus assignment to keep them away from the Tangs. Which meant that she already knew about the Tangs. If they were in fact here, and Mac wasn't building a fantasy castle on the flimsy foundations of one take-out meal. Shit. Mac scrubbed a tired hand through his hair and contemplated his still-growing damp patch with dismay. He wondered if he could commit the ultimate fashion sin and tie his suit jacket round his waist. That would still draw attention, but it wouldn't matter out on the streets rather than here, where he was supposed to be undercover. Shit. How humiliating. Perhaps the wet patch was preferable. Decision made, Mac vaulted over the windowsill and out on to the pavement. The old lady was still there, petting her dog. She took one look at Mac and said, "You shouldn't pee yourself in public either, young man." Tying his suit jacket round his waist, Mac wandered off down the street, whistling jauntily. Part V Mac slid into his chair in the director's office, feeling in a much better mood than he knew he ought to, all things considering. But shit. Vic had given him a handjob. Even if it was a punishment. Or something. Foot still hurt like a bitch though. He grinned, adjusting his clean trousers, trying not to get another hardon just thinking about it. Li Ann was already there, muttering under her breath, staring off into the distance. Mac caught something about "thee" and "thou" and "sainted father", and figured she was practicing for Hamlet. Such dedication, he thought with a smile. Nothing could bring him down tonight. Even if Victor was bringing news that the Tangs were in town. And their own, far from sainted father. The director was waiting patiently, unusually quiet for her. So far, she had refused to answer any of his questions, about the Tangs, about the play, about anything really. "I need more than a takeout menu," was all she would say. But her heart wasn't in it. Mac waited and wondered, putting his feet up on Vic's chair, manoeuvring it so that the other agent would have to sit next to him. Besides, it helped the throbbing in his toes. And so the minutes ticked by, Mac grinning and thinking about the feel of velvet between your teeth and the heat of a hand through cloth. Li Ann whispering about fathers, brothers, love, and duty, with plenty of other words that he didn't understand either. And the director rocking back on her chair, watching the door. Mac thought it odd that of the three of them, it was he and the director who were focused on Vic's empty chair. For Li Ann, it was almost as if she'd forgotten that her partner wasn't there. Not that she seemed too aware of any of them really. Mac wondered if it had always been like that. Finally, the door swung open but it was just Dobrinsky, looking grim and stoical as usual. Turning away in disappointment, Mac almost missed it as Vic slipped in behind the bigger man, Jackie at his heels like an excited terrier. "Hey, man," Mac said, lifting his feet off Vic's chair, displaying his clean, dry crotch as subtly as he could while he did so. Vic ignored him, seeming in another world altogether, his eyes focused somewhere above the director's head. He took his seat without comment, appearing not to notice that he was now in the centre, between Mac and Li Ann. Mac swallowed his disappointment, fixing a look of bland expectancy on his face. He was sure that he looked the consummate professional for a change. Hell, Li Ann wasn't the only one who could act. "Well, Victor, what have you to report?" asked the director, settling her chair firmly on the ground. "It is the Tangs," he said bluntly, looking neither to right nor left. Mac fixed his eyes on Vic's profile, figuring that no one would find it odd while the other man was making his report. "The godfather himself is here," Vic continued. "We got into the meeting, courtesy of Bernie the king." Here Mac choked, he couldn't help it. The director looked at him curiously but Vic carried on, oblivious. "The Tang family is going legitimate. The godfather is planning to divide up his various underground activities between the crime families he invited to this little gathering. And they pay rent to the Tangs as landlords, till the family is fully established in the business and banking arenas." Here, Vic paused as if unsure how to continue. He glanced at Mac finally, who was studying him as if he were the menu at his favourite Hong Kong restaurant. Mac licked his lips, he couldn't help himself. Vic turned then to look at Li Ann, who was finally staring at him rather than off into the ether, obviously no longer reciting lines in her head. "What? What is it?" she asked. "The godfather is handing over the above-board enterprises, and the whole financial empire that's going to fund them to..." "Enough with the dramatic build up Victor," snapped the director. "Get to the point." "He's handing it over to his son and heir, Michael Tang." Somehow, Vic's chair had scooted a little closer to Mac's. The man was in his space again. Mac found it almost comforting. His stomach fought to empty its contents on the table in front of him, Mac fought to stop it. The bile was strong and bitter in his mouth. "Michael Tang is dead." "There's no need to shout, Mac," said the director coldly. Shouting? Who was shouting? "Michael Tang is dead," he made his voice deliberately soft. There was no need for shouting. "Nobody could have survived that crash. Nobody." "Michael could," said Li Ann. Her voice sounded neutral, dispassionate. "I knew it. I thought that's what the dreams meant. But I just couldn't see how, you know?" "Well," said the director, "there are some details about the—er - accident, that you don't know." She looked almost ashamed, Mac noted, trying to calm the triphammer of his heart by pure force of will. He remembered Michael's fingers on his face, the knife to his throat, the soft, sibilant voice in his ear. "What details?" he heard himself croak. There was a faint scrape as Vic's chair moved slightly closer. "Michael's body was never found. It was thrown free of the car on impact, that much we know, but the divers never found the body." "There were Tang soldiers all over the place," offered Vic. "They could have spirited him away, gotten him medical help." "Where could Michael hide that we wouldn't hear about it? How could he be alive and we not know about it?" Mac's voice sounded scratchy but level. Good. He was in control. "The Agency would know, would hear something..." He trailed off as he saw the expression on the director's face. "Well, last year," she said, "there were reports of a man fitting Michael's description. At Norflex Ore in Durban, South Africa." "The Tangs have an operation there, a legit one," said Li Ann, nodding. "It all fits." No. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. Michael was dead. Why couldn't they see that? "I saw him," said Vic at last, when nobody else broke the silence. He looked right into Mac's eyes, his regard steady. "He walked into that room and made a speech. Lovely sentiments about the brave new world. I saw him. I heard him. Michael Tang is alive." And finally, Mac believed. Mac and Li Ann sat in their favourite bar, sipping cocktails, sprawling at a table with napkins and debris between them. It might as well have been 1000 miles of ocean. Li Ann was excited, keen to reinvent the past, if her blather of the last half hour was anything to go by. She had spun a web of words, about goodness and evil, the shock of a son's death (no matter how short-lived), the father's desire to make the world a safer place for the son, and so on. It all boiled down to one thing; Li Ann believed that the Tangs were going legit. She wanted to believe, he could see it in her eyes. But what about Michael? Could hellspawn rise to heaven? That was very poetic. Mac sipped his cocktail and allowed himself to feel the emotions whizzing around inside him. He tried anger on for size. Yep, that was a good fit. "I don't believe you Li Ann," he said softly, coldly. "Sure, the godfather talked about it often enough—but that's all it was, talk. Nothing came of it then, and nothing will come of it now. The director's right. The Tangs have an edge, an angle. We just need to find out what it is." "We?" asked Li Ann. "Where's Vic, anyway?" "He had a date with the king," snorted Mac. He knew that he was smiling. For a moment he let his earlier feelings surface, but then thrust them back down. He needed to stay sharp, focused, angry. "The king?" Li Ann asked, diverted. "It doesn't matter," snapped Mac. "Forget about it. Forget about Victor. This is Tang business. Just us. We don't need to be dragging Vic or anyone else into it." Li Ann nodded, sharply. "Do you think I don't know that?" "I don't know what you know," he hissed. "But I know this much—Michael Tang is evil. Wrongness, viciousness that goes bone-deep. You don't change that, whether he's wearing a business suit or an assassin's gun." "Why do you only see that side of him?" she asked, curious, as though he'd made some observation about the weather. "Because that's the only side there is to see," he replied. Li Ann shrugged. "There's only one way to find out." She stood, reaching for her jacket. "Where are you going?" he demanded, though he already knew the answer. "To find him," she said coolly, taking a step away from the table, away from him. Towards Michael. "He'll kill you," said Mac with complete conviction. Li Ann shrugged again, took another step. Mac wondered which he feared more. That Michael would kill him, or that he wouldn't. "I'm coming with you," he said finally, reaching for his own coat as Li Ann continued to walk away. "He can kill us both." They had both been silent on the ride over. And now they picked their way through the trees, across the carefully tended lawns of the Grand Hotel, towards its ornate entrance. Mac took satisfaction in grinding his sore foot into the grass, plowing up turf with every step, buoying himself with pain. Not like last time he'd been here, limping but jaunty, a suit jacket tied around his waist. It felt like a lifetime ago. There was no need for words, of course. They were going to find Michael. And he would kill them. Or they would kill him. Either way, it would be over. He tried not to let Li Ann's words about a father's grief linger in his mind. What would that do to the old man, to lose his son a second, final time? Fuck him. Had he shed any tears for Mac? Well, had he? Had he not stood there, cool as a cucumber, and informed Mac that he was breaking up the team. That Michael was going to marry Li Ann. That the others were going away—together—without him. That it was over. Fuck him. Let the old bastard stew in his own juices, wallow in grief for his only "son". Unbidden, a memory of the Rembrandt rose in his mind, as he stamped his sore foot on the ground, scoping the hotel for movement, for anything that looked suspicious. That beautiful painting, its sheen, its colours, its mystery. The look in the old man's eyes as he'd watched it, proud, loving, all the things that Mac had longed to see when those eyes were directed at him. He remembered wrapping it carefully to hide it from customs, shipping it back to Hong Kong, trying to buy a father's forgiveness. And he remembered the hollow sound of a coffin lid slamming shut, an oxygen mask on his face, as they prepared to ship him alive but dead on the old man's personal orders. So much for people changing. If there was a new direction, it didn't apply to him. Li Ann grabbed his arm, pointed. A limousine pulled up at the front entrance, and a small group of men fanned out down the steps, obviously detailed to protect whoever was about to come out. Mac stiffened. He knew who it would be, the old man with the cold eyes, his father, the man who wanted him dead. And sure enough, there he came, looking impossibly small and frail, bundled up against the chilly Vancouver night. The bodyguard steered him down the steps, a respectful look clear even from this distance. Li Ann started forward and Mac, frozen in shock, even though he'd expected it, started after her. No sign of Michael, but Mac was sure he'd be around somewhere. It was do or die time. The godfather paused as he stood by the car, looking up over its rim, his eyes scanning the night, as though he could scent the presence of foes on the cold night air. Mac quickened his pace. There was something not right about this. He started to move even faster as he heard the squeal of brakes, smelt the burning rubber, his mind resonating to the sound of crashing car doors. And the old man's eyes met his across the long lawn, as though no one else existed for him in this world but Mac Ramsey. Mac would never understand what he had seen in those eyes. Later, when he tried to explain it to Vic, he couldn't find the words. All he knew was that it made him start to run, it made him pull his gun and fire. At the enemy. The carloads of interlopers. Not at the godfather. Guns blazing, voices screaming, he and Li Ann were the goddamn cavalry. But they were too late. Too little and too late. He had made it round to the godfather's side of the car, firing both guns, screaming mindlessly at the men who were trying to kill his father. "Mac," he heard Li Ann's agonised shout. He spun round, heedless of the danger, no Vic to cover his back. The first thing he saw was Michael, lying on the ground beside the car, a gun at his hip like an oversized cock, pointed firmly in Mac's direction. Michael was alive. But not for long. Mac decided to blow his head off. But then Michael turned away, towards Li Ann, towards the fallen man she was leaning over. No. Please no. He had taken cover. It was just a precaution. He was alright. Please. Mac staggered forward, past Michael as though he didn't exist. Perhaps he didn't. This was another nightmare. Just a dream. Just a dream. "Just a dream," he whispered, crouching, reaching out to touch that frail hand, even as Michael gathered up his father in his arms and clutched him tight. The old man's eyes met Mac's again, so brown, so deep, but this time they skittered away, didn't hold. The light was going out of them. "Make it well," the old man whispered. Mac was sure that it was to him. "Make everything well." That was to Michael. His father—their father—drew a shuddering breath. And another. "Forgiveness," he whispered. Perhaps it was to all of them. "Forgiveness is family." Mac knew the exact instant that life left that frail body. He felt it inside, with a rush of emotion so strong that he didn't know what to call it. He rocked back on his heels, head in his hands, sobbing, digging his sore toes into the gravel, wanting something, anything, to take this pain away. Li Ann was a picture of quiet sorrow. Beautiful. Untouchable. He could see her through his fingers, through his hot, angry tears. He hated her then, hated everyone and everything. "I'm sorry," he whispered, clutching the old man's limp hand, squeezing it as though he could return the life to it by main force. Somewhere, in the distance, he heard Michael sob. Liar! Fucking liar! He wanted to shout the words, to scald the world with his rage. You never really loved him! And you never loved me either! "Mac," Li Ann was tugging him, as he clung to the godfather's hand. Fuck off! His mouth worked but the words wouldn't come. "Mac, come on. We have to get out of here." He could hear the sound of sirens approaching, knew with part of his mind that the police must be on their way, that to stay here was to invite trouble. Michael was already being hustled away by his bodyguards, looking back over his shoulder at his fallen father, left to lie alone in the dirt with the other bodies, friend and foe alike. "Mac, come on. He wouldn't want you to go down for this." Mac knew a lie when he heard one. It was as if Li Ann's words switched the pain off, locked it behind a film of ice, leaving a cold clear starkness in its wake. "Yes he would," he said, suddenly dry-eyed. "That's exactly what he would have wanted." "No he wouldn't," shouted Li Ann, dragging him under the trees, back towards their car, her eyes still fixed on the limo and the bodies. "You heard him. He wanted us to forgive each other. Be a family." She grunted with the effort of propelling him along. "All Tangs are liars. Didn't you know that?" Li Ann said nothing more as they climbed inside the car. What was there to say? And all through the icy coldness, the tears never stopped rolling down Mac's cheeks. It was the pounding on the door that woke him. Or was it the pounding in his head? Mac rolled over on something hard, groped around, discovered the empty whiskey bottle. Dobrinsky had given it to him. No words. Just a silent, here you go, Ace, with his eyes. He remembered that much. Stop with the fucking knocking already. Mac groaned, rolled back over and put a pillow over his head. He knew that he could find unconsciousness again if only he tried hard enough. The pounding on the door finally stopped. Good. Whoever it was had gone away or died, Mac didn't care which. He wondered if there was more whiskey in the kitchen. Mac wasn't sure how much later it was that he became aware that he was not alone, that there was someone else on the bed with him. He thought he might have dozed for a while but he wasn't sure. Nothing seemed very real. He didn't roll over to look. Whoever it was would do whatever they had come to do to him. He didn't care. But he knew that musk, that particular pattern of breathing. Would know it anywhere. He opened an eye to look at Victor Mansfield. "Hey," said the other man gently, "You're not the only one that can pick locks." Mac looked at him stupidly. What was he doing here? Vic looked back, gravely, his eyes clouded with emotion—but what emotion, Mac couldn't tell. "I want to be alone," he said at last, rolling away from Vic and closing his eyes. "You are alone," whispered Vic. "I'm just gonna be here, being alone too." It took too much effort to argue, when Mac felt so drained, so empty. "Where's Li Ann?" he asked finally, when it looked like Vic was indeed just going to lie there. "She's off with the director. I think they're drowning their sorrows at some bar." Mac felt an extra layer of coldness at the mention of the director. He shivered. "She said that he was evil," he whispered in the silence. "That evil eats itself. That that's why he died the way he did. That it was all for nothing. That people don't change. That there was no forgiveness." It all came pouring out, like vomit. Vic laughed shortly. There was no humour in it. "I'm the last person to ask about forgiveness," he said shortly. "Don't believe in it, never did. I can't tell you what you want to hear, Mac." "I don't want anything," said Mac dully. "Yes you do. You want something. You all want something. From me. You just don't know it yet." What the fuck was that supposed to mean? "My father just died," said Mac, indignantly, wondering how Vic could stab through his numbness. "When did this become about you?" "Do you want to hear about my dream?" asked Vic, as though Mac hadn't spoken. He nodded wordlessly. "I'm back in my apartment. Waiting for my friends to come and kill me. Mr True Blue." Vic paused for a moment, then snaked his hand out, threading his fingers through Mac's, the only contact between them on the bed. "I know it's gonna be Stan that comes. Cos that would hurt the most. That's why I know it's gonna be him. "I'm numb when I first hear him pleading outside my door. `Let me in,' he says. They're after me.' I can hear his ragged breathing. So loud. Like there isn't really a door between us. Nothing between us at all. "I know that he's here to kill me. I know that I'm gonna let him in. Why is that, do you think?" Mac made no answer, just listened to Vic's smooth, quiet voice and the steady beating of his own heart. "Guess I don't need a reason, do I? It's just a dream. "Anyway, I open the door, holding the gun to his head, wondering if... wondering if I can pull that trigger. He stitched you up, I tell myself. He ratted you out. He let them plant coke in your locker. Watched them do it. Laughed about it, maybe. So why can't I kill him? Why can't I kill him, Mac?" Mac began to press on those steady fingers. He said nothing. "I let him play me. I know it's a ruse. You see, Mac, your friends, they come to kill you in the night." Mac sat up suddenly, casting a nervous glance sideways. "Should I be looking for my gun?" he asked. It was hard to speak round the lump in his throat, but somehow he managed it. Vic gave him a reassuring grin. "It's alright, Mac," he said, "we're not friends." Not friends? What the fuck were they? Mac looked down at their twined fingers and wondered if it was possible to cry for Vic's pain if he couldn't cry for his own. He thought it just might be. Mac's father had just died. He found that he was raw enough to say what he was really thinking for a change. "So we're not friends. Wanna be fuck buddies?" The godfather would have been appalled. Good. "Do you want to hear the rest of this dream or not?" demanded Vic, wearing his pissed-off look. At least he didn't pull his hand away. Mac nodded his assent. Belligerence he could handle, it was the other sides of Vic that he wasn't so sure of. "Okay," said Vic coldly. "There's not much more. I keep hoping it'll change, anyway. That one night it will be a user or a dealer. Some low life scum. That way, I get to pull the trigger." Mac nodded again. That made perfect sense. "Stan says to me, `I want to go straight. We can go to the cops.' They're the good guys, you know, the cops. Here's where it gets weird though." "Weird?" said Mac in astonishment, lifting his hand to display their meshed fingers. "It's not already weird?" Vic ignored him. "It's like there's someone else in the room with us. Someone neither of us can see, pushing down on the gun, lowering it. I can't keep it pointed at him. And then when he's got the gun, same thing happens." Mac said nothing. Their joined hands were shaking, but he wasn't sure if it was him doing the trembling, or Vic. "I don't know if he would have done it. Pulled the trigger. I don't know if I would have done it. Cos another friend turns up to kill both of us. But you were there for most of that." Mac remembered. The sight of Vic, bruised, almost in tears, hanging on to that bar for dear life. Pounding his ex-captain with his fists. Beating the shit out of him, then going back for more. Holding Stan's badge in shaking hands. Mourning his dead. Unwilling, Mac's thoughts returned to the godfather, his broken, crumpled body, the strawberry stains spreading on his chest. And himself, in another barroom, "It smells like strawberries." The words, the colours, they were triggering memory after memory from the safe places where he'd tried to bury them. Vic let go his hand suddenly and stretched out on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. "What are you doing?" asked Mac, shaken out of his reverie. "Going to sleep," as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Fully clothed? On top of the blankets?" asked Mac. He couldn't believe his eyes. "I don't want to beat you up again in my sleep," replied Vic with a smirk. " I guess another hand job is out of the question then?" demanded Mac, his sense of humour apparently not dead with the godfather. "Maybe next time you don't do what I tell you to," said Vic, his cool green eyes laughing. "Perhaps it's just as well. I don't know where those hands have been tonight. Didn't I hear something about a deep glute massage? How did your date with the king go?" Mac didn't think that Vic's smirk could get any bigger. He was wrong. "The king has gone to glory, baby, that great big burger joint in the sky." Mac was goggling; he knew it could not look attractive. After a full minute of struggling not to, he asked, "What happened? Did you twist when you should have kneaded? A neck rub gone wrong?" "What can I say, Mac? It was his time." Mac contemplated the recuperative benefits of violence. "How did he die?" he hissed. Vic shrugged. "He popped pills. He washed them down with booze. He ate lard. Then he ate more lard. And never made it out of the bathroom. Just as well really. I think he would have found chiropractic fatal to his health. So would Jackie." Mac looked at Vic, who had pursed his lips in a contemplative manner. "I knew he wasn't long for this world when he made me eat fried baloney with marshmallow crust." Mac laughed so hard he cried. And found that Vic was still there in the morning. Part VI The jets of hot water soothed Mac's aching body as he turned slowly in the shower. He had lain stiffly last night (in more ways than one), tense and uncomfortable, all too aware of the soft exhalations beside him as Victor slept the sleep of the just. And then there was the rigid control needed to fight back the tears, trying not to weep for the godfather in front of Vic, after that first explosion of laughter and tears when the "chiropractor" told his tale of the pill- popping King. As if Victor would have given a flying fuck whether he cried or not. But still, a man couldn't afford to show too much weakness in front of his partner. It was hard to have much confidence in a weeper when you were in the middle of a fire-fight. But he couldn't stay in the bathroom forever, no matter how much he wanted to. His sleeping partner was fixing breakfast in the ultramodern kitchen, and Mac knew that it was only a matter of minutes before he had to face him again. He wanted Vic. He could admit this to himself in the cold hard light of day (or neon light fixtures) as he shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Chrome and neon. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Mac looked at the shower base for residue—he felt as if the warm cleansing water had stripped off a layer of bullshit. This didn't leave him feeling clean, but rather unprotected. One by one, he was losing his defensive layers, stripped away by his dreams, his vision, his death (twice), and now the death of the godfather. And over it all, chiselling away at his defences, was the spectre of Michael Tang. Brother. Lover. Tormentor. And still very much alive. Mac shivered as he dried himself. It was just the cold. He shrugged and tried for a rueful grin, checking out his ass in the mirrors. Perhaps the mirrors on every wall had been a mistake as well. He wondered if Vic would help him redecorate. It might be a way to find out where the man stood on the gay-ometer, interior decorator being a ten, ex-cop secret agent being a likely zero. Still, it was a mighty fine ass. Mac jumped. What the fuck was that? He whirled, towel held out defensively, facing the door. Nothing. Fuck. He could have sworn he had caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something in the mirror. What was with this "something" bullshit? He knew damn well what he'd seen, what he thought he'd seen. It had been just like... Mac started to shake, and dried himself vigorously with the towel, keeping his eyes firmly closed. Just like his vision. Heedless of the small pool of water that he had dripped on the tiled floor, Mac sank to his knees, head pressed against the cold chrome of the shower. I am not going mad, he told himself. But he had seen it there, a brief reflection, teasing his eye, just as he had seen it in over and over in his dreams, since the first time he'd experienced it on that barroom floor. He did not only dream of Michael. Sometimes, his near-death vision haunted his dreams as well. And sometimes he dreamt about Vic. Those were hot dreams. Shit. Since when had it become safer for his mental health to think about his dreams of Vic? If he kept his eyes closed, he could see it all again without the aid of mirrors. Or dreams. Li Ann was poised above him, a huge hypodermic in both hands, stabbing at his heart. In the vision, as it replayed itself in his dreams, it had sometimes been a needle, sometimes a knife. Either way, she had plunged it into his heart. And the expression on her face. So calm. So cold. So frighteningly there as if nothing else existed in her world but the need to drive a blade into his chest. Ventricle, he reminded himself. Not heart, ventricle. Of course, on one level, they were the same thing. But it helped to remind himself that she had been saving his life, not taking it. And then the scene shifted, as it always did. One moment Li Ann's hand had been plunging towards his heart, the next, in a beat of that shuddering heart, both of them had been standing on the Vancouver docks. As they had been, the night that Michael died. But the goons were gone—it was just the four of them. Mac. Victor. Li Ann. Michael. It had happened differently in real life, he knew. Vic had held a gun to Mac's head, while Michael pointed his own weapon at Li Ann. Subterfuge and bluff. Vic pretending that Mac was his prisoner, Michael pretending that he was going to harm Li Ann instead of taking her back to Hong Kong to be his wife. Bluff and counter-bluff, with real bullets as the currency. "Let's do it," Michael had said, a fierce grin distorting his features. "Let's kill them both." But neither had really wanted to pull the trigger, and suddenly Michael had realised that Vic had betrayed him, that he and Mac were working together, and that they had come for Li Ann. "You know her, you love her," Michael had shouted at Vic in outrage. And then the game had taken a new twist as bodies and guns whipped into a new alignment. Mac and Victor's weapons trained on Michael Tang's heart. Right where it should have been. And Michael's gun wavering between the two of them, before coming to point unerringly at Mac. And Li Ann, the only one without a gun, the most powerful of them all. Yes, that was how it had really happened. Li Ann had wrenched free of Michael. Something that Mac had never managed, at least not outside of his own head. She stepped forward, face icy calm, eyes so sad, and stood between them. Like a painting, a triptych, the scene hung in Mac's head. Three sides of a triangle; Mac, Vic, and Michael, their guns pointed at each other. And in the centre, the woman that they all loved, turning slowly as though a dancer on ice, facing each of them in turn and then moving on to the next. Nobody could fire without hitting her. And so, as if pulled into her dance by the strength of her will, they had lowered their guns to the ground. Mac could see it in his mind, like a slow motion replay, the haunting beauty of Li Ann's sad eyes, the synchronous lowering of muzzles, the metal pulled to earth as if Li Ann were a magnetic force, a power of nature. But it was different in the vision. And he could feel it again now, every touch of Michael's fingers on his arms, the cold muzzle of a gun resting on his neck. Michael's gun, not Victor's. And Mac could have sworn that, if he rolled up his sleeves, he would find the bruises that Michael's grip had left on his arms. As if it had really happened that way, and he had been Michael's prisoner, not Li Ann. And opposite them, with anxious eyes and drawn faces, Vic and Li Ann pointed their guns at Michael's heart. "You love him," Michael's accusation was directed at both of them. No they don't, Mac wanted to say. But the feel of cold metal and the smell of gun oil convinced him to remain silent. Mac felt the gun leave his neck and risked a quick glance sideways. The gun was pointed at Vic now. And the buff ex-cop showed no signs of alarm, just a steady regard for Michael, a steady aim at his chest. Mac wondered if Vic's bullet would pass through Michael and kill him too. And he wondered if Vic would die in the exchange of gunfire. Part of him knew that this wasn't really happening, hadn't happened that way. But it didn't seem to make much difference. Vic was going to die before Mac had had a chance to taste him. To taste his lips, his cock, his love. And there was no way in hell, or wherever this was, that that was going to happen. With Michael's attention distracted and his weapon aimed elsewhere, Mac saw his chance and took it. He wrenched free of his foster brother's restraining arm and stepped between them, into the centre of the triptych. All three weapons were now pointed at him, even if they were really aimed past him. He knew what he had to do. He looked into Vic's eyes first. What he saw there frightened him. He saw blood and betrayal, anger and anguish, rage and loss. And a thin layer of humour over all, like a skin that kept it all in, but was easily pricked. And other things too, the deeper he looked, as though his own eyes were Li Ann's hypodermic, plunging into Vic's heart. Honesty and idealism. Basic common sense. Intelligence. Raw strength. Hot, gut-wrenching sensuality. And a willingness to love, an eagerness to love. Was he really seeing this? Was it really there? Or was this just the Vic that he wanted to see? No matter. This Vic would not shoot him, he was certain of that. Graceful as a dancer, he saw himself pivot towards Li Ann, his lover, his strength, his integrity. He had wanted her once. Loved her. Perhaps he still did. But he could see nothing in her eyes. This Li Ann was closed to him. He remembered her face in the aftermath of love making, glowing and sweaty, eyes alight with humour and satisfaction. For a moment, that face was almost superimposed upon the woman with the gun. But it didn't happen and she remained closed to him. He no longer knew who she was, what she wanted. Would she pull the trigger? He wasn't sure. But he could not remain still, the vision propelled him on, swinging him in a slow arc towards the man who had gripped his arms so recently in a parody of a lover's embrace. Michael's eyes were hot, they blazed with fire, with flames that scorched and burnt the unwary bystander. But Mac was no innocent and he had a fire of his own. He faced Michael down. For the first time ever, he looked into those eyes and wasn't lost in the heat. His groin was on fire alright but he wasn't sure how or for whom. The man behind him, whose steady regard made his buttocks twitch in anticipation. Or the woman to the side, whose fires had warmed him once. Or the man in front of him, who wanted to burn him till he fried, screaming with agony and pleasure. And none of this had ever happened. Or was it yet to come? What a load of fucking bullshit. It was just sex. He'd had it with Li Ann and Michael. He wanted it with Victor. No big fucking deal. And a pain-induced hallucination had nothing to say about his past or future. But had they lowered their guns or pulled the triggers? He didn't know. The vision always stopped before it got to the good part. Mac scrubbed himself with the towel till his skin was rubbed raw. When he could do it without shaking, he shoved the towel in a hamper (more chrome, for fuck's sake) and dragged on a robe. Perhaps breakfast would sit well with the acid in his stomach. Vic must be wondering what he was doing in here. Masturbation, Vic old buddy, nothing more. Fixing a jaunty smile on his lips, Mac pushed open the bathroom door and walked out into his apartment's living room. He studiously refused to look in any mirrors. Too bad if his hair wasn't right. Perhaps, just a quick comb... What he saw in the living room made his blood run cold. Vic and Michael, frozen by the door, three feet away from each other, guns in their hands and scowls on their faces. Time stood still, except for a cold trickle of sweat making its way down his back. Was this real? Was he still trapped in the vision? Had he even left the bathroom? Could he still feel the cold tiles under his buttocks? His insides ached at the sight of Michael, his ass felt yawningly empty. Oh fuck. This was real alright. Only Michael could do that to him. Besides, if he was having an hallucination of Michael, he could understand the gun but how to explain the bulky package under his other arm, wrapped in brown paper and making the man look awkward? Michael never looked awkward in dreams. "What the fuck?" was the best Mac could come up with, shouting to be heard over the loud pounding of his heart. Why didn't he keep a gun in the bathroom? Both guns swivelled towards him, their owners gaping at his sudden shout, and then swung quickly back to cover each other, as if Mac was no threat to anyone in this room. How disappointing. "Come for a family breakfast?" he inquired of Michael nonchalantly, ignoring his own sweat and the racing of his heart. At least the robe was loose enough to hide his sudden hard-on. Vic did not look amused. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of Michael. "I've come to see Mac," came the laconic response. Michael had this way of making his soft voice sound as if its owner were already dead, and was thinking of ways to take you with him. Mac shivered, and walked over to the kitchen. Where was his fucking breakfast? "And to deliver this." The stocky man held out the brown paper package as evidence, careful to keep his body between it and Victor's gun. What could be that valuable? Mac wondered idly as he poured himself a coffee. The gun that he had hidden under the kitchen counter was in reach now. He could shoot Michael any time he wanted. "What's in the package?" he inquired. All the time in the world. No need to shoot just yet. His fingers itched and he gulped the coffee, welcoming its hot burn, hoping it might explain the slight flush in his cheeks. "It's for you Mac," came the smooth response. The voice so quiet, so familiar, like bourbon to a drunk. "I'll show you when the chiropractor leaves." Mac saw Vic stiffen. "Unless Vic wants to give me a rubdown?" Mac's cock got harder. Unseen, his hand stroked the butt of his gun. He wondered what Michael would look like as his face exploded. He couldn't see Victor's face, only his back, the tense set of his square shoulders. This allowed him to give his friend, his partner, the face from his vision. Those hot, honest eyes. Filled with pain and depths that Mac couldn't even begin to plumb. Those chiselled cheek bones. Those smirking lips, begging to be kissed. He wondered if Vic had ever sucked a cock. Michael would pull the trigger, Mac had no doubt about that. Even if it meant his own death. He simply wasn't a man to back down. Not over this, not over anything. And Vic would die. "Vic, why don't you go home?" said Mac calmly. "Michael and I have some...catching up to do." Vic didn't look away from where his gun was trained on Michael, but his voice was full of disbelief. "You want me to go?" he demanded, incredulous. "You were right yesterday," Mac said quietly, trying not to stare at the tableau before him, fighting his arousal, his fear. "You told me to go, and you were right. And I didn't go. And I'm glad I didn't because...well, you know why. And today I'm the one who's right, the one who knows what's going on. I need you to go, so that I can talk to my ... brother. Alone." Vic moved slowly around Michael towards the door, neither man altering the aim of his gun by a fraction of an inch, weapon always trained on the other's heart. It was like watching some sort of obscene dance, uncomfortably close to that day on the docks, as the two men skirted each other slowly, deliberately, smooth steps leading one to the door, the other further into Mac's living room. If only it could be the other way round. Although, at the moment, Mac's treacherous cock didn't care which man stayed so long as one of them did. Mac felt a flush of warmth that Vic had done exactly as he asked, when he asked him to. He also felt a stab of betrayal. Which was ridiculous really, since Vic had only done what he wanted him to. He fingered his own gun, still hidden from view, as Michael presented his back to the seemingly unarmed Mac, his attention trained on Victor as he opened the door and eased his way slowly out of the apartment. It was a very satisfying moment. He let Michael hear the sound of the trigger being cocked as he aimed his gun at the other man's back. "Put your gun on the floor Michael. Slowly," Mac's voice was very cold. Michael didn't hesitate. He lowered his gun slowly and surely, dropping it on the floor and stepping away from it, still clutching the bulky package under his other arm. "Turn around," ordered Mac. "Put the package on the floor. Nice and slowly." Michael was smiling as his face came into view, his eyes hooded, his lips curved in a way that shouted of sex. That used to shout of sex. Mac was a different man now. His cock jumped but he ignored it, letting his eyes trail slowly up and down the man that he hated more than anyone else on the planet. Michael hadn't changed. Same powerful frame, taut in an expensive suit, with broad shoulders and chest. And those legs. He had not forgotten those legs, how they held him immobile while Michael...Best not go there. "What's in the package Michael? Parcel bomb?" "Now I'd hardly deliver that in person, would I?" asked Michael sweetly. This man did not do sweet. But nor was he any shakes as an actor. What was going on here? Mac decided that a frontal assault was the only way to go. "Your—our—father was killed yesterday. You don't seem to be prostrate with grief. Instead, you're playing delivery man and looking up an old fuck. Shouldn't you be out getting control of your family? Hunting down the rebels? Showing them who's boss. The new fucking Tang godfather?" Michael did not appear fazed by Mac's words. He continued to smile. He had always been a smiler—it meant nothing. "I am doing what's important Mac, and looking after the family. That's what I'm doing here. Honouring the godfather's wishes. And seeking out my brother." The words were honey smooth. No need to look far for the serpent. Or was that him? Sharper than a serpent's tooth, the ingratitude of a child, or something like that. He knew that if Michael managed to make him feel guilty, then he was halfway towards winning—whatever it was that he was trying to win here. "He wanted you to have that," Michael nodded towards the package on the floor. "He brought it with us to give to you. It was his way of saying - well—I think you'll understand when you open it." Mac looked at Michael uneasily. He was the one with the gun, so why didn't he feel in control? He knew in his gut that he should just pull the trigger. Every instinct was screaming at him to shoot this man. But then that would leave him with an unexploded parcel bomb, wouldn't it? He gestured with the gun, pleased at the steadiness of his hand. "Open it," Mac ordered. He knew what it had to be of course. It was the right size, the right shape, for a particularly meaningful gesture. But was it real? On any level? Michael knelt slowly on the floor, stretching out firm, steady hands to tease at the knots on the package. His fingers stubbornly refused to shake. Mac thought about pistol whipping him. He smiled. Nothing exploded as the new godfather tore the brown paper away, unless you could call the sudden riot of colour an explosion. There it was, in all its glory. The Tang family's Rembrandt. A sombre looking portrait at first glance, showing a burgher in his workplace. He looked an honest merchant with a steady face, brought to life by the vivid shades of colour, the strange, haunting expression in his eyes. A painting of an honest man, a man of substance in all ways. Yet full of self-doubt. This was the godfather's dream, the painting important to him in ways that Mac couldn't begin to describe. A dream that had bled out before his eyes the night before. Evil eats itself, the director had said. He had no intentions of going legit. Mac swallowed. It sounded loud in the silence as Michael unwrapped the painting. "I want it when you die," he heard a younger Mac say, grinning cheekily at the old man, his eyes alight with humour. Now the old man was dead and the painting, it seemed, was his. It was the real thing, no doubt of that. Brushstrokes like that, colour of that nature, couldn't be faked. But what did it mean? Last time this painting had come to Vancouver, the godfather had intended it to be sold to fund his new ventures. Was this any different? Had he really planned to give it to Mac? Had he really forgiven him? The godfather had loved the painting but was willing to sell it for cold hard cash. Or was it being sold now, to buy Mac and what else? He couldn't just want Mac. A route into the Agency, perhaps? A way back to Li Ann? No simple bequest, this, no fucking way. And whatever was said, this came from Michael now, the new godfather, not the old one. God, how he wanted to pull the trigger. But he had to find out what was going on here, he had to know, anything else was too dangerous. For Li Ann, for Vic, for all of them. The Tang family was at war with itself, and the conflagration could destroy them all if he didn't do things right, if he fucked it up. So Michael would get to live. Today at least. And the painting was so beautiful. Mesmerising. How could he turn it down? "Put the gun down, Mac," came Michael's voice, as if from a distance. Oh fuck. He had let himself be distracted. Unforgivable. How could he have missed Michael's sideways grab, the recovery of his discarded gun? The gun that was now pointed at his head, while his own hand had lowered, its muzzle turned towards the Rembrandt. For a moment, he thought of pulling the trigger. Of watching all that colour ripped and shredded while Michael emptied bullets into him. It would be like shooting his father. He couldn't do it. But how could he let himself be disarmed in a room with Michael Tang? Hand shaking, he lowered his gun onto the kitchen counter. Close enough to grab. Almost. Not before he was riddled with bullets, he was sure. "Look at me, Mac," came that hateful voice again. Mac tore his eyes away from the painting to look into the face of his nemesis. Michael was still smiling, his eyes holding Mac's as he tossed his gun onto the couch. "We don't need guns for a family get-together, do we Mac?" he grinned. "Stop saying my name," snarled Mac. His gun was in easy reach but he didn't go for it, confused, trying to fathom what game his enemy was playing now. His cock was still very hard. It didn't help his thinking any. His cock twitched, and his hand twitched in time with it. Michael was still grinning. "It's your name," he said. "Would you prefer me to call you brother?" "Brothers don't rape each other," snapped Mac, but still he didn't go for the gun. So close. So tantalisingly close. "Brothers don't make each other bleed." "Is that what you think it was? Rape?" Michael sounded genuinely confused. "What did you think it was?" he spat. Michael shrugged casually. "I though it was love," he replied. "And there's always a little blood. Smoothes the way. And binds brother to brother. It's a Tang thing. I thought you knew that. I'm sorry if you didn't. I'm sorry if it seemed—otherwise—to you." Mac was astounded. Of all the conversations that he had pictured himself having with Michael, none of them had had this vague air of apology about them. And all of them had ended with Mac shoving his gun up Michael's ass and pulling the trigger. "You loved Li Ann," Mac accused. He had not meant to say that. He had never meant to have this conversation at all, really. Michael needed to be put down, like a rogue tiger, a man-eater, a beast without conscience or remorse. And yet he could not make himself lunge the twelve inches to his gun on the counter. He really wanted to hear the answer to this one. "Of course I loved Li Ann." Michael sounded exasperated now. Just your typical big brother. "We're family." "You were going to marry her?" somehow that had come out as a question. "Yes, I was going to marry her," said Michael, nodding slowly as if Mac were a simpleton. "But not only her. It was still going to be the three of us Mac. You know that. Late at night, when the lights are out and I'm alone, it's you I think of, Mac. It's you I picture. Did you know that?" Mac shook his head, wordless. "I think about your white skin. So smooth, like silk or ivory. Hardly a hair anywhere on your body Mac. And I think about the hair on your head, wavy and just a bit too long, the way you used to wear it. And I imagine that my hand is in your hair, moving your mouth up and down on my cock. You have such pretty lips Mac. Bloated and full while they're sucking on me. It can be like that again, Mac, if you want it to be." Mac made a whimper—he wasn't sure if it was denial or arousal. He couldn't take his eyes off Michael's face. "I've changed, Mac. In so many ways. I'm not the man I was, the man who drove you out of the family because he couldn't, wouldn't, let it just be the two of you. But I still want you, Mac. I still love you." Michael groped himself casually, fingering his growing bulge through the thin cloth of his tailored suit. Mac tried to tell himself that his enemy was going for a gun, that it was fight or flight time, but he knew it wasn't true. There was only one weapon in Michael's trousers, but it was the most dangerous one of all. How pathetic was that? Still a snivelling coward, afraid of Michael, afraid of his cock. And spouting bad clichés as well. Fuck that. Mac had nothing if he lost his sense of style. "So tell me, then, why you love me and want me but haven't contacted me for two years? Why you tried to blow my head off, and then let me think you were dead?" Okay, so the half sob was not so cool, but surely there was plenty of attitude in the rest? Michael had the good grace to look uncomfortable. It only made Mac fear him the more. "It wasn't my idea," Michael said, looking away for the first time. "The godfather, he wanted to make changes. And he wanted to change me most of all. And he succeeded, as he always does—did." There was a pause. An unreadable look crossed Michael's face before it returned to the expression of open sincerity that it had been wearing since this conversation began. "I have crossed the river, Mac. I've found redemption. I've been reborn on the side of good." Mac tried hard not to let his disgust show, to maintain his own expressionless façade. What was this, a revivalist camp? It almost made his cock go soft. Almost. On the other hand, laughing openly at the man might be a good test of his newfound virtue. Still, if it was revival religion that Michael wanted, he could give it to him. "You are what you are, and you are what you always were. Evil." Mac wasn't sure if that had made sense. Michael seemed to be waiting for more. When no more was forthcoming, he responded, "I want to fuck you, Mac. I want to grieve for our father, I want to reaffirm our lives, I want to make you shout my name when you cum. I need to be inside you, Mac." Mac shuddered. Now was the time to go for his gun. Before it was too late. Before he let that voice carry him away. Before he gave in. Michael's smile was slow and lazy. Dangerous. His fingers still groped his cock, its stiffening outline clear against the thin cotton of his pants. Michael was hung like a horse and it had been a long time since he'd taken that cock. But Mac needed something to fill the emptiness. That had been his weakness for Michael in the first place. He understood that now, looking back on his life with the advantage of hindsight. Otherwise, the dreams made no sense at all. And he had thought, hoped, that Vic might be the one to give him what he needed. Like a charge of electricity, lightning quick and potentially deadly, Mac Ramsey needed to be earthed, he needed to be grounded. He knew this about himself. He closed his eyes against the look on Michael's face, unable to bear its sensuality, half promise, half threat. And unable to bear the fact that it wasn't Vic. Eyes clenched shut, he saw again the frozen triptych, himself in the middle, turning, turning, and three people with guns pointed at him, past him, making choices that would inevitably be his as well. Because he was the one without a gun. Li Ann had seemed powerful in that position, but he felt only weak. So weak. Even with his eyes closed, he sensed Michael's movement, heard the soft whisper of clothes being shed as the godfather reached the kitchen, grasping through Mac's robe, closing hard fingers around his leaking erection. Mac was unable to speak, but his cock was doing the talking in any case. And it was saying yes, yes, yes. And drooling all over Michael's hand in pathetic need. Mac felt the old familiar self- hatred rising through him at this remembered touch. But it was different now. He was different. And Michael was a born-again good guy. Perhaps this time, it wouldn't be his own blood as lubricant? Because if he was sure of one thing, it was that Michael was going to fuck him. "Turn around," came the whisper in his ear, as his robe was hitched up around his shoulders. Mac did so, his body moving without apparent orders from himself, controlled by Michael's voice as always. But he positioned himself so that Michael couldn't see the gun, only inches from where he braced his hands. There were advantages to being taller. This time, if Michael proved not to have been reborn on the side of good, Mac was going to help him cross the river. Permanently. Yes. This was a test. Just a test. "Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you," whispered Michael, a single, well-lubricated finger easing its way inside him. Well, fuck me! thought Mac. Michael had brought lubricant with him! A Rembrant in one hand, KY in the other. The man was a walking treasure trove. And if one finger had felt good, two felt even better, preparing him, stretching him, pistoning firmly in and out. This had never happened before. While not exactly gentle, this new taking of time to prepare him was something so un-Michael-like, that Mac had to wonder if it was all true. Could the man-eater have changed his diet, discovered a conscience? And how could Mac be so afraid, and yet still want this so badly? What was wrong with him? How could he ache to have this cold-blooded killer inside him? It was a test, he reminded himself as he shivered with pleasure, nothing more than a test. And Michael seemed to be passing with flying colours. Three fingers inside him now, gallons of lubricant, and no pain. Michael had always enjoyed his pain in the past. Needed it, even. Mac's breath hitched. Four fingers. He was ready, more than ready. "Fuck me," he whispered, his fingers grasping the barrel of the gun. "Fuck me now." He heard Michael's rich chuckle in his ear. If he hurt Mac going in, then he was going to die. The head was pressing at Mac's opening now, forcing its way in. But the pressure was minimal, the entry slow and punctuated with plenty of pauses. Letting him adjust. Relaxing him. Waiting till he was ready to take more. Almost as if this wasn't Michael at all. And the whole thing done without the familiar tang of blood, present in the air at every other encounter they had ever had. Mac felt confusion, pleasure, and more confusion. It was all wrong and yet felt so right. He was only capable of one conscious thought; at the first hint of pain, he was going to point the gun over his shoulder and pull the trigger. Nothing else mattered. Michael was all the way in now and thrusting slowly, moving them gently against the counter, licking Mac's ear and the back of his neck with a busy tongue. Alternately biting and licking, leaving little marks. Now this was more familiar. Michael had always liked to mark him. Li Ann, it seemed, never noticed. She wasn't interested in the back of Mac's neck or his ears, and Michael's bites passed unremarked. He had never been sure whether she was just shutting her eyes to the truth. But he made damned sure to check her out thoroughly every night. This was familiar too. He had thought of Li Ann every other time he'd been with Michael. Sometimes wanting to protect her from Michael and the truth. At other times, hating her because she didn't see it, couldn't help him. But she was inextricably bound to Michael and Mac. And always with them in spirit when Michael fucked him. In time with the gentle thrusts, he turned and pivoted in his mind, now facing Vic, now Li Ann, now whirled back to Michael by an unexpected corkscrew motion. And back to Vic again. Each pointing a gun at him. Each whispering his name. Vic, he whispered back in his mind, biting his tongue to stop from saying it out loud. He didn't want to push Michael's new found goodness too far. And he was still in the room with Michael, after all. Michael threaded his fingers through Mac's on the counter, nuzzling his ear as he did so, and discovered the gun. Fuck. Michael chuckled and fucked him harder, both men grasping the barrel of the gun, its weight moving slowly back and forth on the counter- top in time to their swinging hips. "Who's been a naughty boy then?" whispered his tormentor in Mac's ear. Mac whimpered and pushed back with his hips, feeling nothing but fullness and pleasure. "Fuck me," was his only reply. It was enough. And while Michael's pace accelerated, they grappled for control of the weapon, Mac crying out when his enemy's fingers sent the gun flying across the counter and on to the floor. Well out of range. But even without this safety net, there was only pleasure, building towards climax. As the gun hit the floor with a crash, Michael bit down hard on Mac's ear, his cock buried balls deep and unloading inside him. Mac came moments later, looking around desperately for the gun, wondering if Michael had used a condom, somehow miles distant from his own body's release. And part of him was still spinning inside, looking from partner to partner, the focus of their guns, even after the pumping stopped and Michael collapsed in a sweaty heap on his back, murmuring sweet nothings in his torn ear. Slowly, his frantic heart beat calming, Mac became aware of what Michael was saying. "That was great, baby, just great. It's us now, you know, against the world. Now that the old man is dead. I need you Mac. Need your help. Need your love. You and Li Ann. You have to help me get back control, so that I can make his dream come true and take the family legit." The man was talking crime and politics in the aftermath of that orgasm? It was all about manipulating him through his body again, wasn't it? Nothing had changed. And yet—it sure had felt different. He had enjoyed it, for one thing. That had never happened before, at least not without so much pain that he came in spite of himself, hating his climax, despising the evidence that even under the most violent abuse, his body could get turned on and he could have an orgasm. As if it was what he wanted. As if he was as sick as Michael. "But I need you to trust me, Mac, to trust and help me. And to suck my cock. I'm getting hard again. See what you do to me baby?" Mac looked down as Michael released him to peel off his spent condom. At least he'd used a rubber. And yes, Michael was getting hard again. That was certainly the same. Once had never been enough for Michael Tang. In anything. Mac sighed. His gun was a long way away and he had just had the best fuck of his life. Sure, he wished it had been Vic. But Vic wasn't here, he had tamely gone home when told to, and he wasn't interested in Mac anyway. The man had slept next to him in his clothes, for godsakes, and on top of the blankets. Talk about your quintessential homophobe. A friendly homophobe, to be sure, and one who cared enough to make you feel like you weren't weak for grieving, and to stay the night. But on top of the covers? And what was that compared to a good, ass-deep, soul-satisfying fuck? But could he believe Michael? Should he help him? Would it get them all killed? After two years at the Agency, Mac was not used to making decisions on his own, not the really big ones. He needed to talk to the others. In the meantime, Mac didn't know whether he would help Michael or not. But he was sure of one thing—the tests weren't over. "I don't trust you, and I don't care whether you regain control of the Tang family," he said coldly. "The family kicked me out. They're nothing to me. The godfather rejected me." "Don't you presume to know what he was thinking," screamed Michael, his face darkening. And then stopped, as if surprised at his own loss of control. Mac decided to keep pushing. "Godfathers don't forgive," he said calmly. "Suck my cock, Mac," came the whispered reply, heavy with promise, if only he could put a name to it. What was really being asked of him here? Take my painting, Mac. Suck my cock, Mac. Help me kill the rebels, Mac. Trust me, Mac. Let me fuck you, Mac. Love me, Mac? "I'm not going to suck your cock, Michael," he said coldly, head reeling, still turning inside, from Vic to Li Ann to Michael. "I don't know what I want, but I know it's not that." Michael's face looked darker at the rejection. Mac's eyes tracked his foster brother's gun, where it had landed on the couch. He wondered if he could get over the counter in time, if Michael made a grab for it. "I know what you want, Mac, what you need. You need family. You need discipline. I can give you those things. If you let me." "Did you cry for him, Michael?" asked Mac, outwardly unmoved by the other's offer. Inside he was still turning, still undecided. But it seemed to him, unlike in the vision as he remembered it, that he faced Michael more often now than he faced the other two. He felt disassociated from himself, looking on from the outside, one eye on Michael's gun, the other on his angry face. But his real attention directed inwards. "He was my father, Mac. But I'm not good with things like that. I don't want to talk about it." Michael's tone was adamant. "You can fuck me, you can ask for my help to murder our family, you can point your gun at me, but you can't tell me how you feel? Sounds like the old Michael to me. What happened to the man who crossed the river? Wasn't he reborn in touch with his feelings?" Mac smiled with satisfaction. If challenged, he could not, for the life of him, have explained what his own feelings were. Michael saw the smile and his scowl deepened. "Come here, Mac," he whispered urgently. "I want you to suck my cock. You know you want to. I know this about you." "You don't know me at all," Mac retaliated. He really did want to suck Michael's cock. But he was damned if he was going to. Especially after the suckee had said that he needed discipline. "What I really want is for you to go," Mac added. "And leave me to enjoy my new painting. As for the rest, well, I'll have to think about it. I'll talk to Li Ann. See if she's up to some house cleaning. Are you gonna fuck her too?" The last didn't take Michael by surprise, the way he had hoped. "All three of us, Mac. All three or nothing. That's the way it has to be. We're a triad." Michael had never looked more sincere. He was also still rubbing his erect cock. Mac started to turn again, inside. This would be the final test. "I need to get off, baby. Can't get this inside my suit. Come on, Mac, do me." "No," said Mac firmly, eyes glued to Michael's burgeoning erection. "You know you want to," Michael repeated, his eyes harder than his cock. "Go back to your hotel Michael, and leave me to think," Mac repeated, sure of himself now. This was the best way, the only way. He had to see if Michael, if this Michael, would try to force him. "I can get to my gun before you can get to yours baby," Michael purred, his voice soft, almost hypnotic, all traces of anger gone. "Is that what you want? You want me to make you do it? I can play that game baby. If that's what you want." "No games, Michael," he repeated, voice steady, no hint of his tension, his fear. "Just get the fuck out of my apartment." Michael smiled slowly. "Are you sure, Mac?" Was he easing towards the couch, towards his gun? Mac readied himself to spring. He was certain he could get to Michael first, and then he was going to beat the crap out of him, sore ass or no. At least, he was almost certain that he could get to Michael first. If he could jump far enough. If Michael was slow enough. Not sure at all, really, but it would have to do. Would Michael go for his gun or wouldn't he? It had to be a true test. Mac couldn't be the one to move first. He had to know. "I think the man's made himself quite clear," came an icy voice from the door. Oh fuck! Oh no! Not now! Stupid fucking imbecile! "What are you doing?" he screamed at the intruder, as both men wheeled to find themselves once again at gunpoint. Or, at least one of them was. Vic's gun was pointed quite firmly at Michael. "Saving your ungrateful ass, by the looks of things," said Vic coldly. "Although, it may be a bit late for that." There was a nastiness to Vic's tone that made Mac shrivel inside. Once again, without volition, his mind returned to the docks, to an image of himself revolving inside a triangle of guns. But now, there was another image as well, one of Michael fucking him over the kitchen counter, with Vic listening outside the door. Listening to him beg for it. He should have known that Vic wouldn't leave, any more than he had himself the day before. Oh fuck. Michael's cock was also shrivelling, not liking the new attention. Guns didn't turn him on. Michael reached for his suit trousers, Vic's gun following his every move, just daring him to try something. And the look in Vic's eyes...it made Mac shiver. He pulled his robe back into place, hiding his spent cock, still seeping, from view. "Enjoy the painting," said Michael casually, knotting his tie with busy fingers. Mac couldn't help but think where those fingers had been recently. And he had the sore ass to prove it. "I'll be in touch. Welcome back to the family," the new godfather said as he turned to go. "Stay away from Li Ann," muttered Mac, wondering if he should step on the spent condom and cover it with his foot. If the feel of it under his foot could make him feel any lower. Besides, Vic already knew what had gone on in here, no use trying to hide it. Michael turned back to face him. "Alright, I will wait for you to come to me, Mac. It's up to you now. You can bring me my gun when you do." He gave Mac a sketchy salute, his eyes still serious, so sincere. "See you later, Vic," he added, as the other man stepped aside to let him leave, gun never wavering. "I hear you give good rub downs. Perhaps I'll try you out." With a wink and a leer, he was gone. Mac turned to his partner, face red with fury. He couldn't speak for a full minute. Vic never moved. "It was a fucking test," he hissed at last. "I had to see if he would go for the gun, try to force me, and you fucked it up big time. You stupid asshole. Now I still don't know. At least, not for sure." He paused, suddenly tired. He needed a shower, to wash the smell of Michael off him. "It was a risk, a stupid, unnecessary risk," said Vic, his voice still cold. Shit, the north pole had more warmth. "He might have killed you." "It's got nothing to do with you," snapped Mac. "It's Tang business. You were supposed to go home. You shouldn't even be here." "Of course I didn't go home," said Vic, fury evident in every line of his body. "I'm your fucking backup. What? What?! Did you think I was gonna leave you alone with that asshole? But, then, you wanted him to fuck you, didn't you? Did you enjoy it Mac? Taking him up the ass? Was it just like old times?" Mac turned away. He didn't want Vic to see his face. "Yes," he said tonelessly. "Go to work Victor. I'll see you at the Agency, later." "Mac..." "Get out, Victor. I'll see you at work." His voice had risen a little. For a moment, there was silence and then the sound of the door shutting. He looked over his shoulder, to make sure that Vic had gone. Really gone, this time. The apartment was empty. He smiled. Alone at last. His cum had left small pools on top of the kitchen counter, where Michael had fucked it out of him. Idly, he began to trace them with his finger. With his other hand, he reached up to feel his sore ear. There was a little blood, where Michael had bitten him. Hard. Blood and cum. Blood and cum and Michael. Michael had fucked him. Vic despised him. He sucked cum off one finger, blood from another, still smiling, laughing inside at the irony of it all. Of course, it was all the counter's fault. If it hadn't been at such a convenient height. If he hadn't had the gun ready on top of it. If he hadn't needed to test Michael. If he hadn't wanted it so badly. If he hadn't cum. A thousand ifs. Slowly, deliberately, he began to punch the counter with his fist. Battering it, punishing it for its part in all this. Eventually, when his knuckles were bleeding, he decided to stop. He was going to need those knuckles intact for use on Michael. Or Vic. Or both. He was going to find out what Michael was up to, and he was going to stop him. It was as simple as that. The thought brought him no comfort, though, as he stepped into the shower for the second time that morning, hoping against hope that he could find another clean towel. Part VII The thin edge of the blade struck Mac full in the stomach. He grunted as the air whooshed out of him. If that had been a real sword, he would be bleeding to death right now. Great. One of the actors had finally managed to get past his deliberately lowered guard. It was small comfort. Mac clutched his stomach and gasped, "Is this my thigh?" "Um, no?" said Laertes, his head hanging. He was a hot, powerfully built Asian guy, all dark hair and winsome looks. Very cute. If you liked that type. The return of full breathing capacity was sure to enhance Mac's shouting. "You were supposed to hit me in the thigh," he roared. Mac was angry. Okay, he was going to have a bruise. But so what? He'd had plenty of those before and never blinked. But anger was his constant companion at the moment. Ever since yesterday, when Michael had fucked him and Vic had fucked him over, Mac had been a simmering volcano waiting to explode. Now might be just the right time. "Hamlet killed your father!" he screamed at Laertes. "But that does not make you stupid. It does not make you so angry that you do things you didn't plan on doing! Do you understand me? You were supposed to... hit... my... thigh." Perhaps shaking the frightened actor with each of his last three words was not the best form of teacher-student bonding. But what a stupid fucker. His fingers closed around Laertes' throat. "You go to a restaurant," he said, voice silky smooth. "You order chicken thighs. You with me so far?" He moved Laertes' head up and down in a nod. "Good boy. They bring you a chicken stomach instead. Stinking fucking tripe. Is that what you ordered?" The head moved from side to side in time with his hands. "No. Are you happy with that? Do you say, OK, I'll just eat this crap instead of the nice juicy thighs that I ordered. Is that what you say? Hamlet murdered your old man and you're just gonna sit there and eat stomach lining?" "Urk," whispered Laertes. Mac shoved the actor away in disgust and picked up his thin, fake plastic sword. "Stupid piece of crap," he said conversationally and broke it in half. He wondered, as he contemplated the pathetic tools they expected him to work with, why everyone seemed to be backing slowly away from him. "Where are those replacement swords? I ordered them days ago. We can't work with this shit. No wonder you guys can't score a hit anywhere that you're supposed to. Useless fucking crap." Mac wondered if he should break every single prop sword that they had. Then the useless fuckers would have to do something about it. His own sword snapped easily. As he looked around for the rest, he heard a voice say behind him, "Hi. I'm with props. Just started today." Mac whirled, another fake sword extended in front of him, ready to face his opponent. The new prop guy was wearing tight black jeans, a white t-shirt, and black leather jacket. His basket was clearly outlined against the straining denim. And he had a shit-eating grin on his face. This was clearly somebody's idea of what theatre types looked like. "Victor Mansfield," said the new guy, sticking out his hand. "Somebody order some swords?" The play's director was standing next to Vic, her 300 pounds displayed in an unlikely looking pink tutu. She had dropped her usual mask in order to keep a possessive hand on the small of Vic's back. "Everyone, this is Victor. Victor, everyone. Mac, my babies do not respond well to shouting. I know someone could get hurt if this scene doesn't go right, but teachers don't shout at their pupils." Mac, who had sworn not to let a single word pass his lips in the presence of his asshole partner, found this too much to take. "You shout at everyone," he pointed out. "All the time. You made Gertrude cry yesterday." The tutu shrugged. "She needed red eyes, darling, what can I say?" "You can say, Mac, you deserve a raise. Mac, I'm gonna get you some decent equipment. Mac, I'm gonna find some actors who can do fight scenes without crying like sissies." Laertes, who was hiccuping in the corner, started to cry in earnest at that point, massaging his sore throat and pushing Hamlet's hand back to his ass where it was delivering comforting pats. Right. And they say actors can't cry on cue. "Perhaps I can help," offered the prop guy, all smiles. "I bet I can hit you exactly where you want to be hit." Was that a leer? Even better. Mac's anger went from hot to blazingly cold. Dry ice had nothing on him. "OK, let's see what you've got," hissed Mac, reaching for the replacement swords and brushing against his partner's groin in the process. Well, more of a jab really. With his elbow. Still, if a man's gonna wear obscene trousers, he can expect to get some attention. Mac was impressed in spite of himself. Not only did there appear to be a very substantial piece of meat inside those jeans, but the new swords were actually good, with the right heft and balance. They even looked real. Vic looked at him askance, eyes watering slightly from the blow to his groin. Only the sharp eyes of the director had picked it up, and her hand was now cupping an ass cheek. Mac grinned at Vic's startled jump forward, his look of astonishment at the giantess beside him. "Play nicely boys," she said, even as Mac swung his sword at Vic in a blow that would have broken his arm if it had connected. The new prop guy dodged it easily and parried with a counter-blow designed to knock Mac's head off. Good. They could give these actors a show. And he would get to pound his bastard partner while they did it. Backwards and forwards, a flurry of blows and near-misses, each parried with a sword or evaded with an economy of motion. Mac knew that they looked good. He just knew it. Despite himself, he felt some of the anger fading as he battered at Vic's defences, working out his frustrations with every lunge. If Hamlet had just up and bashed his uncle in the first place, perhaps they wouldn't have had to go through all this bullshit. "You want it on your thigh, I think you said," Vic panted slightly, never pausing in his assault on Mac's guard. "You gonna let me in?" There was that leer again. What the fuck? Did he think Mac was an easy lay now? Just because he'd given it up for Michael? What an asshole. Mac dropped his guard and let the blow connect. Vic hadn't been expecting it, even so, and hit much harder than he needed to, leaning too close and exposing himself to an easy counter-shot. Blood exploded from Mac's thigh as he fell backwards, screaming with pain, enjoying the look of shocked horror in those wide green eyes. "Mac," shouted Vic, drenched with a spray of blood as he dropped his sword, reaching for his collapsing partner. "Shit! Someone get a doctor! Now!" Mac's shoulders shook. "Buddy, are you alright, what the fuck happened? These swords aren't supposed to be sharp!" As though his own words had just ricocheted back to his brain, Vic dropped the shaking Mac like a stone. Mac couldn't help himself. He roared with laughter. He was giddy with it, high on adrenaline, high on Vic. Because he had seen something in those beautiful green eyes, something hot and real, when Vic had been doused in fake blood from the concealed pouch on Mac's thigh. When Vic had thought he'd hurt him. That look was almost enough to wipe out yesterday's shame. Almost. Oh yeah. Vic cared about him. He might never do anything about it. He might never admit it. But Vic felt something and it wasn't contempt. Mac hugged himself with glee, ignoring the fact that the throbbing pain in his gut had now been joined by another pain in his thigh. "Too much," screeched Rosa the director, her beady eyes missing nothing. "Too much blood. And it shouldn't squirt like that. I want a few drops to hit Laertes on his mask. But no more than that." Mac looked over at Vic's dark jeans, which looked like they'd been drenched by a fire hose—if fire hoses were to spray red jello. The look of disgust on Vic's face was too much—Mac continued to laugh, ignoring the twin glares of the prop guy and the director. "I thought I'd hit a fucking artery!" Vic cared about him. Felt something for him. On some level. Sure, it was a little like grasping at straws, but even so, his world looked a damn sight better than it had an hour ago. "Come," said Rosa, taking Vic's muscular bicep in her huge ham fist and squeezing gently. "Let's get you out of those filthy trousers, hmmn?" The panicked look that Vic tossed Mac over his shoulder was even more comical, as Rosa towed him slowly away. Mac couldn't help himself. He just laughed harder. Even Laertes was grinning now. Mac sprang to his feet in one smooth motion, wincing slightly at the ache in his thigh (and the old pain in his foot when it took his weight too suddenly). Unbidden, reminded by the twinge in his toes, an image filled his mind from the Grand Hotel, Vic's buttocks dominating his line of sight, his strong fingers squeezing Mac's cock. Oh my god. Darting forward, Mac grabbed Laertes' shoulder and gave it a friendly rub. "Sorry dude," he said softly. When Laertes rewarded him with a slight smile and a suggestive look, Mac grinned and whispered, "Maybe later." Then he was off, running as if his life depended on it. He knew where Rosa had to be taking Vic—down to wardrobe. And though he couldn't go the direct route, he could get there faster than a 300 pound woman who wheezed if she had to turn around, and a man who would have to accompany her at her own pace. He knew he was being stupid, and probably childish as well. But this was his chance—might be his only chance—to see Victor Mansfield naked. To find out if his basket lived up to the promise of those too- tight jeans. His partner was a stickler for privacy and had never stripped to the nude in front of Mac in all the time they'd been working together. Well, today might just be Mac's lucky day. His luck had to change some time, didn't it? Donna, the woman in charge of wardrobe, looked at him in astonishment as he burst into the room. Standing on one foot, favouring his sore thigh, he gasped, "Leather pants... meant for Hamlet in Act Three... really tight... where?" "Um, on that rack," she said, pointing vaguely to her left, edging carefully towards the door. Mac expected he looked a bit crazy, all dishevelled, covered in fake blood, and standing on one leg. Still, if it got her out of the room, so much the better. "They need you on stage," he said, grabbing at the rack, pulling clothes off and throwing them on the floor in his haste. "Aha," he said, finding the leather pants at last, fingering their supple smoothness. Planting a quick kiss on the inseam. Another gasp reminded him of Donna's presence. She was at the door now. "Ophelia's posies," he hissed at her, dragging the leather trousers from the hanger and draping them over a table, so that they'd be the first thing anyone saw when they came into the room. He was sure they were the right size. Just a little small for Vic, but that could only be a good thing, right? "Ophelia's posies?" she asked faintly. "Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme," he hissed, grinning fiercely. Why didn't she get the fuck out already? "That's Simon and Garfunkel," came the faint protest. "Whatever," snapped Mac. "They need you to, um, sew them on. Yeah. They want to try a new look. Sew them on her. Or on the Queen. Or something. How the fuck should I know?" "Oh, I'd better go then," whimpered the woman, clearly trying not to watch as he sniffed the leather trousers, inhaling deeply at the crotch. Right. She was gone. A plan. He needed a plan. He looked desperately round the room. Aha. The walk-in closet. There was room to hide in there. And he knew that you could see out through its slanted wooden slats, but not in. So you couldn't tell you were being observed. And there was plenty of room. He knew because they'd found Rosa in there, the first time he'd been outfitted with his prop costume for the duel. When Donna had gone in search of more pouches for fake blood, she had found 300 pounds of voyeur in the closet. A nasty surprise for everyone, really. But there was no need for Vic to go searching in the closet. Some kind soul had laid out just the right trousers to hug his gorgeous ass. What could possibly go wrong? Decision made, Mac wrenched open the closet doors and staggered in, wincing at the pain in his leg as he crouched down and pulled them closed behind him. Perfect. He could see everything from here. He wondered if Rosa had designed it this way. It was lucky for him that she was a pervert. Not that there was anything perverted in what he was doing of, course—no, that was just natural curiosity. The minutes ticked by. How slow could Rosa be? Perhaps she wasn't bringing Vic here at all. Perhaps Donna would come back and find him hiding in her closet, leaking fake blood on her beautiful costumes. He would have to sleep with her, just to shut her up. Oh well, he could do worse. She was quite pretty. Not as pretty as Laertes though. Mac liked big, built, Asian men. Wonder where that came from? What was that? It sounded like, yes, thick fingers fumbling clumsily with the door. "It's just in here," came Rosa's high-pitched voice. "Oh," she added. "Donna's not here. What a shame." If she was supposed to be an actress, she wasn't a very good one. "I guess I'll have to help find you something instead. Oh well, I don't suppose I need to get back straight away." "That won't be necessary, thanks." Mac could almost see the tightness of Vic's lips, though the man had his broad back to the closet. What followed appeared to be a tug of war, in which Vic pitted his strength against the weight of an immovable object, steering her firmly if slowly towards the door. "You can't take just anything, you know," protested Rosa. Mac could see her hands trying to cop a feel of Vic's ass. "We need some for tonight's rehearsal. If I could just... " One last shove and she was on the other side of the door. Mac heard the click of a snib as Vic locked the door, leaning against it and sighing as if he had just wrestled with an elephant. Weirdly, Mac found that image very erotic. Must be the trunk. He began to finger himself through his own costume, watching avidly as Vic did a quick survey of the room, always alert to possible dangers. Fortunately, the walk-in closet didn't seem to merit more than a brief glance. Mac relaxed, stroking himself lightly as Vic moved towards the obvious target, a pair of prominently displayed leather trousers of about the right size. Mac knew that his own grin must be enormous as he lowered his zipper quietly, freeing his cock from its cotton prison. Soon now. Very soon. Vic was scratching his ass. He would never do that in public. Mac felt his mouth go dry, as he fought the compulsion to giggle. Oh yes. Vic was lifting the trousers now, letting the leather slide through his fingers. How pathetic was this? Still, the man had listened to him have sex with Michael Tang. Had listened to Mac begging for it. And made him feel like shit afterwards. The least he owed Mac was a bit of a thrill on the side. Vic was unzipping his jeans. The sound of it almost stopped Mac's heart. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this excited. Vic was lowering the jeans slowly over his perfect globes, snug in their white briefs. Mac offered a brief prayer, as Vic leaned forward a little, that some of the blood had soaked through to the underwear. He was counting on it. Was it too much to ask? Surely Vic would have to take them off. Vic was turning now, his cock clearly outlined through the flimsy material of his briefs. You know," said Vic calmly, folding his jeans carefully in both hands. Mac froze. His hand stopped moving on his cock. What was going on? "You know," repeated Vic, "people who hide in closets should be careful not to leave a trail of fake blood." Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. Vic was striding towards the closet, as Mac tried frantically to stuff his erection back inside his trousers. Wouldn't fit! Just wouldn't fit! Damn it to hell. Vic tugged the door open, almost pulling Mac out into the room as he did so. Hands on hips, the half-naked man demanded, "Did you enjoy the show?" What was the right answer to this question? "Um, no?" he echoed Laertes from earlier, probably looking just as guilty. And all he could think was that the briefs were damp, and that they would have had to come off. What a fucking waste of a good plan. Still, perhaps Vic was right when he suggested that Mac's planning tended to be a little impulsive, not quite as well thought out as it might be. Not that Vic was usually that polite about it, of course. "Do you know what I think about people who spy on other people for sexual kicks?" asked Vic calmly, looking down at Mac with his wet briefs at the thief's eye level. "Um, no?" repeated Mac. His brain was dead, wilted with his shrinking cock. At least he would be able to tuck himself away now. He didn't see why Vic should be the one to get a free show. "I think they should get their kicks for real," said Vic, planting a bare foot on Mac's chest and shoving him hard against the back of the closet. Mac was getting ready to go for Vic's foot and upend him but good when his partner froze suddenly, eyes towards the door. A second later, Mac could hear the sound of low voices as well, and saw someone trying the door. "It's locked." That was Li Ann. "That abomination said that Vic was in here." That was the director—the real one, not Rosa! "Vic, are you in there?" called Li Ann through the door. Vic looked at Mac with panic in his eyes. This was not a good situation for either of them to explain, unless they could get dressed faster than Li Ann could pick a lock. And without making any noise. Vic's trousers were folded neatly on the other side of the room. "He can't be there," they heard Li Ann say. "He might have passed out," the director said, her tone quite casual. "Why would he have passed out?" demanded Li Ann, sounding angry. "Oh I don't know. The big one said something about there being a lot of blood?" The director sounded very bored. Li Ann was clearly picking the lock with frantic haste. Mac did the only thing he could. He shoved a pile of expensive- looking dresses out onto the floor, to cover the drops of blood that Vic had spotted leading to the closet, and then grabbed his partner's arm and pulled him inside with him. The closet door was barely closed as Li Ann burst into the room, the director following more sedately at her heels. "Nothing," said Li Ann, looking around in disgust. "Well, it did sound unlikely. Mac and Vic fighting with swords, one or other of them bleeding all over the place. Actors do tend to get a bit melodramatic about things," said the director, sweeping a pile of costumes on to the floor (and Vic's jeans with them) before perching on the table, crossing her legs like a cancan dancer about to reveal all to a waiting world. "Why did we have to meet here, in any case?" she inquired. Vic stiffened. He was clearly interested in the answer to this question. Mac, on the other hand, had his arms almost full of Victor and couldn't have cared less. On his knees, he was at just the right height for... did he dare... Mac decided that he had never done a braver thing as he leaned over and began to nuzzle Vic's cock, wetting his already-damp briefs with saliva. The taste of chemicals from the fake blood was overwhelmed by the smell and taste of his partner's crotch. Even through the underwear. Vic's hands had latched onto Mac's shoulders, pushing him away. But he couldn't use much force, not without an obvious struggle—and while he could, perhaps, have explained away their previous situation, the current one would be impossible. Mac wondered if Vic could feel his grin through the thin material of his Calvin Klein's as he drew in deep, silent breaths. Oh yes. This was heaven. With shaking fingers, he freed Vic's cock from its cotton prison and swallowed it to the root. Still soft but getting harder as he nipped, licked and nursed it with tongue and teeth. Oh yes. It was payback time. And maybe a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get what he might otherwise never have. And somehow, he didn't think that even this was enough to wipe out the caring that he had seen in Vic's eyes earlier. Unless he was making a huge mistake. Error or not, his own straining erection urged him to continue. And Vic's hands were gentle on his shoulders now. Was that a caress? Even through the humming of his blood, Mac could hear Li Ann answer the director's question. And they said I couldn't multitask, he chortled to himself, sucking vigorously on Victor's growing cock. It was a big one. Perhaps bigger than Michael's even. Hoohah—he'd hit the jackpot. "We had to meet here to allay Mac's suspicions. It was Vic's idea." What the fuck? He risked a glimpse up at Vic. The man looked like a poster boy for viagra - all sweaty and hot, even in the dim light through the slates, eyes tightly closed, mouth stuffed full of one of Ophelia's dresses to stop himself from moaning out loud. Mac appreciated the irony of that, even as he redoubled his oral efforts on Vic's huge erection. "But why here, and not the Agency?" the director's voice registered on his lust-ridden brain. Listening carefully, Mac kept his slurps as quiet as humanly possible. He knew that Vic was moaning continuously now into his makeshift gag. "I went to see Michael last night," said Li Ann. Mac froze on Victor's cock. Although it ought not to have been possible to forget something so large when it was jammed down his gullet, he listened intently to the conversation in the room, making no further movement with his throat or lips. Vic began thrusting gently down Mac's throat. Getting the friction going again, his need evident in the steely hardness of his erection. Perhaps he wasn't hearing what was being said, or he may have been trying to distract Mac from the conversation on the other side of the door. Keep your eyes on the prize. Someone had said that to him once. And he had it now, if not in visual contact but stuffed all the way down his throat. And what a prize it was. But all he could experience, all he could feel, was the sound of the words coming from his other partner's mouth. "You said it yourself. The Tang civil war is going to get more people killed and cause a whole lot more trouble than getting Michael in his father's place. And once he's there, well, the godfather's dream will be a reality." "You really believe that?" the director's voice was so cool, like a hint of frost on a late autumn day. Something nippy in the air. Vic's fingers were in his hair now, stroking gently, as he fucked Mac's face. "Yes. Michael's changed. I can see that now. But Mac will never accept that. He hates Michael. He's not capable of evaluating the situation objectively." "Well, my star pupil, there are other ways to evaluate things. Some of them are even valid, insightful," came the director's response. Mac clenched his fists in Vic's buttocks. He pulled the other man deeper inside him. "Michael will take the Tangs legit. I believe that now, after talking to him, seeing him as he really is. Not as he was back then. But Mac can't let go of his hate. Can't see Michael as he is now." Vic ground his pubic hair into Mac's nose. Mac forgot to breathe, struggling slightly, silently, against the onslaught. "Perhaps Mac has good reason to hate Michael, better than you know," said the director. Mac could picture her leg swinging, her gaze coolly challenging. "I've always said, there's far too little hate in the world." "Look," protested Li Ann, "you told me to sort this one out. That you wouldn't give me any orders. And that's exactly what we're going to do." "We?" "Me and Vic. And Michael. Tonight. We're going to get the animals that killed the godfather, and eliminate them. But Mac mustn't know about it. Vic and I agreed—he's not to be involved. Mac's been a little... funny... since Michael showed up. Since the godfather died. We need to put Michael back in power. Not shoot him in the back. So Mac has to stay here—and you've got to convince him of that. Feed him one of your lines." "My lines?" was the chilly response. Vic's cock shuddered deep inside Mac's throat. Mac wondered if Vic would ever realise that his briefs were now soaked with tears, as well as sweat and fake blood. And inside his mind, where it never went entirely away, Mac saw again the triptych on the dock, painted in grim, dark colours, with him at the centre of a triangle of guns. But now those guns were pointed at him, not past him. Vic. Li Ann. Michael. All aiming directly at him. "Yeah, you know," continued Li Ann, as if from a distance, "tell him that there's going to be some sort of fracas at the rehearsal tonight. Or a break-in afterwards. That he needs to patrol here tonight. All night. While Vic and I take care of cleaning up the Tangs and putting Michael back in control." Ah, thought Mac, the taste of semen. The taste of betrayal. As Vic unloaded deep inside him, he gripped Mac's hair and forced himself in as far as he could go, clearly heedless of anything but his own pleasure. "Alright Li Ann. This one is your show. I'll let you run it however you please. You and Vic will help Michael, and I will distract Mac. Speaking of which, let's go and find them." Li Ann headed out the door. Mac could see her slim back as she left, while Vic pulled slowly out of his mouth, stroking his hair all the while. The director paused and swooped down, picking up Vic's blood spattered jeans from the pile of abandoned clothing on the floor. She hefted them in one hand for a moment, and then threw them hard against the closet door, causing Vic to flail and pull some of Mac's hair out by the roots. Mac gasped with the sudden pain, welcoming it. At least it would give him some excuse for the tear tracks down his cheeks, if Vic happened to notice them. She knew they were there. She had known all along. He watched her leave, knowing that she had meant him to hear every word. To know how he had been betrayed. And even so, he still couldn't bring himself to bite Vic's cock, although the thought did cross his mind. Instead, he gave it little kisses and licks as it left his mouth, to be tucked safely away inside those soggy underpants. Never again. Never again. "Have they gone?" whispered Vic. Mac looked up into his smiling eyes and knew that Vic hadn't heard a word. He supposed he should be flattered. He was that good. Vic stroked a tendril of his hair, lightly. "Sorry, she startled me. I hope I didn't hurt you too badly." Hurt me too badly? thought Mac dully. Now how could you do that? "They're looking for us," he whispered, glad that Vic couldn't see his face in the gloom of the closet. "We'd better not keep them waiting." "Alright." Vic sounded uncertain. "Hey, you did want... I didn't... " "It's alright," Mac confirmed, gripping Vic around the waist suddenly, nuzzling the moist briefs with his mouth. "I got exactly what I asked for." Pushing Vic away, he scrambled out of the closet and refastened his jeans. His own cock had gone soft long before. He had to get out of there. He was almost at the door when Vic's voice stopped him. "For fuck's sake, what's your hurry?" the other man griped. "Can't you wait for a guy to get his clothes back on?" This was better. He could take anything from Vic except tenderness. Time to hide, to re-erect his defences, before he broke down and begged the other man to love him, to trust him, to put a bullet through Michael Tang's head. Or his own. Grasping the doorframe, Mac asked, "So, do you usually let guys give you blow jobs? This a cop thing?" The silence from behind him was icy. "I don't just let guys give me blow jobs. I let you give me one. And I've been known to reciprocate." That brought Mac swinging around, his numbness pierced by astonishment. "You suck cock?" he demanded. Well, he could have dressed it up a bit, but sparing Vic's feelings was the last thing on his mind. Especially after what he had just heard Li Ann and the director talking about. "Yes," came the laconic response. "Why?" asked Mac. He knew it was a dumb question the minute the word left his mouth. Too late to take it back now. And he really wanted to know the answer anyway. "I'm bisexual, I guess," said Vic, shrugging casually. "It's not a big deal." Mac felt sure the expression on his face was comical, if Vic's look of amusement was anything to go by. Vic was the straight-as-an-arrow ex-cop, Mac was the bohemian one. "You're bisexual?" he repeated. "Sure," said Vic. "Do you think that straight guys go around giving other men hand jobs through curtains? Or getting blow jobs from their male partners in closets? Okay—scrap the last one, some cops would do that, but never the first one." Bisexual. Mac rolled the word around in his mind, trying to fit it to Vic and all the things that he knew about him. "And guess what, Mac? I think you might be bisexual too. At a guess." There it was. That condescending smirk Mac knew so well. And from a man who was going to help restore Michael Tang to his empire. Behind Mac's back. In spite of everything that Vic knew about what Michael was, and of what he had done to Mac. He had never seen anything so satisfying as Vic's look of astonishment as Mac drove his fist directly into his partner's jaw. From his new vantage point on the floor, Vic ventured, "Maybe not so much bisexual as confused?" He rubbed his jaw and continued to look like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Mac licked his lips. He could still taste Victor inside him. "Come on," he muttered. "We have to find the director and Li Ann. Looks like we have a busy night ahead of us." Ignoring Vic's scramble for clean trousers, Mac headed resolutely out the door. There was no way in hell that he was going to look back. Crime and Punishment continued wonder2001@yahoo.com.au

Disclaimers: as usual, I don't own anything, the Powers That Be do, I'm not making any profit, no resemblance to anyone or anything yada yada yada. Rating: NC-17 in parts Dedicated: to Speedo, who brought me into OAT, persuaded me to try my hand at writing, and has cast a very helpful eye over the story so far. Spoilers: set during the last three episodes of OAT, incorporating some storylines and occasional snippets of dialogue to create something that the Alliance and John Woo would not want to claim as their own. back to top

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