His heart pounded out an irregular rhythm that sent the pain lancing through his head like a knife. He took short hard gasps of the thick air and tried to see past the white haze that fogged his mind. The smell of dirt, of medicine, of sweat- he concentrated on that and ignored the tight leather that pulled against his chest, dug into his arms and legs. He ignored the stiff bite of the strap at his neck as it cut off his breath. He ignored the pain, he ignored the panic, he ignored....

“Let me up!” The words tore free of his throat and his body spasmed, jerking against the bonds that tied him firmly to the high-backed wooden chair. The bright light that shone down on him was suddenly blocked off, a dark figure looming above him. A worried face. A fearful face. A familiar face.

“Let me up,” he hissed, his features drawn back in a snarl. The blood starting to flow as the skin on his wrists tore and the rage surged through his mind with the intensity of a tidal wave. “I’m gonna kill you. I am gonna fuck’n kill you!”

“John, stop it! You’re going to hurt yourself. Stop it!” Dimera moved to snake one long arm around the bound man’s chest and pulled him back against the worn wood of the chair. The body writhed in his grasp, muscles twisting as if seeking to escape the very skin that contained them. The man’s heart pulsed against the palm of his hand, a random pattern that could stop at any moment. With his free hand, Stefano snatched a syringe from a nearby tray and plunged the needle deep into the meat of the bare shoulder. The tranquilizer took quick effect and the sweating body began to still.

“John. Roman! Stop it,” Stefano repeated, his voice growing gentle, almost soothing. He felt the pulse beneath his fingers begin to slow, to steady. The man’s head lolled forward, no longer fighting against the restraints. A tremble ran through the bound body and clouded blue eyes struggled to focus.

“What the hell do you want from me, Dimera?” The words hurt and he forced them slowly out between long gulps for air. Please, God- he could not go through this again.

Stefano’s deep chuckle rang out. “I should ask you that. You are the one who came looking for me. Why did you do that? I would have thought you content to stay in Salem with the lovely Marlena.”

“You know why I’m here.” The arm around his chest withdrew, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He shivered, despite the heat of the room.

“Yes, John, I do know why you’re here. I am wondering if you know. Well?”

“Stop calling me that!” The words came out in a sob, and he strained once more against the tight leather straps.

“Then indulge me. Tell me if you know why you came to me.”

The body finally slumped in the chair, held up only by the restraints. Blue eyes sought out black, as he bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Yes, I know why I came here. I came here to kill you, old man.”

Stefano reached out and brushed back a strand of dark hair. “You didn’t do a very good job of it,” he replied with a small smile.

“The day’s still young.”

Again, the sound of dark laughter. “Ah, but I have missed you! I had almost given you up as lost. I should have known you were too stubborn for that.”





“After all you’ve done to me, to my family.... Dimera, I will never stop. Never. Not until you are dead and rotting, I swear to God.”

Stefano’s eyes narrowed, a hint of anger flashing in their dark depths. Slowly, he circled the chair, taking unconscious pleasure in the sight of his helpless opponent. He stopped once he reached the rear of the chair and selected a new needle from the array on the medical tray. With the flick of a finger, he cleared the air bubbles from the fluid and then slipped the long needle deep into the neck of his prisoner. Dimera took his time, relishing the moment before gently pushing the plunger home.





Roman’s fingers clenched, digging into the scarred wood of the armrests. He could feel the drug hit his system, the searing heat spreading swiftly through his veins. He closed his eyes and held on to the images of her. Images that came so easily, for she was as much a part of him as his own blood. She walked down the stairs of their home, holding Sami in her arms. His wife. His baby. His beautiful ladies. He would not let them go. In the church, the candles flickering, the smell of incense in the air. He took her hand and stared into those golden eyes as he slipped his ring on her finger and claimed her before both God and man. The way she wrapped herself around him when they made love, all silk and satin and his. Wanting him. Calling out for him. Accepting him. He would never let her go. Never.

“What’s your name?” the dark angel whispered in his ear.

“Fuck you.”

Thick hands shoved his head back until he could feel the strain in his neck. Fingers dug at his eyelids and Stefano’s smiling face hovered above him.

“What’s your name?” Dimera demanded, insistent and expecting.

“Roman Augustus Brady! My name is Roman Augustus Brady, you son of a bitch!”

White pain exploded against the side of his face, the force of the blow jarring his teeth.

“Wrong answer,” Stefano snarled, furious that the man would fight him on this. This was not how things should be.

Roman stared up into the black eyes of his tormentor, hating with ever fiber of his being. The drugs twisted through his mind, ugly thoughts and ugly feelings that fed the lurking fury. His lips curved in a hunter’s grin. “I won’t forget her, Dimera. You can’t make me. Not this time. I won’t let you take her away from me. I’ll die before I let her go.”

With a rough shake, Stefano released his grip and backed away from the chair. Claiming another needle, he stood before his prisoner and slowly filled the syringe with amber fluid. His eyes never left Roman’s face as he slid the needle home and released the drugs. Almost immediately, the body beneath him began to spasm and a low moan forced its way from between clenched teeth. Stefano reached out and stroked his fingers across the dark bruise that now marred the man’s cheek. “Your death is not an option, John. But if you fight me on this, I will hurt you. I don’t want to have to hurt you, you should know that by now.”

His thoughts were jumbled, the images of her dancing just out of reach. Still, he managed a dry croak of a laugh at Dimera’s words. The old man had lost it, lost whatever tenuous grasp he had held on sanity. He closed his eyes and prayed to God that he would not join Stefano in the madness.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear…

I shall fear…

The words of the prayer refused to come to him and his last coherent thought was that there were some places even God refused to go.

He awoke gaging once again- this shit was getting old. The dank smell of rot and decay struck at him from out of the darkness. His thoughts were fractured chaos, and none of the images were good.

He takes the front stairs three at a time and doesn’t bother to slow down when he reaches the front door. Dropping his shoulder, he rams his way through, the lock splintering beneath his weight. Stumbling to a halt, he searches for some sign that he is not too late.

A flash of pride and he gives the old man a tight grin. “God had nothing to do with it.”
Someone was screaming, over and over again. The sounds tore at his ears until he prayed that they would stop. His voice finally gave out and he closed his eyes on the surrounding blackness, grateful for the silence. Concentrating hard, it was all he could do to master the simple act of breathing. Get your shit together, Brady. Now was not the time to go insane.

His heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm and he searched his mind for some hint of where he was. The thoughts came grudgingly, forcing themselves through drug-laden synapses. A prisoner. He was once again a prisoner. Dimera was here. He was doing it again.

He could feel the knife in his hand, the warm blood coating his fingers. The knife felt so good, so right. The knife wasn’t real. Drugs. Just the drugs, Roman. Probably something similar to the ones used the last time. The last time he lost himself. He wouldn’t do that again. White light flickered in the corner of his eye- the glint of the knife. He turned his head and it was gone. The shadows told him lies, he knew that. But in the darkness, all he could see were the shadows. If he ignored it, maybe it would all go away. He would make it go away. His eyes blinked slowly, methodically. The darkness was still there, but the visions weren’t. The drugs couldn’t last forever, he just had to be a little bit stronger than they were.

The guards would be back. They’d probably be back soon. They’d bring him needles filled with golden fluid and they’d beat him down when he tried to resist. He would resist. He would always resist. Eventually, he would win.

He had to get his bearings, had to know which way to run when his chance finally came. Staring into the darkness, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Just a hint of light, that’s all he asked, but all around him was the dark. He used to love the dark. He used to live there. The dark places…

His thoughts skittered away from the dark places as a moan leaked from his throat, low and foreign. It told him of the pain, the dead weight that used to be his arms. Numbed fingers refused to work, and his shoulders cramped in protest as he tugged at the chains that linked his hands behind his back. He struggled to sit up and the agony streaked through the muscles of his chest and neck. Ignoring the pain, he focused on finding the light.

The air higher up in the room was even more muggy and hard to breathe, the heat more oppressive than it had been in the bayou. Distantly, he wondered if he was still within the U.S., knew that he wasn’t. The clank of a lock, and his head jerked down in response to the blinding glare of lights. Too soon. Way too soon. He tried to curl his fingers into fists, couldn’t tell if he succeeded or not. It didn’t matter one way or another, merely a matter of pride. Then again, sometimes pride was all a man had.

Dark shapes coming at him. Lots of dark shapes. His lips smiled and he heard the sound of giggling laughter. The sound was evil, but he couldn’t stop it. Let the dark shapes come. He was going to kill them. He was going to enjoy it.





A boot smashed him in the belly, doubling him over. No air left to breathe and he rested his head against the damp earthen floor. The boot again, it pressed him down, grinding against his spine. The click of the lock was the only hint of his release, the nerves still unwilling to serve him. With a sudden jerk he was yanked to his feet. A guard at each arm, the man in front of him snapping the steel cuff closed before his freedom was ever recognized. A grunt of effort behind him- four men. At least four men. His vision began to clear and he lunged out with his left foot, only to find his feet manacled together with a short length of chain to limit his movements. The guards were taking no chances, the cost of making a mistake more than they were willing to pay.

Roman’s breath quickened, the panic rising with each raw gasp. His jaw knotted in an effort to keep the grin from his face, the laughter from his thoughts. A sudden jerk and his arms were nearly ripped from their sockets as he was hoisted into the air by his wrists. After being bound behind his back for so long, his arms spasmed as they took the full weight of his body. The lean form convulsed as a scream ripped from his lips. Aching for the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness, he felt the rage tear through his mind like white fire. His head arched back, the tendons in his neck straining to be free. With an ungodly howl, he gave himself over to the hate.

His body was a meaningless mass of nerve endings that his mind ordered to act. Even as his cry echoed through the dank cell, he heaved his body higher into the air, using his protesting arms as a lever. Long legs snaked out, the length of chain binding his ankles slipping around the throat of the nearest guard. No thought of escape, of pain, of mercy. No thought at all. Only death and the need to make it happen. The muscles in his shoulders cracked with the strain, the blows of the remaining guards falling on his unprotected back. His smile bared his teeth, an animal about to feed. A low snarl and his captured prey left the ground, face turning purple, eyes bulging from the sockets. With a final grinding of muscle, the delicate bones of the neck snapped, the guard going cold and dead. The bloodlust sang triumphantly as his tortured body collapsed, oblivion finally achieved.

In a darkened room down a darkened hall, a shadowed figure settled comfortably back in an antique leather desk chair. Lighting a Cuban cigar that was as thick as his thumb, he stared thoughtfully at the rising curls of smoke. Inevitably, his gaze was drawn back to the video monitor and the images of the remaining guards beating the apparently lifeless body as it jerked at the end of the chain. Stefano Dimera, the unchallenged king of the criminal underworld, flashed a grin that was almost paternal.





He had thought that time might have tainted his memories, made a legend out of what was merely a man. He had been wrong. John Black was everything he had remembered and more. The man was a weapon, as deadly as a gun and just as willing to kill. Such a weapon was far too rare to waste. With the push of a button, Dimera sent a message to the guards to stop the beating. Their fear and anger might lead them to do irreparable harm to the prisoner, despite their orders to the contrary. His eyes remained locked on the monitor, searching for some sign of life as the beating came to a halt. The guards gathered their downed comrade, keeping warily beyond the reach of the gently swaying body. Just before the door to the cell was pulled closed, shutting out the last ray of light, Stefano caught a hint of movement, a flash of electric blue. As all light died and the monitor went black, the battered man raised his head and laughed. 

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