Roman walked out of the airport terminal, his shirt instantly plastering itself against his skin. Ah, the joys of springtime in New Orleans- 100% humidity, gators to bite you in the butt and flying cockroaches to finish off your mangled remains. This was what being an ass to his wife bought him.

With a sigh that verged on a growl, he turned to the young officer who stood at his side. “Lead the way, officer Ramie. I’m ready to get to the station house, get out of this heat.”

“Actually, sir, Captain Hale wanted me to take you to a little local restaurant. He thought ya’ll could talk over an early dinner.”

Roman smothered another sigh. All he really wanted was to check-in with the department and then hit a hotel so he could call Marlena. He missed her already. Southerners and their incessant good manners- damn them all. The New Orleaneans were the worst, he’d be lucky to make it to a hotel before dawn if prior experience was any indicator. Pushing aside his impatience, he merely nodded. “Sounds good. I haven’t had crawfish in ages.”

The steps sagged beneath his weight and Roman wondered how this place had avoided being condemned years ago. At least he didn’t have to worry about vermin. His eyes already stung from the scent of the chile peppers- nothing could survive long in such an atmosphere. He had to struggle to remember why he had thought coming to New Orleans would be a good idea.

The restaurant had obviously yet to be discovered by the hordes of tourists that flocked to the city, the tables virtually unoccupied. Slow-moving ceiling fans did little to disturb the cloud of smoke generated by the locals clustered around the bar, and the man he was here to meet was easy to spot amidst the rickety tables that dotted the main room. Conspicuous in his shoulder holster, the sleeves of his blue oxford rolled-up over bulging biceps, a beefy man sat holding court in the far corner of the room. Walking over, Roman extended his hand “Captain Hale?”

Rising to his feet, the man dominating the corner met his grip in a firm clasp. “Commander Brady? A pleasure. We’ve heard of your work against organized crime even down here in the heart of the bayou. My department is at your disposal.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Roman answered, sitting carefully down in the chair facing the Captain, grateful when it didn’t collapse underneath him. “We have a lead on a smuggling operation, and it looks like it originated out of here.”

“Entirely possible,” Hale replied. “Given our waterways, and the difficulties of patrolling the marshes, we get more than our share of smugglers. But before we get down to the nitty gritty, let me treat you to a New Orleans delicacy.” Gesturing toward the bar, the Captain yelled out, “Two orders of gumbo and a basket of dirt dobbers, Ernie. And bring a cold one for my friend.”

Gratefully sipping on the ice cold beer, Roman leaned back and gave up all hope of getting out of dinner in anything even resembling a timely fashion. If he was going to be stuck in this smokey dive for a couple of hours, he might as well enjoy it. While always alert to treachery where Dimera was involved, he had checked out Hale’s reputation and he had come-up as clean as anyone could. If he was going to get anywhere on this case, he was going to have to trust someone and Hale had avoided the scandal that plagued so many in the higher echelons of the New Orleans P.D. Getting comfortable, Roman nodded at the captain. “So, tell me what you have on an underworld figure who goes by the alias ‘the Phoenix’.”

“Damn boy, I’m telling you, I don’t care if it is Stefano Dimera. Nobody can run a base of operations as big as you’re suggesting off of our coast without us having at least some inkling of it. The gulf coast runs long, but access to that kind of volume is just not feasible. Come on in the back. Ernie has a map in his office- I’ll show you what I mean,” Hale said, rising from the corner table they had monopolized for the past two hours.

The meeting was not going well. Captain Hale refused to admit to even the possibility of such an intricate organization operating in Louisiana waters. It was a load of crap, and Roman knew it. The Captain was not going to be much help and Roman wasn’t certain if it was because he was dirty or merely stupid. With a mental shrug, Roman followed the big man into the back, already thinking up excuses for calling it an early night.

The small room’s single lightbulb hung directly over a rickety table. Hale draped a large map of the Louisiana coast over the pitted surface, blunt fingers tracing the waterline. “Look, there are only a very few spots where the water is too shallow for our patrol boats and yet transportation inland is sufficient for the quantities you’re talking about. We know all of those spots. There is no way the kind of volume you’re looking for could be getting in undetected.”

Roman feigned interest, leaning over to study the expanses of marsh indicated on the map. Hale’s heavy hand slapped against his shoulder and he jerked back at the sudden stabbing pain. Backing away, he stumbled against the wall behind him, letting it take his weight.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He shook his head, trying to clear away the sudden fog that obscured his vision. Captain Hale stood looking at him, a peculiar expression on his face. Son of a bitch....

Roman struggled to stand, to resist the effects of whatever drugs were surging through his system. He managed a single step forward before he lost his balance and crashed down on top of the table. The sound of splintering wood, and he was on his knees. The dimly made out forms of two men moved through the room. He raised his hands, tried to stand, tried to fight. The last thing he felt was the floor, coming up to meet him.

His head snapped back as if kicked and he found himself drowning. Ice cold water bruised his face, forced its way down his throat, up his nose. Flopping over on his belly, he coughed up the water and tried to remember where he was. The force pounding against his back suddenly stopped, leaving him huddled in the center of a small concrete room. Shit! Gotta get up. Gotta get out. He managed to reach his knees before the rushing stream of water slammed into him again, sending him spinning across the floor. He hit the wall hard and stayed there, struggling to breathe through sodden lungs. When the water finally stopped, he remained prone, trying to get his bearings. The air was muggy, so thick you could almost see it. A tremor shook his frame and bare skin prickled in reaction to the icy water, the contrast with warm air making his frozen skin ache. Stripped bare, he felt the rough rock beneath him as it scrapped against his flesh. He forced stiff joints to move, curling into the fetal position, trying to stop the shaking of his body.

“On your knees, Brady. Face the wall, and lock your hands together on top of your head. Move it, you know the drill,” a voice barked out of the surrounding lights.

Roman groggily raised his head, swiveling to face the voice, trying to make out an image behind the blinding lights glaring at him from the far side of the small room. Another blast of water lashed out at him, forcing him back into the wall. Distantly, he noted that they were using a firehose on him. Stefano always did have a creative talent when it came to ways of breaking a man down. The pressure once again released him from its grip and he sank to the floor, coughing up more water, feeling like he’d already puked an ocean. He was no longer certain which was worse, the water forcing its way down his throat or the water forcing its way back up moments later.

“We can do this all day Brady- now stop screwing around and face the wall,” the voice called again.

Knowing there was no point in resistance at this stage of the game, Roman complied. He clenched his jaw shut to still the chattering of his teeth and rolled himself to his knees. The blank concrete wall watched him as he linked his hands together on the top of his head and waited, feeling very naked and very vulnerable. It was the exact way he was supposed to be feeling, but knowing that didn’t make it any better. Knowing it made it worse.

The sound of footsteps behind him. Two sets. Boots. He involuntarily flinched, expecting the beginning of a beating. Instead, a pair of dark grey sweat pants fell to the floor next to him.

“Get dressed.”

Unexpected. Appreciated. He hated that he appreciated. He grabbed the pants anyway. With stiff fingers, he slowly pulled the thin cotton over his legs, trying to give himself time to assess the situation. Two burly guards, armed with nightsticks, stood directly behind him. Through the lights on the far wall, he could make out another pair of figures, one of them holding the fire hose. Four men. No way he could take four men. He blinked his eyes as his vision blurred. Drugs. He did not need his mind fogged with more drugs. Better a beating than the drugs.

“Get up. Get up!”

The toe of a boot prodded him in the ribs and he felt the first flash of anger surge through his blood. It felt strangely good.

“Get on your feet, Brady.”

The baton whipped out, thudding solidly against the muscle of his shoulder. Roman flashed the guard a smile that was anything but friendly and forced himself upright. Roughly he was pushed forward, his hands slapping against the wall in front of him in an effort to keep his balance. His feet were kicked wide apart and he stood braced precariously against the wall. He focused his attention on the sound of his ragged breathing and tried not to think about what was going to happen next. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t like it.

Two guards. He could take two guards. A little voice inside his head told him he could drop them both and never break a sweat. He ignored the little voice, it scared him more than the guards. Fear. He hated fear. Hated it more than pain, more than death, more than betrayal. Rage was much better than fear, and he could feel the rage rising. He feared it too.

A heavy hand on the back of his neck, and his cheek ground against the concrete wall. Rough rock against his skin, and he knew the blood had started to flow. It brought with it clarity and his breathing eased. He could feel the oxygen flowing through his body, the blood speeding it to his muscles. Two guards at his back. Two guards were nothing. His lips pulled back against his teeth in a grin he never noticed. Only two guards.

One arm was jerked behind his back, tugged high up between his shoulder blades, the joint aching from the strain. The ‘click’ of the handcuffs, and cold steel wrapped tight around his right wrist. White light exploded behind his eyes as a long forgotten memory came suddenly into focus.





“You want me to do what?”

Black eyes continue to bore into him and as always, he rises to the challenge he sees there. The young man never blinks as he snaps the steel snug about his own wrist. He clamps down, forcing the circle smaller, feeling it pinch his skin. He snarls an ugly smile and ratchets the metal tighter, waiting for the fear to make itself known. Stefano’s face pales, eyes narrowing in worry, and he knows he should stop. He can’t stop, needing to face the fear. Needing to beat it. The fear never comes, but the rage takes its place. It howls through his mind, grateful for its freedom and needing to be fed.

Jesus, Stefano had owned him. He had wiped him clean and taken everything that mattered. His name, his memories, his wife- all of it gone. Not again. He would not lose her. He would not go back. Not even Stefano could make him go back.





“No!” His vision blurred, his brain on fire. His body moved, the muscles flowing through a dance long forgotten. A step back and the fingers of a guard tightened their hold, digging into his shoulder. The perfect distance and he slammed his head back into the face of the nearest guard. He heard the bones snap, the grunt of pain. The rage fed, consumed, demanded. Kill them all. Kill them now. Deep inside his mind, something ugly broke free.

He spun around, his knee taking the second guard in the groin. The man dropped like he had been polaxed, retching up his guts and no longer a threat. The guard who was still standing ignored the blood gushing from his nose, yanking at the club on his belt. So freak’n slow- where did Stefano get these losers? He put his bare foot through the man’s jaw, the crack of bone loud in the small concrete room. The dead man moved as slowly in death as he had in life. Roman watched as the body toppled to the floor, the light in the eyes fading as the jagged shards of bone worked their way deep into the brain. Two seconds and both guards were down. Two whole seconds- he was out of practice.

He loped across the floor, pure instinct and animal need. The lights called to him, Dimera was waiting. Kill Dimera. He was almost to the lights when the full force of the hose slammed into his chest, once again knocking him off his feet. This time, he curled into a ball to give himself breathing space. With a clarity of thought he could never have imagined, he waited impatiently for the blast to stop so that he could finish off the remaining guards. In this place in his mind, there was no fear and no mercy, and he luxuriated in the hunt even as the pressure of the water pounded against his aching ribs.

Over the sound of the water, he heard a familiar voice. “He’s too dangerous like this- hit him with the taser- put him down.” It was a voice out of a nightmare, and he tried to fight against the water to get to the man the voice belonged to. Get to him before the jolt of electricity from the taser took away his consciousness, robbing him of the kill. Blinded by the spray of water, he didn’t even feel the taser’s dart hit home in his thigh, but his body arched in agony as the electric current surged through his system and shut down his motor control. As he hit the stone floor, fluttering on the edge of awareness, he heard the voice order “hit him again,” and the lights went out. 

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