Weber Industries had designed this building to be cutting edge, like a lot of Weber Industries' holdings. But for the life of him, Monroe couldn't figure out what kind of incompetent would have designed ramps as tight as these. Who were they for, Mini Me?

The Jag circled around the ramp and whipped around the last corner before the street. Suddenly, Monroe saw something ahead of him and had to almost stand on the brakes to get the car to stop.

"Ah, h.e.l.l..." he said, slapping at the leather bound steering wheel.

Parked directly in front of him, blocking any exit, was a beat-up flatbed truck. Its driver had obviously misjudged his departure and gotten the d.a.m.n thing stuck. Or he'd just stopped, not caring who might be coming up behind him. He leaned his head out his side window and noticed, almost subconsciously, that the flat of the truck's bed seemed slightly too wide for it to have ever made it into the lot.

"This idiot must have been backing up and hit the building," he said to no one but the empty car seat next to him.

He looked in his rear view mirror to see if he would be able to back up and use another exit, when an old Dodge Dart pulled up just behind him. Frustrated by it all, Monroe honked his horn twice, its tone echoing back through the cavernous structure.

After a moment, the Dart's driver slowly got out and he walked past the pa.s.senger's side of Monroe's car. Monroe couldn't make out the man's face due to the baseball hat he wore low over his brow, but then again, he didn't much care. If the guy was able to get the moron in the truck moving, who was he to complain?

Monroe sat for a minute or so and watched as the Dart's driver crawled over the back of the truck and on toward the left side. The guy peeked into the driver's side door and then reached into the open window. He took a leisurely glance up and down the street and then crawled back the way he'd come. Once back on solid ground, he came back toward Monroe's side of the car. He kept his head down as he walked, his face remaining cloaked in the shadow beneath the brim of the hat. As he got closer, Monroe noticed the guy slide his hand into his coat pocket.

Monroe looked into his rear view mirror again and checked behind him. There he saw the Dart still idling, the car door still slightly ajar. Monroe lowered his gaze and prepared to talk to whoever the Dart's driver was. He briefly took another annoyed look at the truck in front of him. He a.s.sumed that whoever this f.u.c.ker in the truck was, he must have left his vehicle and just run off someplace.

Some people were just so d.a.m.ned inconsiderate.

Monroe glanced at the clock on the dashboard and momentarily thought of calling Claire. If this s.h.i.t didn't straighten itself out in short order, he was going to be late for their dinner reservation.

The guy driving the Dart had by now come up to the Jag's window and knocked once and then once again with the meat of his knuckle. Monroe rolled his window about halfway down, enough so that he could communicate with whoever the guy was, but not so wide as to leave himself vulnerable should this guy decide to start some s.h.i.t. He may live uptown now, but Monroe had once lived downtown and he still retained some of his street smarts.

"So, did this idiot leave his truck or what?" Monroe asked and leaned out a bit to look toward the truck.

"Not quite..." was the grumbled answer.

Monroe was startled a bit when he heard the voice. For some reason, the tone and timbre of it sounded vaguely familiar. Monroe wasn't sure exactly where he'd heard it before, but he knew the tone from somewhere. Maybe the guy was a maintenance guy in the building or something. Suddenly, he thought he caught the scent of bubble gum on the air.

"Well, what the f.u.c.k then...?" he said, pointing toward the flatbed. "How do people just do this kind of s.h.i.t?"

The man outside bent down and stared Monroe full in the face. His eyes flared beneath the shadow of his cap and he smiled. The smile was malicious and shark-like with lips that slid back and exposed teeth that seemed impossibly white.

Monroe's brain sort of stalled and he felt more than a little bit confused as he abruptly found himself face-to-face with the one thing he thought he would never see again: Cleese.

And yet, here he was... looking smug and lethal and all too real.

"I think that, right now, you have problems far greater than that f.u.c.kin' truck, Phil."

Monroe sat, mentally vapor locked as he tried to sort it all out in his head. A lot of information flitted before his brain in a cascade of images that didn't seem to make much sense. Despite his best efforts, he just couldn't make the connections fit.

He'd been on his way home.

He was going to meet Claire.

They were supposed to go have dinner.

There was a truck.

A Dodge Dart.

Some people were inconsiderate.

And now... Cleese?

It took Monroe a second to put it all together, but when he did, the conclusion he reached made his bowels suddenly loosen.

Cleese pulled his hand out of his pocket and drove it straight across the lower part of Monroe's face. His head was pushed painfully back through the window. The blow rattled Monroe's jaw pretty severely and he felt his mouth suddenly fill with blood.

"That was for what you did to Monk, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Monroe's head spun from the concussion of the punch and the world sort of tilted on its axis as a result. As he tried to clear his head, he reached over feebly and pushed the b.u.t.ton to roll the window up. It was the only thing he could think of to put a barrier between himself and Cleese.

It was all for naught.

Cleese grabbed the window by its uppermost edge and, in a series of quick, back and forth yanks, he pulled at the pane of gla.s.s. The first tug rattled the gla.s.s in its frame. The second sprouted a spider web pattern that radiated out from the top down. The third shattered the window, sending nuggets of glazed gla.s.s cascading into Monroe's rapidly dampening lap.

Suddenly, there were thick hands at Monroe's throat and he was unceremoniously hauled from beneath the steering column and out through the broken window. Chunks of the still remaining window scratched his back and legs deeply, allowing blood to flow and soak the material of his pants. Once clear of the window frame, Cleese hoisted Monroe into the air and then slammed him heavily into the cement wall. The force of the impact rattled Monroe's teeth in his jaw and shook his eyeb.a.l.l.s in his head.

Again and again, Monroe felt his back and skull crash into the cement. His already dizzy world was further clouded and the black fog of unconsciousness slowly crept in. As his mind fought for some avenue of escape, two uppercuts plowed into his lower abdomen, kicking the wind from his lungs. Then, he felt his body arc through the air and pound onto the hood of the Jag.

Yeah... that's definitely gonna scratch the paint.

Out of the corner of his eye, Monroe saw Cleese pull something dark and hard and round from his pocket. He clenched the ball tightly in his fist, his knuckles white from the exertion of holding it so tightly.

Then, the hailstorm of punches commenced.

Monroe only felt the first few as Cleese repeatedly pounded the heavy ball into his face and chest. Far off, Monroe heard the sound of his nose crack. Then, his cheekbones splinter. Small, hard chunks of enamel were torn from his gums and fell like pebbles to the back of his throat. The snapping of his collarbone took the breath from his lungs. His sternum ached from the repeated bludgeoning.

Out at the far borders of his perception, Cleese's voice echoed in a stream of profanities.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the beating stopped.

Monroe made a thick gurgling sound as he fought to catch a breath through the decimated anatomy of his face. So much for that "unique skill set."

As he lay there, Monroe wasn't sure how severely Cleese had hurt him, but he knew it was bad. Blood flowed freely down his throat and he did all he could to either spit it out or swallow it. He tried as best he could to turn his head to keep himself from drowning. The thing was... he was only barely able to keep up with the flow.

Abruptly, Monroe once again felt himself being hoisted slightly off the car hood. Cleese had him by the lapels of his jacket with one hand and by the belt with the other. For some unfathomable reason, he felt his attacker pulling on the front of his pants. An unexpected and extremely localized pain suddenly erupted at his crotch.

Fighting for breath, he realized that Cleese had let him go. He fell back, splayed across the hood of the Jag. He lay there and groaned, alone with the pain in his face and a sudden weight in his groin. At first, Monroe thought Cleese might have stabbed him or cut him in some way.

Jesus... no!

Still trying to catch air, Monroe reached down into the front of his pants and felt around. Shoving his hand under his beltline, he discovered the small, round object Cleese had been hitting him with stuffed down deep into his shorts. The thing now snuggled against his b.a.l.l.s like a purring cat. He reached down and got a hold of it by pressing the object deeper between his legs. Whatever the thing was, it felt like a metal apple with what appeared to be a fat stem sticking out of the top of it.

He turned his head and looked back down the ramp through the growing haze. Cleese stood a ways away, back beyond the Dart and just around the corner. His middle finger was raised defiantly.

"And that... is for Chikara!" he shouted, his voice echoing dully as he disappeared around the bend. The sound of his receding footsteps echoed in the darkness.

Monroe barely felt a thing as the fragmentation grenade exploded in his lap.

Solemnities The sun burned overhead like an indifferent parent on the day Masterson visited Philip Monroe's grave. It had been a little over three weeks since the funeral and this was the first time he'd been able to come and pay his respects.

For obvious reasons, he didn't go to the service. He'd been advised by the police as well as League Security that it wouldn't be safe; wouldn't be "prudent." There were still no official suspects in what was being called a deliberate incident. However, if the person who bombed Monroe's car was who Masterson thought it was, he prayed for Monroe's soul and for his own.

He slowly looked around him, glancing over the headstones and foliage of the cemetery. G.o.d, this was a depressing place; a dark and lonely dumping ground for people who felt the need to warehouse their past. The idea of squandering good land and good resources just to remember people seemed downright stupid to him. Let the dead be dead and let them fade in the memory of the living in their own good time.

He laughed, deep and with resonance. These were macabre observations coming from a man who made his living dealing with the living dead. He'd seen too much life and too much death to think of it any other way.

The cemetery where he now stood was obviously old, most of its headstones dated back to the early Forties. Once manicured lawns now stood abandoned, its landscaping left to be choked by weeds and kudzu. A lot of the marble structures were blackened at their seams, mildew and rot patiently eating away at the expensive, polished stone. Monroe, who'd had no real family to speak of other than a girlfriend, did, as it turned out, have an aunt who had left him a deed to this burial property in her will. Its placement-in this cemetery, in this plot, in this manner of procurement-implied a grave that was soon to be forgotten. At any rate, it was a joke burying what was left of Monroe in a casket. With what remained, a Tupperware container would have sufficed.

If he allowed himself to think about it, Masterson was almost impressed by how Cleese had moved in such an unexpected direction. A direct frontal attack was not something Masterson thought he'd been capable of. It was a smart move. He supposed that Cleese would be heading his way next. It's what Masterson would have done: minimize the liabilities, take out any compet.i.tion. And that didn't even take into account the whole revenge angle.

But then again, Masterson thought that Cleese just might give him a pa.s.s on this one, preferring to observe him from afar. He could all too easily imagine Cleese watching him spend the rest of his life in paranoid antic.i.p.ation of the death he'd be dealt rather than simply just killing him and having done with it.

He'd want to f.u.c.k with him.

It's exactly what he'd done that first day in the Orientation Room back at the Compound.

Which brought him back to Monroe. That stupid s.h.i.t had pushed things way too far. He'd compromised them both by not being able to keep his f.u.c.king mouth shut. Wishing Cleese good luck... for chrissakes! He'd pushed Cleese and poked him and prodded him until the man had no choice but to react. And then there was that outburst at the Training Hall. He might as well have admitted to complicity in the whole mess. What an arrogant p.r.i.c.k. He pretty much slapped a target on Cleese's back and signed his G.o.dd.a.m.n name to it.

It was right after the initial meeting at Corporate, Monroe told him about deciding to give Cleese a clip of blanks during a match. He wanted to "step it up a notch." Masterson thought it was too risky and had too much potential for blowback, but Monroe was intent on showing Cleese who was in charge.

But it had been Weber who gave the go-ahead. He said it was a solid show of force and would "set the tone" of their relationship.

They all knew it would make great television.

After that, Cleese had been a wild man; totally unchained. He'd fought harder than ever and his ratings soared. Everyone should have been happy. They were all making a ton of money. Upper management and Mr. Weber had decided-with Monroe's cheerleading-to throw yet another challenge at Cleese. For no other reason than to show him who was in the driver's seat here.

Once and for all.

The results had been mind blowing. Ratings for that night's match and the subsequent replays were astronomical. Merchandise revenue went through the roof. h.e.l.l, even some station affiliates that were starting to whine about the level of violence on the shows had fallen into line. Cleese had overnight become the most popular fighter The League had ever known.

It was all too perfect.

And then, in the same evening, Cleese up and disappeared.

The selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Masterson had by now arrived at his car, a sleek black Lexus LFA. The car had been a gift from Mr. Weber as a sort of reward for Cleese completing his training in record time. The car was low to the ground with a 4.8 liter, 552 horsepower V10 engine that would purr like a kitten or growl like a beast depending on the person behind the wheel. The car was magnificent.

Masterson hated the d.a.m.n thing.

Every time he looked at it, all he could think of was Cleese.

And doing so always made his sphincter tighten.

He took a deep breath and looked at the cemetery around him as he dug in his pockets for his keys.

G.o.d... what a s.h.i.thole.

Suddenly, his cell phone chirped in the left, breast pocket of his suit coat. Transferring his keys to his other hand, he reached into the folds of his jacket and retrieved the small black gadget. His finger slid across the front screen and the phone did the rest. He held the phone to his ear and stared across the bonnet of the Lexus.

"Masterson," he said.

Inside the earpiece, a familiar voice spoke, its tone sounding tinny through the small speaker.

"Masterson...? Weber."

Masterson stood a little taller, a result of years of standing at attention when a superior officer spoke. When he realized no one was around, he relaxed just a bit.

"Yes, Sir."

"I asked these f.u.c.king morons for an update on this Cleese thing and, well... these f.u.c.kers couldn't find their a.s.ses in the dark with a flashlight and a map."

"Yes, Sir."

"So... what do you have for me?"

Masterson paused and thought. He hated having nothing to report, but... well, he had nothing to report. Cleese had, by all accounts, vanished off the face of the earth. His crib was empty. The dump he lived in back in San Francisco was a meth lab now. h.e.l.l, even Weaver claimed to not know where he'd disappeared to. And that wasn't even the worst of it.

The money.

No one in the organization could explain how Cleese had managed to vaporize with the amount of money he did. There were supposed to be fail-safes to prevent that sort of thing. Once again, Cleese proved himself to be a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for.

"Masterson?" the voice in his ear asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"The Cleese thing..."

"Well, Sir, we're still looking into it. So far, there's not much to go on."

The voice on the other end was silent for a long time. With each pa.s.sing second, Masterson felt another bead of nervous sweat crawl down his back. To his surprise, Weber's response was not the one he antic.i.p.ated.

"Well, no matter... Given enough time and resources, we'll find him."

"I apologize, Sir. I take full responsibility. This whole thing has been a bit of a bust, Sir."

"Nonsense! Have you seen the latest financials? Revenue is still climbing. Merch is as well. The Internet is buzzing and people are talking, man. I think Weber Industries can survive some errant bone-breaker walking off with some pocket change, don't you?"

Pocket change? Masterson heard the sum Cleese had disappeared with was a lot more substantial than "pocket change." Rumor was... he could have bought himself a small country with what he'd taken.

"Yes, Sir, but... we did have losses."

"Well, sure... But anything worthwhile comes at a cost, now doesn't it? And if that cost is an employee or two, well..." and he laughed under his breath, "those are acceptable losses. Look, if we gain this kind of revenue and are able to clean our yard of some troublesome debris, well..." another laugh. "h.e.l.l, that's a win-win by my count."

"Yes, Sir."