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Cursing the cold, Mac Ramsey hunched his shoulders and flipped the collar of his jacket up, trying to keep the frozen sleet from coming into contact with the bare skin of his neck. Damn unseasonable weather, who could believe that a week ago it had been masquerading as summer now . . . Now the temperature had dipped past the freezing mark, sending most sane people home to their warm homes and cozy beds.

But then, people who knew Mac nowadays weren't quite sure if he was sane or not.

That aside, the teenage thief wouldn't normally be out on a night like this except for the fact that the damn police had managed to track down the warehouse he and the rest of the gang had been using as a clearing depot and a place to crash and were even now sifting through the junk that had been left there when everyone cleared out.

So, it was back on the street. All in all not a very appealing prospect, especially on a night like this. He had money, that wasn't the issue. The problem was that any decent hotel would have clerks who asked questions and the prospect of crashing at one of the low end fleabags just didn't do much, if anything, for him.

The wind gusted again, and Mac pulled the heavy brown leather tighter around his torso, mulling over his options. A muted click accompanied this act as he tapped the silver barbell that pierced his tongue against his upper teeth, a habit he'd fallen into since getting the piercing several months before. Waking up feeling as if his tongue was going to swell out of his mouth was _not_ an experience Mac wanted to relive, but once it had healed, he'd found it to be entertaining if nothing else and, as it had been an initiation rite, it had been unavoidable.

The past six months hadn't been easy, even with the cache Li Ann had left him, and the Mac Ramsey who sat astride the gleaming black Ducati motorcycle was a far cry from the worldly yet still innocent teen who had left his hotel room looking for adventure. Gone were the fashionable clothes, the carefully styled hair, and the laid back attitude. Mac now wore whatever was handy, generally denims and flannels, his hair curled over his forehead and ears,
hiding the three silver hoops dangling from his right lobe, and his attitude could best be described as suicidal.

In one night he'd lost everything that made up his life, and the one he had been scrambling to build now revolved around one thing - revenge. A passing thought made Mac grin, and he kick-started the motorcycle, knowing exactly where he was going.

Traffic was light, and he made it out to Queen's Quay in under fifteen minutes even if he was a good deal colder and wetter when he arrived then when he had started the journey. Rolling the bike into the underground parking garage, the thief wasted no time in bypassing the elevator security and sliding inside, standing purposefully away from the walls.

A shudder that had nothing to do with the damp and chill that clung to him passed through the Mac's tall, rangy body and he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, not on the flashes of memory that kept threatening to overtake him. Most of that night was a blur, but Mac vividly remembered being pushed against the side of this compartment and kissed until his knees gave out.

"Stop it," he growled to himself, angered because of the feelings of arousal that threatened to claim him even now, this long after the event. "Fucker was a cop trying to make a bust who just decided to get a little extra in. Well, now he can give me back some."

Sporadic surveillance of the condo as well as clandestine record checks had let Mac know that Vic the vice cop didn't live at this address full time, in fact that he rarely, if ever, frequented this area. That was fine with Mac, the last thing he wanted to do was to run into Victor Mansfield, but if he did . . . The elevator ground to a halt and the thief indulged himself in a brief fantasy of kicking the older man's ass from one side of his apartment to the other - and then off the balcony.

***

Vic had no idea why he was here. Fuck, he'd been ready to sell this place a few times. More than ready. Had even gone so far as having papers drawn up, but he could never bring himself to sign on the dotted line.

How pathetic was that? Holding on to a place that he couldn't stand - hated more than he hated himself - just because it was all that he had left of his night with Mac. Mac Ramsey - an eighteen year old kid who'd become his devil and his savior.

The stupid ass punk haunted Vic's every sleeping moment and most of his waking. Mansfield had lost count of the number of sleepless nights over the past six months. Nights when he tore himself apart for what he'd done. Nights when the only thing that had stopped him from eating a bullet was the desire to make that bitch Rictor pay for ruining the life of an innocent kid. Screw what she'd done to him. He deserved it and he knew it.

But Mac, his pretty baby had been completely innocent. So sweetly giving - so hot and vibrant under him, around him, working his way into Vic's high security heart without even knowing it. And what had the kid gotten for his innocent trust of Victor? Mac's father was killed while out looking for him, his sister had turned up dead two months ago, and Michael Tang had put a price on his own brother's head - all because Mac had slept with a man he didn't even know was a cop until it was too late.

So here was Vic, well on his way to becoming a burnt out and bitter husk of a man. When he wasn't working - Narcotics now, he'd gotten the fuck out of Vice once he'd come off his month long suspension for disobeying Rictor's orders - he was working his way through a bottle. Didn't matter what it was, just so long as it dulled the pain enough to let him sleep.

The bottle of tequila in his hand had been full when he'd forced himself to walk through the door of his own personal purgatory. It was now almost three-quarters empty. The burn was pleasant, an almost enjoyable pain going down.

He'd thrown the doors to the balcony wide open to help keep him awake when he'd started drinking.

Vic's face had more than a few days' stubble on it, not that he cared, and his jeans had been through more than a few wars and lost - holes in the knees and the seams white with stress. His tee shirt, which had once hugged a muscular body, was now loose from weight loss, and grungy from lack of care. The circles under his eyes were cavernous and almost midnight blue in color -
another sign of lack of sleep, and there were stress lines etched into his forehead.

"Six months tonight I loved you Mac Ramsey," he whispered into the frigid darkness. "Six months tomorrow that bitch destroyed you. Fuck I want her dead. I want her to rot in hell!" He snarled, hurling the bottle at the wall, listening to the satisfying sound of glass shattering - just like his life. Flinging himself back on the couch he closed his eyes, "Gotta stay awake - at least gotta shut the fucking doors so I don't freeze to death," he mumbled, his eyes closing involuntarily. Wouldn't do to end up dead before he could find a way to destroy Rictor. He was asleep in minutes.

***

Mac had been so prepared to walk into a warm apartment that when he bypassed the electronic lock and opened the door, the frigid air that greeted him came as a complete shock.

"Fuck!" the teen exclaimed, shutting the door behind him and striding across the room to close the sliding glass door, sealing the cold out and the heat in. "What the . . ." he muttered, turning slowly and scanning the room as he realized he had just made a stupid and potentially deadly error.

No motion greeted his slow surveillance of the living room, and there was no noise audible except the incessant drone of the heater striving to drive the damp chill from the air. Mac relaxed imperceptibly, then almost jumped out of his skin when a raspy snore split the air.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he swore, already halfway to the door before it hit him that whoever had made the noise wasn't moving from their position on the couch.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart, Mac crept closer, going against his better judgment to satisfy his curiosity. The smell of alcohol grew stronger the closer he got to the sofa and the thief's mouth twisted in an expression of disgust as he leaned in and got a face-full of the fumes.

"Mansfield . . ." The word was breathed out almost gleefully, and Mac's eyes lit up at the thought of what had basically been dropped in his lap to do with as he pleased. Victor the vice cop. Asleep. Drunk. And all his.

Shoving aside the part of him that wanted to be concerned over the older man's haggard appearance, and the part that wanted to relive the events of half a year before, Mac leaned closer, running a finger over the cop's stubbled jaw.

Dead to the world - and cold too.

Shit.

After waging a momentary internal war, Mac went in search of a blanket, purposefully avoiding the master bedroom as he looked. No way was he going in there if he could help it, just being here was bad enough as it was without that.

Dropping the quilted throw he'd found over Victor's prone form, Mac retreated to the overstuffed chair opposite it, contemplating his next move as he waited for the other man to wake up and face what he had coming.

***

Vic wasn't sure of what had dragged him from his drunken stupor until he remembered the last time he'd felt this prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Not bothering to open his eyes he growled out softly. "I told you last time you heartless blood-sucking bitch, that if I ever caught you sniffing around me again they wouldn't be able to find enough of you to identify the body. You've already ruined the kid's life, then there's the lovely little side-trip through hell I get to live every day, you've had more than your pound of my flesh Rictor - ain't gonna get anymore. So get. The fuck. Out!"

When he didn't hear movement, Vic slowly turned his head and opened his eyes. And decided that maybe he'd finally died and gotten the real hell he deserved. "Mac . . . baby?" he managed to choke out, staring at someone who looked like Mac, yet was tougher, harder, a more sinister copy of the sweet young man who'd broken through his defenses six months ago. Finally unable to bear the menacing stare from this tormenting vision/apparition, he rolled away, trying to block out those laser sharp eyes. "Not real, never real," the cop moaned, pressing his face into the back of the couch.

"Oh I'm real all right," the younger man snarled, dragging his hiking boots from the coffee table and leaning in, his fingers twitching in anticipation of wrapping around the older man's neck. "You'll find out just how real if you call me 'baby' again, _Detective_ Mansfield."

Mac had expected the white-hot anger that swept through him at the sound of the cop's voice, but what he hadn't anticipated was the bone-jarring arousal that flooded him at the same time. Somehow that rough, velvety voice had invaded his dreams, twining itself with whatever pleasurable ones he'd managed to have since his life had been ripped apart, etching itself into his
consciousness.

His cock twitched within the confines of his jeans, a fact that only goaded Mac on in the course he was taking - the one that included ignoring everything the other man said as a lie. "What? No kids to pick up tonight or your boss decide you look too ratty for that now and put you out to pasture?"

"M-Mac?" Victor gasped almost inaudibly. No, it couldn't be - but oh God it sounded like him, it was Mac's voice, yet harsher, crueler. The venomous words registered dimly and were accepted as being deserved. He owed this kid . . . so much.

Slowly rolling onto his back, Vic stared up at the ceiling. He wouldn't, _couldn't_ look Mac in the eye. "Don't work for her anymore," he mumbled softly. "When I wouldn't turn over she suspended me and tried to have me brought up on charges. IA had a field day. I switched to Narcotics once they gave me my badge back, not that it mattered. Only one reason why I even
stayed. . ." Revenge, he thought to himself, cold, bloody revenge.

"Poor baby." Mac's reply was filled with vitriol. "Though I suppose it does make getting those drugs you seem so fond of easier."

"What are you doing here, Mac?" Vic finally managed to choke out, not really expecting an answer. "What do you want?"

The younger man sneered at that, then flicked his tongue out over his lower lip, the stud that impaled it flashing in the dim lighting. "The list is long and varied, Vice-man, and exceedingly bloody." Noting that Victor still refused to look at him, Mac stood and went to rummage in the kitchen cabinets. "Don't you have any . . .ah!" He returned to the living room, brandishing a bottle of bourbon in his left hand. The young thief took a swig and grimaced at the taste, then licked his lips and took a seat on the edge of the coffee table, leaning in over Vic and eyeing him wickedly. "First and foremost would be giving you a taste of what fun I've had since our 'date'. You game?"

Vic wasn't sure he was, but . . . fuck how he'd missed the younger man. Not even a night and something about Mac Ramsey had found a home inside Victor. And it hurt. Bad.

Although Victor was willing to take the lion's share of the younger man's accusations and pain, there was one thing he wouldn't be blamed for. "I didn't drug you, Mac. I tried my hardest to see that you weren't, but the bitch overrode me and then decided to 'help' me along with it too. I didn't want . . . Fuck, who am I kidding here? I wanted you so bad from the moment I saw your picture that I let Rictor lead me around by the balls," Victor sighed before trying to knock the bourbon bottle out of the younger man's hands.

"And you're too fucking young to be drinking that stuff - especially in my house. Put it back!" It was only then that he noticed the glint of silver on Mac's lush, glistening tongue. Victor could only stare at the younger man in shocked dismay. "Oh, Mac - what have I done?" he almost sobbed, his breath catching, his eyes watering, and his throat constricting painfully. Before he could think, it slipped out. "Baby . . ."

"Don't. Call. Me. That." Mac's voice cracked with the strain of keeping it from trembling and he fisted his hand in Vic's shirt, dragging the other man closer to him, staring into his bloodshot eyes. "Don't ever call me that again or you'll think whatever your boss did to you was a fuckin' party compared to it."

The younger man's breathing was short and erratic and his dark eyes were wild and slightly unfocused as he shoved Vic back against the couch, then took a deliberate swig from the bottle he still held. "You aren't my father, Vic-tor - he's dead if you hadn't heard that choice bit of news - so don't act like you give a shit what I drink or where." Mac took another drink, letting his tongue play around the rim of the bottle and smirking to himself at the reaction it drew from the cop.

"You know, maybe I should thank you, man. Not many people get fucked, fucked over and then have their lives fucked up all in one day. It did teach me something though - people are willing to do just about anything for you if you give them what they want. It's pretty damn funny actually." The misery in Vic's eyes was a treat and Mac lapped it up, reveling in his ability to
inflict pain on this man who had given him so much. Who gave a fuck if Vic hadn't had him drugged - if he was even telling the truth about it. He knew what was going on and had participated willingly and enthusiastically. Another memory breached, sending cascades of auditory and tactile ghosts over Mac's tightly strung nerves and he shuddered, banishing the feelings with another gulp of the harsh fire of the whiskey.

Six months of anger, bitterness and, until now, unacknowledged resentment seemed to coalesce in Victor at that moment. Before he'd realized it, he had slapped the bottle out of Mac's hand, hard, was sitting up and in the younger man's face. Vic didn't even notice the bourbon soaking into the oriental carpet that covered gleaming bleached wood floors, his attention was focused on the rebellious teen in front of him.

"Do you think that I _wanted_ all of this Ramsey? That I _wanted_ you? I'm a fucking cop for Christ's sake - and I used to be a damn good one until you and your happy little family decided to come to town. I had orders, _kid_," he sneered. "Orders to help bring down the godfather of an Asian criminal organization who was bringing contraband into the country. So I was supposed to set up his youngest son - the one who was known for almost every style of theft known to law enforcement - a _criminal_ in his own right. You really think I would _want_ to fall for a thief, especially a teenaged one? Can you say jailbait? Yeah, I _really_ wanted to throw my career away for the naive little larcenous brat of a fucking crime lord! There's a fan-fucking-tastic career move for sure," Vic continued mercilessly.

"Oh and here's a news flash for you - I honestly can't say I give a rat's ass that your old man is dead. Far as I'm concerned the only good thing he ever did, other than raise you, was dying. Do you even know why dear old 'daddy' was in Canada, junior? Son of a bitch was here to oversee the shipment of guns headed for the States - and the hands of whatever stupid ass teenager or junkie or idiot with a vendetta that could buy them. That and the couple hundred kilos of China White he was bringing in as a sideline. So forgive me if I don't mourn for the bastard, okay?" the cop continued to spew venomously.

"But hey we all know fate is a bitch to rival my ex- boss, so guess what happens? I get called into said bitch's office, given the assignment from hell and get shown a picture of the kid I'm supposed to roll over. Then I get an eyeful of you and my career, beliefs, hell my fucking _life_ goes right out the window 'coz I know, I _know_ I can't do that to you. Not that it matters because dragon lady slips me the same drug and all I can fucking see, want, _need_ is some snot-nosed _baby_ with more attitude than brains and I end up screwing myself royally by screwing him. Fucking great career move, a cop committing rape!"

"Even after I toss it all to protect said snot nosed kid, I get screwed over by the ex-boss, raked across IA's coals, suspended, and have Rictor threaten to have me arrested on whatever trumped up charges she can, _then_ try to crawl into bed with me 'coz she likes the new Victor. Oh yeah, let's not forget the transfer into another department that makes Vice seem like the fucking boy and girl scouts of America in comparison, even that's not enough."

"Neither, apparently, is six months of guilt and hell, drinking myself into oblivion whenever I can, letting my conscience eat me alive. So tell me _Mac_ what is enough? You want my blood? Sure, I'm sure there's plenty of sharp objects in this apartment that will let you get quick and immediate access. You wanna take a chunk of my hide? Go for it - hell, feel free to rip my fucking heart out, not that I have one according to you. No wait, the mess would be a bitch to clean up - how about my gun instead?" Vic unclipped his HK USP45 Tactical, released the safety and shoved it at the teen

"Go ahead Ramsey - have a party. Oh yeah since I haven't written up a will or anything, here's the keys to the place. Consider it your reward for your righteous revenge against the evil mother-fucking cop who single handedly, without ever truly caring about you or the consequences, destroyed your fucking life in a cold-blooded, calculating and totally emotionless manner," Vic continued, tossing the keys next to the youth. "But whatever the fuck it is that you want - just get it the hell over with because I'm sick and tired of the dancing and bullshit and my fucking life in general. Here's your chance, Ramsey, go on, show everyone just what an evil, unconscionable bastard I really am. Do the world in general and yourself in particular a favor, and pull the fucking trigger!"

Seething emotions joined forces with the undiluted bourbon to make war on Mac's empty stomach. Bullshit, that's all it was, complete and total bullshit. Mansfield was just trying to fuck with his head, to save his own skin, to . . . The weight of the semi-automatic pistol tugged at Mac's hand and he refocused his attention on the smooth metal that filled his palm. What would it feel like to pull the trigger? To plant a bullet between the cop's hate-filled eyes, to end the vicious words that were even now eating at the self-righteous fury that had possessed Mac and fueled his life, forcing him to keep going when he was ready to give in, give up.

Would Mansfield's last expression be one of shock or would the sneering twist of his lips remain? As his eyes filmed over, would he cast a last scornful look on his killer, pitying him even in death? It wasn't supposed to be like this. All Mac had wanted out of this night was somewhere warm to curl up and hide for a while. He couldn't handle this, not now. His foundation had been knocked off kilter during their first meeting and each derogatory word Vic spoke succeeded in chipping away at what was left of it.

If only he could talk to his father, or Li Ann, or even Michael, but they were all gone, the first two dead and the third wanting to kill him. The only tenuous connection Mac had to his past was Victor, and the cop obviously didn't care if either of them lived or died. Fine. If that was how he wanted to play it, that's how they would.

Schooling his features into a hard mask, but unable to completely hide the anguish in his eyes, Mac extended the gun, pointing it at the center of Victor's chest. "Thanks for the opportunity, man. Won't bring back Pop and Li Ann, but it's a start." A small tremor communicated itself to the deadly weapon, then the air echoed with the sound of the shot and the dull thud as the bullet embedded itself in the plaster behind the sofa.

Vic's whole world narrowed down to the younger man's words and Mac's finger on the trigger. Then Mac squeezed it and Vic felt something inside him die, just like he was going to. And he shut down.

Except he didn't die, the sofa did. It almost felt like he was under water, or not really there, that slow motion, life flashing before your eyes sort of thing. Turning his head he stared at the hole in the couch, then the one in the wall behind it while his heart shut down and iced over. Something cold and ugly was born in Victor. A raging hate, not of Mac, but of the person, no persons, who'd done this to the sweet, innocent kid he'd known only for a few short hours but would mourn the death of for the rest of his life.

Eyes burning with an unholy light, Vic turned to the young stranger before him. "That your best shot kid? Tough luck, it's the last one you get."

All Victor truly wanted to do was to take the younger man in his arms and hold him tight and safe, but he couldn't, instead he could only continue on as he'd started this evening - making Mac hate him all the more. It was for the best though, Vic thought, what little of his heart not yet frozen aching painfully. It was better if all Mac ever remembered of Victor Mansfield was that he was a bastard cop who'd stolen his life.

Taking the now dangling gun from Mac's trembling hands, Victor calmly, almost icily, re-engaged the safety and re-holstered the weapon. Victor was stone sober now, and colder then he could ever remember being. It was as if everything had gone numb or simply iced over. Even his rage was cold, frozen beyond belief. And it was all directed on one person. Rictor.

"Like I said earlier, the place is yours kid. Have a nice life. I'd say see you around, but after tonight I seriously doubt that'll happen." If he managed to do what he was planning he'd either be dead or would have to disappear forever. Cop killers were always caught, and if a cop killed another cop it was even worse. He'd have to make arrangements if he got the chance, to see to it that Mac was protected and the condo turned over to him legally with enough money to make sure he was well cared for until he found some legal work. But that was for a later time - if he survived that long.

With a precise economy of movement, Victor stood, turned and, eyeing his jacket and the younger man wearing it with something akin to regret before shrugging fatalistically. Not like he'd be needing either one after tonight.

"At least try to have a happy life, baby," Vic murmured gently as he strode out the door without looking back, only a single, regretful sigh for all the might have beens that he'd never have a chance to see now. Then he was striding down the stairs with a grim sense of purpose. He had a sudden yen to go and see Diana Rictor.

Mac stood there, frozen, as the door snicked shut behind him, his unseeing eyes trained on the bits of stuffing bleeding from the singed hole in the couch's upholstery. "I - " he began, his voice a broken whisper in the still of the apartment. Nausea robbed the thief of his ability to speak and Mac raced for the kitchen, making it to the sink in time to violently lose the bourbon he had downed as well as what little food he'd eaten that day.

"Jesus. Oh god. Oh fuck." Greasy sweat coated Mac's forehead and he splashed cold water on his face in a feeble attempt to get some kind of hold on his churning emotions. He hadn't meant to pull the trigger, had only wanted to wipe that condescending sneer from Mansfield's face and then . . . Thank god he'd managed to pull the shot, he hadn't wanted to kill the other man - not really - just make him understand what real misery felt like.

After rinsing his mouth and spitting to clear the rancid taste, Mac straightened, rubbing at his lips with the back of his hand to try and cleanse the memory from his skin. "Need to get out of here." It was too much to deal with. If he stayed here any longer, he'd go as nuts as Victor apparently was.

_Well you did take a shot at him,_ the nasty little voice of his conscience reminded him.

"Yeah, well he screwed up my life!" Mac snarled into the empty air.

_Like he made you sneak out of the hotel and go with him. Deal with it, Ramsey, if you had stayed where you were supposed to, none of this would have happened._

Oh god, it was true, all of it. Mac sagged against the counter, fighting another round of nausea, this one brought on by self-recrimination and not shock. Shit, where had Victor gone? Considering what he had said, wherever it was, it couldn't be good. "Stupid fucker," Mac growled, sprinting out of the apartment and down the stairs, reaching the garage just in time to see a dark green Stealth pull out onto the street, tires squealing on the sleet-slick pavement. "Gonna get yourself killed." Cursing the weather, the idiot cop and his own emotions, the thief threw himself astride his motorcycle, kicked it into gear and pealed out into the wet night, following the vanishing taillights of Victor's car.

***

The drive to Rictor's was relatively short, but long enough for Vic to really think about what he was doing. Could he do this? Could he pull the trigger on his former captain? He'd shot people before - but only as a last resort and always at a soft target like a leg or a shoulder if he could help it. He'd had to shoot to kill twice in his lifetime and the faces of each victim were burned like a scar on his mind. Could he pull the trigger in cold blood?

Mac's face chose that moment to dance across Victor's mind's eye. Young, haggard, scared beyond measure, eyes older then they should have ever been. Smoking gun in his hand. Rictor had done that. Had taken a naïve kid, albeit a less than honest one, and systematically destroyed his life in order to get her promotion without ever caring what happened to Mac. He'd lost his father, his sister, his brother, his family - everything ever important to him. All for the advancement of Rictor's career. Oh yeah, Victor could pull the trigger all right. It was simple retribution. An eye for an eye and all that. Vic just chose to elect himself judge, jury and executioner.

Slowing to an almost silent stop in front of the elegant little townhouse complex in Rosedale, Victor didn't notice the nondescript car across the street, he was too busy checking his clip.

***

"You were right, the kid showing up tonight was his breaking point. He's here and he's none too happy. You'd better get here fast or your lookalike is gonna be a dead double," Dobrinsky murmured into his cell.

A year of watching Victor, waiting for the chance to recruit him, had given Dobrinsky three other now fully trained operatives, but not the one his boss really wanted. Mr. Mansfield had remained an elusive target - the everyman hero who could do no wrong - until Mac Ramsey decided to pay Ace a call tonight and set off a time bomb very few knew about, much less realized had been ticking away. It had been sheer luck that the agent assigned to watch Vic's condo tonight had caught a glimpse of the young man on the bike tearing after Victor. It was the break the Director had been looking for, she was about to get the man she wanted most for the little group she was assembling. Victor was about to fall into her lap, ripe and ready. Dobrinsky just hoped that she showed up before Vic did something really stupid - like actually kill his ex-boss.

He liked Mansfield. He was a good guy, if a little too much of a bleeding heart do-gooder. At least he had been until the Tangs came to town half a year ago. Still was in many ways - a tarnished hero attempting to right the wrong he'd committed, to pay his debt to a kid who had somehow managed to do what no one else ever had in Mansfield's life - get buried inside the man. He watched with more than a little uneasiness as Victor got out of the car and very calmly made his way towards Rictor's front door. The Director had better get there soon.

***

Gun checked and bullet in the chamber, Victor got out of the car and walked silently towards Rictor's front door. Raising a fist, he thought to knock, then after a quick scan, thought better of it, got out his lock pick set and pulled on the leather gloves he had in his pocket - no prints, no mess. The kid wasn't the only one who knew what to do with a pick. The door swung silently open and Victor stalked into the darkened interior, moving unerringly towards what was probably the living room, where a tv flickered.

Something wasn't quite right, but Vic couldn't put his finger on it and didn't really care. Moving into the room he saw her sitting in an overstuffed chair watching . . . Victor watching her. The place was being monitored with a feed directly into the television. What the fuck? More importantly who the fuck was this? She looked like Rictor - and yet this was definitely not Rictor. His ex-boss was a barracuda - this woman was a viper - much more deadly and even more lethal. And yet - strangely enough, Vic liked her on the spot - until she spoke that was.

"Hello Victor, do sit down and join me, we have a lot to talk about. Oh - and you can call me The Director, only fair since I now own your life."