Hot water beat down on tender skin and John rubbed hard with the rag in an attempt to remove the ground-in dirt. His arms stung, still reddened by the heat of the flames that had consumed Bryce. He ignored the sensation, the buzz of the amphetamines racing through his mind. Detached from the world around him, he was numb to everything but the desire to have her back. The need for her burned in his blood.

An ugly smile curved his lips and his hands clenched in anticipation. His anger now had a direction. A point of focus. Jensen had come through for him again. A contact had reported that their plane had landed in Spain.

He would follow. He would find her. He would punish those who had taken her.

He breathed deeply, trying to control the restless energy that made his muscles crackle and knot. He wanted nothing more than to go to her. Take her. Crush any who stood in his way. Only his years of training held him back. Made him wait. Made him think. He could not be careless with her life. Would not risk her through haste. He would follow her, but before he did, there was something he needed to get. There was someone he needed to get.

Bo walked into the silent warehouse, every nerve in his body screaming at him to leave, to at least call for back-up. Instead, he yelled into the darkness. “I’m here. I came alone. Just as you asked.” His words echoed back from the high rafters and he heard the flutter of wings as disgruntled pigeons took flight.

The quiet again descended, and Bo was left with the recognition that this was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done. When the tip had come in, he should have told someone. Should have asked for cover. But there were too many rumors. Rumors that the recent rash of killings in the ISA were connected to a section of rogue agents. Rumors that the corruption might reach high levels. Bo was no longer certain he could trust the enforcement agencies. Abe was the only man he was sure of. But Abe would never have allowed him to make this meet without back-up, and Bo was unwilling to extend his trust that far. Thus he stood, alone in the silence. Waiting for an informant who would help him find Marlena.

Suddenly, though he heard no sound, Bo realized that a dark shadow was coalescing in a shrouded corner of the building. Slowly, not wanting to frighten the man away, he moved forward. Squinting to make-out the man’s features, he kept his tone calm. “You said you had some information for me? That you knew the whereabouts of Marlena Evans and her children?”

He could see the man clearly now, standing silently beside a large packing crate. Even before he processed the man’s face, his hand flashed to his shoulder holster. He cocked the hammer as he aimed and fought the urge to pull the trigger. “Raise your hands, John. And you better move slow. I even think you’re going for a gun, and I will allow myself the pleasure of killing you right now,” he grated, his eyes hard.

Casually, the man in the shadows stepped forward, raising his hands out to his sides. “Not a very cordial greeting for someone who is trying to do you a favor,” he chided, the whisper of an ironic smile gracing his features.

Eyes narrowing in anger, Bo snapped “On your knees, John. I want to see you on the ground, with your hands on your head. Right now, John. Or you are a dead man.”

John studied the man before him. He looked willing to kill. Hell, he probably even believed he would do it. But John had been trained by the very best. He had no doubt that Bo would do as he wanted him to in the end.

Slowly lowering his arms to his sides, John gave a slight shrug. “Mmm… I think not, Bo. I think that as long as you want to find Marlena and the kids, you are going to do exactly as I say.”

Their eyes locked, and Bo reluctantly lowered his weapon. John felt a pang of remorse as he recognized the flash of helplessness that crossed Bo’s face. It was the same feeling he had had ever since she had been taken. Bo would just have to live with it, just like he was.

“What is it you want from me?” Bo asked hoarsely, holding his revolver at his side. Unwilling to holster it while John still stood before him.

The odd smile returned to John’s face as he replied. “I want a second in command. I want you, Bo.” Turning abruptly, he started toward the open bay at the back of the warehouse. His voice carried over his shoulder to Bo. “We haven’t got much time. I will explain it all to you on the plane. “

Against his will, Bo found himself moving to catch up to the swiftly fading figure as it stalked into the night.

His patience wearing thin, Bo sank into the thick leather of the chair and pulled the belt tight across his hips. The engines of the private jet whined with barely leashed power and with a sudden surge the plane sprang forward into the air. His temper rising, Bo shot a hard look in the direction of his ‘host’. The bastard just sat there, lounging behind the narrow table that dominated the far side of the Lear jet. Staring into space, his face revealed nothing. Dead eyes drifted over to meet Bo’s gaze, and a chill ran down his spine.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you care to inform me as to where we’re going?” Bo asked tightly, his anger showing through in his voice.

Gods, he did not want to talk about this. He didn’t even want to think about it, but there was nothing he could about that. If he wanted Bo’s help, he’d have to talk about it too. With a smile that failed to reach his eyes, John shrugged. “Like I said, we’re going to get Marlena. I thought I had made myself clear.”

Wanting nothing more than to slap the smug look from his face, Bo slipped free of his seat and stood to confront the man he had called ‘brother’. “The only thing that is ‘clear’ from where I stand is that you are a lying son of a bitch,” he hissed from between clenched teeth.

Leaning back in his seat, John studied the angry man in front of him. It was a pose he had seen many times. Bo, standing in the interrogation room, his sleeves rolled up and a combative glare in his eyes. It was a pose that had elicited many a confession from cowed suspects. Almost amused to find himself on the receiving end of that glare, he dryly commented, “It’s nice to see you haven’t lost your ability to comprehend the obvious. You’ll go far as a cop.”

Bo’s patience came to an abrupt end, and with startling speed his hand flashed forward to latch onto John’s collar. Putting his weight behind the effort, he wrenched the man half out of his seat and leaned across the narrow table. His words growled out like the threat they were. “You are going to tell me where Marlena is. You are going to do it right now, or so help me God, I will take you apart one piece at a time.”

Unmoving, John simply stared back. Finally, he straightened to his full height. “If I had her, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?”

It was not the response he had expected, and reluctantly Bo allowed the silk of the shirt to slip from his grasp. “Why do you need me?” he asked more calmly.

John turned his head away and moved to the bar at the front of the plane. If he hadn’t known better, Bo would have sworn he had seen a glimmer of pain in those cold blue eyes. In lieu


of an answer, the man reached for a bottle and poured a tumbler full of straight bourbon. In one fluid motion, he drained the glass and poured another. Almost as an afterthought, he reached into the small fridge beneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of Redhook. Casually, he turned to toss the bottle to Bo. “Try a decent beer for a change, why don’t you,” he said, walking back up the aisle.

“Why do you need me?” Bo repeated, emphasizing the words as if speaking to a particularly dense child.

Giving a small sigh, John rubbed one hand wearily across his face and gestured to the table. “We might as well sit. It’s going to be a long ride. Even in the jet, Europe will take seven hours.”

“And we are going to Europe why?” Bo said, easing himself down into one of the chairs at the table and beginning to feel like he was talking to a retard.

“We are going to Europe because that is where Marlena is. Why did you think we were going?” John answered, raising a brow and taking another deep drink from his glass. The hundred proof went down like water, doing nothing to make him forget. What was the point of drinking if it couldn’t make you forget?

“John, are you drunk?” Bo blurted suddenly, trying to make sense of the man’s disjointed ramblings.

John stifled a chuckle and looked into the amber depths of his glass. “I don’t get drunk,” he muttered almost to himself before taking another swig.

“Okay...” Bo drawled out, watching John with a mixture of concern and distrust. “So we are going to get Marlena. Where exactly is she?”

Still staring into his now empty glass, John shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice a whisper.

Exasperated, Bo replied sharply, “John...”

“I don’t fucking know! What part of that don’t you understand!” John yelled, slamming his glass to the table and once again shooting to his feet. Unable to contain the restlessness that set his nerves to fire, he paced to the end of the aisle and leaned against the wet bar. Staring into the green marble of the top, he absently traced a streak of white quartz with his finger. When he finally spoke, his voice was detached.

“Alamain. Mikovitch Alamain has her. Her. The kids. Dimera.” He snorted at the image, and then closed his eyes and shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. “He took them all. Right out from under me. He took them all. He has connections and properties all over Europe. We traced a plane out of D.C. to Spain. They were on it. Of that we’re certain. After Spain...” he again shrugged.

“John, are you trying to make me believe that you didn’t kidnap Marlena and the kids from Salem?”

With an ugly chuckle, John turned to again face Bo. “Christ no. You aren’t stupid enough to believe that. I do give you a little credit, you know.”

“Your confidence is touching, John. Really,” Bo muttered sarcastically, wondering if it was too late to pull his gun and force the pilot to change course for Salem.

‘Fuck you, Bo,’ he sent up in a silent curse. He did not want to talk about Marlena. To name the ways he had betrayed her would only make it more real. “Did you figure out I didn’t kill Roman?” John asked, startling Bo with the sudden change in topic.

At the mention of his brother’s death, the pain of the loss came flooding back. His hands tightened into fists, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. “I had my doubts,” he finally answered, his tone cold. “It didn’t fit your M.O.... Besides, it appears there was some link to an ISA operation. It’s starting to look like maybe there were some rogue agents. Roman may have been on their trail.”

Meeting Bo’s eyes, John merely nodded his head. “That sounds more likely,” he answered simply.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” Bo commented suspiciously.

At the memory of what he had done to Jameson, he had to fight a hysterical laugh. Jameson would look like a mercy killing compared to what he wanted to do next. With the hint of a smile showing, John gave a slight shrug. “Nothing that bares discussing now. But… I don’t think you need to worry about the men responsible for Roman’s death, Bo. I have a feeling that that account has been settled.”

“Do you, now?”

Holding his gaze, John nodded. “It’s a very strong feeling.”

“The assassinations in D.C.?” Bo asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“The account is settled, Bo. Let’s leave it at that,” John answered, turning back to face the bar. Drawing in a deep breath, he reached again for the half empty bottle of bourbon. Dispensing with the need for a glass, he titled the bottle to his lips and let the liquid fire burn a path down his throat. With a slight shudder, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts. Softly, he commented, “She was supposed to be home by now. Did you know that? Marlena was supposed to be home by now.... But I fucked up. I was weak and I was careless and I lost her. Another of God’s little jokes,” he said, breaking into a bitter laugh.

The facade cracked and he violently slammed the bottle against the marble counter, the glass shattering in his hand. The sound of destruction was a relief, and with a sweep of his arm he ripped a rack of glasses from the wall, sending them crashing to the floor.

Bo was on his feet in an instance, the distance to John covered without time for thought. He wrapped his right arm around the man’s shoulders and tried to pull him back from the broken glass. At the contact, he felt the sharp blow of an elbow to his ribs and staggered back in surprise. John’s form whirled around, his hand flashing up from his shoulder holster. Lips drawn back in an ugly snarl, his eyes were black as he drew a bead with his automatic. Bo could make out every detail of the stylized weapon as John’s finger flicked off the safety and he cocked the hammer.

“You fuck!! You lousy fuck!” he yelled, stepping forward to press the barrel to Bo’s forehead. Bo froze in place, not daring the slightest movement that might set the man off. For a long moment, John held his pose. Finally, he drew in a great gasp of air and allowed his suddenly shaking hand to drop to his side. The sound of the safety clicking into place carried clearly in the tension filled silence. As Bo watched, the mask of calm once again fell into place. Almost as if he were afraid to hold the gun, John tossed it carelessly to the floor.

“Don’t worry about the mess. Somebody will clean it up when we land. I’m going to get some sleep in the back,” he said as if nothing had happened. Without further comment, he brushed by Bo’s shaken form and strode up the aisle to the back room of the plane.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He could only lay there, staring out the window. Watching the clouds race by far below. Seeing her face.

Her face. He had loved her from the first moment he laid eyes on her. He saw her now as he had seen her then. Golden hair. Porcelain skin. Eyes that a man could lose himself in. The first time she had touched him had been the first time he had known peace.

The images paraded through his mind, an unnoticed grimace curving his lips in anticipation of the things he knew were to come. She had lunged at him, a knife in her hand, her eyes spitting fire. Her hatred had been a hurt greater than any he had ever experienced. Greater than any he could have imagined. He would have done anything to erase that look of hatred. He would have given anything to make it go away. In the end, he had given up everything that he was. It had been a small price to pay.

He wrapped his arms around his body and squeezed his eyes tight shut. Still the memories came. The first time he had held his daughter. Those bright eyes staring up at him with such a look of trust. Sami had owned his heart from that day forward. He would never forget the feeling of awe, knowing that the tiny being he held in his arms was his. Knowing that the little girl had been created from the love he shared with her mother. He would never forget that feeling, no matter how hard he tried.

He curled his legs to his chest, huddling in on himself. Trying not to feel the silk of her skin beneath the pads of his fingers. Trying not to smell her perfume, the heady scent which always made it hard for him to concentrate on anything but her. The sound of satin sliding across her body as he slowly slipped her nightgown away. Oh God, the way she had looked at him the first night they made love.

He knew what would happen next. What always happened next. He grit his teeth, a low moan building in the back of his throat. The fire raged upward in his vision, the house burning to cinders, Marlena inside. The first time he had killed her.

The plane, rocketing into the sky. The feeling of having his lungs ripped out as he watched the twisted metal plummeting into the sea. The wish to die. The second time he had killed her.

The betrayals, one after the other. Her face, as he shot a man down in front of her. The fear in her eyes when he had come to lead her out of the compound. Bullets and blood and fire. A dead husband. A dead child. A brief reprieve. Bliss. And then she was gone.

The last vision was always the worst vision. It was a vision of things to come. A room. A bed. A dark figure. Thick. Strong. Male. A scream in the night. When the man finally rises from the figure lying motionless on the bed, he wears John’s face. The third time he killed her.

Lurching from the narrow cot, he fell to his knees, retching into the small metal trash bin until past the point of exhaustion. The dry heaves finally eased, leaving him feeling bruised and beaten. Raggedly, he pulled himself up to again perch on the cot. Drawing his knees up to his chest he sat, rocking gently back and forth. His head buried behind his knees, he closed his eyes and again accepted his punishment.

Seeing her face. He had loved her from the first time he laid eyes on her. He sat and watched her face. The first time he had killed her…

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