‘Oh, this is all just so very exciting,’ thought Vivian, as she rushed around her bedroom getting ready for breakfast. They had prisoners. Actual prisoners.

She had glimpsed them being brought in late last night when she should have been fast asleep. As she had lounged in the first floor study, flipping through the dusty books for something to read, she had heard the sound of voices in the hall. Thinking that it never hurt to have every piece of information one could in this family, she had stood at the partially opened door and listened without revealing herself. Through the crack, she had seen a beautiful blond woman and three teenagers that had to be her children. These guests had appeared even more reluctant than she to be visiting.

Two girls and a young man. A very handsome young man, Vivian had noted with a discerning eye. But the children had been eclipsed by the woman. Standing before her children, she had stared up at Mikovitch Alamain, Prince of Russia, last of the line of the Czars. She had stared up at him and her golden eyes had blazed her defiance. With scorn in her voice, she had demanded to know where they were and ordered him to explain himself. Instead, with uncharacteristic calm, Mikos had turned and told the servants to escort the captives to their rooms.

The ‘guests’ had departed and still Vivian had watched, peering out at the commanding form of her nephew. When he had finally torn his gaze away from the long hall down which the woman had vanished, the man had actually appeared shaken. Intrigued, Vivian had eased the door shut and gone to pour herself a glass of port. Mikos was not a man who showed his emotions, and his reaction to the spirited blond suggested that things were about to get interesting.

Smiling at herself in the ornate mirror, Vivian felt a shiver of anticipation at the events she could sense unfolding. Tucking a stray lock of hair back, she began planning how she could make this work to her advantage. With a light step, she turned to go down to breakfast.

Marlena stared out the thick panes of glass, searching the slowly lightening landscape for some hint of her location. There was nothing familiar about the desolate landscape below. Rocky wilderness stretched out as far as her eye could see. She didn’t even know what day it was, much less her current location. She could still feel the effects of the sedatives forced upon her and the children in the form of the headache that pounded away behind her tired eyes. With a frustrated growl, she turned from the window and paced once more across the big bedroom. She had just about had it with being kidnaped!

Her anger flaring, she tugged once again at the knob of the thick wooden door, already knowing it was a futile gesture. The richly appointed bedroom suite was decorated in the finest of furnishings. From the Turkish rugs that covered the floors to the rich velvet drapes that hung from the windows, it exuded taste and wealth. It was still a cage, and Marlena recognized it as such. With a last pointless kick at the door, she moved to sink down on the large canopy bed.

Wearily, she rubbed at her throbbing temples, searching for some explanation of where she was and why she was there. Tears unexpectedly sprang to her eyes and she dashed them away, ashamed of the sign of weakness. Ashamed of her refusal to face the fact that she already knew why she was here. She had known it since the moment Bolen had turned them over to the squad of mercenaries that had descended on them from out of nowhere. Those men hadn’t wanted her. They hadn’t wanted her children. They hadn’t even wanted Dimera. She was here because she was bait. Bait in a trap for the one they really wanted. She was here because they wanted John.

A tremor ran through her at the thought of him. God, she needed him so badly. She wanted nothing more than to feel his strong arms wrapped around her, assuring her that nothing would ever harm her. She never felt safer than when she was in his arms. But if he came for her this time, she knew that she would lose him. The fear took her firmly in its grip, because she knew that he would come. No matter where she was, he would find her. And he would come. And they would kill him.

She pulled her knees up against her chest and fought back the sobs that seemed ready to overwhelm her. ‘Oh God, please let him be all right,’ she prayed silently. ‘Please, be all right.... John, where are you? John, please don’t come for me.’

Dammit! Where were they?

John fought the urge to scream, struggled against the blackness creeping in on his brain. The rage flared and he lashed out with one grimy fist, knotting his fingers into the stark white collar of the man beside him. “Find them, God dammit! I want them here or want your bleeding heart on a fucking plate! Do I make myself clear?”

Jensen froze. Staring into those eyes was like staring down the barrel of a gun. Black fire seared him and he had no doubt what-so-ever that John meant what he said. With a convulsive swallow, he nodded. “Yes sir, Mr. Black. We have agents blanketing the Alamain holdings. Men are in place to cover every lead. It is just a matter of time, sir.”

John didn’t let go, just kept staring down at him. Jensen’s world narrowed until it consisted of nothing but those blue eyes and the fingers that wrapped around his throat. Those eyes sought an excuse to destroy. Any excuse. For a fraction of a second, John’s fingers tightened. Then, with a grunt of frustration, John shoved him away.

“Get out. Don’t come back until you have news,” John said woodenly, turning away. Soundlessly, Jensen did as he was told.

Christ, it had been almost two full days since she had been taken. Two endless days. Anything could have happened in two days.

Cursing the wasted time, John slumped down in the leather chair behind the big desk. Yet another desk, in another study, in another safe-house. After a while, they all blurred together. He couldn’t even remember what state this particular desk resided in.

He tried to focus his eyes on the lines of the map, tried to trace the roads that led out of the Virginia wilderness. The image before him blurred, an endless sea of gray with no secrets to reveal. Groaning, he rubbed at gritty eyes and gave up the search. Too much wasted time. They could be anywhere by now. He had been too damn slow and now she was lost.

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours it had taken him to hike out of mountains and make contact. Hours spent dodging search patrols, crawling on his belly more often than not. Another three hours wasted in transit to a Dimera base. By the time the search had started, she had already been gone.

He had been using every resource at his command, and after twelve solid hours of work, he still had nothing. There was simply no sign of Marlena and the kids. No sign of Dimera. So tired he couldn’t think straight, his head dropped down to rest on his crossed arms. The stink of blood was on his hands and he distantly realized that he should shower. Eat. Function. He couldn’t remember why it was he should do such things, so he didn’t.

John sat. His mind drifted. As always, it drifted to her. He dozed off, and in his mind, he saw her face. A small smile curved his lips before he recognized the dream for the nightmare it was.

It seemed his eyes had been closed only seconds before he was jarred back to reality by a persistent knocking at the door. Dismissing the ugly dreams, he prayed for good news. “Come in,” he called sharply, glancing down at his watch to check the time. Five more wasted hours. A scowl on his face, he nodded brusquely to Jensen, who entered accompanied by two guards.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long, You better be here to tell me you have some word,” John said, straightening in his chair and rubbing irritably at the back of his neck.

“Yes sir. We just got a call from the kidnappers. Untraceable, we checked,” Jensen replied.

“Well?”

“No details on where they were, sir. Just a voice, claiming to have Mr. Dimera and the Bradys. We were told that we were to contact them once we have you in custody. They want a trade. You for Mr. Dimera.” Jensen said the words in a monotone, his eyes not quite managing to meet John’s own.

“Aaah,” John replied, nodding. “And what are you going to do?” he asked in a deceptively mild tone, rising slowly to his feet.

“Whatever you tell me to sir.”

“Good choice, Jensen. And these two?” John asked, with a nod to the two armed guards.

“These two are to make sure that everybody else does what you tell them to. Sir,” Jensen replied, a ghost of a smile on his face.

At this, John actually managed a grim laugh. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t think bodyguards are necessary. Now, let’s figure out how we are going to get them back. I assume you taped the call? I want to hear it. I’d like to be able to recognize the voices of the men I’m going to kill.

Marlena walked slowly down the long staircase, followed closely by her children. She suppressed the desire to tug the black shawl closer around herself. Though she had been grateful to relinquish the pair of dirty jeans she had worn in favor of a long soak in a massive clawfoot tub, she was uncomfortable with the thought of wearing clothes that had so obviously been chosen by someone else.

The burgundy dress clung to her every curve, the velvet whispering slightly with each movement she made. The dress fell almost to the floor, and while she was glad of the warmth it provided within the cold stone walls of the castle, the plunging neckline still managed to leave her feeling exposed. The black lace shawl she had found draped in the armoire had seemed to provide her with a sense of cover. At least it had until she reached the bottom of the stairs and found herself trapped in the gaze of the man who awaited her.

“Dr. Evans. You appear none the worse for wear this morning, I am happy to say,” the man said, rising from his seat at the head of a massive mahogany dinning table.

He strode confidently across the room, and once again Marlena was struck by a sense of familiarity. There was something about this man that she should recognize, but she could not place what it was. His body was thick but well proportioned and he moved with an easy grace. Grey streaked the temples of his thick mane of hair, the way he wore it tied loosely behind his neck an odd anachronism that suited him. When he came to a stop before her, she realized that the breadth of the man’s shoulders had caused her to misjudge his height. He towered above her, inches taller than she had first thought. His physical presence was intimidating, and she sensed that he used this to his advantage. Resisting the urge to take a step back she held her ground, only to be startled when he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

Something about this man was very wrong and a shiver ran down her spine at his touch. She knew he had felt it when a smile quirked his lips. As she stared into his face, she recognized what she should have seen at the start. John’s face gazed down at her. John’s face, but not John’s eyes.

With a gasp, she jerked her hand away and stepped back, unable to tear herself away from those dark eyes. Their black depths bore into her and her breath caught in her throat. Scary things lurked behind those eyes. Scary, ugly things. She didn’t want this man anywhere near her or her children.

“Who are you?” she asked coldly, unwilling to show any sign of weakness to the man who stood before her.

“Ah, yes. We weren’t formally introduced last night, were we?” the big man asked sardonically, a self-satisfied smile curving his lips. “I am Mikovitch Alamain and I am honored to have you in my home, Marlena. You and your children,” he said, stepping back a step and looking over the small group before him.

“I do believe that this beautiful young woman must be your oldest child, Carrie?” he stated, giving a nod to the young woman. “Of course, she isn’t truly your child by blood, is she?”

“My children are none of your business, Mr. Alamain. I want to know why you have brought us here,” Marlena responded, reaching out to take Carrie’s hand in her own.

Ignoring her, the man turned his attention to Sami and Eric. Raising an eyebrow, he gave a half-bow. “Samantha and Eric, the twins. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, looking as if he were enjoying some private joke at their expense. Reaching out, he ran his finger below Sami’s chin, causing her to jerk violently away. “Such beautiful children you have, Marlena,” he said, with a nod of admiration.

“Keep your damn hands off my sister,” Eric growled, stepping in front of his sister.

“Watch your manners, boy. I do not tolerate ill-bred pups without the sense to respect their betters,” Mikovitch snapped out, his face taking on a dangerous scowl.

“Eric, don’t!” Marlena ordered, tugging her angry son away from the man whose very presence sent shivers of fear running through her.

“You should listen to your mother, Eric. I would think you have more sense than to insult your host,” Mikovitch said, turning abruptly away to move back to his seat at the table. With a broad sweep of one arm, he indicated that they should sit. “Of course, I guess I shouldn’t expect too much of them. After all, the children are the brood of your first husband. Roman Brady, I believe his name was?”

Though the words were said casually, his eyes studied her intently, and Marlena immediately knew that it was somehow very important that none of the children were John’s. Allowing some of the anger she felt to creep into her voice, she replied. “Yes. Roman is their father. He was a good man, and I will not hear you suggest otherwise.”

“Of course. You are quite correct. I apologize to you all.” Mikos managed a stiff nod.

Before Marlena could form a response, a shrill voice rang throughout the room. “Oh, now really! We have guests for the first time in ages and you don’t even wait for me to beginning dinning!”

The words were closely followed by a petite redhead who breezed into the room in a manner usually reserved for hurricanes. “Honestly, Mikos! What were you thinking?!” the woman chastised, coming to a stop behind an empty chair at the big table.

“My apologies to you too then,” Mikos said, only the barest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Gesturing to the empty seat, he continued. “And the food was waiting upon your arrival. Now, if I may? Vivian D’pua, I would like to introduce you to our ‘guests’. This is Dr. Marlena Evans, and these are her children, Carrie, Eric, and Samantha.”

“It’s Sami,” the youngest girl corrected, shooting a challenging look toward the head of the table.

“Sami.... What a lovely name,” Vivian interjected smoothly, ignoring her nephew’s frown of disapproval. “It is just such a pleasure to have company in this dreary old castle of Mikos’,” she continued with a bright smile.

“We aren’t exactly here voluntarily,” Marlena responded dryly, not quite certain what to make of this seemingly ditzy redhead. Beneath the flashy exterior, Marlena could sense a steel edge as sharp as any she had known.

“Well company is company. One can’t be all that choosey around here, you know,” Vivian answered with a careless flip of her hand. Reaching for the cup of coffee in front of her, Vivian focused inquisitive eyes on Marlena. “Now my dear, why don’t you tell me all about yourself? It has been so long since I’ve had anyone other than Mikos to chat with over morning coffee.”

“Vivian, please refrain from pumping our guests for information. It is unseemly,” Mikos commented from his seat at the head of the table, his attention focused on the smoked herring that was his usual morning fare.

“Why exactly are we here?” Marlena asked, her food lying untouched before her.

“You are not one for small talk, I see,” he replied, looking up at her with amusement. “But, if you wish to spoil breakfast by discussing such unpleasantness, then so be it. Your presence here is an accident. A most pleasant accident, I might add.”

“Your attack on the compound in Virginia did not seem ‘accidental’ to me,” Marlena shot back, her eyes narrowing in anger.

Mikos could not help but smile. “No, perhaps not. But it was the only way for me to issue my… invitation for a meeting. I have business with one ‘John Black’. I believe that you are familiar with the man? He was even a husband of sorts, unless I was terribly misinformed.”

“I ‘am’ married to John Black,” Marlena responded, emphasizing her words. “It may not have been under his own name, but we are still husband and wife.”

“Of course you are,” was the condescending reply.

“My ‘husband’ has no desire to do business of any sort with you, Mr. Alamain, and he has the ability to make your life very uncomfortable. I would suggest that you release all of us immediately,” Marlena said hotly, her anger overriding her fear.

“‘John Black’ is not a threat to me,” Mikos replied, his voice growing threatening. “He will do as I command him to or he will suffer the consequences!”

“You aren’t fit to shine his boots!” she spat out, rising from her chair and flinging her napkin to the table. Without another word, she turned and walked quickly from the table back toward the privacy of her room. The children followed quickly in her wake.

He watched in admiration as she stalked angrily away. He had found her intriguing when he read her file. Independent, intelligent, and very very beautiful. An aristocratic beauty with hair of spun gold, she looked more like royalty than any queen he had ever met. ‘At least his brother showed good taste in women,’ he had thought at the time. Little had he realized, the pictures did not even come close to capturing the reality of her.

He had thought that she would be cold, reserved. Above all, frightened. Instead, her mere presence generated heat. There was fire inside that woman. He had seen it blazing out from her eyes when she thought he wouldn’t notice. ‘He would not go to sleep with his back turned on that one,’ he thought wryly. It made him want her. The fact that she had belonged to his brother made him want her even more

His brother. The boy had done quite well for himself. He now had control of one of the most powerful criminal cartels in the world. How he felt about that, Mikos was not quite certain. On the one hand, it only made sense. After all, blood will tell. Alexander was his brother. Half-brother, at least. It should come as no surprise that he had risen to the top of his profession. In a sense, the man had won a kingdom of his own.

And that, of course, was the problem. There was only room for one ruler in the Alamain line. There was only room for one king. Little Alexi showed an appalling lack of respect in trying to build a kingdom of his own. His place would be to serve, not to rule. As for the woman.... Well, little brother had no right to aspire to such a one as that.

For a moment, the image flitted before his eyes. His brother on his knees before him, head bent in respect. Paying him the homage that was his due. The woman at Mikos’ side, her eyes never leaving his face. It was a lovely image. Perhaps having a brother would not be such a bad thing after all. With a satisfied sigh, he leaned back in the armchair and raised his eyes to the heavens.

‘Ah.... Alexi,’ he thought. ‘Hurry home little brother.’

-----

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…

-----

She stood silently, pulling the shawl tightly around her as she watched the door close firmly shut. The lock clicked with finality and she was cut off. Cut off from freedom. From her children. From John. Tears once again threatened as the anger she had felt turned to despair. She had handled the meeting with her captor so badly, letting her emotions get away from her. She knew better than that. Alamain had liked it when she lost her temper. She didn’t want to do anything that that man liked.

Where was Stefano? At the very least, he might have some idea of the reason for this vendetta against John. If only she had used her head instead of her heart, she might have discovered something useful from the horrid encounter with Mikovitch Alamain and his eccentric aunt. Frustrated with herself, Marlena moved to collapse onto the soft cushions of the bed.

Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about the way he had watched her. There was something very… possessive in the way he had followed her every move. That was the only way to describe it. As if she were some shiny item he wished to own. Marlena had no desire to be owned.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic she moved to sit at the large window, staring out into the open country side and its promise of freedom. Somewhere out there, she knew he was searching for here. He was coming for her. She could sense it. Now was not the time for tears, it was time to plan. She had to be ready when he came. She would not lose him again.

“The first thing we have to do is meet with Jensen,” John said, walking stiffly toward the waiting limo. His movements were jerky, as if every step required a conscious act of will. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, though his face was deathly pale. Bo wondered how it was possible for the man to keep his feet.

“Dammit, Bo! Pay attention. This is serious,” John snapped, startling Bo back to the needs of the moment.

“Yea. I heard you. We meet with Jensen. No problem,” Bo muttered, sliding into the plush leather of the car and shooting the chauffeur a nasty look. “So who is this Jensen guy again?”

Reigning in his impatience, John forced himself to go slow. “Jensen is the defacto next in charge after me. He’s actually a brilliant tactician. Not much for field work, but he is Stefano’s closest adviser. He knows every facet of the organization. We need him if we are going to get Marlena and the kids back.”

“I thought you said he was the cook?” Bo said, watching as John leaned his head back against the seat and stared blankly at the ceiling.

“He’s a bit eccentric,” was the weary reply. “But he’s a good man. He knows his business.”

“So this is the guy you trust to get Marlena back?”

John chuckled, tilting his head to give Bo an ugly smile. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. In the end, his first loyalty will be to Dimera. He’d put a bullet in my back and leave Marlena and the kids to rot if that’s what it took to get Dimera. Hell, it’s one of the reasons I admire him.”

The big car hummed along the road, and for a moment the two men simply sat in silence. Finally, John said softly, “That’s why I need you Bo. I need someone I can trust to put Marlena first. You are it. If I go down, you’re in charge. You damn well better be there for her.”

Bo looked over at the slouched figure beside him. He was so cold, so empty inside. The only emotion he seemed to own was rage. God, how had the man who had been his brother turned into this? “What makes you think you can just tell these guys that I’m second in command and they’ll buy it?”

“Easy. They know I’ll kill them if they don’t.”

“Jensen, meet Bo Brady. After me, he’s in charge. Got that?” John said, walking through the office door without bothering to knock.

Unperturbed, Jensen looked up from the map draped across Dimera’s large desk. “Understood, sir.”

Giving the man behind the desk the once-over, Bo had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. This guy looked like an accountant. From the school tie around the neck of his stiffly starched shirt to the polished wingtips on his feet, the man exuded prissy English propriety. ‘No wonder John had to call me in,’ Bo thought smugly.

“So? We got any new leads,” John asked without preamble, moving to study the large map.

“No sir, not yet Mr. Black. Mikos Alamain has four separate residences in Europe alone and more holdings than I care to contemplate. Many of his properties are in hard to reach areas. So far, none of our contacts report any indication of Mr. Dimera’s presence.”

With a distracted nod, John rubbed at the back of his stiff neck and tried to decide on a course of action. Any action. If he didn’t find something productive to do, he was going to lose his freak’n mind.

“Um, sir?” Jensen interjected. “We did have another contact from the people holding Mr. Dimera. They called several hours ago, while you were still on the flight.”

“Well?” John fastened glittering eyes onto Jensen’s suddenly pale face.

“They think we are stalling, sir. The kidnappers ordered us to turn you over to them within 48 hours. If we don’t, they said they would start by sending the Brady children over in pieces. They said they would work their way up to Mr. Dimera.”

When John failed to make any reply, Jensen continued. “They want us to meet them here, in Europe. England, specifically. Guess they didn’t want to try and risk smuggling you through customs, which suggests they want to keep you alive. It bought us the extra time, sir. We still might find them before the meet.”

They would hurt his children. To get to him, they would hurt his children. He’d put a bullet in his brain rather than risk that. With a sigh of resignation, John looked down to the map once again, hoping its secrets would reveal themselves to him. There was nothing. “Are we going to find them in the next 48 hours, Jensen?”.

“No sir. I don’t think we will.”

With a slight shrug, John straightened his shoulders and looked Jensen in the eye. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

“We give them what they asked for, sir.”

Bo tread lightly down the darkened hallway, careful not to rouse the attention of any of the wandering guards. It was almost dawn and the big house was wrapped in silence. If he was going to try and call home, now was the time. Slipping quietly across the hardwood floors, he stopped at the doorway to the office where he had spent the evening going over the details of the Alamain holdings with John and Jensen. To Bo’s relief, the door was unlocked. The thick wooden door swung open without protest, and he quickly stepped into the shadowed room. Glowing embers from the brick fireplace bathed the room in a reddish light and his eyes slowly adjusted to the point he could make out the shape of the furnishings. With a sudden start, he realized he was not alone.

A pair of eyes studied him, the red of the flames dancing across their surface. For a moment it seemed as if he had entered a realm of demons, for there was nothing of humanity in gaze that held his own.

“Bo?”

The sound broke him from the spell and he recognized the dark void that was John. A crackle of sparks briefly dispelled the darkness, and in that instance Bo saw the cold shine of the chrome-plated pistol clutched in the big hand. The gun pointed toward the ceiling, cradled against the side of John’s head, and Bo had a moment to wonder who it was intended for. The sparks faded swiftly, and as the darkness once more enveloped them Bo could feel the tension radiating from the man behind the big desk. The hair on the back of his neck rose in response to a threat he did not yet understand. “What are you doing here at this hour?” he asked, his mundane question an unconscious effort to restore a sense of normalcy to the scene.

A harsh chuckle rippled through the darkness. “Waiting for my salvation.”

When no elaboration was forthcoming, Bo slowly moved to the fireplace. Careful not to initiate a confrontation, he kept his eyes fixed on the dying flames. Casually, he reached to toss another log on the embers, stoking the fire to produce enough light to see by.

“You figure you’ll find salvation in the barrel of a gun?” he asked, his tone low and gentle as he watched the leaping flames.

Again the laughter echoed through the room. “I always have before. Why should this time be any different?” John replied with words that slurred tiredly together.

Backing from the heat of the now roaring fire, Bo turned to face the man at the desk. He was not surprised to see an almost empty bottle perched beside John’s left hand. “And you needed a little liquid courage to help you on your way?”

John offered a cold smile in response. Bo was an idiot if he thought it took courage to die. He wasn’t afraid to use the gun, he was tempted to. Lowering the weapon, he clicked the safety on and lay the gun to rest on the desk before him, his fingers reluctant to relinquish the cool comforting feel of death from their touch. To give his hands something to do, he grabbed the bottle. Draining its contents in a single motion, he gave a long sigh that verged on a moan and tilted his head back to study the ceiling.

“Kills the pain. Makes it all go away. That’s what whiskey’s supposed to do, didn’t you know that, Bo? Hell, I thought you listened to country music.” His chuckle rasp out like sandpaper over glass, painful to hear.

Bo could feel the agony in the whispered words, and despite himself he searched for something to ease the man’s hurt. “You lost her before and got her back, John. Remember when she went down on the plane. We thought we lost her for good then. But she came back. She came back to you. To her family. We’ll get her back again.”

John simply stared at the heavens, his breath rasping out harshly in the silence of the room. Finally, as if losing the fight to his inner demons, he lurched to his feet and began pacing across the floor. He stalked the room, grinding his fists into tired eyes in an effort to drive away the assaulting waves of memories. “Yea, Bo. I remember that. I remember it all too well. Do you remember?”

Not knowing what the man was driving at, Bo simply stared at him mutely. Angrily, John stepped to him. “I remember every time I put her in danger. I remember every time she paid the price for being with me! And I remember being at Mom and Pops when you told me what I didn’t want to know! I remember everything! How’s your memory, little brother?!” John spat, sending Bo lurching backward with a sudden shove.

Bo stumbled, trying to keep his feet. His eyes narrowed, and he fought the urge to take a swing at the man before him. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“What? Did you forget? You’re the one who first knew the truth, Bo! You’re the one who told me Marlena’s ‘death’ was my fault the first time I lost her! I couldn’t deny it then and I can’t deny it now! Every fucking time she has needed me, I have failed her. Jesus, Bo! The woman taught me the meaning of love and I repay her by hurting her, over and over again!” Unwilling to face the disgust he knew Bo must feel for him, he turned away. Ever muscle in his body burned with the rage that surged through him, washing away the exhaustion of endless hours without sleep. His fists clenched until blood stained his palms, the need for violence so intense he could not see past it. Every conscious thought intensified the hurt and he ached to lose himself in the chaos of destruction. The light touch of a human hand was all the excuse he needed and he whirled around to smash a hard fist into the face that appeared before him.

The impact of the unexpected blow slammed Bo’s head back and he crumpled to his knees with the taste of blood in his mouth. Dazed, he gazed up at John’s looming form. The look in those black eyes was not entirely sane, and the muscles in the man’s shoulders seemed to knot with barely constrained fury. “Get the fuck out of here, Bo. Get out now,” John hissed almost incoherently.

There was murder in those eyes and Bo could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Crouching on his knees, he held very still. “No.”

John’s lips pulled back in an angry snarl and his arm snaked down to yank the younger man to his feet. As Bo’s hand came up to grab at his wrist, he stepped forward and slammed him hard against the wall. The air ‘whooshed’ from his lungs, and Bo sagged in John’s hand gasping for breath. With a low groan, he turned his head to spit out the foul taste of the blood from his split lip. “Is this what you want, John?” he coughed, grabbing on to John’s arm and struggling to keep his feet.

John’s eyes narrowed to slits, and for an instance Bo thought that he would be in a fight for his very life. With a growl of frustration, John abruptly dropped him and turned away.

Harsh breathing was the only sound that broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, shaking his head from side to side like a wounded bull. “Christ, Bo. I’m sorry.”

Leaning against the wall, Bo bent of to rest his palms on his knees. Trying to catch his breath, he dabbed at the still bleeding cut on his lip. “Yea, well you should be, man. Dammit, I can’t believe you split my lip like that!” he muttered indignantly.

“If you weren’t so damn stubborn, you wouldn’t be bleeding right now, would you?” John sniped in spite of himself.

Straightening slowly, Bo shot him an ugly look and moved to the wet bar. He reached for the tub of ice, muttering “Always such a hardass,” under his breath.

As intended, the remark drew a reluctant chuckle. Turning to face him, John ran a hand through his hair and shot Bo a rueful grin. “Hell, you usually deserve it.”

Wincing as his lips curved in a slight smile, Bo commented, “Nice apology. You better work on it before you try explaining to Hope why you kidnaped me and carried me off to Europe. She’s not nearly as understanding as I am.”

At that, John could not help an amused grunt. “No way I’m explaining this to Hope. She’s your woman, you deal with her.”

“Oh! I’m telling Marlena you said that. She is going to jerk a knot in you, boy,” Bo snapped back, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

Jarred from the moment by the mention of her name, John glanced guiltily away. “Hope she gets the chance,” he said softly.

Stepping to him, Bo cautiously reached out to grip his shoulder. “We will get her back, John. We’ll get them all back and take them home. I promise you,” he said, giving the older man a firm shake.

Stepping back, John broke the contact. His face suddenly cold, he locked eyes with Bo. “We better,” he said, and Bo could not tell if it was a promise or a threat. His jaw clenched tightly shut and John walked back over to the bar. Absently, he ran his finger over the label of a bottle of 20 year old scotch.

“Hey, John. It’s been a long night. Why don’t you call it a day and get some sleep?” Bo broke in, trying to draw him back from his bleak thoughts.

Stiffly, the man shrugged and pulled the bottle to him. “I can’t sleep, Bo. I just lay there in bed and think of her. Think of what they might be doing to her.... No point in my even trying to sleep,” he said, his voice breaking.

“So, what? Your plan is to drink until you pass out?”

Nodding agreeably John grunted, “Basically, yea. That was the plan.”

“I’ve heard better plans in my day,” was Bo’s wry response. “Look, I don’t need a partner who is terminally hung over. What say we sit and chat. Hope says I’m the best bedtime story teller there is. If I can’t put you out, nothing can.”

“You want to tell me a bedtime story?” John shot Bo a disbelieving look.

“Well, I don’t exactly ‘want’ to do it, but it would beat sitting here and watching you drink till you puke,” Bo replied, moving to sit on the long couch.

“So who said you had to sit here and watch? And what are you doing in here, anyway?” Putting the bottle down, John stumbled to the wingback chair by the fireplace. Hunching down in the chair, he flopped one leg over the padded armrest and studied Bo’s face curiously.

Surprised by the question, Bo flushed and looked away. “Well… I was going to call Hope. Let her know where I am. You haven’t let me call her, and she’s got to be going out of her head by now. Hell, you know her, John....”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, John shook his head. “No calls, Bo. This is need-to-know only.”

“She is not going to be thrilled with me running off to Europe with you of all people as it is. John, she is literally going to kill me if I don’t call her,” Bo answered, hating to sound like he was begging but willing to do it if John would let him call Hope.

John merely snorted, amused by how well trained Hope had Bo. “How is that wife of yours anyway?”

“Beautiful as always, man. Her and Sean Douglas are doing fine.”

“You did Pops proud there, Bo,” John commented, glancing over. Suddenly uncomfortable with the topic, he dropped his eyes. “How are Ma… Um, Sean and Caroline. How are they?”

Bo gave a shrug. “What do you think? They’re worried. Everybody’s worried John. Marlena and the kids missing. Now me. Dammit, John! It’s only been a few months since we lost Roman! You got to let me call them. Tell them everything’s okay.”

“Everything is not ‘okay’, Bo. Nothing is okay. You know that.”

“They think you killed Roman. They think you took Marlena. John, that almost destroyed Pop! They need to know it wasn’t you. You owe them that much,” Bo argued, his voice tight at the memories of what his family had suffered.

“You all should have known that I would never do anything like that. Anything to hurt the family,” John replied irritably, hurt that they would doubt him. Saddened that they had good cause.

“Yea, well you didn’t give us much reason to believe in you, now did you? You just ran off and deserted everybody. You didn’t even try and stay, try and explain what happened. That didn’t exactly inspire anybody’s confidence,” Bo retorted, glad of the chance to say what he felt.

“It was for your own good, and you know it!”

“That wasn’t how it felt, John. It felt like you betrayed us. You betrayed us and turned to a man who has done everything in his power to destroy our family. That’s how it felt!” Bo accused, daring the man to deny the truth of his words.

Instead of answering, John turned his head to stare into the shifting flames. He wouldn’t argue the point. He couldn’t. Bo was right. “If you need to call, then do it,” he finally said, his tone detached.

For a moment, Bo studied the man’s features, seeking some sign of his thoughts. When no revelations were forthcoming, he gave a sigh and rose to retrieve the phone. As he dialed the number he shot an irritated look in John’s direction, wishing the man would give him some privacy. The tiny ring in his ear focused his mind on more important issues. “Alice?” he said into the phone.

John tried to submerge himself in the dance of the flames. Bo’s conversation was none of his business. None of his concern. It wasn’t his family.

“Alice, let Hope know I’m alright. I’m searching for Marlena. I got a lead. Look, I’ll call in the morning and fill her in. And Alice. Can you do me a favor? I need to get a message to Mom and Pops...”

It wasn’t any of his business, John repeated the mantra in his head, lulling himself away from his surroundings and losing himself in the twisting cinders of wood as they contorted under the heat of the flames. He had almost managed to make himself not think when Bo’s voice broke him out of his stupor.

“John! Hey, John. Come on. Mrs. H wants to talk to you!” Bo said, shoving the phone in John’s direction.

Out of it, John stumbled to his feet and brought the phone to his ear. Holding the phone almost gingerly, he hesitantly said, “Mrs. Horton?.... Yes ma’am. Alice.... No, ma’am. I didn’t have anything to do with that.... Yes ma’am. I won’t let anything happen to Bo… Yes, I know what Hope would do to me.... Yes ma’am, I’m really sorry we called and woke you up. It was very inconsiderate. I told Bo that.... Yes ma’am, sometimes he is pretty thoughtless. I’ll speak to him about it. I promise.... Yes, I’ll personally make sure he calls in the morning once Hope is home.... Yes ma’am. I will.... Goodnight, Mrs. Horton… Alice. Goodnight.”

Stunned, John pulled the phone away from his ear and gently sat it back in its cradle. He turned to fasten wide eyes on Bo. “Jesus, she is worse than Stefano! How on earth do you handle her?”

“Generally, I try and stay on her good side,” Bo answered with a wry smile, the relief he felt at hearing the familiar voice making him almost giddy.

“Hey. Um, thanks for letting me call,” he added, slightly uncomfortable with the mix of emotions he was feeling toward John. “They were worried. Hope was down at the station, helping set up a search for me. Alice is going to straighten it out. I don’t want the family worrying.”

Absently, John nodded. “No. Wouldn’t want the family worrying… Look, why don’t you get some sleep, Bo. You’ve done what you came to do. Go to bed.”

“I don’t follow your orders anymore John. I think I’m going to sit here just as long as you do,” Bo responded, resuming his perch on the couch. There was no way in hell he was going to leave that man in a room by himself.

Tearing his eyes from the fire, John glared at Bo. “I promise to neither shoot myself nor get drunk. I don’t need a nursemaid. Go to bed.”

Not deigning to respond, Bo snuggled down into the thick cushions and pulled a woolen throw across his body. With a happy sigh, he shot John a contented smile and closed his eyes. Briefly he wondered if John was relieved by his refusal to leave or whether he was actually pissed off. Bo kind of hoped it was a little of both. His thoughts turned to how he was going to explain this whole mess to Hope in the morning. Preferably it would be in a way that would not have him sleeping on the couch for the next month. Just before he drifted off into sleep, he decided to blame the whole thing on John.

John studied the peaceful man spread out over the long sofa and wondered at the cause of the slight grin he saw on his face. He watched without moving until Bo’s chest rose and fell in untroubled slumber. Grateful for his presence. Irritated with his intrusion. With a sigh of his own, he finally turned back to the waning fire, wondering if all little brothers were such a pain in the ass.

-----

They were finally going to allow her to see Dimera. She couldn’t believe the sense of relief she felt at the thought. But after three days of isolation, relieved only by the brief glimpses of her children she was granted at mealtimes, she desperately needed contact with another human being. Dimera qualified, barely. And though she hated to admit it, he had knowledge of a side of John she had avoided seeing. He would know how John would react. He might even know the cause of this very dangerous game in which she had suddenly found herself a player.

Alamain wanted something from her. She could see it in his eyes, every day as they sat across the table from each other in the cavernous dining room. And every day, she could see the need growing stronger. He used her children against her. They were pawns that he shuffled around the board, forcing her into situations where she would have to abide his presence. The only time she was allowed to see them was when she came down to eat. Always, he would be awaiting her arrival, rising from the table to greet her with courtly grace. Each time he touched her, it was all that she could do not to let the revulsion show on her face. She would rather starve than endure his touch, but she would do anything to see her children. He was using that. She knew he was doing it. There was simply nothing she could do to resist.

The click of the lock startled her, and she rose hurriedly to her feet, trying to prevent her desperation from showing on her face. She had to see Stefano. She needed to understand what was happening to her. She needed to know so that she could plan.

Soundlessly, she followed the servant down the hallway, unable to prevent a wistful glance at the door beside her. She knew that the girls were housed there. Had watched as they were locked away each day after meals. At least they were together. Had each other to lean on. Eric was alone, locked in the room across the hall. The strain was showing on them all, but Eric most of all. She could see the tension in his face, the way his jaw clenched with barely suppressed anger. She had to get them out of this place before someone broke and Mikos’ thin veneer of civility was stripped away to reveal the monster she knew lurked beneath.

Lost in her thoughts, she was startled when the servant stopped at a door at the end of the long hallway. Pulling a heavy keyring from his waist, he unlocked the door and motioned her inside.

“Thank you, Ivan,” she said softly, watching as the man flushed at her words. He seemed extemely uncomfortable with his role as jailer and Marlena thought it wise to establish whatever connection she could with the man.

“Madam,” he replied with a nod, gesturing her into the room.

She was unsurprised to hear the click of the lock behind her. For a moment, she simply stood in the doorway, peering through the shadows that blanketed the large bedroom. A small table-lamp was the only source of light and its soft glow revealed the heavy form of Dimera stretched out beneath a thick blanket.

“Marlena. It is an even greater pleasure than usual to see you. May I say, you look as lovely as ever, even in these trying circumstances,” his deep voice intoned, black eyes shining brightly in the glow of the lamp.

“Every time I see you, it is a trying circumstance,” she replied with the ghost of smile. Her tone lacked its usual vehemence when dealing with Stefano, and she wryly thought to herself ‘Better the devil you know’.

Chuckling, Stefano turned his head to face her. “I see your present captivity has not improved your manners any,” he replied with a small smile of his own.

Gracefully, she walked to the side of the bed. White bandages wrapped his head, but his eyes seemed clear and focused and she resisted the temptation to examine the wound. “You are looking much better than the last time I saw you,” she commented.

“I feel much better, though I must admit, I remember very little of the time between the explosion and when I woke up in this well appointed cell,” he replied with a slight nod.

“Take my word for it, you didn’t miss much,” was her dry response.

“I’m rather surprised I’m here at all. I seem to distinctly recall being carried out over very rough terrain. I would have thought you would relish the opportunity to simply leave me in the woods,” he prodded, giving her a curious look.

She merely shrugged. “The decision wasn’t mine to make. John carried you out. He was rather insistent about it.”

“Of course,” Stefano said, the look of pride flashing across his face in a way that irritated her to no end. “I suppose that if it had been left to you, I would no doubt be nourishing the worms by now,” he finished with just a touch of sarcasm.

With a sigh, Marlena crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Stefano, I know that John cares for you. In some twisted way, he feels that he owes you. I won’t begrudge him that. But if it is up to me, you will never be a part of our lives in any way, shape or form.”

Again his grim chuckle floated through the air. “Well it appears that the fates disagree, Marlena. It seems that once again our paths are linked, and this time not even you can believe that I am to blame.”

She hated it when he was right, and he was right so often. With a slight shake of her head, she turned her thoughts away from her continuing battle with Dimera. In a quiet voice, she asked “What will he do?”

“Who? John?” Stefano answered, his eyes widening in surprise at the question. “Isn’t it obvious? He will find us and he will kill Mikos Alamain. In fact, I’d say it is likely that he will kill everyone even remotely associated with the man. Really, Marlena! I had thought you’d stopped deluding yourself when it came to recognizing what John is capable of!”

She closed her eyes as a wave of dizziness ran through her.

“Marlena? Marlena, are you all right?” Dimera’s voice called to her, sounding as if it came from very far away. She was aware of his hand grabbing her own, and she jerked away to stumble backward, her eyes flying open to find him staring at her.

Concerned, Stefano studied her pale face. “Marlena, do you feel well? Will you sit down? Please?” he said, gesturing to a chair set at the opposite side of the bed.

Unsteadily she walked over and allowed herself to sink down on the thickly cushioned chair. “I’m sorry,” she said distractedly. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been able to sleep much...” she trailed off.

“Marlena, you really shouldn’t concern yourself. John knows his business. He will find us and he will come,” Stefano said gently, worried by the paleness of her features.

Unexpected tears threatened, and she muttered softly, “I don’t want him to come. Something bad will happen if he does. I know it, Stefano. I can feel it in my bones,” she said, her tone becoming hard and desperate as she raised her head to fasten haunted eyes on him.

An ugly thought flashed through Dimera’s head and he asked sharply, “Alamain hasn’t done anything to you, has he? He hasn’t touched you?”

The sudden protectiveness from Stefano of all people forced a half-hearted laugh from her. “No. No, he hasn’t done anything to me, Stefano. I just.... When I look at him, I am so afraid. I’m afraid for John. Afraid for my children. Myself...” again her voice faded out, and she rubbed her hands briskly against her arms as if fighting a sudden chill.

“Marlena, you are being silly now. John is the only man on this planet who could make me back down. I am rather insulted that you don’t think him capable of handling some puffed-up royalty wannabe,” Stefano said almost haughtily, trying to prod her out of her black thoughts.

Her eyes seemed to darken and she looked directly into Dimera’s face. “I have hated you for years, Stefano. I’ve hated you and I’ve feared you, and nothing will ever change that. Nothing will ever change the evil you have done to the people I love. But Alamain.... Stefano, I look at him and I feel ‘unclean’.”

Her eyes shifted to stare down at the plush carpet beneath her. “You play games, Stefano,” she continued softly. “You play games with peoples’ lives, and I hate that. But you would never force.... I never thought you would force me to do anything. Mikos Alamain would use force, Stefano. He would enjoy it.”

He could feel the anger growing with every word she spoke. John would have to hurry or Stefano would kill the bastard himself. Trying to keep his voice calm, he said gently, “Marlena, John will be here soon. There is nothing you need to worry about. Stay away from the man and wait for John.”

Angrily, Marlena shook her head and again raised her eyes to fasten on his. “No! You don’t understand. Mikos enjoys hurting people. He gets pleasure from it. He knows John will come. He’s counting on it! When John comes, Mikos will use me against him in a way you never would. He will use me to destroy him and he will enjoy it!”

Her eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but anger warred with the fear. Anger won. “Stefano, we have to stop him. We have to stop him before John gets here.”

Once again, Stefano was reminded just how strong this woman could be when those she loved were threatened. Involuntarily, his hand moved to rub against the faded scar of a bullet wound. “What do you suggest we do?” he asked quietly.

It was a question to which she held no answers, as her frustrated sigh gave signal to. Shaking her head, she searched for a solution. “I don’t know. Have you any idea why this man is so fixated on John?” she asked, glad to be focusing on something other than the fear.

“It’s not ‘company’ business, if that’s what you mean. I’ve never even heard of this Alamain fellow. He has dropped in to chat with me during my convalescence, but he has yet to explain the point of this little exercise. However,” he continued, giving Marlena a questioning look, “I would think that you would have noted the same resemblance that I do. It is rather striking, after all.”

She hadn’t wanted to pursue this, but if Stefano saw it too, it could no longer be ignored. “They are family, aren’t they?” she said softly.

“At a guess, I would say brothers. The resemblance is quite strong,” Stefano confirmed with a nod.

“Why would he want to destroy his own brother? Stefano, it can’t be,” she whispered softly.

“Of course it can,” was the stoic response. “It’s a story as old as time.”

The black stretch limo pulled smoothly to a halt 15 feet from the edge of the cliff. The chauffeur remained at the wheel with the engine running as three bodyguards emerged to take up their stations at the front and rear fenders. From behind mirrored shades, they stared across the rocky ground separating them from the two Mercedes that faced them. In silence, the men who had hunched together smoking cigarettes spread out from the Mercedes to form a rough line 20 feet away. The first fat drops of rain fell from the overcast skies as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. As the tension rose, fingers fumbled nervously over weapons scarcely hidden by thick overcoats. When Jensen finally crawled from the far door of the Limo, all pretense vanished and automatic weapons were raised cautiously to the ready.

Adjusting the blue silk tie at his neck, Jensen peered over the roof of the limo at the men arrayed against him. The two black Mercedes squatted aggressively, their headlights glowing dimly in the early morning mist. Seven men in dark suits faced him, weapons in hand and faces expressionless. ‘This is all just too cliche,’ he thought in annoyance, hating the necessity of being in the field. With an aggravated sigh, he reached into the backseat and pulled at the arm of the man who was the focus of all of the intrigue.

A figure stumbled into view behind the long body of the limo, and it became evident that he was bound and hooded. For a moment, he shrugged off the hands that grabbed at him. Then a fourth guard exited the backseat, and the man was dragged to the front of the car and slammed across the hood. Tiredly, the figure slumped down, the man resting his head against the warm metal. Without preamble, Jensen reached down and ripped the black hood away from the bound man’s face. Linking a hand in the long hair, he pulled John’s head back to face the men in front of the Mercedes.

“We kept our part of the bargain!” he shouted across the distance. “It’s time for you to keep yours. If you don’t want more trouble than you can handle, you will deliver Mr. Dimera to us unharmed.”

From the center of the line of men in front of the Mercedes, a tall blond man stepped forward. His short hair was almost white, and his thick body spoke of a brutal physical power. If the sneer on his face was any indication, Jensen’s threat didn’t worry him in the least. “You will get Dimera once Mr. Black there has been delivered to our employer and not before. That was the deal. Take it or leave it,” he called back in a cold voice. At his words, the men behind him raised their guns a fraction.

Trying to restrain his temper, Jensen pulled John roughly to his feet and shoved him forward. Seemingly disoriented, John stumbled to his knees. As Jensen and the bodyguard reached to pull him up, he lurched to his feet, ramming a shoulder into Jensen’s midsection. The two men slammed against the front fender in a tangle and then the bodyguard had John by his knees, bringing him to the ground.

At the first sign of struggle, the big blond man had stepped swiftly forward only to be confronted by the steady guns of Dimera’s men. He relaxed marginally once the bodyguard pulled John back into view, one thick arm wrapped tightly around the man’s neck. Jensen slowly lurched to his feet, anger plain on his face. Stepping to John, he unleashed a vicious slap that rocked the man’s head to the side. “It’s about time you got yours. I will never understand why Dimera has tolerated you all of these years, but that is at an end,” he spat out, his words carrying clearly in the still air.

Blood trickling from the side of his mouth, John turned back with an ugly grin. Taking a deep breath, he spat straight in Jensen’s face and brought his foot down hard against the bodyguard’s instep. As the hold about his neck slackened, he stepped forward to jam a knee into Jensen’s gut. With a muttered curse, Jensen crumpled and John stepped back, the light of battle in his eyes.

Sensing the loss of his quarry, the blond man stepped forward despite the machine guns still facing him. The blond moved just as Jensen’s bodyguard jabbed a fist into John’s unprotected back, sending him stumbling toward the cliff’s edge. He stepped to wrap thick arms around the still bound man and was dropped by a kick to the head, falling soundlessly to the ground.

The blond charged around the front of the limo heedless of everything but the need to take John down. John stepped forward to meet him with a grin, looking ready to take on death itself. He was going to get his chance. Helpless to prevent the disaster he could see happening, the blond could only scream out in frustration.

“Noooo...” the protest echoed over the rocky terrain as shots cracked out thinly in the air. Grim-faced, Jensen knelt, his gun aimed directly at John’s chest. Carefully, he pulled the trigger again and then again. Watched, as the impact staggered the man. Three hits, dead center. John’s body fell back, blood welling from his chest. For an instance, he glanced up, searching for Jensen’s face. His eyes were almost amused as he toppled from the 300 foot cliff.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” the blond screamed, rounding on Jensen’s crouched form. Though beside himself with anger, the fear of failure was even stronger.

Coldly, Jensen shrugged. Pulling a kerchief from his pocket, he dabbed fastidiously at the spittle on his cheek. “You wanted John Black? Well get a boat, the body has got to be down there somewhere. Now, I have had enough of your threats. I want Mr. Dimera back immediately. I was willing to give you Black because, quite-frankly, the man was more trouble than he was worth. But the Dimera cartel is done bargaining. Why don’t you tell ‘Mr. Alamain’ that we know who he is and we know where he lives. We will be coming for him if Mr. Dimera does not contact us with other instructions. That is really all I need to say to you.” Flashing a superior look, Jensen marched back to the limo. Settling back into the seat, he could not quite repress a self-satisfied grin as his men joined him.

“Sir, you almost looked like you enjoyed shooting Mr. Black.”

As the limo backed carefully away, Jensen permitted himself a small chuckle. “Who says I didn’t?”

The limousine disappeared over the hill, the blond watching it until it was out of sight. Muttering a curse in Russian, he edged to the side of the cliff and searched for any hint of a body. A broken wall of rock dropped straight down 300 feet, its base ringed by jutting boulders. The rough seas slammed against the jagged rocks, sending plumes of white spray shooting into the air. He could discern nothing in that seething mass, and the sheer height made him sway dizzily.

“We’ve got a couple of blood splatters here, sir,” a voice called out.

Shaking his head to clear it, he stalked irritably over to crouch beside the indicated area. Cautiously, he reached out a finger to dab at the already drying stains, black droplets that stood in stark contrast to the pale rocks. With a grunt of frustration he stood, wiping his fingers distastefully on his jacket. “Let’s get out of here,” he ordered gruffly as he started to the cars. He slammed the door behind him, already wondering where he could find a boat in this godforsaken place. 

-----

Mikos was furious. She had thought him irritated when he had been called away from breakfast in order to take the phone call. But on his return, the man was absolutely livid. She sat quietly at the table, trying not to draw the notice of the enraged man as he stalked to the table and slammed meaty fists into its polished surface. His shoulders heaved with his ragged breathing and a sudden swat of his hand sent a set of centuries old china smashing to the floor. As if the brittle sound awoke him to his surroundings his head snapped up to focus red-rimmed eyes on the face of his favorite captive.

“You thought I was no match for him, did you?” he hissed out, an ugly sneer on his face. “You thought he would come riding in to save you from me?! You were wrong, my lady,” he said, his voice rising to an almost shout. With one long stride he was beside her, wrenching her out of her seat with an iron grip around her upper arm.

Sudden fear flashed through her and with a sharp jerk Marlena tried to rip free of the man. Her struggles drew harsh laughter and he gave her a rough shake that snapped her head back and made her dizzy. Her knees felt suddenly weak as he pulled her tight against his chest, wrapping his free hand in her hair and wrenching back until she had no choice but to face him.

His face hovered above her own, staring down at her with eyes clouded by anger and fury and something more. For an instance he simply stared, and then his lips crushed against hers in a sudden attack. She tried to flinch away but he held her firm, bending her backwards until she thought her bones would break. With a muffled sob her right hand flew upwards to slam against his face without effect. Then a hoarse scream sounded and Mikos collapsed suddenly to the ground as she staggered free.

“You son of a bitch!” Eric yelled, his voice tight with fear and anger as he stepped back to unleash another kick, this time at the big man’s head. The blow behind the knee that had dropped the man in the first place singing through his veins like a drug, he wanted nothing more than to hit him until he couldn’t get up. No one would touch his mother like that. Ever.

The fury made him strong, but not strong enough. His slender frame lacked the mass to do damage to the giant before him, and strong hands reached out to easily block the blow. With a hard yank Eric crashed to the floor, the breath exploding from his lungs in a painful gasp. Teeth bared, Mikos drove himself to his feet and ripped Eric’s limp form up to dangle in his grip.

“You need a lesson in manners, boy,” he ground out, his open hand crashing into the right side of the young man’s face to send him tumbling once again to the ground.

“Mikos don’t!” a voice called fearfully as he stepped forward to ram the toe of his shoe into the pit of the boy’s stomach. The retching sounds at his feet brought a smile to his face and he could only wish that the boy had been his brother’s son as he moved to kick the moaning form again. At the frantic tug on his forearm he casually turned with his hand upraised, suddenly enjoying this little exercise in discipline.

“Mikos, stop. Please stop! I will do whatever you want, just stop this,” she pleaded, her hands linking themselves around his arm in a grip he found he could not break. A grip he wasn’t certain he wanted to break.

Her eyes stared up at him, wide with fear. He had thought her incredible when she was angry, but fear was an improvement even over that. Her eyes shone, golden flecks dancing in amber pools. The glowed up at him, begging, pleading, yearning. It was intoxicating. A smile lit his face and he leaned down to brush his lips across her cheek, the slight flinch at the gentle contact causing his groin to tighten.

Straightening slowly he nodded down to Eric’s groaning body, his sisters now at his side looking fearfully up at the madman in their midst. “Are you certain the boy is yours?” Mikos asked with a slight chuckle. “He evidences none of your persuasive abilities Marlena.”

Ignoring him, she started toward Eric, her only thoughts on her son. With a sharp yank, Mikos reached out and pulled her back. “I will have him taken to his room, Marlena. Really, you spoil the boy fussing over him so.”

She spun angrily around, her eyes flashing and he greeted her with a look of warning. “I had thought we were done with our lessons in manners for the day, Marlena. I hope I wasn’t mistaken?” he asked almost gently.

A tremor ran through her body, and it was everything that she could do not to launch herself at the smug face. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to keep the anger from her voice. “Mikos, please. He’s hurt. At least let him stay in my room where I can check on him. Mikos, something could have been broken,” she finally pleaded, the desperation overtaking the anger.

Appearing to consider her words, he raised a hand to rub idly at his chin. “Well… Because you ask so nicely, Marlena, I will allow him to be taken to his sisters’ room. The boy isn’t hurt, but this is my little gift to you,” he said with a courtly nod.

She simply stared at him, her hatred like a living thing. A man who would use children to get his own way…

“An expression of gratitude is usually customary when one is given a gift,” Mikos chided with a hurt expression as at his signal servants moved forward to pull the groaning boy to his feet.

Her hands clenched involuntarily, and in a dead voice she replied, “Thank you, Mikos.”

Turning to follow her children, she could not help but think of John. God, she feared his coming. She feared the damage that this man would do to him. But in her heart of hearts she wished that he were here. For once she wished for a glimpse of the violence and death that she knew lurked within the man she loved.

“Oh. A moment,” Mikos said, his words halting her in her tracks at the foot of the stairs. Her face carefully blank, she turned to look back at him.

“I had forgotten what I came here to tell you, Marlena,” he continued mildly, studying her with that look of amused condescension. “I thought you might like to know about my phone call. It was one of my men, calling to report that John Black is dead.”

The words refused to register. She could see his lips moving. See the cruel smile in his eyes. But he spoke in a foreign tongue. Words she couldn’t understand. Words she couldn’t accept.

“No,” she whispered hoarsely. “John is not dead. He isn’t. I would know.”

Her words rang hollow, lost in the vastness of a world gone suddenly grey. Numbly she stood, her life disintegrating around her. Her soul dying. She stood in the eye of the storm, slowly collapsing in on herself as her very being was striped away. She stood until all that was left was a single cold hard certainty. Pain crept across the surface of eyes that had gone dead. Pain and pride. Her back straightened and she held her head high as she stared into the gloating face before her. Her words were hard and brittle, matching the ice that surged through her veins. “John is not dead. You did not kill him. You could not. You aren’t man enough.”

With stilted steps, she turned and went to her children, staring wide-eyed from the landing above.

Vivian stood beside the antique bureau, absently rubbing her fingers across the age-stained file. Surprised at the depth of loss she felt for one she had hardly known, she swiped at the tears that trickled down her face. It was well that she hadn’t allowed her emotions to surface in front of Mikos. The man was unstable. She had known it for years. But the anger he had shown at the news of his brother’s death still shook her. She had watched his torture of the woman and her children. Had seen the anger and known better than to become involved. When Mikos was in a mood, there was no one who could stop him.

A shiver ran through her at the sickness that was her nephew. She knew that the anger was not over the death of his brother. It was an anger born out of his twisted need to dominate. His need to look into his brother’s eyes as he destroyed him.

Gods! Vivian had failed to realize how she had come to count on Alexander’s return. Finally, she had found the chance to rid herself of the ever present threat her nephew represented. She was tired of living in fear, always awaiting the moment when she would say the wrong thing. Give the wrong look. Set Mikos off on a rampage. Every night when she went to bed, there was always the tiny fear that this would be the night a dark figure would slip through her door, knife held at the ready. Mikos was capable of it. Had done it before for some perceived slight. No one around the man was safe from his paranoia. She had hoped that Alexi would change that.

With a resigned sigh, she looked at the yellowed sheets of paper beneath her hand. The faded medical reports she had held for years, too afraid to use herself. Evidence of the one thing that Mikos most feared. Evidence that Mikos was not the heir.

For a brief moment, she considered bringing the truth to light. Turning the papers over to a lawyer, someone far removed from the intrigues of the Alamain court. It would be her death sentence and she knew it.

Alexander might have been strong enough to stand against Mikos. She was not. And now, her only hope of escaping the grasping clutches of a madman lay dead. With a sharp shake of her head, she dismissed what might have been. Gingerly, she folded the faded sheets of paper and tucked them back into the concealed draw at the bottom of the desk. Closing the drawer with finality, she turned her thoughts in a new direction. An intriguing direction. She might not be strong enough to stand against Mikos, but there was still one who might be. A calculating smile crept across her face, and she wondered what Stefano Dimera was doing.

“Dimera, your men just made a mistake. Possibly a fatal one,” Mikos said, barging into the room without bothering to knock.

Looking up from the chair in which he sat drinking his morning coffee, Stefano merely raised a brow. “My men don’t make mistakes, Mikos. They know better.” Gathering the folds of his dressing gown about him, Stefano settled comfortably back in his seat.

Irritated, Mikos pulled to a stop before the self-possessed figure in front of him. The woman, he could handle. Her children made her weak, and beyond that… Well, she ‘was’ merely a woman. Dimera however made him uneasy, despite his placid demeanor. For once, Mikos was uncertain how to respond. “Well they made a mistake this time. John Black is dead. I wanted that man delivered to me and your goon squad couldn’t even do that without fouling it up. Now all I have is a missing body and no good reason for letting you live,” he grated threateningly, intent on wiping that superior look off of Dimera’s face.

Stefano went cold, his eyes narrowing dangerously. For an instance, Alamain caught a glimpse of the man responsible for deaths too numerous to count. Then Stefano smiled tightly, and the spell was broken.

“John is dead?”

“His body is at the bottom of a cliff. The flaw in that scenario is that I wanted his body here!” Mikos snapped out, attempting to assert his dominance over this encounter.

Turning his attention back to his coffee, Stefano muttered distractedly, “Yes, it does appear that you have a problem. Why do you bring it to me?”

The man was infuriating! Mikos wanted to step forward and smash him into the ground. Smash him until he learned to show respect to his superiors. Condescension from a mere thug was worthy of nothing less than death. But deep beneath the bravado, a tiny voice warned caution. Unacknowledged fear whispered that to kill Dimera would be to invite a war he might not win. For now, Dimera would have to be handled with kid gloves.

Forcing his breathing to slow, Mikos said more calmly, “This problem is your problem, Dimera. At the moment, I have no reason to set you free. No reason at all.”

“Don’t be stupid! We both know what will happen if you lay so much as a finger on me. I have an army of men searching for me as we speak. They will burn your businesses, they will loot your companies, they will cut down your associates. And Mikos, one day soon, they will find you. All it will take is a single bullet, and your entire empire will crumble.”

The man sat there completely at ease, his eyes glinting coldly. His words were said not as a threat but as a statement of fact. This was not how Mikos had envisioned this conversation going.

“Perhaps something might be worked out,” Mikos said smoothly, struggling to keep his distaste from his voice. “After all, we are both businessmen.”

“Something has already been worked out,” Dimera replied, glancing down to inspect a ragged nail that appeared to have caught his attention. “You will let us all go. After you have done that, you will offer me an apology and hope that I have the good grace to accept. That is what has been ‘worked out’, Mikos.”

His anger flaring, Mikos virtually growled out a threat. “Or I could simply kill you and take my chances with your army. After all, I do not think they will waste their time avenging your death while they could be busy making money.”

Blandly, Stefano glanced up. “Yes, you could do that.”

For a moment, Mikos merely stood glaring. Finally, he slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. Almost grudgingly, he set it on the table next to the cup and saucer. “Your men appear to becoming impatient with your extended absence. I want you to call them and warn them of the consequences of doing anything… rash.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” Stefano asked, his tone indicating that he thought he was addressing an imbecile.

“No one is leaving here until I am certain that John Black is dead. Once that is confirmed, you will of course be free to go. I would hate for any unpleasantness to occur before a peaceful resolution is achieved. It is even possible that we may find cause to do business together in the future, Stefano. Make the call. A day or two more or less can make little difference at this point,” Mikos explained smoothly, abandoning the attempt to use threats to attain his goal. He would settle accounts with this pompous peasant eventually, but now was not the time for a war.

The temptation to deny the man was strong. Only a fool would willingly choose to do battle with the Dimera cartel, and Mikos was not a fool. Insane perhaps, but not a fool. But there was a desperation in the man’s eyes. A glimmer of need that seemed oddly familiar. There was something that Alamain wanted badly enough to fight for. To press the man now would be dangerous. Besides, there was a truth that Dimera had to know. With a slow nod of his head, Stefano reached for the phone.

“One day, Mikos. I will give you one day to recover the body. After that, I will leave or you will be a dead man. Now, what is the contact number?”

Jensen’s familiar voice rang in his ear, explaining the events of the day. Describing the scene at the cliff. Asking for direction. The words droned on, and the possibility of John’s death became a probability. A certainty. An impossibility and a numbness. Hollowly, he gave the order to stand down, to wait for instructions. Even as he spoke, Dimera began to plan the method of Alamain’s destruction. The means of his death. It would most definitely involve a knife. Finally, there was nothing left to say, yet still he clutched the phone to his ear. Closing eyes that had suddenly seemed to have seen too much, he gave in to his weakness. His voice dropped, and he asked softly, “Jensen. Are you certain about John?”

The words rang out clearly over the lines. “I’m certain, sir. Three shots in the chest, dead center. The phoenix is dead, there is no doubt.”

Without another word, Stefano cut the line and tossed the phone to Mikos, who stood impatiently waiting.

“You have twenty-four hours,” Stefano said shortly. “Now, get out.”

Tilting his head back to rest against the cushions of the chair, Dimera closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift. He heard the click of the lock and allowed the words to flow through his mind. ‘The phoenix is dead...’ Ever so slowly, a broad smile crept across his face.

Bo clung tightly to the rock wall, not risking the sound of a drawn breath. Every muscle in his body was cramping, but he held rigidly still awaiting the all clear signal. Finally, the tingle of the pager shivered silently against his skin and he allowed himself to exhale. Only then did he looked worriedly down into the face of the unconscious man he held in his grip.

“John! Hey John! Come on, nap time is over,” he said sharply, shaking the man’s limp body. Dammit, this was never going to work! Trying not to get careless in his need for haste, he reached to fasten John’s harness securely to a crampon wedged deeply into the rock wall. His hands finally free, he unzipped John’s bloody leather jacket. Three holes showed plainly through the material, and torn blood packets hung limply from where they were fastened to his tee shirt. Quickly Bo ripped open the velcro fastenings and reached behind the heavy vest to search for any sign that a bullet had penetrated. Finally, he sighed in relief and withdrew his hand. Grabbing the key that hung from his belt he shifted the limp form until he could reach the steel cuffs that imprisoned the man’s hands. A twist of the wrist and the shackles fell away. Worried that the man showed no signs of returning consciousness, Bo gave the body a firm shake. They didn’t have time to waste.

“Come on John, stop slacking on me,” he muttered, resorting to slapping at the pale face lightly with one hand as the other moved to rummage in his hip pouch. He pulled out a slender tube and held it below John’s nose, looking away as he popped the glass vial in two. Harsh chemicals assailed him and he dropped the vial into the distant ocean as John started to choke.

John’s hands moved to clutch at his chest as his eyes blinked blearily open to find Bo staring down at him. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Bo sang out in a falsetto, grinning wickedly in order to hide his relief.

With a groan of pain, John coughed harshly and dropped his head, trying in vain to curl his body up into a ball. “What the hell hit me?”

“Near as I can tell, three bullets and the side of a cliff. It appears your plan is off to a brilliant start,” Bo answered, thinking to himself that John didn’t look so self-righteously cocky right now.

“Try and contain your concern for my injuries,” John muttered, the effort of drawing breath into his bruised chest still taking a conscious act of will.

“Hey! I told you that if you jumped off a cliff and fell 30 feet down a rip line it would hurt. But did you listen to me? Nooo… God forbid you ever take my advice!”

“Jeesh, Bo! Give me a break. I fell off a damn cliff!” John snorted, grimacing with the effort of holding his head up.

“Batman never complains.”

For a second, John merely stared at him in disgust. “Thank you. That was a tremendous help. Thank you so much!”

“Anytime,” Bo offered, cackling slightly. “So? You ready to get the hell out of here?”

John sucked in another deep breath and let it out slowly. Nodding, he motioned for the rope. “Yea, I’m ready. I just need to go slow,” he commented, snaking the nylon rope through the straps on the front of his harness. Finally secured, he released himself from the tie-off and nodded up at Bo. With the slice of a knife, the rope at his back was cut away and he began to slowly work his way down the side of the cliff.

“Was it really necessary to shoot me three times, Jensen?” John asked, his words slurring as the sedatives started to take effect.

Jensen glanced over to where John lay, stretched out on the couch. Bundled in a thick terrycloth robe, a hot water bottle clutched tightly to his chest, he lacked his usual sense of menace. Puffing thoughtfully on a cigar, Jensen took a pull on his brandy before replying. “Well, no. I couldn’t honestly say three shots were necessary. I do believe those last two bullets were done for the sheer pleasure of the act.”

John allowed his head to loll to the side and studied the two men who shared the room with him. Jensen lounged in the wingback chair beside the fire, nonchalantly examining the glowing tip of the cigar. In his pinstriped suit and button-down shirt, he looked like a banker taking a break from a stockholder’s meeting.

Bo was his antithesis. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of Dimera’s big oak desk, he wrapped his bare arms around jean clad legs and grinned down at the proceedings like some deranged clown. “Christ, I am so screwed,” John muttered weakly, closing his tired eyes.

“Not very grateful, is he,” Bo noted to Jensen from his perch.

“No. No he’s not. Just one of many character flaws, let me assure you.”

“Oh, I know all about his flaws,” Bo replied in an airy tone. “You should try having him as a big brother sometime. I’m just jealous you were the one who got to shoot him!”

“I am still in the room, you know,” John muttered from behind closed eyelids.

“A fact for which you have yet to thank either of us,” Jensen replied, raising an aristocratic eyebrow. “If I had aimed six inches higher, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And you were very lucky I was able to attach the rip-line. Your struggles behind the limo were realistic enough to make it difficult, to say the least. Especial given the fact that my eyes were still watering from a knee to the groin.”

For a moment, Jensen simply stared contemplatively into his glass. “You know, now that I consider it, I would think you would be grateful I ‘only’ shot you three times!”

With a soft sigh, John rubbed gently at his bruised chest. “Fine. I am so sorry for my crassness. You are both the flower of manhood. I kneel in awe in your presence and beg that you accept my humble thanks,” he drawled out, his words running together as he began to lose his grip on consciousness.

For a moment, the two men simply sat and watched his still form.

“Sarcasm. That’s another one of his flaws,” Bo finally noted from his perch on the desk.

“We could make a list?” Jensen suggested.

“Mmm… I doubt there’s enough paper in the house,” Bo replied, casting an eye at John to see if he was still awake.

The minutes ticked past, and John’s breathing gradually deepened as he slowly faded away. Finally, Bo swung sore legs over the side of the table. Nodding at Jensen, he said in a serious tone, “I want you to keep him sedated for a while. Let him get some sleep. I don’t think he’s had any for days.”

With a shrug, Jensen agreed. “For now, I’ll see to it. But as soon as word comes in about Alamain’s hideaway, I’ll have to wake him. He wouldn’t tolerate anything else, and I won’t go against his wishes.” The words were polite, but they carried a steel edge.

“Fair enough,” Bo replied, studying Jensen with a newfound respect. Glancing away, he asked more softly, “Do you think this is going to work? Will they release them now that they think John is dead?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll know tomorrow once Stefano calls back. But.... We have Alamain’s men under surveillance. We know every word they say. Every place they go. We will find them, of that you should have no doubt.”

With a slight nod, Bo raised his head, his face suddenly cold. “Good,” he stated flatly, the single word a threat of violence to come.

A quick shake of his dark head, and he again buried the anger and fear. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continued in a normal tone, “Now, I’ve got some personal calls to make. I’d just as soon do it in here so I can keep an eye on him, if you don’t mind?”

“No sir, not at all, Mr. Brady,” Jensen said graciously, rising smoothly to his feet. “Mr. Black made it very clear. All of the services of the Dimera organization are at your disposal. Let me know if you require anything, and I will inform you as soon as there is any word.”

Watching Jensen’s retreating back, Bo wondered why the offer made him feel so creepy. Settling down in the desk chair, he started to reach for the phone. His eyes were drawn to a pad of stationary, and he involuntarily ran a thumb over the familiar image. Dimera Industries, the words depicted in shiny black lettering. Beside the words, the symbol- the phoenix rising, screaming its defiance to the heavens. His hands rubbed nervously at the smooth wood of the table top and it hit him that everything and everyone around him belonged to Stefano Dimera. Suddenly needing very badly to hear Hope’s voice, he reached for the phone.

He floats in darkness, drifting just below the surface of consciousness. Dimly, he hears Jensen and Bo, bantering back and forth. When the ever present rage dies down enough that he can think clearly, he recognizes what they are trying to do. Hell, he even manages to appreciate it. The words are starting to fade away, and he fights against their loss. The words are the only thing that keep back the visions he can sense creeping around in the recesses of his mind. It’s a fight he can’t win, and the drugs take him deeper into the void. He sinks into a stupor, the images flashing by, and all he sees is pain and blood and death. But the drugs are a blessing, and they pull him down, dragging him away from the memories of his life. His love. His loss. Dragging him down until there is nothing but the dark. Nothing but the void. He has an instance to wonder if this is what death feels like. An instance to be grateful. Then even that is gone, and he drifts along in peace. 

-----

He was a liar. He was the king of liars. He would say anything to hurt her. Anything to make her give up hope. Nothing he said could be believed. Marlena knew all that and more. It still didn’t ease the tight knot of dread that made her stomach cramp and her mind to go numb with fear.

Her thoughts raced, flitting from memory to memory in a desperate attempt to avoid the possibility of John’s death.

Mikos had been angry. Murderously angry. And Mikos had wanted John brought to him alive. He would have been angered by John’s death. It could be true, if it wasn’t impossible.

John gone. It ‘was’ impossible and her thoughts shifted back to Mikos. How he had nearly salivated over the thought of having John brought before him on his knees, as if somehow it would prove that he was the better man. Marlena had no idea the cause of the rivalry, but it had become painfully clear to her that Mikos wanted to humble John almost as badly as he wanted to posses her. And he did want to posses her, of that she was now certain.

Her hand rose to scrub at her tender lips, as if she could rub hard enough to erase the memory of his flesh pressed against hers. God, she had sensed it from the moment she had seen him. The way his eyes had followed her every move, hungry for the sight of her. She had ignored it. Pushed it from her mind. But the scene at breakfast had left no doubt. The man had wanted her. Wanted her in a way that made her skin crawl. She had thought herself a tool in the sick game Alamain insisted on playing with John. Now she recognized that she had become the prize.

Mikos would not win. She would not let him. John would not let him. A shiver ran through her at the memory of the man’s anger. The psychotic rage she had watched him display could easily have been the result of losing his chance to show his brother who was the better man. The chance to show her who was better. Again her mind shied from the thought of John, his body lying cold and lifeless in some dark alley, some abandoned building. Life without him was unthinkable and she refused to acknowledge even the chance that it could be true.

Wrapping her hands around her stomach, she rose and paced the room. Her posture was hunched, her step, faltering. Yet her body was a mere reflection of the agony that flickered through her mind. A dark serpent, worming its way into her every train of thought. A serpent whose whispered lies she tried desperately to avoid.

Her thoughts fled down the long corridors of her mind.

Eric. Eric was hurt. She should be with him, yet Mikos would not allow it. An added torture, as if the loss of the man she loved was not enough.

The loss of the man she loved. John’s death. John was dead. The words screamed from within the deepest recess of her mind. Unavoidable. Unalterable.

Doubling over, she ran awkwardly to the bathroom. The cramps seemed to come from the core of her soul, forcing the breath from her body. She shook uncontrollably as she retched up the meager remains of the breakfast that she had managed to force down. For long moments it was all she could do to hold herself upright as she gasped for air between the bouts of violent cramps. Finally, tears streaming down her face, she allowed her body to collapse.

Spent and aching, she dropped her head to the cool tiles of the floor. Curling into a small tight ball, she tried to make herself numb. Shut herself down. Shut herself off. Mikos’ voice would not be denied. The look in his eyes as he watched her. The touch of his lips that still burned against her flesh. And above it all, his voice. His voice telling her that John was dead. His voice haunted her, even now that she was alone. Especially now that she was alone.

Alone. John had promised her she would never be alone. He had promised to always be with her. To always protect her. With a raw sob, she turned to him. Held him to his promise. Begged for him to take her away from this place. And as he always had been, he was there for her.

“Mmm..." his deep voice whispers seductively in her ear as strong arms wrapped around her waist. “What is the most beautiful woman in the world doing in front of a stove?”

Pulling her close, he presses a gentle kiss to her lips. “You’ll never have to find out. I’m here to stay, pretty lady. That’s a fact!”

Laying on the cold floor of the bathroom, Marlena gave a low moan, her hands wrapping protectively around her abdomen. Tears stained her face as she softly called his name. Knowing that he would hear. Knowing that he would come. Knowing that none of this was over yet.

The gelding reared as the quirt bit deeply into its flank. Mikos sawed hard on the reins, forcing the big animal over the four-foot jump despite its reluctance. He rode the beast hard, foam lathering the horse’s neck as he took his irritation out on the dumb brute.

It had not been a good day. Dimera alone was enough to deal with. The man was deadly, his organization a power to rival Mikos’ own. The threat of assassination was not one Mikos held lightly. He’d employed such tactics enough himself to know their value. As much as he would like to, he could not simply dispose of the impertinent criminal as he deserved. Tomorrow, he would have to arrange for the man to be set free, whether the Alexander’s body was found by then or not. The risk of doing otherwise was simply too great.

Dimera he would have to let go, at least for now. Accounts with that man could be settled sometime in the future. With a small grin, Mikos allowed himself to briefly consider the wide variety of ‘accidents’ that could befall even the most cautious of men. In the end, Dimera would pay for his insolence.

Feeling slightly better, he pulled the heaving animal to an abrupt halt and slipped from the saddle. Tossing the reins to the trainer who was instantly at his side, he walked toward the main house, quirt tapping against his leather riding boots. Yes, Dimera would be released. It was decided. The woman.... The woman was something else entirely.

A sadistic smile curved his lips at the thought of her. He would swear that he could still taste her on his lips. Sweeter than the finest wine, she was incomparable. He’d had more than enough women to know. Sweet and soft, but with a core of steel. He had thought to break her with the news of her lover’s death. And lovers they had been. It was undeniable. He could see it in the way her eyes shot fire at the very mention of his brother’s name.

Oh, how he had wanted her to watch as he had taken Alexi apart, piece by piece. Taken him apart and then put him back together, a humble willing servant as he had always been meant to be. In the end, Mikos would have broken his brother just as surely as he had broken that horse. There would have been no doubts in anyone’s mind who the heir to the empire was. Even the woman would have been forced to recognize that she belonged to Mikos, not Alexander. That moment would have been so very sweet.

The recognition of the loss of that moment brought his irritation back full force. Growling deep in his throat, he slammed the whip against his boot. Damnation, it had been a bad day! Not only did he have to deal with Dimera and his arrogance, his own men appeared incapable of performing the simple act of retrieving a prisoner. Now, not only was Alexi dead, Mikos might be deprived of the opportunity to view the body. To lay it to rest, and with it, all possible challenges to his throne. He was surrounded by arrogance and incompetence, and on top of it all, he had to deal with that stubborn woman and her blasted pride!

Her lover lay dead. Her only hope of freedom, of rescue, eliminated. Yet did she crumble at his feet? Did she come to him on her knees, full of fear and anguish? Did she beg for her freedom? Plead for her life, the lives of her children? No! She had virtually spat in his face! Would have spat in his face if she had been close enough. He would bet on it. God, how he wanted her!

What he wanted, he would have. The woman might not break at the loss of her lover. She might not break, even at a threat against her own life. But she was not without weakness. Her children were her Achilles’ heel. While he controlled them, he controlled her. He needed no greater demonstration than the one she had given him at the breakfast table. Her whelp of a son had actually done Mikos a favor with his show of insolence. She would have done anything to stop the well-deserved beating. Anything at all.

A tremor ran through him at the thought of her lying beneath him, moaning out his name, begging for his touch. His hands clenched tightly at the memory of golden hair wrapped around his fingers, the scent of flowers as he held her close. He would have her. He would have her and he would never let her go.

Stefano looked up at the sharp rap on the door only to discover that his visitor was wasting no time waiting for an invitation to enter.

“Mr. Dimera. Stefano, isn’t it? I thought you might enjoy some company at dinner for a change?” The woman didn’t even pretend it was a question, pulling the wide so that the servant had plenty of rom for the dining cart..

Stefano sat in stunned silence as she bustled about the room, the blond servant trailing in her wake like a well trained hound. Without so much as a glance in his direction, she swept the newspaper from the table in the corner of the room and stood back to supervise as two covered plates were arranged on the now bare surface.

“I do hope you enjoy goose,” she commented over her shoulder, scooping up the corkscrew that Ivan had placed in the center of the table.

Turning to the tall slim blond who now stood behind her observing everything with a watchful eye, Vivian stood on tiptoe to buzz a light kiss against the side of his face. “You are a dear, Ivan. But you may run along now. Mr. Dimera and I require some privacy.” When Ivan seemed to hesitate, she reached out and grabbed his shoulder, leading him toward the still open door. With a pat on the butt that was almost a shove, she pushed him into the hall. Calling a cheery “Ta ta!” she slammed the door firmly behind her.

Finally regaining his composure, Stefano rose from his seat beside the window. She faced him from across the room, red lips curved in a smile that was almost a challenge. The tight black dress clung to her curves as if it had been painted on, the dark material lending a pale glow to the flesh revealed by the plunging neckline. “Um… Ms. D’Pau, is it?” he managed to grate out as she stalked toward him, her hips swaying with each stride of her long legs.

“Oh, why the formality, Stefano? Call me Vivian. Please?” she said, a smile in her eyes as she approached him.

She carried the bottle of wine before her in outstretched arms and for a moment he wondered if she planned to impale him with it. She stopped only when the cool glass made contact with his chest.

She looked up at him, catching his eyes in a direct stare. Her large green eyes twinkled mischievously as she said softly, “You wouldn’t mind opening this for me, would you? I’m just a helpless woman when it comes to such things.”

Clearing his throat, Stefano snatched the corkscrew which dangled from her fingers. “I have difficulty imagining you incapable of anything.”

Her high heels rang out sharply against the floor as she followed him to the table. “My third husband used to say the same thing!”

“Your third husband?” he noted with distraction, searching for some way to establish his control over the conversation.

“Yes, a dear man. It was tragic when he died so soon after the marriage. A heart attack, would you believe. He was only 52, and he dies of heart attack while in bed.”

Once again thrown off guard, Stefano sat down and reached for the bottle. “I am sorry for your loss. At least you can take comfort in how he passed on. There are worse fates than dying in one’s sleep.”

Nodding her thanks, Vivian raised the now full glass to her lips. Over the rim of her glass she studied him, a lazy grin making her eyes sparkle. “Who said he was asleep?”

Stefano choked as the wine went down the wrong way. Red-faced, he gasped for air, the fumes from the alcohol burning in his nose.

“My goodness! Are you all right?” Vivian asked with amused concern, her