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. 

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