Stefano Dimera sat behind his desk, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface. A warm tropical breeze wafted in from the open windows, the low roar of an aircraft engine momentarily drowning out the hum of the jungle. His attempt at composure failed and Dimera stalked over to lean against the window. Peering down on the dense canopy of leaves, he searched for a sign of his team and the prisoner they were supposed to be guarding. This was too damn easy and he wouldn’t believe John was back until he saw it with his own eyes.

The gall of the man. As if his betrayal weren’t enough, John thought he could simply return home and make amends. Nothing could repair this damage, nothing John could say and nothing he could do.

A knock at the door demanded his attention and he turned his back on the jungle. Grinding his teeth together, he fought to keep his temper in check.

“Come.”





“Sir,” Jefferson said, giving a deferential nod as he opened the door. Two black clad guards followed close on his heels, struggling beneath the dead weight of a limp body.

“No one was to touch him but me,” Stefano growled, stepping forward and yanking the captive’s head back. Half of John’s face was covered in bandages, the exposed skin either deathly pale or marked by bruises. “John? John?!”

John gave no sign of awareness and Dimera unleashed a hard slap, taking satisfaction as the blow forced a low moan. “Your insolence will be punished.”

“You’re going to kill him if you keep that up,” Jefferson said, his face expressionless as he leaned against the far wall.

Dimera spun on his heel to face his attorney. “And whose fault is that? I ordered him brought back unharmed. I trusted you to have enough sense to follow my orders!”

Jefferson straightened, squaring his shoulders. “I always follow orders, Mr. Dimera. No one laid a hand on the man. We picked him up at the hospital and brought him straight here. He passed out almost as soon as we got him on the plane and he’s been like this ever since.

“Less than 24 hours ago this man shot up my compound, killed halfadozen of my guards and flew off with my prized possession. You bring him back like this! He’s incoherent! He can’t even stand up on his own. I want to know who disobeyed my orders and I want to know now!

“Stefano, I am not one of your trained guerrillas,” Jefferson replied evenly. “I do not ‘rough people up’. The man was shot, and it wasn’t by me. He was only on his feet at all because he was taking enough drugs to power an entire Olympic team. I am not to blame for the state your man is in, I was simply cleaning up the mess.”

“You should have informed me,” Dimera muttered, turning back to John. Gently, he ran a hand down the bandaged torso, pressing hard as he reached the dressing taped low on the man’s left side. With a strangled cry, John jerked away.

“Take him to the infirmary and make certain he stays strapped to the bed. I want guards on him at all times. Is that understood?”

“I thought you wanted him dead?” Jefferson asked, watching as the guards dragged the body from the room.

“He doesn’t die without my permission.”

Distantly, he is aware that he hurts. But that pain is old. It’s dull. It’s boring. This pain is new. It eats at his brain, infects his thoughts. He can’t help but feed it. To lose the pain is to lose her, and that he won’t do. He pretends he isn’t watching them even as he feeds the pain.

“Welcome home!”

He drops the blade once more to his wrist.

Welcome home,” Marlena said, holding the door open and waiting for him to enter first.

Hesitantly, Roman stepped inside. Walking through the living room, he ran his hand along the back of the couch and scanned the pictures on the wall. “It’s not how I remember it.”





“We had to rebuild. After you left, there was… The house burned down. We had to rebuild.” She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to think of something to say that would make this easier. Nothing came to mind.

“It’s… nice.”

“It isn’t so very different, Roman. We followed the same basic blue prints.”

“I’ll get used to it, I’m sure. Where are the kids? I thought they’d be here,” he said, looking at her from the far side of the room.

She can’t read him, can’t guess what he’s thinking. “They were a little upset. When they came to the hospital this morning and he was gone… They wanted to stay with their grandparents tonight.”

“Maybe they just wanted to give us a little time alone,” he replies, a quick smile lighting his face.

“Maybe.” Marlena shrugged, her stomach knotting. Might as well say it now…

“I had Bo pick up some clothes for you, some things you might need until we get out and go shopping. They’re in the guest room. I can show you if you want to freshen up.”





“The guest room, huh? Okay.”

He’s still watching her and this time she can easily tell what he’s thinking. For some reason, his anger irritates her. “Roman, I need to take this slowly. I don’t mean to hurt you, but I can’t just...”

“Can’t just what? Hop from his bed into mine?”

“I’ll show you upstairs,” she replied flatly.

“Doc, wait. I’m sorry,” Roman said, putting a hand to her shoulder and holding her in place. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

She let him pull her back until her head rested against his chest and hoped he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry too, Roman. It’s just going to take a little time, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“We have all the time in the world, baby,” he replied, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. “All the time in the world.”

Bright light split the inside of his head in two and he struggled to pull away from the painful glare.





“Nice to see you finally coming around. I am happy to say, it looks like your eye has healed nicely. A little surgery to repair the socket and the only permanent reminder you’ll have of this painful lesson will be the scars.”

Blinking frantically, John managed to focus on Sarte as the doctor flicked off his pen light and tucked a stray bandage back into place.

“Where am I?” John croaked.

“Don’t you remember? You got ahold of one of Dimera’s contacts and had him pick you up and bring you back to the compound. The joys of no extradition treaty, you know,” Sarte said with a smirk.

“Thought I was dead.” Nodding gratefully, John sipped at the water Sarte offered.

“Give it some time. Stefano did not seem too thrilled to see you back.”

“How pissed is he?”

“Let’s just say it’s a good thing you were out of it for a couple of days. Gave him time to cool down. I don’t think he plans to kill you immediately, if that’s what’s got you worried.”

“I’m more worried about him killing me really slowly, but thanks for the encouragement,” John said, cracking a grin. “So when do I see him?”

“When he sends for you. I’m going up now to tell him you are ready for a coherent talk, if not much else. After that, who knows with him. Good luck, John. I think you may need it.”

John waited, tense in the silence of the small room. The hours passed slowly, the stonefaced guards refusing to answer his questions. Just before he fell back asleep, John realized that he actually missed Jarrod.

Pain streaked through his left arm, jarring him back to consciousness.

“Be careful, you idiots. He’s not a sack of potatoes. Now, ease him over to the wheelchair, and be careful with his ribs,” Sarte ordered.

“I don’t need a damn wheelchair,” John hissed, biting back a scream as the guards shifted him into a sitting position. “I need a freak’n painkiller, Sarte!”

“Sorry, kiddo. Dimera was very explicit. No meds for you of any type. I had to beg just to keep you on antibiotics.”

“I can’t breathe, Sarte. It fuck’n hurts!”

“I think it’s supposed to. I did mention that Mr. Dimera was angry, didn’t I?”

John concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, but he could feel Stefano’s angry glare as the guards lead him into the center of the room. His legs gave out as they let him go and he crashed down into the chair set before the big desk. With a grunt, he doubled over, clutching at his ribs.

“I must say, I was surprised to find the prodigal so quickly returned,” Stefano said, breaking the lingering silence.

“We both knew I’d come back here, one way or another,” John grated, his eyes fixed on the carpet below his feet.

“I expected you to come in the night, John. I expected you with a knife in your hand. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t think you would be so foolish.”

“You always said there was no end to my foolishness,” John replied, managing to look up with a grin on his face.

“Oh, this amuses you, does it?” Waving the guards back, Stefano moved to stand beside John’s chair. “Get up.”

Leaning forward, John braced himself against the desk and rose slowly to his feet. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

“Not before I know the price for your betrayal, John. I trusted you above all others. I trusted you!” Putting his weight behind it, Dimera swung a vicious punch into the center of John’s gut. The man dropped like a rock to lay gasping on the floor.

“Get up,” Dimera ordered, no hint of emotion in his voice.

Crouched on his hands and knees, John raggedly gulped for air and tried not to be sick.

“Get up!”

Numbly, he gathered his feet beneath him and lunged upright. Looking Dimera straight in the eye, he smiled. It was a relief when the second blow sent him crashing back down to the floor.

“What did she offer? What did she promise you to make you a Judas?”

Curling into a tight ball, John waited for the guards to move in, wondering if Dimera would stop them before they stomped the life out of him, debating if he wanted him to.

“Get up,” Stefano spat, nudging a knee with the tip of his shoe.

It would have been funny, except for the fact he obeyed. At least, he tried. It was all John could do to make it to his knees, and he stayed there, waiting to be hit again. He knew Dimera was right. He knew that he deserved this.

“What was your price, John? Tell me what she did for you and I’ll make your death easy.”

Shaking his head, John gave a cracked chuckle. “I don’t want it to be easy.”

Stefano’s fingers wrapped around his throat, shoving him back against the desk until he was half stretched across it. He flinched, seeing the big hand raised for a blow to his face. Gritting his teeth, he braced for the agony he knew would follow.

Stefano hesitated, his face unreadable. “You owed me better than this, boy.”

Abruptly, John was released. Slumping to the floor, he waited for the bullet that was his due.

“I’ll have the plane made ready,” Dimera said. “I want you fit and ready to fight. I’m sending you to someone who can make that happen. When I come for you, I will expect an explanation for all of this. I will be able to trust you or I will see you dead. Do we understand each other?”





Dazed, John felt himself lifted to his feet, supported by the two guards. He didn’t understand anything, least of all why he was still alive. His head tilted back, held by a firm hand, and Dimera stared into his face.

“Damn you, John. I trusted you with her.”

“That was your mistake.”

-----

“The Colonel says he’s ready,” Sarte called from the doorway.

Stefano set his book down and nodded. “Good. Make the arrangements, I want to leave in the morning.”

“Are you certain this was a good idea, Stefano?” Leaning against the doorjamb, Sarte picked absently at a torn cuticle. “He’s dangerous, there’s proof enough of that. The man almost destroyed this place the last time. Why give him the chance to do it again?”

“I haven’t made any decisions yet, Sarte. I want to see him, hear what he has to say. Then I’ll decide what to do with him.”

“Stefano, if you were going to kill him, you’d have done it already. The decision’s been made and now you’re trying to justify it.”

Rising to his feet, Dimera grimaced. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m going soft just because I let him live. He has always been more valuable to me than you are. I’d suggest you not forget that, doctor.”

“I didn’t think you had gone soft,” Sarte muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets. “It’s just not like you.”

Sighing, Dimera ran a hand through his hair and stared out the window at the darkened jungle. “He didn’t fight me. When I hit him, he didn’t fight me. I’ve never hit him like that before. I expected him to be angry. I expected him to fight. He didn’t.”

“Stefano, he was hurt...”

“He always fights!” Dimera cut him off, turning from his inspection of the jungle. “Always!”

Forcing the anger down, Stefano wearily shook his head. “What happened wasn’t John’s fault, it was hers. She took him from me once before and I will not allow that to happen again. I will have them both, Sarte. Both of them. Nothing less is acceptable.”

“I’m leaving.”

Marlena looked up from the bed, surprised to find him standing in the doorway.

“Roman?” Confused, she dropped the note she was reading onto the nightstand and pulled her gown to her.

“Jameson called, from the ISA They have a lead on one of Dimera’s operations. He wants me to go undercover.”

“You can’t go! Roman, it’s too soon for you to leave. The kids...”

“The kids won’t miss me! Neither will you. Admit it, Doc. You’ll be glad to see me go.”

“That’s not true!” she shot back, rising from the bed to confront him.

“It’s been over two months, Marlena! I’m still sleeping down the hall, you still flinch every time I so much as touch you, and now today I find out… I’m going, Marlena. I’ll call you when I get to Paris.”

Roman glared down at her, challenging her to deny it, to say the words that would make him stay. She couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, not even to keep him from going after Dimera. She watched in mute frustration as he stalked from the room, his disappointment evident. It took an effort not to slam the door behind him, though she was more mad at herself than anyone else.

Sinking back down on the bed, Marlena wondered what she could have done differently. She had tried. God, had she tried! Roman had tried too. It had been obvious how hard they tried to make it work and just as obvious how badly they had failed. Roman was going after Dimera because she had failed him as a wife. In her heart, she feared that he was really going after John.





Curling in the middle of the bed, she grabbed the worn note from the table, her fingers tracing the already fading words. She had found the slip of paper tucked beneath his pillow, had known to search for it as soon as she had discovered he was gone. She had known he wouldn’t leave her without saying goodbye. Then again, she hadn’t believed he would leave her at all.

Marlena,

Forever JB

Damn him! She couldn’t believe he was gone. She still reached for him in the middle of the night and when she awoke from her dreams, it was his face she still saw. All the lies they had lived together, yet it was the truth of his leaving that hurt the most.

Tucking the letter careful back into the nightstand drawer, Marlena flirted again with the idea of finding him. Bo could do it. If she asked, Bo would bring him back.

It would only make things worse, more complicated than they already were. He was a world away from her and she still wanted him. If he returned....

Flipping the light off, she wrapped her arms around a pillow and huddled beneath the sheets. Clenching her eyes shut, she prayed for Roman. For his safety. For his return. For his failure.

John moved fast, legs pounding, lungs straining, the sand a hypnotic blur beneath his feet. He moved fast, but not nearly fast enough.

He stands in his shadowed corner, a familiar vantage, a familiar view.

Crouching down in his little corner of hell, John burns for her.

Run, John. Just keep running. Run faster.

He’s back in the chair, the leather straps snug about his wrists and chest. God, he hates this chair. He tenses, listening as the footsteps approach from behind.

“Because I deserve it.”
Cool salt water splashed his chest, a sharp contrast to the scorching sun. He pushed himself, grunting with the strain, trying to lose himself in the effort. The little girl held his hand, not ready to let him go.

“You can’t kill him.”

“You need to leave, Angel. Bad things are going to happen here. Very bad things.”

Distantly, he was aware of Baxter, waving him in from his run. He reluctantly slowed to a trot and headed inland, leaving the little girl behind.

“Congratulations, it’s a new record,” Colonel Baxter said, nodding at his stopwatch.

John merely shrugged, his breathing already slowing to normal. Standing at ease, he awaited orders like the good little soldier he was. He liked the orders, he liked the drill. Most of all, he liked not having to think. Baxter was watching him, a proprietary grin on his face. John wondered if Baxter would still be smiling with a knife at his throat.

“Hit the showers and take a break. I’ll expect you in my office at 1900 hours for dinner. Time to talk about your first mission back.”

John hesitated, as if considering a protest. Realizing he had nothing to complain about, he jogged off in the direction of the barracks

“Is he ready?” Stefano asked, settling down in a chair next to the metal desk.

“He’s a psycho,” the Colonel replied admiringly. “I wish I had a 100 more just like him.”

“Did he cause any trouble?”

“We had to stop letting him spar with the instructors after he almost killed one but other than that, he was perfect. I doubt the man has said more than a dozen words since he’s been here and he followed every order I put to him. I could find you top dollar if you ever consider hiring him out.” Leaning forward on his elbows, Baxter tried not to look too eager.

“I’m afraid I have an exclusive contract with Mr. Black,” Stefano replied, a proud smile tugging at his lips.

A peremptory knock interrupted them and the subject of their conversation stepped into the room. John’s casual stance stiffened, his eyes locking onto Dimera. Falling back into an old pattern, he held himself still and waited for permission to speak.





“You look good, John,” Dimera said, walking over to inspect his prize. “The bones healed nicely.” He ran his finger across the raised scar beneath John’s eye, noting the way the jaw clenched tight at the touch.

“Does it still hurt?”

“No sir,” John replied, his voice gruff.

“I think I’ll let you keep the scar. A reminder, if you will.”

John’s eyes darted to the side, meeting his gaze. “Yes sir,” was all he said.

Dimera studied the hard blue eyes, and what he found showed Baxter to be an idiot. John was anything but fine. John was dangerous. “Colonel, if you don’t mind, we need some privacy. There are a few issues that need to be cleared up.”

Taking the dismissal for what it was, the Colonel rose to his feet. “The room is at your disposal, Mr. Dimera. Let me know if you need anything.”

John felt his stomach muscles knot and his mouth went dry. He had managed to forget that Dimera would be coming for him. He’d managed to forget almost everything that was important. They didn’t let him have any drugs. The drugs would have made things easier, but there were other ways to achieve his oblivion.

Every night, he had slipped out, lost the guards that tried to track him. He had run the beaches, walked the cliffs. After a few weeks, he’d sat and plotted how to kill everyone in the compound. Just an exercise. Just something to do. Still, he was fairly certain he could manage it. Another couple of nights, he might have to try out his plan, see if it would work. Just an exercise, of course. Something to occupy his time.

“That particular smile is never a good sign,” Stefano said, settling a hip atop the desk behind him.

“Sorry, sir,” John replied, blinking his eyes and wondering if Dimera had been talking to him.

“I hope it wasn’t my death you were planning.” Dimera raised a questioning brow and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket.

“No sir.”

“Care to enlighten me?” Shifting uneasily, Stefano studied John’s face.

“I could take out this compound. They’re sloppy, sir. Give me an hour and they’d all be gone.”

“Mm,” Dimera grunted, drawing on his cigar as he circled Baxter’s desk. As expected, he found a bottle of bourbon tucked in the back of the bottom drawer. “Why would you want to take out the compound, John?”

Stumped by the question, John passed the time admiring the flashes of light that flickered at the edge of his vision. ‘Because it’s there,’ seemed like the wrong response, but he couldn’t think of another one. Obediently, he took the bottle that was thrust into his hand and downed its contents. The alcohol hit his empty stomach and he found himself swaying on his feet.

“I want you to finish that bottle and then I want you to get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,” Stefano said, his words barely penetrating the fog.

“I’m not tired.” He took another gulp of whiskey and decided he needed to sit down.

“You don’t have to be tired. You have to follow orders. I want you to sleep, understood?”

“Understood,” John muttered, wondering vaguely why Stefano was so insistent.

Oh, fuck! She’s back.

“No.”

John awoke with a start and kicked sweatdrenched sheets to the floor. Gritting his teeth, he buried his face in his pillow. Three quick jerks and he came, nothing of pleasure in the act. The ache was still there, the need for her still burned. With half a sob, he wondered why he had been so stupid as to try and sleep the night through.

The sunlight slipping in through the blinds brought clarity. Dimera. Damn....

Stumbling to the small bathroom, he leaned against the cool tiles of the shower and tried to wash the memories of her away.

“There were guards outside my door this morning.”

“I thought it prudent.” Warily, Dimera watched those blue eyes, pleased that they remained focused on him. If there were any lingering ghosts, at least John appeared to be ignoring them for the moment.

“I’m fine, Stefano. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You told me you were ‘fine’ after the Soldino debacle too. I didn’t want another incident like the one with Morrison. You do remember what you did to him?”

John grimaced, had the decency to look away. “I’m fine,” he repeated softly.

“Good then you can explain to me what the hell you were thinking when you took Marlena away from me.”

John flinched and for a moment Dimera was worried that he wouldn’t answer. Maybe Sarte was right, maybe it would be better to put him down.

“I… Sir, there is no excuse.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was better than nothing. “Would you do it again?”

John shrugged, focusing on a distant point far from the confines of the small room, his hand stroking against the butt of his holstered pistol.

“Would you do it again?” Cautiously, Stefano sat down. The shotgun was right where he had placed it, taped to the bottom of the desk. One slight adjustment and the weapon was pointed directly at John.

The eyes drifted down, focused on Dimera’s face. The lean body tensed, the eyes going dark and ugly. Flushing guiltily, John jerked his hand away from his pistol. “Yes sir, I would.”

Inexplicably, the answer pleased him. Lust was something he could understand. “You still want her, don’t you?” He smiled as he asked the question, easing back in his chair and releasing the shotgun.

“No. I owed her, that’s all.”

“That’s just as well, John because I do want her. I want her very badly.”

“She doesn’t want you,” John stated flatly.

“She will,” Dimera chuckled, twisting the knife. “Perhaps I should send you to retrieve her? After all, you are the reason I lost her in the first place.”





“I won’t do it,” John replied, an odd eagerness in his voice belying his words.

“You will do whatever I tell you to do!” Dimera slammed his hand to the desk and shot to his feet.

With a quick step forward, John was in his face. “I won’t let you hurt her, Stefano. Ever.”

Dimera could feel the man’s anger, sense his desire for violence. Now was not the time to force the issue. His secrets could wait, the victory all the sweeter when it came. A practiced smile came easily to his lips. “I don’t want to hurt her, John, so it appears we have no argument.”

Hesitantly, John backed off, once more taking up his soldier’s pose.

Again, Stefano debated the wisdom of the shotgun. Safer to end it now, safer to put him down. Safer but such a waste. He would have them both. Anything less was unacceptable. “There’s an assignment overseas, John. A smuggling operation I’m thinking of expanding. How does a trip to Paris sound?”

-----

Vivian D’pua breezed through the gates of the Alamain Estate, flinging her wrap into the waiting arms of the butler. “Well? His ‘royal highness’ has demanded my presence. Here I am!”

“Um, yes madame,” Ivan said, visibly brightening at the appearance of the petite redhead. “Let me escort you...” Ivan did a doubletake as he saw the train of luggage being manhandled through the front doors. “Umm, you and your luggage to the guest suite and I will inform Master Mikovitch that you are here.”





Vivian scowled at being kept waiting, but allowed Ivan to guide her up the stairs toward the guest wing. She couldn’t very well get mad at the dear boy for following orders.

Her luggage deposited with care inside of the suite of rooms that madeup her quarters, Vivian began unpacking. Grimacing, she pulled her favorite fur from a garment bag, shaking it out until it acquired the proper ‘puff’. All in all, she supposed there were a few places on earth she would dislike visiting even more than she disliked this bloody castle. Siberia, perhaps. A fast food restaurant, probably. Monster truck rallies, most definitely. The fact that there were some places more odious than here was of surprisingly little solace.

Vivian hesitated to imaging what insanity Mikos was up to now. That it somehow involved her was disturbing. At a knock on the door, she called out, “Come in, Ivan. It’s about time, I need help with my dresses and the closets in here will simply not do!”

“Castles do tend to be short on closet space, my dear Vivian.” That voice could still send a shiver down her spine. As smooth as spiders’ silk and just as deadly, the voice well matched the man.

“Mikos! I wasn’t expecting you to greet me in my suite!” Vivian enthused, giving her nephew a careful hug.

“My favorite aunt is making her first visit in three years, I thought that warranted the personal touch. Besides, your suite is very private. There are some issues that might best be discussed away from prying eyes.”

“Oh, now Mikos, you know I have no head for business,” she replied, pasting on her most vacuous smile.

“I know no such thing, Vivian. However, what I wish to discuss with you is ‘family’ business. It seems something has come up… an issue from the past.”

“Mmm,” she prompted noncommittaly.

“Alexander may have been found. I have a picture, I wanted your opinion.”

Oh good lord, he could not be starting with this again. “Mikos, really. I don’t know what help I could be. I haven’t even seen him since he was three years old.”

Ignoring her objections, Mikos dropped a manila file on the dresser in front of her. Bracing his long arms on either side of her, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Just look at the picture. Tell me if you see the same thing I do.”

The smile died on her face and she dutifully opened the file. Oh, this was very bad. The man was the very image of his father, the family resemblance impossible to deny. “Well, there is some slight resemblance, I suppose.”

“He looks just like the pictures of Father,” Mikos replied.

“It’s possible, Mikos. However, you really can’t be sure from this picture...”

“Then perhaps the DNA tests will be more persuasive. They show that he is my brother.”

“Well then, there you have it. It seems you didn’t really need to see me after all.”

“Vivian, you know I never do anything without a reason. I wanted your opinion. About Alexi. About what I should do with him.”

Swallowing hard, Vivian tried to figure out what her nephew most wanted to hear. “Perhaps it would simply be best to leave things as they are, Mikos. It has been a very long time and it might be difficult for him to adapt to the knowledge of his heritage.”

Mikos appeared to consider the idea, though Vivian knew better than to hope her nephew would be reasonable. “Perhaps you’re right, though I think it would be a shame never to know my brother. There are so many things we could share, so many things to talk about.”

“You don’t need to rush to a decision, Mikos. Take your time and consider your options,” she advised.

“We will talk more of this over dinner,” Mikos said, breaking into a sudden smile. “I have a call to make. I will see you downstairs?”

“Of course, dear,” she replied, careful to keep the smile on her lips until the door pulled firmly shut behind Mikos. Oh, how she cursed the day she had talked her sister out of killing her youngest son.

Anna had come to her in tears. Her Mikos, her pride and joy, had pushed his younger bother into the pool. It was as if Mikos had sensed the danger Alexi presented, she had explained to Vivian, in a voice verging on hysteria. Her husband, Illya, must never know. He must never suspect that his first born, his heir, was begot of another man. A man Anna had loved, as she would never love Illya. Illya Mikovitch Alamain, a man she married because her parents had wanted it. A man she married because he offered the power and title of a noble house of Russia. A man whose touch she had detested but endured, all for the sake of her son her son by another man. As long as Alexander lived, he represented a threat to Mikos’ claim on the title.

Anna had wanted to choke off what little life remained in the boy. At only three years old, it would have been easy. Vivian had managed to talk her out of it. Pretend, she had counseled. Pretend he died. He is your son, even if Illya is his father. Let me take him away. Let me send him far away to people who will never know who he is, what he is. Anna, you don’t want to kill your own child.

Ah well, Vivian could not actually bring herself to regret saving the boy. Such a little thing. How could he harm Anna and her plans for her firstborn? Vivian had sent him away. Sent him to the United States. She might never know what happened to the tiny boy, but she would know he was safe. If only she hadn’t told Mikos.

A year after Alexi ‘died’, Illya passed too. Vivian would always wonder if his journey had been hastened by his loving wife. Se did know enough not to ask. When Anna also died young, Vivian had found herself in the unaccustomed role of guardian. Though Mikos was 19, and above the age mandated for taking control of the family, he still looked to his aunt for guidance. And one day, when the load had seemed too much for him to bear, she had made the mistake of suggesting he find his brother.

As the words left her mouth, she had recognized her error. She had seen it in his eyes. Mikos knew. He knew what his brother represented. Anna had told him. Had wanted him to know. He was not the son of Illya. Not the legitimate heir. He was the son of a soldier. A common soldier who had died on a common mission. She had seen the panic in his eyes and had known what it represented.

Whereas Anna, as crazy as she was, had celebrated in the forgery she had managed to pass off, Mikos was frantic to conceal it. While no direct descendent of Illya existed to contest his illegitimate claim, he had reigned in his paranoia. But with a wellintentioned slip of the lip, Vivian had endangered his hold on an empire. Wisely, Vivian had never let on that she knew the truth of Mikos’ parentage. She enjoyed her life far too much to take such a foolish risk.

Looking around at the cold stone walls of the bedchamber, Vivian brought herself back to the present. It was hard to predict what Mikos would do, though she found it impossible to believe Alexi would be left to himself. No, Mikos would not let this go so easily. He would see the threat to his empire ended, one way or another. She could only hope that Alexander was prepared for the coming storm.

John settled back on the barstool, sipping a beer and scanning the crowded Paris nightclub. The thud of the bass reverberated in his skull, strobe lights painting fractured pictures of a lost generation at play. Screaming women, sweating men. He’d seen orgies that lacked this level of sexual intensity. He killed the beer, doing nothing to erase the dryness in his mouth. The girl was tugging at his arm again, trying to drag him out onto the floor. A little ‘gift’ from Dimera, she was cute enough. Straight black hair, hanging down to the center of her back, slim hips, breasts that couldn’t possibly have been homegrown. Ripe. She was most definitely ripe. What the hell, jacking off in the shower had done nothing to ease the ache in his gut. Maybe a willing partner could fill the void.

The dancefloor was packed, the darkhaired girl pressed tight against his body. Marilyn Manson screeched through overloaded amps, stoking the fire that burned inside his head:

[center]


Use me, when you wanna cum


I beg, just to have a touch


When I’m in you I wanna to die

I’m not in love, but I’m gonna fuck you


Till somebody better


comes along [/center]

Christ, the kid in his arms could barely be out of her teens. She could be a classmate of Carrie’s. Carrie…

The girl ground against him, he tried to remember her name. Better that he didn’t. Much better. He pulled her closer, his fingers running across the bare skin of her back. So soft and so young. He could do anything to her. Anything at all. Pale green eyes looked up at him, a selfsatisfied smile baring even white teeth. He punished her with a bruising kiss, hating her for being the wrong woman. His disappointment was complete when she kissed him back.

Locked in an embrace in the center of the crowded room, the couple was all alone. The darkly dressed man reeked of danger. Wearing black jeans and boots, a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck and plastered to his strong frame in the steamy club, he sent off warning vibes even to the carefree clubbers who surged around him. A wolf among sheep, or more aptly in this crowd, a lion among wolves. Still, testosterone and alcohol have a way of dulling even the strongest of selfpreservation skills. There was a certain inevitability in the sharp elbow that dug into John’s broad back as he stood bent over the girl.





“Watch what you’re do...” a belligerent voice started to snarl over the music. The voice was cut short, John’s first blow knocking the young man’s head back, his second blow putting him on the floor. Still holding tightly to the girl, he snarled an ugly grin. The anger burned clean and pure, he drew back a booted foot back and slammed it into the kid’s chest. Christ, this felt way better than kissing some little girl masquerading as a woman. Drawing back for another kick, he found the girl tugging on his arm, trying to pull him off of the dance floor before security showed up. Reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him to a dark corner. The adrenalin still crackled, the rage still burned.

“Come on, baby. You don’t need to get into trouble your first night in town, do you?” Opening the small purse hung over her shoulder, she pulled out a vial and cut a line on the table. “Here, mellow out. We have better things to do tonight than brawl.”

He blinked, hardly believing that this was his life. He blinked again and realized he was home.

The girl looked up at him, eyes bright. “How about it?” she asked, offering him a tightly rolled bill.

What the fuck. Dimera was the only one who cared what he did and Dimera wasn’t here. He bent over the table and inhaled sharply.

And they say you can never go home again…

God, he loved the feel of her silky hair against his bare skin. Dimly, he was aware of the sheet sliding down his body, her hair trailing down his chest and abs. The need for her burned through the fog of sleep as soft lips nipped at his naked flesh.

“Doc, don’t stop,” John groaned, stretching out his long frame. As his eyes slit open, he saw a stranger’s dark mane cascading over his hips, green eyes glinting brightly up at him. Jerking away, he slapped the girl hard, the blow knocking her halfway across the room. In the same motion, he slid from the bed and grabbed his automatic from the nightstand. The girl landed with a thud and looked up at him, stunned to see the black hole of the pistol gaping down at her.

Memory returned and John shook his head, slowly lowering the weapon to his side. “Sorry Elena, was it? I’m just not used to waking up with somebody in my bed,” he half apologized. “Are you okay?”

Fear showing clearly in her eyes, she backed away, her hands automatically rising to cover her bare flesh. For an instant, she knew what it was to be prey. Standing easily, naked but for the gun still gripped in his right hand, John looked like a hungry carnivore debating the effort it would take to kill.

The girl was too scared to speak, crouching in the corner like a frightened little mouse. Great. He’d been in town for less than 24 hours, snorted up, been in a brawl, screwed somebody young enough to be his daughter, and topped off the evening by slapping the kid around. He’d become the scum he used to hunt.

Catching a glimpse of the time out of the corner of his eye, he realized it was already noon. Not only was he was scum, he was late. Dimera would definitely not be happy if he missed his meet with the ‘jewelers’. Not wanting to take the time to shower, he grabbed his jeans off of the back of a nearbye chair. The girl flinched at the sudden movement and scuttled further back in her corner. Sighing, he pulled his billfold out of his jeans and plucked out a couple of hundreds.

“Look, kid. I appreciate the good time and I’m sorry if I scared you. I would take you to lunch, but I’ve business to attend to. Here, take this and treat yourself to something nice. Okay?”

She hesitantly stepped over to take the cash and he dismissed her from his thoughts. Pulling on a clean shirt, he hurried out the door.

John pulled the rental car into the warehouse parking lot, rubbing at his face and wishing he’d had time for a shave. Right now he smelled like cigarettes and sex and it was doing nothing to improve his mood. To further irritate, he’d fallen into his usual habit of forgetting to eat when not actually ordered to by someone else. However, his stomach was still accustomed to the three square meals of the training compound and it was protesting almost 24 hours with no solid food. Grumbling under his breath, he slammed the door to the BMW and strode toward the warehouse. He was greeted at the door by a hulking middleaged man too stupid looking to be anything other than muscle.

“Where’s Mr. Smith?” John asked curtly. “Tell him Mr. Black is here for the meeting with the prospective buyer.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Black. They are waiting for you in the office. Just follow me.”

John was seething, but had managed to hide it. He hadn’t believed his eyes when he’d walked into the office and been introduced to the prospective purchaser of smuggled gems. His training had shown when there was no flash of recognition on being introduced to ‘Mr. James’ a.k.a. Roman Brady. As the meeting had concluded, he had casually suggested ‘Mr. James’ accompany him to the door, as he had other merchandise the man might be interested in. The facade of calm evaporated as soon as they walked out the warehouse.

“Roman, what the hell are you doing here?” hissed John, shoving the man up against the wall.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m out to stop Stefano and if that means I have to go through you, I will!” Roman snarled back, his hatred shining in his eyes.

His gun was in his hand, the urge to use it sang through his synapsis. Roman would throw away what he most coveted. Such a man did not deserve to live. “Why did you leave Marlena? Dimera’s still out there! You think he doesn’t care about her anymore? Do you think I don’t care?!”

“I know you care, you son of a bitch. Why do you think I’m here? The only way she’ll be safe is if both you and Dimera are gone. I’m going to make that happen. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make that happen.”

Roman slapped at John’s constraining hands and John grudgingly let him go. “You were never very bright,” he replied, shaking his head in disgust. “In the first place, Stefano is way too smart to get this close to an illegal operation. In the second place, your responsibility is to look after Marlena. I can handle Stefano from the inside. He won’t go against Marlena while he knows I’ll interfere. But that means you have to be there for her. I can’t believe you’d go running off under cover! You are a selfish bastard Roman and you’re putting your anger ahead of her needs. I’m not going to let you do it! Now, I’m not going to narc you out to my friends, because they would undoubtably put a bullet in your sorry hide. Marlena needs you. She needs you with her and the kids. For her sake, I’m giving you until tonight to get the hell out of Paris. If you’re still here tomorrow, I doubt I’ll be so forgiving.”

Roman watched silently as John stalked to his car. Bastard. He was a criminal, he was a liar and he deserved to rot in jail. Already he was running around doing Dimera’s dirty work and he had the balls to give lectures on the importance of family! Infuriated, Roman walked back into the warehouse. He’d show John how he’d protect the family. He’d make the point painfully clear.

It was after one a.m. when the phone rang. He took another swig from the bottle and debated answering it. What the hell, maybe it was a mission. He needed a mission. A real mission. Something wet. “Black here, what is it?”

“Mr. Black? This is Mr. Smith, your jeweler. We just found out that the prospective buyer appears to have been misrepresenting himself. He’s right here and we thought you might like to come down and join our little discussion.”

That idiot Roman. He must have gone back to finish the deal and they had gotten suspicious. “Okay, just hold tight. Don’t do anything, you understand me. Wait for me to get there.” Tugging on his shirt, he stumbled out the door.

Reaching the warehouse district, he pulled in beside dealer’s Bentley. The parking lot was otherwise deserted and a single light flickered from an upstairs window. It was a set up. He could feel it, even through the haze of the liquor. He should be careful, he should be cautious. At the very least, he should use the backdoor. Instead, he drew his pistol and strolled up to the main entrance. The metal doors clanged loudly as he thrust them open, the sound echoing back at him from the dark recesses of the warehouse. Something was waiting for him in the darkness. He could hear the shallow pants of fearful men, the muffled scrape of a boot against the concrete floor. The trap was about to close. He walked through the doors, figuring this was as good a way to die as any.

The click of metal on stone, and he opened fire. Darkclad bodies, illuminated by the muzzle flash. They didn’t fire back and it pissed him off. The grunt of pain as bullet met flesh improved his mood only marginally. He walked further into the gloom, screamed a challenge. End this now. End this tonight.

His head jerked up, the hiss of displaced air his only warning. He ducked for the ground but not quick enough. Heavy webbing struck his shoulder, the weight of a cargo net forcing him to his knees. Struggling to get to his feet, he fired wildly, knew he hit something, knew it wasn’t going to be enough to save him. Arms wrapped around his legs, clawed at the gun in his grip. The webbing tangled around him, slowing his movements as he lashed out with the barrel of his gun. Impact, metal slamming into more metal where a man’s face should have been. His opponents were using night vision goggles and there were too damn many of them for him to overcome. He wondered why he was still alive as the bodies piled on top of him. The familiar prick of a needle in his shoulder and he slowly faded away. Christ, he couldn’t do anything right. 

-----

“Sir . . . wakeup sir. We’ve arrived in Salem. Looks like you’re home,” the woman said, smiling down at him. John blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on..

“Where am I?”

“Salem, Illinois, straight in from the Paris to Chicago flight. You must have been tired, you’ve been asleep the whole time.”

“Wha… how’d I get on the plane?”

“Sir...?” The stewardess struggled to keep her practiced smile on her face, beginning to share John’s confusion.

“Did you see anyone with me? Did you see me board the plane?”

“Oh, your friend. Don’t worry, he just went to get a wheelchair. Too bad you banged your knee up skiing. Hope you have better luck next time!”

His knee? His knee was fine. Though now that he stopped to think about it, he realized he was sore from the battle in the warehouse. The memories came rushing back and John thrust himself stiffly to his feet. This smelled to high heaven of a setup and he headed down the aisle, intent on putting as much distance between himself and the airplane as possible.

As John emerged from the airway tunnel, he came facetoface with an all too familiar figure. “Bo?” he burst out.

Dressed in street clothes, his badge hanging from a chain around his neck, Bo flashed a grin of recognition that quickly faded. “Umm… John Black. What are you doing back in Salem?”

“Sightseeing,” John replied, feeling the trap starting to close around him. “No warrants currently out for me, I’ve been informed,” he said, mentally crossing his fingers.

“No, John. No warrants now what are you really doing here?”

“None of your business, Bo. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” Shouldering his way past the younger man, John focused on getting out. Salem. Dammit! He could not be back here.

“Hey, hold it!” The familiar voice rang in his ears like an alarm bell and John gave a silent cursed as Roman Brady jogged toward him, Abe Carver on his heels. At least now he knew who had set the trap.

“What is this? The airport having a donut sale? I would think you gentlemen would have better things to do than run around airports harassing tourists.” John snapped, barely able to control his anxiety, his urge to run.

“We had a tip on a smuggling ring,” Roman replied smugly. “A packet of diamonds being brought in from Paris today. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you?”

John smiled a threat by way of reply and indulged himself in a brief fantasy of snapping Brady’s neck. He considered a quick escape, but rejected the idea of being a fugitive. Running did not suit him. They had lawyers to handle things like this. About time to let them earn their fees.

“Come on, John. You just came in from Paris you don’t mind if we search you?”

Roman had a cocksure grin on his face that left John no doubts over whether he was carrying smuggled gems. He should have killed the little prick back in Paris. “I assume you have a warrant?”

“We can get one, I promise you that!” Roman snapped, his anger showing.

John smiled coldly back at him, unwilling to make this easy for anybody. “Well why don’t you get that warrant while I give my attorney a call. By coincidence, he happens to have a branch office right here in Salem.”

“So, where’d they find the diamonds?” John asked Jefferson, Dimera’s chief counsel, as the man sat down across from him in the small airport holding area.

“Sown into the lining of your jacket. It makes sense. If they had been in the luggage, they would have been found in customs at Chicago. This way, the bust goes down in Salem, where there is more than a little animosity towards both you and the Dimera syndicate and it’s harder for you to deny you knew the diamonds were there. Are you sure you don’t know who’s behind this? I’m telling you, it looks like any one of those cops out there would love to set you up.”

John shook his head. “No, it couldn’t be any of them. This brings the family too much pain. Besides, it’s not their style.” Roman’s involvement in the Paris operation was something he would keep to himself for the time being. There was no point in getting Dimera worried about Roman Brady John wanted those two kept as far apart as possible.

A rap on the door drew their attention and Roman walked into the room. There was a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he said, “John Black, you are under arrest for smuggling. You have the right to remain silent...”

Jefferson gave John a reassuring pat on the arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll meet you down at the station and you will be out on bail by tomorrow at the latest. I might even have a surprise for you. This business will all take care of itself, I promise.”

John ignored him, his eyes locked on Brady as he pulled the handcuffs from his belt. His throat was dry, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out all other sound in the room.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Fuck this. John shot from his chair, was halfway to the door before Roman caught him by a shoulder, twisting him towards the wall. Instinctively, John lashed out, grabbing the extended arm in a jointlock with one hand, Roman’s throat with the other. He dragged the struggling man into the hallway, used the momentum to smash Roman against the gray cement walls. The impact dropped him to his knees and John let him go, looking up to find Bo and Abe advancing down the corridor as the security men behind them drew weapons.

Jefferson had prudently remained in the small conference room and now he was trying to gain John’s attention. “John! John, listen to me. It’s going to be alright. I’ll have you out of there in a day. I promise you. There is no way they can hold you. Just don’t make it worse by assaulting the officers. You are going to end up in trouble I can’t get you out of if you don’t stop!”

Jefferson was right, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going back in a cell, he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. Bo and Abe made their way toward him and he found himself in a fighting stance. “I will hurt you,” he warned.

Bo paused as he reached Roman’s slumped form and waved Abe back. John had been his brother for 14 years and now he could barely recognize the man. He looked strong, not like he had in the hospital. More than strong, he looked dangerous. Maybe it was the scars, the angry lines that criscrossed his wrists, curled across his cheek. The scars… damn.

“John, no handcuffs, okay?” Bo said. “We’ll just get in the car and go down to the station. There’s no sense in anybody getting hurt. Okay?”

John backed another step away, his hands still raised. Bo wasn’t sure whether his offer had been heard, but it didn’t matter as Roman struggled to his feet.

“The cuff’s go on, Bo. John Black is dangerous and he’s wearing handcuffs if I have to get 50 men down her to put them on.”

Bo turned to Roman, more angry than he should have been. “The last time he was chained up, Stefano almost beat him to death. Why don’t you give the guy a break!”

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of and there is no way I’m giving him a chance to kill one of my men, Bo! Now if you want this to end peacefully, you get him in cuffs before the riot gear gets here. If you don’t have him by then, I’m going to gas him right out of here!” With a last angry glance at John, Roman stalked away to check on the incoming equipment.

Gritting his teeth, Bo called softly to Abe, “See if you can’t stall Roman for a bit. Let me try and get John out of here without anyone getting hurt.”

As the hallway cleared out, John seemed to relax, managing a cynical grin. “You’ve mellowed in your old age, Bo.”

“You haven’t. You used to be smarter than this.”

“I used to be a lot of things, Bo. Don’t let the past trick you into thinking I won’t hurt you if I have to.”





Bo shook his head, took a cautious step forward. “John, you’re not thinking. Roman is going to gas you out and then half the force is going to jump on you. Why don’t you just let me just walk you out, nice and easy?”

Bo reached out, tried to make contact.. John twisted away from the touch and found he had run out of room, his shoulders pressed against the blank wall behind him. The only way out for him was straight ahead through Bo. “Bo, get the hell out of here,” he hissed.

“I know why you don’t want to wear the handcuffs,” Bo replied softly, his words meant only for John. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“You don’t know shit, Bo. Now get out of my way!”

Bo didn’t move. “What’s this going to do to Marlena and the kids? Did even you consider that? They’re going to see you on the news, coming out of the gas, fighting against the cops. What if you get lucky and kill one of us. Me, Roman, maybe Abe. You think about that, John?”

John’s face went pale. “Don’t you dare use her against me, you bastard.”

“If you cared about her at all, you’d have never come back to Salem.”

For an instance, Bo thought he’d pushed to far. Then John shook his head and uttered an ugly laugh. “Okay, Bo you win. Let’s do this thing.”

Moving slowly, Bo eased the cuffs from his belt. John simply stared at him, then turned to face the wall and put his hands behind his back. Up close, the damage was even worse than Bo had thought. Raised scars, still pink and angry looking, encircled the entire wrist and surgical scars disappeared beneath the rolledup shirt sleeve. Bo couldn’t help but stare. “Jesus!”

“Dammit, Bo, it’s okay. Just hurry up.”

Bo steadied himself, his hand on John’s shoulder. The man was shaking and Bo wasn’t certain if it was with anger or fear. When he snapped the steel closed around the left wrist John flinched, his fingers curling into fists.

“You okay?”

“Yea, I’m fine. I’ve done this before,” was the ragged reply.

Reporters crowded around the police station, the word already out that the former police commander was being brought in on smuggling charges. As the police car pulled to the curb, they rushed toward the opening doors, eager to get a shot of the fallen hero.

Bo forced the door open against the mass of bodies, then leaned down to help John from the car. The guy was holding it together, but Bo wasn’t certain how long it could last. Draping his arm protectively around the John’s shoulders, Bo tried to hurry him past the mob of reporters. Fortunately, John seemed oblivious to the shouted questions as he walked stiffly next to Bo.

As soon as they made it through the station doors, Bo dug in his pocket for the keys. The sooner he got the handcuffs off, the better he’d feel about this mess.

“Leave ‘em on,” Roman ordered, brushing Bo aside and taking charge of the prisoner. With a rough shove, he sent John stumbling toward an interrogation room.

Bo’s protest was too little, too late. He watched helplessly as John swung around, his head lowered, his eyes bright. Roman responded to the challenge by ramming the man back against the wall. John sagged, trying to catch his breath, and Roman used his weight to force him into the small room. When John tried to twist away, Roman looped an arm around his neck and slammed his chest down against the pitted surface of the wooden table that occupied the center of the room. Panting harshly, he leaned over and whispered the words he’d been dying to say. “If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life locked in a tiny little cell, you are going to tell me everything you know about Dimera and his organization you got that, John?”

John’s only response was an ugly chuckle and then his leg smashed down, kicking hard against Roman’s instep. With a grunt of pain, Roman let go and John spun around, his knee taking Roman in the gut. Gagging, Roman dropped to his hands and knees.

“Shit,” Bo muttered, fighting his way past the wall of uniformed bodies that suddenly blocked the doorway. He broke free just in time to see Baker, advancing on John with his nightstick swinging. Damn rookies… “Baker! Back off!”

The kid ignored him, his stick flashing out to thunk solidly against John’s ribs. Snarling, John unleashed a kick that took the young man smack in the jaw. The officer fell, his head bouncing off the concrete floor with a sickening thud.

All movement stopped and behind him, Bo could hear the sound of weapons being cocked. The metallic ‘clicks’ seemed only to amuse the man who now dominated the small room and John’s glazed eyes looked through Bo as if he didn’t exist. Squaring his shoulders, John taunted the men with guns. “What are you cowards waiting for?”

Without pausing for thought, Bo stepped forward, putting himself directly between John and the leveled pistols. Ignoring Roman, who glared up from the floor, Bo tried to talk some sense into the dangerous man before him. “John, you don’t need to do this. You don’t want to hurt anybody. Think about it, John! This isn’t what you want.”

John blinked, focusing almost resentfully on Bo’s passive form. Shaking his head, his defensive posture eased. Intent on putting an end to it, Bo stepped forward and laid a cautious hand on John’s shoulder. The muscles bunched at his touch, but the only move John made was to offer a wry grin. Just as Bo began to relax, John jerked away from him. Confused, Bo jumped back and John ended up in a crumpled heap at his feet, Roman’s arms locked tight around his legs. The room exploded into movement and noise, uniformed officers swarming over the downed man. Screaming a curse, John tried to shake them off, but with his hands behind his back, he didn’t stand a chance.

Bo looked on in disgust as Roman pulled himself free of the pack and climbed to his feet. Crouching beside the pile of men, he reached out and yanked John’s head back, making certain the man was still conscious. “Hogtie him,” Roman said, his eyes never leaving John’s. “I don’t want this bastard able to move a muscle, you understand me? Throw him in a holding cell, I want to give him plenty of time to contemplate his future.”

-----

John sat on the metal bunk, his hands in his lap. He ran his fingers across the scars on his wrists and tried to ignore the metal bars that kept closing in on him. The room got smaller and smaller, the urge to throw himself against the locked doors increasing with every second that ticked away. He could not be trapped in this cell, this town, this life. Even the madness would be an improvement over the thoughts that twisted through his brain. So close. She was so close. If he wanted to take her, he could. Damn…

He could feel her presence. Now that he could think clearly, she filled his thoughts. Why in the hell had Roman brought him back here? Did the man honestly believe that the Salem P.D. could keep him from her? Bo should have left him chained up, should have left him to tear himself apart against the unyielding steel. Bo was as much a fool as his brother at least Roman saw him for what he really was. She was so close he could taste her. Damn…

“Nice job, Mr. Black. I had this under control until you decided to put that young officer in the hospital.”

John looked up, nodded a greeting. “Jefferson. You took your time getting here.”

“I had some calls to make, I didn’t realize you planned on assaulting anyone in my absence.”





“It was a spur of the moment decision. Now get me the hell out of here,” John replied, walking over and wrapping his hands around the bars.

“Your arraignment is tomorrow. If we’re lucky, the judge will set bail. Until then, there isn’t much I can do for you.”

John gave vent to a deep sigh and dropped his head to rest against the bars. Snake quick, his arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around Jefferson’s tie. One yank, and the man was pulled hard up against the cell door. “Allow me to rephrase. Get me the hell out of here,” John said, his voice a low growl. “I do not react well to confinement and I will not spend the night in this damn town, much less in this cell.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened, but it was the only sign of fear he allowed. “Mr. Dimera asked me to relay his orders. He wants this handled through legitimate channels, Mr. Black. In short, he wants you to do as I say. Exactly as I say.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m too smart to lie about it.”

John snorted a chuckle and let the tie slip from his grasp. “You better know what you’re doing, Jefferson.”

“The arrangements are already in place. As long as the officer isn’t dead, the judge will set bail. A very high bail, no doubt. Mr. Dimera has instructed me that we will meet that bail if, and only if, you can assure him you will keep your nose clean while awaiting trial. I will push for a fast trial date and I don’t think the D.A. will fight us. They’ll want to take advantage of the publicity. But still, it means you’ll be in Salem for a couple of weeks before this thing comes to trial. Mr. Dimera has a safe house here where he wants you to stay. But he will only bail you out if you promise to stay put and keep out of trouble. Do you think you can manage to do that?”

“My social calender isn’t likely to be crowded in this town,” John replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my nose clean. Just get me out of here, Jefferson. Get me out of Salem before I do something we all regret.

Roman knocked on the front door, the fact that he felt it necessary pissing him off more than he was willing to admit.

“Roman? You’re back.” Marlena paused just a moment longer than she should have and then wrapped her arms around him in a quick embrace.

“I’m sorry, I should have called,” he muttered as he followed her into the living room. “I went to the station as soon as I got in and things were a little chaotic down there. Once we got everything wrapped up, I just wanted to get home. I should have called to let you know I was coming.”

“It’s your house. You don’t have to ask permission to come home,” she chided, though the words lacked conviction.

“I did this for us, you do understand that? I couldn’t let Dimera get away with all he’s done. I couldn’t risk leaving him free to do it again.”

With a soft sigh, she joined him on the couch. “I don’t want to fight with you on your first night back, Roman. What say we not talk about Stefano, at least for one night.”

“Stefano’s not going to be a problem for us any more,” Roman replied, taking her hand in his and watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I got him, Marlena. This time, I’ve got him for sure.”





“What happened?” she asked cautiously.

“I nailed John. He’s sitting in lockup right now, imagining a lifetime spent alone in a small cold cell. He wouldn’t survive that. I know the man, I’ve seen what he’s like when you lock him in a cage. He won’t survive one night of it. He’ll give Dimera up to avoid it and I will finally have what I need to crush the entire organization.”

Her face paled and she pulled away from him. He avoided looking into her eyes, unwilling to see the depths of her anger. In time, she would come to understand. She would know that this was the right thing to do.

“How could you do this, Roman? Did you even consider how this would affect the children? Allof the children?”

“Of course I did!” he snapped. “I did this to protect them! John will never be a part of their lives. He will never be a part of your life! But then, that’s why you’re really angry, isn’t it? After everything he has done, after all of the time he has stolen from us, you still want him in your life! Why don’t you just admit it!”

She stomped away from him, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. She tugged open the corner hutch and pulled out a wood framed picture. Slamming the picture down on the coffeetable, she pointed at the smiling faces of a family that used to be. “He was a part of my life, Roman. A part of the children’s lives! You can’t make that go away! You can’t pretend it never happened! He will always be a part of this family, whether he is here or not. Destroying him won’t change that fact, but it will rip us apart if you try!”





John smiled up at him, his arms around Marlena’s waist, the kids gathered about the happy couple. It took a conscious act of will not to put his fist through the glass. He bit his lip, tasted blood, forced a placating smile to his face. “I’m not out to destroy him, Marlena. He’ll give up Dimera and that will put an end to all of this. I’m doing this for your own good!”

Her eyes narrowed, fire in their depths. “Are you lying to me, Roman or to yourself?”

Silently he watched her as she walked up the stairs, the bedroom door slamming shut behind her. His fingers trailed across the surface of the picture, tracing the outline of her smiling lips. “You’ll thank me when this is over,” he whispered as he tossed the picture in the trash.

John sat at the defense table wearing a suit provided by Jefferson and Associates. Not only was the material exquisite, it was perfectly tailored. Once again, John was impressed by the efficiency of the Dimera organization. As he well knew, the devil was in the details. Having already checked the spectators’ box for familiar faces and found none but Roman’s, he leaned back in his chair and allowed the attorney to do what he did best.

“The defense requests that the defendant be released on his own recognizance, your honor. The search leading to the incident in question was illegal. There was no probable cause. This will never result in a conviction and the defendant is a respected businessman with a demanding schedule. It would be inappropriate and unnecessary to detain him prior to trial,” Jefferson asserted.

“Your honor, the defendant put a police officer in the hospital. His recovery is still in question. In addition, the man has no ties to the community and there is evidence that he has connections to organized crime. Bail should be denied. He represents both a danger to the community and a risk of flight,” the District Attorney countered.

“Your honor! If the D.A. wants to assert my client has ties to organized crime, I would suggest he present some evidence or we will consider filling charges of slander.”

“Enough already, gentlemen. Let’s not get personal. Bail is set at two million dollars. I think that is more than enough to counter the risk of flight as long as this remains a noncapitol case.”

Two million bucks! The sum refocused John’s wandering attention. Even for Dimera, that was a considerable chunk of change. The old man was going to be pissed.

“I assume cash bond will suffice, your honor?” a deep voice rang out from the back of the room.

That voice was unmistakable, but John could still scarcely believe his eyes as they locked onto the figure of Stefano Dimera standing in the rear of the courthouse. Wearing a dark grey silk suit with a rose in his lapel, he looked utterly at ease, despite the many arrest warrants John knew to be pending.

Roman evidently had the same thought, and shaking off the shock, he quickly stepped forward. “Your honor, this man is under arrest. He has numerous outstanding complaints.”

“On the contrary, your honor,” Jefferson interjected smoothly. “Any warrants still outstanding have passed the statute of limitations in this state. I assure your honor, I have checked. There are no valid outstanding warrants. Of course, technically, it really doesn’t matter as concerns my client’s bail...”

The judge leaned back in his chair, stifling a groan. Some days, it just did not pay to get out of bed. “Captain Brady, I suggest you check your records. I’ve never known Jefferson to make a mistake when it comes to an issue such as this. Now, as regards the issue of bail, cash bond is acceptable. The defendant is released into your custody, Mr. Dimera. If I were you, I’d keep an eye on him. Two million dollars is a lot of money.” Slamming his gavel down, the judge called for the next case.

As the limousine pulled away from the curb, John couldn’t help a chuckle. “I’m impressed. You are just about the last person I expected to see in Salem. How in the world did you pull this one off?”

Dimera shrugged nonchalantly. “I use the law to my advantage, John. I don’t fight it unnecessarily. This is a lesson I have been trying to teach you for years. Your failure to learn it has just forced me to put up two million dollars worth of confidence in you. I expect you to be at that trial. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as glass it’s not like I have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”

Sinking back into the thick leather upholstery, Stefano nodded in satisfaction. “You are alright, aren’t you?”

John shrugged. “A minor altercation, I gave worse than I got. I just need some sleep, jail cells don’t agree with me.”

“One would think you would have grown used to them by now,” Dimera replied with a wry smile.

“Unlikely.”

“Then perhaps you should stop frequenting them. And as far as that goes, would you care to explain to me what exactly went wrong in Paris? This was not the auspicious new beginning I was hoping for, John.”

“It was a setup. Of that, I have no doubt. I got a call that the buyer was under suspicion. When I got there to check it out, I was jumped. Next thing I know, I’m getting off a plane in Salem with a quarter million in diamonds sown into my coat.”

“Do you have any idea who was behind it?” Dimera asked. Sensing a slight hesitation before John shook his head, Dimera pressed the issue. “John, now is not the time to hoard information. If you suspect someone, I need to know. Now.”

“Roman. Roman Brady was in Paris. He was the buyer,” John replied, his training winning out over his better judgement. Almost immediately, he tried to cover. “Stefano, the man is no threat. He’s a loose cannon. There is no way he set this up himself. The man isn’t worth bothering with, Stefano.”

Instead of the anger John had expected, Dimera simply nodded. “It makes sense. Roman has connections to the ISA. There’ve been rumors of a rogue section. ISA, NSA, nobody knows for sure. Remember the Tachei triad? Someone took the whole organization out. Just gone. None of the usual suspects fit the bill. Word is, it was a rogue section operating outside of the law. Vigilantes if you will. A bunch of bloody cowboys out gunning for the worst of the worst in organized crime. According to rumor, they even have a name. ‘The Brotherhood’. Odds are good, they are the ones behind this. If I’m right, that means Roman Brady is working with them.”

John didn’t reply. As usual, Stefano’s insight was hard to critique. It did make sense. Roman was mad. Pissed enough to tiein with people willing to go outside of the rules to reach their goals. Of course, what John couldn’t understand was why the man was so angry. He had ended up with the prize. He had Marlena. What more did he want?

As the limousine slowed before the gated entry to the estate, John roused himself from his thoughts. “Stefano, Roman is off limits. You do understand that? If you hurt him, you hurt Marlena, and that is not part of our arrangement.”

Dimera cocked a brow. “You could have said that with a lot more conviction, John. Don’t tell me you’re sporting a grudge over this little smuggling frameup?”

John grinned and shook his head. “Okay, I may not be thrilled with the man right now. But you did keep him locked in a cell for the past 14 years. I guess I can forgive him a little payback.”

“Well, you are the one who got to experience the joys of a body cavity search. If you aren’t going to demand retribution, then far be it from me to do so. However, this ‘Brotherhood’ organization bears investigation. While you’re cooped up here, I want you to make that your pet project. If we are going to war, I want to be ready.”

He had managed to narrow it down. It did appear that the core of the Brotherhood had to be ISA in origin. The operations attributed to the Brotherhood had coincided too closely to ISA ops to be an accident. The ISA was a big organization, however. John had had no luck identifying any particular individuals as members of the vigilante group. Hell, he hadn’t even confirmed Roman’s involvement in the rogue section, though he knew in his gut that it was true.

Roman. God, how he hated that little prick. John reached over, rifling through a stack of photos. Surveillance shots, taken by his operatives. The men had orders to catch Roman in a meeting with his contact. They had somehow interpreted this to mean ‘Take as many pictures of the beautiful woman as possible.’ There were pictures of her in the car with the kids, pictures of her in the house, snapped through the windows. There was even a picture of her in her robe, taken from behind. John had called that particular photographer in and proceeded to knock the man’s teeth out. There was only one picture of her in her robe.

None of the shots were particularly good ones and all had been taken from a distance. It didn’t matter. He hoarded them like gold, kept them close, never out of sight. Maybe if he had the pictures, the need to have her wouldn’t be quite so great. He ran his finger across the snapshot of her in her gown. He knew how that smooth white satin felt beneath the pads of his fingers, knew the way her silky hair tickled a man’s skin. He could almost smell the hint of lavender in the air. God damn picture wasn’t even close to the real thing! Lurching to his feet, he crumpled the blurry photo into a tight ball and threw it in the trash.

“That is not the look of achievement I was hoping for,” Stefano commented, striding into the study.

“Sorry,” John muttered, not sounding sorry at all.

“I take it you still have no leads?”

“These guys are good, I don’t think they left a paper trail. We’re going to have to get lucky to break this one,” John replied, as he dug through the contents of the bar and poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon.

“And you believe you’ll find inspiration in a bottle?”





“Don’t lecture me!” John snapped, then shook his head with a grimace. “Sorry.”

“John, the trial will be over with soon enough and you can leave Salem for good. You can go to one of the islands, find a pretty girl, play on the beaches. When you get bored, I’m certain I can find a few ‘troublesome’ individuals for you to disappear for me. Hold it together for just a little bit longer, that’s all I ask.”

John nodded, not bothering to make eye contact. The old man was worried, he didn’t have to look at him to know it. “I’m fine, Stefano. Really. In fact, I was thinking of hitting the gym. You want to put the gloves on and go a few rounds?”

As he’d hoped, that elicited a laugh. “Now John, when was the last time I was foolish enough to step into a ring with you?”

“Well, as I remember, never.”

“And that’s when you will see me in there again.” Smiling, Stefano nodded an affirmative to John’s gestured offer of a drink. “That new Irish whiskey would do nicely.” Recovering his train of thought, he continued. “I’m a lover, not a fighter, John. A lover of women, the arts, power. If there’s fighting to be done, well, that’s why I have you.”

“Remind me again, what is in this whole deal for me?” John asked, only halfjoking, as he handed Stefano a cut glass tumbler full of amber liquid.

“John, you should be grateful. There really aren’t all that many wars to be fought these days. You gave me a soldier, I gave you a war. God knows you were born to it. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

“No,” John replied seriously, draining the whiskey. “There really is no point in pretending otherwise, is there?” For a moment, he held the empty tumbler before his face, admiring the rainbow of colors thrown off by the beveled glass. A sudden movement of his arm and the glass exploded against the far wall. With a brief nod at Dimera, he turned and walked from the room.

“You’re running late,” Stefano noted, looking up from his dinner as John pulled out a chair at the table. “Feeling any better?”

“I’m fine.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Cause you keep asking,” John replied, his attention focused on his plate.

“You had best contain that temper of yours tomorrow at the trial. You could be facing 20 years if you don’t keep your wits about you.”

John groaned, feeling yet another headache coming on. “Stefano, is this really necessary? I hate being back in this town and I sure as hell don’t want to have to sit through this trial. Let me skip out. I’ll take a couple of private assignments in my spare time and make the two million back in a month. It’s not like I had any intention of ever coming back here anyway.”

Dimera shook his head. “We have already had this discussion, John. If you skip out, there will be a warrant issued. That limits your ability to work openly in the entirety of the United States. That is unacceptable. What have I told you about working within the confines of the law whenever possible?”

“I have a bad feeling about this, Stefano. Nothing good is going to come out of me being in Salem.”

Dimera waved dismissive. “You have a bad feeling about everything. If I ever see you be optimistic about anything, including the fact that the sun will rise tomorrow, it’s likely to give me a coronary. Follow my orders and you have nothing to be concerned about. Which reminds me, did Jefferson talk to you about the trial? He thinks my presence might be… inflammatory. You’re going to be on your own tomorrow. I want you to just sit there and do whatever Jefferson tells you. Understood?”

“This is a bad idea.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion, I asked if you understood.”

John sighed. “Yes, I understand! No freaking out and offing a civilian at least not in front of witnesses. You happy?”

Dimera glared at him. “Eat your dinner. You’re still too skinny.”

“Yes, mother,” John muttered.

-----

John entered the courtroom flanked by Jefferson and his assistants. A quick scan of the crowd and his worst fears were realized. The entire courtroom was filled with Bradys. Shawn and Caroline were barely noticeable, sitting in the back row accompanied by Bo. If that wasn’t bad enough, she was there too. He had known she would be. Hell, he’d hoped she would be. Christ, he was such a selfish bastard.

He locked his eyes on the judge’s bench and pretended he didn’t see her. Marlena, the kids, his family… They were three rows behind the defense table, so close he could almost touch them. Damn, he should have jumped bail, screw the American theater of operations.

He took his seat and the jury began to file in. As ordered, John tried hard not to look dangerous. It was not something he’d had much experience with and he doubted he pulled it off. What an idiot he really should have jumped bail. Standing as the judge entered the room, he made an effort to focus on the actions around him. The effort was futile.

He’d caught just a glimpse of them as he’d walked in. A glimpse had been more than enough. Sami sat closest to the aisle, tears in her eyes as she had watched him walking past. Eric, sitting next to her, had merely glared. John couldn’t help the pride he felt at the boy’s protectiveness. Maybe the family would be able to survive this mess after all. But Marlena… no, his guilt would not so easily be washed away.

He hadn’t looked at her. He wouldn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He knew what he’d see. The hurt. The betrayal. He’d seen that look before. He’s seen it in Katherine’s eyes the night she died. He didn’t need to see that look again, not in this lifetime. Fuck.

Jefferson sat down beside him, jarring him back to the reality of the trial. He realized he’d missed the opening arguments. It didn’t really matter, the entire trial was a waste of time. He wasn’t going to prison, regardless of the verdict. He’d die before he’d be locked in a cage. At this point, that might be the best thing for all concerned. He leaned back in his chair and tried once again to focus his attention as the prosecution began its case.

John stifled a sigh as the testimony entered the fourth hour. It was going exactly as expected. The judge had thrown out all evidence connected to the smuggling charge. Roman had lacked probable cause for the search, and the judge was not buying the good faith exception. The charges against him boiled down to his assault on the officer in the police station. After three weeks, the man had yet to regain full consciousness and the prosecution was pressing for a conviction on a count of attempted murder. He’d pointed out to Jefferson that if he’d wanted the cop dead, the guy would be dead. Jefferson had pointed out that John wasn’t an attorney. Why the hell had he let Dimera talk him into sticking around for the trial?

It seemed like every cop on the force had been called to testify. Well, everyone but Bo and Roman. He wondered why the prosecution had omitted those two and decided to make a note of it to Jefferson. As the D.A. finally closed his case, John still didn’t understand why it had taken so many damn witnesses to establish the fact that yes, he had kicked the guy in the head. Jeesh, he really didn’t think he had the patience for much more of this farce. He was going to be convicted, he was going to jump bail while out on appeal, and he was never going to have to spend another day in this damn town. This trial was just a useless prelude to his flight.

The prosecution having rested its case, the judge turned his attention to Jefferson. “We have maybe an hour before I planned to break for lunch. Do you want to proceed with the defense, or would you rather recess?”

Jefferson was very, very good at his job. He wouldn’t have been Dimera’s lead counsel if he weren’t. He knew the importance of timing when working a jury. If they were going to be contemplating the case over lunch, he didn’t want them thinking about all of those officers of the law, every one of them in their dress blues, and every one describing how his client had ruthlessly attempted to smash a young officer who was only do his job, mind you in the head. No, he had something much better for them to mull over with their roast beef sandwiches. “Your honor, the defense is ready to proceed.”

“Very well, you may call your first witness.”

“Your honor, the defense would like to call Dr. Burke.”

Burke settled back into the witness chair, having been duly sworn by the bailiff. Jefferson strode casually toward him. “Now, Dr. Burke, you have been called as an expert witness. Your field is human psychiatry, is that correct?”

Burke, a distinguished looking man in his early 50’s, fit the part. From his elegantly tailored suit to his neatly trimmed white beard, he could have been trained by Freud himself. In a clear tenor, he replied, “Yes, that is correct. I am the research director at the Center for Behavioral Studies.”

“Dr. Burke, would you tell us what your specialty is within the field of psychiatry,” Jefferson asked his first witness.

“I specialize in PTS, or PostTraumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a disorder most commonly found among war veterans, but is also frequently found in cases of domestic abuse and in victims of torture.”

“What exactly is PostTraumatic Stress Disorder? Can you explain it in laymen’s terms for the jury?”

“Well, at its simplest it is a disorder that results from repeated exposure to violent, traumatizing events, such as combat or abuse. It manifests most typically in flashbacks to the violent events, nightmares, and occasionally in violent episodes.”

“What types of things could be expected to trigger the symptoms of such a disorder?”

“Well, anything and nothing can trigger symptoms. In part, it is the mind’s way of dealing with the feelings of fear and anger generated by the trauma. However, flashbacks and violent outbursts are commonly preceded by stressful events, especially if the situation has similarities to the events of the initial abuse.”

“So doctor, hypothetically speaking, if a man were kept handcuffed and subjected to severe beatings, would it be possible for that person to experience PostTraumatic Stress Disorder?”

“Yes, such experiences could well cause the disorder,” Dr. Burke replied.

“And if, even months later, the same man was once again handcuffed and held against his will, could this trigger symptoms of PTS?”

“Yes. In fact, it would be likely.”

“What if the man was beaten while cuffed and in custody? What would be the response of someone with PTS?”

“One of two reactions could be expected to occur, depending on the personality of the individual. Either the reaction would be turned inward and the person would simply withdraw entirely, approaching a catatonic state. Or, at the opposite extreme, some individuals would react with extreme violence, lashing out with no concern for consequences, seeking only to escape the situation that is triggering their fear.”

“Now, Dr. Burke. If a person with PTS were to lash out, would you consider their actions within their ability to control?”

“No, definitely not. You see, when a person experiences such outbursts, they react without conscious thought often without being fully cognizant of their present surroundings. Often they are flashing back to the original traumatizing event, and elements of the past occurrence tend to mix with their current circumstances. In such a state, they are not truly capable of recognizing their current reality, much less controlling their reactions to it.”

“Thank you Dr. Burke. Your honor, the defense reserves the right to recall this witness at a later time.”

“Very, well,” replied the judge, shifting his attention to the prosecution table. “Your witness.”

“The prosecution has no questions for this witness at this time, your honor.”

“Does the defense have further witnesses?”

“Yes, your honor. However, first we would like to present a piece of evidence that has just come into our hands through an anonymous source. We would like to present a tape that directly relates to the defendant’s culpability, specifically with regards to PostTraumatic Stress Disorder.”

“The prosecution objects, your honor. We have no proof as to the veracity of this evidence.”

“The defense would be glad to provide you with the original tapes. I propose to show an edited version. You are welcome to present any additional footage you feel necessary. If you can come up with any evidence that the tape is fraudulent, then challenge its admissibility,” Jefferson replied.

“The objection is overruled. We’ll leave the legitimacy of the tape up to the jury,” the judge ordered.

“Your honor, the defense also requests that the defendant be excused from court. This footage could prove disturbing to him.”

Jarred from his thoughts, John shot his attorney a hard look. “I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed, wondering what Jefferson was up to.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Jefferson?” the judge asked.

“Your honor, the defendant does not wish to leave, but for his own benefit, I would request that you order him removed.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to go with the assumption that your client is capable of making up his own mind. If the defendant wants to stay, he can. Now, get on with it.”

As the projector was being setup, Roman leaned over the railing behind the prosecutor’s table. “What the hell are they up to with all of this stuff about PostTraumatic Stress Disorder? What are they trying to do?”

“If I had to bet, their strategy is to show that John was not responsible for his actions due to some kind of abuse in his background. Don’t worry, there is no way that a Salem jury is going to let somebody get off for almost killing a police officer just because he says he ‘had a traumatic childhood.’ They’re going to have to come up with something a whole lot better than that if they want to stand a chance,” the D.A. replied with a confident grin.

Across the center isle, Carrie squeezed Marlena’s hand. “What’s going on, Mom? What are they going to show?”

“Honey, I don’t know, but maybe you and the twins should go outside. If it’s film of John’s time on the island, you don’t need to see it and I have a sneaking suspicion that that’s what it is.”

“How on earth could they have film from the island? And what would be the point of showing it?”





Marlena grimaced. “Dimera’s compound had cameras set up all around it, especially in his interrogation room. He undoubtably filmed John’s… captivity. As to why show it? I’m sure that legally, he will tie it into the PostTraumatic Stress defense, which is probably an accurate one. However, I doubt it matters. If the jury sees what happened to John… Carrie, I don’t even know everything that happened, and what I do know is horrendous. If they show a tape of that to the jury, there is no way they are going to convict him, based on the sympathy vote alone. I just wish John would leave the room he doesn’t need to go through this again. Though maybe it will make him question his loyalty to Stefano. I hope so it would be only right for some good to come out of all of this. Carrie please, take the twins outside.”

“Marlena we need to see this. I need to know why he left us without even a backward look. I want to know the man who acted like my father for 14 years. I want to see what would make him do something so horrible.”

Marlena started to argue, but the lights dimmed and the judge called for order.

The film opened on a dark screen, a fuzzy glowing figure occupying the center of the picture. “The first images are filmed using infrared, the cell itself was completely devoid of light. As the film will later indicate, the figure glowing green and red on the infrared is the defendant, John Black,” Jefferson narrated. The jurors, as well as the numerous spectators, gazed curiously at the blurry image. John stared at a distant point somewhere beyond the screen, completely removed from its rather benign image. Suddenly, a scream split the air and the blurred form seemed to jerk awkwardly. The image itself was too alien, and it was impossible to determine what exactly was happening. However, the sounds from the video were haunting and several jurors began to shift restlessly in their seats. Marlena ignored the video, her eyes on John. He sat unmoving, his head bowed, his hands clenched tightly together in front of him.

Jefferson allowed the screams to echo through the room. He and his team had spent hours editing the tape to achieve just the right effect. “This continues for over nine straight hours. The full tape is available if you wish to view it. However, I can tell you there is little variability.”

Jefferson turned his attention back to the video just as the picture flickered. The sound stopped in midcry, the turmoil replaced by an image similar to the first, with the outlined figure demonstrating no movement. The film flickered again, went blank, then snapped into focus. In the center of the frame was a body, hanging from its wrists in the middle of a stone room.

A murmur ran through the courtroom as if became clear that the image from the infrared was that of a man now hanging limply from his chained wrists, a foot off of the ground. The camera revealed a battered body, apparently devoid of awareness. However, at the click of a lock, the prisoner raised his head and glared through the lights, revealing the face of John Black. The contrast with the man siting in the defendant’s chair was striking. The prisoner was filthy, unshaven, his long hair tied tightly back behind him. Dried blood caked his upper arms and his face was so bruised it was difficult to recognize him. Greater than the contrasts, though, was the similarity between the prisoner who could barely lift his head, and the accused who sat frozen, head down and unmoving. Both seemed somehow… wounded.

Jefferson noted with satisfaction that each juror looked over at John, whose tense, almost defensive posture could only help their case. Still, it was against his better judgement for John to witness the tapes, especially in such a public way and without prior preparation. The last thing they needed was for him to lose control and attack somebody in the courtroom. That the man was capable of such an outburst, Jefferson had no doubt.

On the screen, six men wielding batons were surrounding the prisoner, their faces all electronically blurred. The original copy that he had been sent ‘anonymously’, and that he would share with the police, had been careful altered so as not to identify any of the figures except for John. Abruptly, John’s body crashed to the ground. Even Jefferson, who knew John’s capacity for violence, thought the guards’ reactions overkill. In mass, they pinned the captive to the floor, though little struggle could be seen on his part. The man’s arms were once again cuffed behind him Jefferson had been sure to include that shot and then rope was used to tie them tightly together up to the elbows, and then looped down to bind the ankles, pulling them up until they almost met his wrists. Then came one of Jefferson’s favorite scenes, as upon leaving one of the guards turned and unleashed a series of kicks into the completely helpless man curled on the stone floor. Jefferson swore you could hear the sound of ribs giving way on the video. If that didn’t get to the jury, he didn’t know what would.

Noting the focus of several jurors, Jefferson turned to observe his client’s reaction. At first, John appeared completely removed from the evidence of his own torture. Then, at the sound of a particularly heavy blow, he flinched. The movement was slight, but unmistakable. Great, Jefferson thought. If John had a flashback now, there is no telling what he might do but it would definitely not be good. On the tape, the guards walked out of the cell, slamming the iron door behind them. As the screen again went dark, Jefferson cut the tape.

“Your Honor, the defense requests a brief recess. I think my client needs to collect himself.”

“Very well, counselor, if the defendant needs a few moments...”

“Get it over with,” a voice grated out, and it took Jefferson a moment to recognize the command as coming from his client, who still sat staring down at the polished desk top.

“Get it over with. Now,” the command came again, this time more forcefully.

The judge, appearing momentarily affronted, straightened on his bench. “Very well the choice is yours. Continue the film, counselor.”

There was utter silence in the courtroom as Jefferson again set the film in motion. The screen was dark and Jefferson explained to the jury, “It isn’t clear how much time passed between this clip and the next, though our best guess is that is was at least several days. What happened during that period we don’t know.” As he turned back to the screen, a new image appeared. Numerous guards milled around a figure in a barred cell. The man was on his knees, bound and immobile with his arms tied off awkwardly behind his back. On the screen, one guard could be seen giving the prisoner an injection, and though it was hard to make out the separate conversations with so many men in the small cell, the malevolence of the guard was clear.

“Bastard. Fucking bastard. Won’t work she’ll know. She’ll know it’s not me, you bastard.” John’s voice carried clearly through the silent courtroom as the body in the cell convulsed, slamming into the bars.





Marlena could watch no more, her entire focus now John. As the body on the screen thrashed against the bars, soft sobs filled the courtroom. Marlena saw John start, as if suddenly being brought back to the here and now.

“Stop the tape,” John ordered, turning to search out Sami. He knew it was her, he could feel it. God, how could he have let that be shown knowing his kids were in the room? His eyes locked onto Sami’s tear stained face as a low groan sounded from the film, the images still flickering at the front of the room. “Stop the damn tape,” John repeated, halfrising from his chair.

Jefferson, trying to keep a bad situation from getting worse, immediately cut the tape. One of his associates stepped between him and John, trying to placate the man while being very careful not to get in a physical confrontation. Jefferson took the opportunity to motion for a recess. “Your Honor, I think my client has had all he can handle for the moment. I’d like to request that recess now.”

“Recess granted, we’ll adjourn for lunch. And counselor, you might want to warn me before you show footage like that again. I might decide to clear the court,” the judge commented grimly.

“I apologize, your honor. It won’t happen again.”

As the judge left the room, Jefferson and his assistants herded John into a nearby conference room.

“John, will you please calm down!” Jefferson hissed at the man as he stalked through the conference room. Muscles tensed, eyes narrowed, he looked like he was ready to snap.

“No more tapes,” was the ragged reply. Forcing himself to stop his pacing, John turned to face the attorney. “You’ve done enough. My kids did not need to see that crap!”

“They aren’t ‘your’ kids,” Jefferson retorted, instantly recognizing his mistake as John stepped to him, fists clenched.





“No more tapes,” John repeated, his eyes hard.

“Mr. Dimera is not going to like this.”

“I don’t much care what Dimera likes.”

With a mental shrug, Jefferson nodded. “Okay, no more tapes. I think our point has been made. But John, you have to maintain your control. If you snap like that again you are going to scare the jury. We want them feeling sympathy, here. Not fear. Do you understand?”

Running a hand through his hair, John nodded. “Yea, I understand. Let’s just get this damned thing over with, okay?”

“Soon, John,” Jefferson placated. “Another day. Two at the most. There aren’t that many facts to debate. This will be over soon. You just have to maintain a little while longer.”

Moving to sit at the long conference table, John gave voice to a grim chuckle. “Maintain… yea, I just have to maintain.” Sighing, he loosened his tie. “How about some lunch? I’m starving.”

The bailiff called the court to order and John once again sank down in his chair. Though he had caught a glimpse of Shawn and Caroline in the back of the room, he had been pleased to note that Marlena and the kids were gone. As the hours slowly ticked bye, he lost himself in the drone of voices. Only when he heard a familiar name did he drag his attention back to the trial itself.

“The defense calls Lieutenant Bo Brady,” Jefferson said, drawing a low mummer from the spectators.

John lookedup as Bo was sworn in. He had mentioned Bo’s omission from the prosecution’s witness list. The attorney must have seen it as a weakness in their case.

John suppressed a smile as Jefferson slowly walked over to where Bo sat in the witness box. Looking distinctly uncomfortable in his dress uniform, Bo was making a visible effort not to squirm.

“Lieutenant Brady, I believe you were present at both my client’s arrest and the subsequent altercation in the station house. Is that correct?” Jefferson asked in a conversational tone.

“Yes sir,” Bo replied, keeping his answer brief, as instructed by the district attorney.

“In fact, you are the one who put the handcuffs on my client. I was there when you did it. Did you have any reservations about that?”

Fighting the urge to tug at his collar, Bo gave a slight shrug. “Um, maybe a little.”

“And why was that?” Jefferson asked, turning and walking over to the jury.

“Well, he seemed kind of… tense. I could see the scars, the scars on his wrists, and I knew the cuffs spooked him. So I thought maybe it would be better not to force the issue.” Glancing toward the prosecution table, he added hastily, “But it is standard procedure. I mean, the rulebook says we have to put the cuffs on when we take them in.”

“Of course. Must follow the rules,” Jefferson replied smoothly, making eye contact with the jurors. Turning back to Bo, he leaned against the rail separating him from the jurors.

“So, you followed the rules. You put the handcuffs on… Just how did you manage that, by the way? We’ve heard a lot of testimony about what a dangerous man my client is. What did you do? Mace him? Use your nightstick? Just how exactly did you put cuffs on this ‘dangerous man’?” the attorney asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“Well...” started Bo, looking uncomfortably up at the ceiling. “He said it was alright. John did, I mean.”

“Ahh, so he went along with it. Why do you think he did that, Lieutenant Brady? Do you think he was scared of you? Do you think you could have forced the cuffs on him?”

Bo snorted a short laugh. “No. He wasn’t scared of me. He just didn’t want any trouble… I mean, eventually, we would have taken him by force. If he had resisted… there were just to many of us.”

Jefferson sagely nodded his head, turning to address the jury once again. “So, he let you put handcuffs on him. Went to the station house willingly. My client didn’t want any trouble I’m using your words here… What do you think happened that made him change his mind?”

Bo shrugged, looking down at the floor in front of him.

“Well, did he just walk into the station house and go ballistic? Nobody touched him? Nobody laid a hand on him? Come on, you were there officer Brady. Tell the good people what happened,” Jefferson said, voice rising. Walking over to stand directly in front of Bo, he put his hands on the witness box. Leaning in, he repeated softly, “Tell us what happened, Lieutenant Brady.”

“Nobody hit him,” Bo said, looking to the jury for a moment before again dropping his head. “Nobody hit him, but he was shoved around a little. He knocked into a table in the interrogation room and he seemed to just lose it for a moment.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘shoved around’, Lieutenant?”

Bo gave a slight sigh of resignation and looked directly at the jury. “There was nothing excessive, but he was shoved pretty hard a couple of times. Normally, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. But I could tell he was just barely holding it together. I had felt him shaking when I put the handcuffs on him. I knew what had happened to him, how he had been chained up before. I knew something bad was going to happen, I just couldn’t stop it.”

“I appreciate your candor, Lieutenant. The defense has no further questions for this witness.”

As Bo walked from the room, eyes fixed straight ahead, John again found himself drifting away from the proceedings. He barely payed attention as Dr. Burke was recalled, as Jefferson and the prosecutor debated the validity of the PTS diagnosis. He was lost in the dance of dust motes, caught in the fading rays of the sun, when the judge brought his gavel down, ending testimony. Oral summation would begin in the morning. 

-----

Marlena looked around the table at the children. None of them were eating, though they had stopped to pickup pizza on the way home. She couldn’t blame them, she thought, looking down at her own mangled slice.

“We should have stayed, Mom,” Carrie said, breaking the silence. “I want to go back tomorrow. I want to know everything that happened.”

Marlena glanced over at Sami, who was not even making a pretense of eating. “I didn’t want to watch anymore, Carrie. I don’t want to know more than I already do.”

“Don’t you see? This is why he did it. This is why he left us. Dimera hurt him so bad… It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault he left us. Stefano, he broke something, he changed him. I knew there had to be a reason he left and this is it. I want to see everything. I want to understand how it happened! Marlena, we deserve to know!”

“Maybe Carrie’s right, mom,” Eric chimed in. “Maybe what happened messed his headup or something. Like that doctor said. Maybe John didn’t have a choice when he left us. It might not be his fault, mom.”

Their hurt was so evident, the wound of his loss still raw. Marlena would have done anything to make it better, but she wouldn’t let them live in some fantasy world, believing that at any moment the man who had raised them would walk back into their lives. It was a fantasy that would only do more damage in the end.

In a low voice, she told them what she should have said months ago. “I never thought what happened was his fault. Not any of it. And I don’t blame him for any of it. I know what happened to him in that cell. I know he fought as hard as he could to hold on to being Roman. To hold onto us. But what Stefano did to him… Stefano didn’t break him, he didn’t change him. Stefano made him remember who he really was.”

Carrie started to protest, but Marlena shook her head. “I was there, Carrie. I was with him when he shot an unarmed man. He was so cold. It was like I didn’t know him. And when he took us out of that compound....” Her voice broke and she locked her hands together in order to keep them from shaking. Taking a deep breath, she continued.

“I won’t tell you he doesn’t remember us. That in his own way, he still loves us. I almost think he would have to, to have endured what he did. Risked what he did. But John is not your father and he won’t come back. No matter what happens at this trial, he will never come back. John remembers who he really is. He knows ‘what’ he is. He won’t be back.”

“Mom, I’m sorry,” Carrie said, reaching over to give her hand a tight squeeze. “I know this is toughest on you. I didn’t mean to upset you, I just.... This all seems so wrong.”

“You’re all wrong!” Sami cut in, rising angrily from her chair. “He isn’t any different. Whatever he remembered, it doesn’t matter! Dimera couldn’t make him stop loving us and he will be back! You’ll see, mom. Nothing will stop him from coming home. I know it!”

“Sami...” Her response was cut short as Sami stormed out of the kitchen, retreating to the solitude of her room. Groaning in frustration, Marlena helped Carrie and Eric clear the table as she debated the wisdom of attending the trial in the morning.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Stefano commented, leaning back in his chair and sipping his wine.

John shrugged and continued staring at the table.

“Jefferson informed me you refused to leave the courtroom when the video was shown. I thought I had made it clear, you are to follow his orders as if they were my own.”

“I guess I’ve never been all that good at following orders, now have I?” John replied, flashing Dimera a dark look.

Stefano grimaced. “There was nothing on those tapes you needed to see.”

“What does it matter if I saw the tapes? I remember everything that happened, Stefano. I’m not likely to forget.” His fork clattered loudly as he let it drop to the plate.

“You fought me, John. Every step of the way, you fought me! You think that I wanted to do that to you? I did what was necessary. You know that!”

“Yea, I do know. I’m not blaming you, Stefano. I’m just… tired,” John said, letting out a resigned sigh as he stretched his arms above his head.

“You’re tired because you don’t sleep.”

“Lay off, Stefano. I’m not in the mood.”

“What happened today?” Dimera asked, the hint of worry in his eyes beginning to seem like a permanent fixture.





John topped off his wine glass. Ruby red, the color reminded him of blood. With a low chuckle, he took a deep swallow. “I suppose you know how Jefferson’s planning on getting me off. He’s making out that I’m crazy, that I can’t control myself.”

Dimera shrugged. “He thinks the tactic will work. I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is Jefferson is right! I knew it was stupid to fight the cops. I knew it would only make things worse. I did it anyway. Stefano, I couldn’t have stopped myself if I had wanted to, and I didn’t want to!”

“John, you have always had a quick temper. That’s nothing new.”

John shook his head. “So my insanity is consistent small comfort.”

“It’s a legal tactic, nothing more. Stop worrying about it.”

“I could have hurt them. I could have really hurt them, Stefano! You should have pulled me out of Salem years ago.”

“John...”

“Fourteen years! Fourteen God damn years I lived here! Do you have any idea the damage I could have caused? I raised those kids. They were just babies when I came to them. Just one slipup and I could have hurt them so badly. Christ! I can still hurt them. Stefano, I need to get out of this town. Tonight. I need to get out!”

“You need to calm down,” Dimera said quietly. “You would never hurt those children and you would never hurt Marlena. Even I know that much. The trial will be over soon and you aren’t going anywhere until it is.”

“You think you can keep me here?” John replied, rising to his feet and shooting Stefano a challenging look.

Dimera gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t be tedious, John. I know you won’t hurt the Bradys in the same way I’ve always known you won’t turn on me. You have a temper, but you are also one of the most loyal men I’ve ever known. Stop inventing problems that don’t exist.”

“You sound pretty certain,” John replied, his voice low as he studied Dimera. “Can you honestly say you have never had any doubts about me?”

Stefano didn’t so much as blink. “Yes, John, I can.”

After a long moment, John forced a bitter smile. “Old man, you’re usually a much better liar.

John walked into the courtroom, fidgeting under the constraint of yet another silk tie. He’d almost go back to being a cop again if it meant he could stop wearing these damn business suits. Trying to pretend to himself that he wasn’t looking, his eyes searched the packed room for her. He faltered as he saw her sitting on the far side of the room. Surrounded by her children, her face seemed to glow. It took a conscious effort to wrench his eyes forward and concentrate on getting through another day of this interminable trial.

Moving through the preamble to the summation, his actions were wooden. He didn’t even try to fake being a ‘nice guy’ for the jury. At this point, he couldn’t summon the will to care. Leaning back in his seat as the prosecution droned on about the evidence against him, he indulged himself in a bitter memory.

She fights to be free, though she must know she doesn’t stand a chance. He wraps his fingers in her jacket, shakes her hard enough to rattle her teeth. Anything to make her calm down, to make her stop fighting him. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t....

She does understand him. She knows him better than he knows himself. Her eyes are clear, they see through him as if he were made of glass. But the truth she sees is not the one he wants. “People always have choices, John.”

People always have choices…

Hell, he had known he was a danger to her. He’d always known it. He’d just been too damn selfish to let her go and now they all paid the price. His choices, her life in ruins. He would not make the same mistake twice. Willing the trial to end so he could get out of Salem and away from her, he refocused his attention on the judge as he ordered that jury deliberations begin.

Marlena stood outside the courtroom, trying to decide whether to go in to hear the verdict read. She knew if she went in he would see her. If he saw her, he would come to her and she wasn’t certain she could face that. Looking into those blue eyes, remembering the heat of his touch… She had tried to turn him away once before. She had tried to hate him and she’d had very good cause. In the end, it had mattered not at all…

She sprints through the woods, ignoring the pain in her ankle. He’s right behind her, just as he always has been. She knows she can’t run fast enough to escape. She runs anyway.

It is the right answer. It is the only answer.

She hadn’t been able to let him go when she believed he was Stefano. She wouldn’t be able to let him go now. Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she sent up a prayer that God would watch over him. Before she could change her mind, she walked quickly away from the courtroom doors. If she couldn’t face him and turn away, then she wouldn’t face him at all.

He only realized he was looking for her when he felt the disappointment of not finding her. The kids were back in the corner, but she was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t certain if it was a good sign or a bad one. Sighing inwardly, he stood to face the judge as the verdict was read.

John tried to stirup some interest in the verdict, but couldn’t find the energy to care. Either way, he was out of here tonight. Dimera had already cleared his return to Europe and he had no intention of visiting the states again any time soon. Better to leave now, while he still could.

He almost missed it when the judge said, “The defendant, John Black, is found not guilty. This court is adjourned.”

Jefferson was slapping him on the back and he tried to put some enthusiasm in his ‘thanks’ but his eyes were drawn away. She was there. She was watching him. He had known she would come just as he knew he shouldn’t look. Then again, nothing about them ever should have been. For a sliver of a second, she froze, gazing back at him with the same hazel eyes that haunted his dreams. Without a sound, she turned and slipped out the door.

His breath caught and he stood staring at the place she had been. He never should have looked. The image was burned into his brain. Her face, her eyes, and beneath the flowing dress, the full breasts and the firm swell of her belly. A child. Their child. He never should have looked. 

-----