People go about their lives in their own way. Some believe the world is against them. Some believe the world is their's. But when your world has been destroyed, what would you do? What would you pay, to get some part of it back. What would you pay, to balance those scales? At what price; love? At what price; safety? At what price; sanity? At what price, justice? At what price; Revenge? *Warning- Does contain hyper-violence*

 
Chapter 1
client #815
"Everybody knows."

Tires hummed as they rolled over the road. Legs were pumping, to churn the crank, pulling the chain which turned the sprocket and spun the wheel. Slight braking then coast into a turn to come out pedaling strong to regain speed. The occasional car sounded its horn in passing as the road racing bicycle flew past. Early morning, before rush hour, was the perfect time to ride. People on sidewalks waved to the colorfully garbed rider passing them by. Finally a turn and the bike peeled off onto the Greenway. A path around the center of the city for pedestrians and cyclists to travel safely. It was almost as wide as a road's single traffic lane, but marked into three lanes. Pedestrians walked in either direction down the middle lane and bicycles rode the two outer lanes depending on their direction.

Daryl Tempton pushed himself to speed up more. Only recreation and sporting cyclists rode at this time window. In what seemed like no time at all, he had covered his distance and turned off again, onto regular roads. He was deep in the city toward the Northeast He lived on the Southern side on the edge of the city limit. By car, a thirty minute drive. By bus, an hour. By bike, almost forty-five minutes. That was Port Klasten. Once a medium-size port for mainly fishing boats, now a off-loading site for merchant vessels. Cargo came by ship, train, truck and even planes; switched to a different carrier and went back out.

Some time ago, the city went under a revitalization. Various ideas used by other cities were implemented. The biggest was going Green as much as possible. People were encouraged to use public transit or other methods that didn't require petroleum fuels. Biofuel and electric vehicles became prevalent as well as bicycles. Streets were upgraded and many decaying areas became gentrified. In other words, the city cleaned itself up. The outlying areas didn't change much, but the city itself did. Major corporate stores were discouraged to not locate, or if they were already there, to relocate. Independent business came back. The old, classic, Mom and Pop stores returned. Neighborhood shopping.

The warm fuzzy feeling of nostalgia didn't last long. As the big corporates moved out, other organizations moved in. Syndicates. Organized crime went up. It was quiet and almost imperceptible. Before anyone could understand what had happened. Various mobs and gangs now had the city in a stranglehold. Public officials, police and others of influence sold out the dream. A city destined to become a glittering jewel along the Pacific now teemed with crime.

Daryl slowed and stopped in front of a small building then dismounted the bike. Slowly he walked toward the door, stretching his legs as he did. Port Klasten didn't look it. It was beautiful and clean. That was only on the surface. The face. Underneath, it was rotten and fetid as a cesspool. All manner of criminals had taken over, but it was organized. It wasn't an unshaven teen wearing saggy-pants and gold chains with a ball-cap turned sideways that was a threat, it was a well-groomed young man wearing a suit that was. Prostitutes didn't stand on corners in provocative clothes to ply their trade to passers-by. They looked like any club-goer, office-worker or simply person going out and about.

Daryl changed into jeans and t-shirt with a bicycle logo on it and covered some of his long blonde hair up under a backwards ball-cap, an elastic band to hold the rest in a ponytail finished his look. After opening the roll-up door that covered most of the front, including window, he turned around the sign proclaiming Open. Port Klasten had become a place to run away from a person's past. The perfect place; to be unknown. In Daryl's case, a bicycle shop guy. He sold bikes, he built bikes, he repaired bikes. Off-road, children's, cruisers, racers. If it was a bike, he was a guy to go to. Business was steady for the past three years. So far the big crime had not made serious effort into this small area. The main reason for that being, a large public park dominated it. Other areas of the city were more lucrative.

"Good morning!" A feminine voice called from the open door.

Daryl looked up from the counter. "Hi Gina."

A nicely dressed young woman came inside. "You called, it's ready?"

"Sure did." Daryl nodded and went to the back room and came back walking a women's cruiser bike. "I straightened and repainted the frame and replaced the wheels."

Gina said angrily. "I can't believe they did all that trying to steal it! It's just a damned bicycle!"

"Be glad it wasn't a carbon-fiber frame. They'd have snapped it. Lucky for you, metal can be straightened. Well, except those wheels. Those were totally gone." Daryl informed her.

Gina looked at the invoice and slid her card through the reader then signed. "I'm too scared to drive, Daryl. It's not safe anymore. I don't mind riding everywhere now, sometimes it's fun."

"Yeah. I don't mind getting up a little early to come in. I can really get out there and rip. Busy day ahead?" Daryl asked.

"That would be nice." Gina smiled then turned serious and spoke lower. "I heard there's a guy going around now. Telling people to pay."

"You mean a protection guy?" Daryl asked.

Gina nodded.

Daryl shrugged. "If I see him, I see him. Won't be good for him, if I do. I'm not a nice guy."

"Daryl, you're the sweetest I know." Gina smiled.

Daryl smirked. "You don't get out much then."

Gina giggled as she walked her bike out and waved. "You won't ask me."

Daryl's expression changed and a feminine voice replied. "You don't know me. Otherwise, you'd run screaming."

For the rest of the morning, Daryl worked on bikes needing repair then closed up to go a few doors down to have lunch at a little restaurant. It was family run and there was a backroom for certain neighborhood customers to eat quietly in. That was where Daryl sat. After lunch he went back to work. A bike was brought in for servicing, which only took a few minutes. Another was dropped off for repair. Mid-afternoon saw a young man, looking no older than 19 walk in. Daryl noted he wore a sport jacket, polo shirt and chinos.

"City or Off-road?" Daryl asked.

The guy shook his head. "I don't ride."

Daryl came around the counter. "What's up?"

"Insurance." He replied.

Daryl regarded him intently now. Built, athletic, around two-hundred pounds and just over six feet in height. His hands looked heavy. Possibly a boxer or other hand-to-hand type.

"So you're the guy." Daryl surmised then went on. "Heard a couple of people say there was a guy coming around. Protection racket. That you?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You pay, no problems. Don't pay."

Daryl wanted to smirk at the hanging statement and its implication. If he didn't pay there would be problems, from him and whomever he was working for.

"I won't pay. Try to make me and you won't like it." Daryl countered then added. "And if they push it, neither will they. It would be; detrimental to their health and outlook on life."

Aaron was confused. This guy was refusing. In fact, he sounded like he was openly challenging them to come after him. Daring them.

Daryl gave him a bored look. "This is the part where you run out saying you'll be back and there'll be trouble."

Aaron shook his head. "Naw. I just bust you up."

"Yeah?" Daryl perked up and even looked excited. "ALRIGHT!"

Aaron just barely brought up his fists and took stance when the bicycle guy was on him. Six punches connected; a gut-shot followed by one to the cheek then another to the solar plexus and four to the face. Suddenly he felt his collar gripped and was yanked off his feet, dragged outside, down to the sidewalk and literally tossed to it.

"Next time, you better bring money. I don't work for free." Daryl stated and used his foot to shove the guy trying to stand up face-first to the pavement from behind.

Aaron finally gained his feet and stumbled down the sidewalk as people looked on. Some with satisfaction, as he had already extorted money from them. His boss wasn't going to like this. He didn't understand it himself. He'd been a state-champ boxer twice and yet, the bicycle shop guy just hammered him in front of everybody. He didn't even get one punch in at all. The guy was all over him before he could even blink. He hit hard too. And fast. And very accurate. The guy beat him like it was his day-job.

Half an hour later he stood in front of Lowell Fontana.

"You look like shit, what happened?" The crew leader asked.

Aaron shook his head. "I dunno Mister Fontana. I went to that bike shop. Guy knew right away, why I was there. He said he wasn't gonna pay."

"You explain that he'd start having trouble if he didn't?" Fontana asked.

"That's just it, looked like it kinda got him excited." Aaron reported.

Fontana laughed. "You scared him."

Aaron shook his head. "Not that kinda excited. More like he gets to have fun kind. Then he handed me my ass. He was all over me before I could do anything. He threw-down like it was a job."

One of the other men asked. "You said this guy does bikes?"

"Yeah. Not motorcycles. Bike-bikes. He works on 'em and stuff." Aaron explained.

The enforcer nodded. "Still a type of a mechanic. He pulls wrenches and all that, daily. He probably rides them too, so he'd be in shape."

"Like you'd know." One of the others joked.

He shrugged. "My cousin's kid does the bike thing. Races and stuff. He works out and all that. Those guys get pretty serious about it. You might think they look easy, but they aren't. They can get pretty strong having to ride up hills and stuff. Some of 'em even get up as fast as cars in the city. Mechanics always give problems because they work and it shows. Some can actually scrap too. I don't mean guys at dealerships. I mean guys that work in garages. I never heard of any school for working on bikes, so that means he come up all on his own."

Fontana mulled that over. "So you're saying he'll be stubborn."

"This place is big on people riding bikes. Shops should be all over. They aren't. This guy's been around a while. Not forever, but a while. They say he's the go-to guy." Aaron commented.

The first enforcer nodded. "More my point. If he's that good, to stay in business, then yeah. He's stubborn, but knows his shit. He won't cave like others, he'll fight."

"Well, the more immediate concern is he did fight. He made you look weak Aaron. Can't have that. Others will think they can do the same and that hurts collections. Go back tomorrow and throw down. Mark him up more than he did. Do that, and today won't count against you." Fontana ordered then waved him out.

Aaron went out. This was bad. It was first time he'd failed. That somebody had gotten over on him. He'd have to make it up. Otherwise he really would be in trouble. Almost all the money he was making was being sent to the foster parents keeping his little sister. she had no choice in the matter, being only 13. He was just barely 18 himself. Without a steady job that paid real money, he couldn't get custody of her. His only choice was work street-level and make up the ranks fast to an office position somewhere. In an office, he actually drew a check and even paid taxes. A paper-trail the social-workers could accept. He stopped for a burger and went back to his rented room.

Daryl had just finished opening for the day when the guy from the day before came in.

"Forget something?" Daryl smirked.

Aaron went on the offensive. He moved in with his fists up, bouncing closer, lightly. He threw a jab and had it slapped away, along with the follow-up. He planted himself and began trying to get inside for a good body-shot. It wasn't working. The bike-guy knew fighting too and was able to deflect the blows or angle his body to lessen their impact then edged back to begin blocking them. Aaron now knew he was fighting a martial artist. Not the kind that struts around a dojo or competition ring; the kind that fights in the streets, where there is only one rule. If you win, you can live. Aaron had some fuel though, he had a sister to take care of. It wasn't making a difference. When he showed his determination to win, the bike guy lost all sense of amusement and took on a look of hatred. That was when it all changed, and not for the better. Aaron felt the hits become harder, sharper. There was even a snap to them. The guy knew how to work on somebody and was good at it. Once again Aaron found himself being dragged to the sidewalk and dumped. An hour later he was dumped again, outside a hospital, in worse condition.

Daryl was ignoring the news while eating lunch the next day.

"Hey Daryl." a friendly voice said.

Daryl looked over and saw a middle-age woman in a skirt suit stting down at an adjacent table. "Hey Brenda. How's it going?"

"Busy." she replied then looked up to the television and gave a look of disgust. "Ugh!"

Daryl looked up and read the line. "Murder, huh? They got the guy already?"

Brenda looked angry. "It's frame-job for a body-dump. I got the guy as a client an hour ago. It's so obvious, it stinks to high Hell."

"Not the first, won't be the last." Daryl remarked then asked. "Cops in on it?"

Brenda sighed. "The usual, paid to look the other way. The techs have good evidence I can use though. Already secured that. I'll get him off clean."

"Don't get cocky." Daryl reminded as he sprinkled lemon-pepper onto the carrots. "So what's the biggie?"

Brenda finished telling the waitress her order. "The real victim was a trafficked girl. Poor kid, only 13 or so. My guy's in solitary for protection until I can get him bailed in a couple of hours."

Daryl shook his head. "13. That's just all kinds of wrong."

"Gets worse. Whoever had her was really twisted. Has to be important, the cops are trying really hard to close the case. Thing is, they act like this isn't the first time one like this has turned up, but there's been no reports before." Brenda commented.

Daryl sipped his water. "Probably isn't. First time people know though. Not too many reasons for that. Only one I can think of."

Brenda thought about. "Not so much what happened, but to whom?"

"Likely. Message to somebody." Daryl offered.

Brenda sighed. "Her brother is in the area. Word has it, he's on a shake-down crew. Practically a kid himself. Used to Box back in school. He was 16 when their parents died in a car accident. She went into the system, he got turned out. "

Daryl looked over. "Boxer on a shake-down crew?"

"Yeah. You know him?" Brenda asked.

Daryl asked. "Got a picture?"

Brenda nodded and pulled a file from her case and handed it to him.

Daryl read it. Typical street-kid. Suspected muggings, fighting, hustling. The picture nailed it though and he handed it back. "Yep."

"Don't tell me he's been working the neighborhood?" Brenda asked.

Daryl nodded. "Yep. Tried it on me. No idea who he got before."

"Damn Daryl. You didn't have to put him in the hospital over it." Brenda remarked then looked surprised when Daryl looked up confused.

Daryl was confused. "He walked off when I got done, both times. I didn't hurt him more than ice-packs and aspirin."

Brenda sighed. "Somebody did. I guess they didn't like him failing."

"The sister. She paid the real price for him." Daryl said sadly. "They did that to her, because he couldn't take me."

"My guy has 45K in savings. He offered it all to me to save him." Brenda said. "I'll take 32 of it and pass 30 to you. Will you take it, Dara?"

A feminine voice answered. "Yes. Stay away from the brother."

Brenda watched her walk out the back door.

It hadn't been long. Soon after criminals took over Port Klasten, a new breed of professionals began to surface. Revenge-brokers. For a price they would give a person vengeance, or justice. Sometimes poetically. Whatever they had done to someone, it was done to them. Several established names and reputations that quickly became whispered legends. Some were disgruntled cops or lawyers. Others were just average guys that had something happen to them and were fed up with the crime. Many didn't last long. It became the most dangerous occupation in the city. They soon found themselves being used as pawns by rival syndicates to take each other down. For the past two and a half years one stood above all others. Very secretive. No one could really confirm whether they were male or female. Some even said it was actually a group, working under one alias.

Aaron had lain in the bed all day, sobbing to himself after seeing the morning newscast. A nurse had put two and two together and called a cop. A detective came and interviewed him. He didn't say much. He didn't have to. The cop was just going through the motions and he could tell. He even knew they didn't have the real killer. Suddenly he didn't feel alone and tried to see. His swollen eyes limited what he could, so just about everything was blurry. Tears didn't help matters.

"Wh-who's there?" Aaron choked out.

A feminine voice answered. "Someone that can help you."

Soft, light footsteps came closer. "Your name is Aaron. Your sister was murdered. The man the police have, didn't do it. You know who did."

Aaron knew this wasn't a cop and simply nodded.

"She paid the price as your punishment. Who did you work for?" She asked.

Aaron sobbed. "Lowell Fontana. I couldn't shake-down some bike-shop guy and got my ass kicked. They beat me worse and killed my baby-sister!"

"Fontana belongs to me now." The woman said.

"What can you do?" Aaron asked.

The voice called back from a distance. "Get revenge."

"I can't pay." Aaron shook his head.

The voice replied. "I already have been."

The click of the door told Aaron that he was alone again. He wanted to warn her. Fontana couldn't be gotten to. He stayed under guard. Nobody could get close enough. They'd have to nuke the city to get him.

Dara sat in a dimly lit room, several screens faced her. An old Leonard Cohen song played softly as she worked. Information from various databases were coming in. All concerning one Lowell Fontana. The more she read, the more she wanted to do. He had been linked to various criminal factions all over the country, doing all he could to stay ahead of indictments. Four months ago he arrived in Port Klasten and took up with the Delain organization. He specialized in extortion and prostitution.

"So, you're a People-guy." Dara commented to herself.

Such a person had strengths and weaknesses. Weak, because they were always around people. Strong, those people were never strangers. Anytime he would meet someone new; it would be through recommendation, he would have his regular muscle with him and always in public that he could control. Nobody just walks up and says 'hi' to a guy like Lowell Fontana. Anybody that could, he would already know who they were. More than likely why as well. However, no one was completely safe. Everyone had a vulnerability. His could be found. His would be exploited. He would dance on the end of her strings.

A week of nights later, a ragged looking old man hunched as he walked towards the city for the third time. Sharp eyes, half hidden by bushy brows, watched a building as the bulk of lights went out on an automatic timer from under a layer of discarded papers and sheet of corrugated cardboard in an alley. A CO2 propelled pellet quietly shattered the lens of a surveillance camera then a security light. The newspapers and cardboard shifted and a head slid underneath, as if settling in for the night. Minutes later, a black clad figure wearing a backpack emerged from behind boxes and trash cans further down. They moved to the opposite side and crouched at the side-door. Within a minute, a soft click was heard. The door was pulled open and the figure slipped inside.

Daryl knew exactly where he wanted to go. The third floor, last door on the right. The stairs would have been faster and seemingly quieter, but it wasn't true. Cameras, motion sensors and other deterrents made the elevator the best option. He rode the elevator up and got out on the third floor. The only problem was a camera that looked down the length of the hallway. A laser pointer disabled that. It rested on a small stand made from a re-bent paperclip, using a mirror to aim it. Daryl quietly walked down the hall now that the camera was blind. Black thread tied to the laser spun off a bobbin as he went. He picked the lock and entered a reception area then continued on through an outer office, that looked more like a lounge, to the inner-office.

There were papers, as any office would have, but they were all used as a smoke-screen. Daryl wasn't surprised. Fontana would have all critical information on his person at all times. Usually encoded as well. Some carried laptops or tablets. Some had a PDA. The ones that still carried an old school little black book were the difficult ones. They used a cipher they had created themselves and only they knew the key. Those were the ones that gave cops and feds the most fits. Electronic encryption could be hacked. Paper and ink took time. A long time. Many times the symbols would have to be scanned in and run though a recognition program to establish true design. Characters per page and pages determined how long that would take. Only then could a program be used to try deciphering the code. In short, a minimum of months. At maximum, never. A scrap of paper under the desk made Daryl's chest tighten. It had hand-written code on it. Fontana was old-school. Things just became more difficult. More straight-forward, but difficult.

The more Daryl looked at the page, the more the symbols looked familiar. He started wracking his brain to understand why. Suddenly his phone vibrated and almost made him reveal his presence by shouting. Angrily he dug it out and looked at it.

Brenda: I have a problem. Call me now.

Dara: You almost gave me a heart attack! I can’t talk now. Text only!

Brenda: Judge being pressured to revoke bail. Prosecuting A.D.A, trying to suppress video from hotel cameras.

'Shit! They're trying to bury this.' Daryl thought.

Dara: Do lawyer stuff! I’m in motion Cannot stop. Bye.

Daryl shut off his phone, no more surprises. He began sealing off both rooms' air supply by gluing the cracks then cellophane wrapping the vents. A gasket went around each door then he positioned a small camera in the ceiling and ran the wire out through a hole in the wall that he sealed with wax. Finally a hose was snaked through the wall and the hole sealed by wax as well. The hose was attached to a splitter connected to a small compressed gas cylinder, similar to a Nitrous Oxide tank. It wasn't that though. The gas inside wouldn't be making anyone laugh. It was the most powerful general anesthetic available in that form. He then tampered with the doorknob. It would be locked on the inside. the door would only be able to open from the outside. Daryl went back to the outer door of the office and cracked it open. He pulled the thread and brought in the laser pointer. All would appear normal now. Quickly he concealed himself in the ceiling of the lounge. The waiting now began. Inside the backpack was a diver's closed-circuit rebreather.

Lowell Fontana went into his office with a smirk. Four of his men took their usual places sitting down, while a fifth held up a small black box. He nodded to Fontana and went out. The door was left open. Several times the men randomly got up and went out for coffee. Underlings came and went, dropping off cash and making reports.

Fontana picked up the ringing phone. "Yeah?"

He signalled the man closest to the door to shut it then spoke into the phone. "What's your problem? Look, we have the A.D.A. getting the bail revoked. We have people on the inside. Once he's back in, he won't be coming back out. No, he won't even last the day. The guy's lawyer is doing her thing too. Hey! None of it's going to matter worth a shit, if you don't get a handle on that little psycho of yours! We've been covering up his messes for quite a while now and it's been at OUR expense. Get him under control or get him somewhere it doesn't matter or cost as much!"

Fontana dropped the handset back to the receiver. "Fucking idiot."

"That Councilman and his punk are more trouble than they're worth, Boss." One of the men commented.

Fontana glared. "And you're lucky the office was swept for bugs. Don't ever do that again."

What they didn't know, was the detector only picked up radio signals. It would not detect a video signal over a wire and certainly not someone in the ceiling with an old school stethoscope against the wall. They also had no idea that the room was filling up with a silent predator. Once the door was closed, it was secure. It was also air tight. Slowly, one by one, the men began nodding off in their seats. Lowell Fontana felt tired and was about to say something. That's when he noticed that all his men were asleep.

"What the? OH SHIT!" Fontana exclaimed.

He knew he was in trouble, just not exactly how. Things were fuzzy and his vision was starting to swim. All he knew; was that he needed to be somewhere, anywhere, else at this moment. He tried. He got as far as rounding his desk when he succumbed to the attack and fell to the floor. The receptionist outside didn't look up when the inner door opened. If she had, she would have screamed at the sight. A figure in all black with a device strapped to his back with a hose going to his mouth approached and tapped her shoulder with a stun-gun. She would wake up bound and gagged in a closet to be found by very confused bodyguards later.

Lowell Fontana came to and looked up to see a balaclava wearing figure standing in front of him. "What the fuck?"

"A world of shit Fontana and you're deep into it." The figure replied.

Fontana became angry. "You're dead. Understand?"

The man shook his head. "You have no trackers on or in you. Nobody paid attention to me leaving the building with you in the box. Even if they did, I looked exactly like your guy Kirkland. He's not too concerned though. Comatose guys are like that."

"Well. So you knocked me out and grabbed me. Congratulations. Won't do you any good. The organization won't pay ransom. They'll just kill you. If it's information, you're still shit out of luck. I won't talk." Fontana said defiantly.

Daryl had been circling around him during the diatribe and chuckled then slapped the back of his head. "Got it all wrong there, sport. I already got everything I wanted. You were extremely cooperative."

Fontana noticed the syringe on the floor. It was recently used.

"What did you do to me?" Lowell demanded.

Daryl turned around a monitor and used a remote control. Lowell watched as he was injected just as he had come around. Every question was answered truthfully and without hesitation. Even the cipher key to the encryption he used in his journal. Worst of all, he gave up Councilman Abner Gloutner and his psychotic son Drew. Drew being the actual murderer and rapist of Aaron's little sister. He had already gotten leverage over the foster-parents. They practically delivered her like a pizza to him when he called, the first time Aaron failed to collect from Daryl. The doomed girl had been dressed specifically to drive Drew Gloutner into a lustful episode. Fontana knew with her just so, she wouldn't survive. It was his plan all along. It sent a message to all the underlings and took the councilman deeper into their debt.

Fontana watched in horror as the video showed him gleefully admitting to everything in great detail. Finally he shook himself.

"That won't do any good in court. Not that it'll see the light of day, anyway." Fontana said hotly.

Daryl tilted his head. "Court? What makes you think it will get used in court? As for nobody seeing it, I streamed it to the networks. Live. After the first four questions, I let them ask the rest. Want to see what you did for New York, Miami and Chicago? You even gave directions to body locations!"

Lowell Fontana was speechless. He had no reason to doubt the man in black. The fact he had given up all that he saw he had, was proof enough.

"WHAT THE HELL MORE COULD YOU WANT THEN?" Fontana screamed.

A pistol was produced. It was his own. The magazine was ejected, emptied and a single round tabbed into it then re-inserted back into the butt of the gun. He watched as it was set on the floor in front of him and the man in black walked away. An almost invisible door was opened. He then looked around better and now saw he was in a clear box. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out, the glass was bullet-resistant. The meaning was just as clear as the walls around him. The one bullet in the gun was for him. He could choose how he would eat it.

The man's voice came over a hidden speaker. "This is the part where I give you an option. Answer one last question truthfully and I release the cuffs holding you, or don't and I call Delain and tell him where you are."

After a tense moment of silence, the manacles released and he said. "You're empty and I texted him the location just as you came around. Him and his bunch will be here in a few minutes. They won't have any trouble getting the door open, from out here."

Lowell watched as the mystery man turned and left. He looked down at the pistol on the floor and slowly reached for it.

Five minutes later, a derelict lurched out of the alley and staggered down the sidewalk as angry men in suits, leading one that wore a face of fury, climbed out of cars and swarmed into the building then down to the basement. No one wanted to pay attention to the man carried out and placed into one of the cars. Daryl had heard the scream of horror when Lowell Fontana pulled the trigger on his own gun. Only to elicit a loud, resounding CLICK. The bullet had been fake. There would be no easy or quick way out for Lowell Fontana. The news services weren't the only ones to see the video. It had also been streamed to Delain himself. He got to see the full, unedited version. The networks started receiving the stream after certain questions had been asked and answered. Fontana was devastated. He had never been taken out of the building at all, only secreted to the basement.

Daryl had to hurry now. The A.D.A had been called off. Delain had been willing to deal. In exchange for Fontana and his involvement being left out; he would have to give up the councilman, his son, all actions in the neighborhood and give Aaron a million dollars cash, along with safe passage out of Port Klasten with the instructions to go clean. Delain was more than quick to deal. Fontana had learned entirely too much in the short time he had been in the organization.

Some distance away, Daryl was able to lose the vagrant disguise and wore only long shorts, t-shirt, sneakers and a large sport duffel. He looked like any number of young men coming back from a midday workout. A stop at a tram-station and he was able to switch out everything using a public locker and a pre-dropped bag. Fontana had even given up the main location Drew Gloutner stayed at. Also that a new victim was being delivered that day. A young Asian girl that had been trafficked into the country.

During the travel across town, Daryl called Brenda.

"Hey! What's going on?" Brenda asked immediately after answering.

Daryl replied. "Just go about normal stuff. The A.D.A. is going to back off. Keep doing your thing, just know that it won't get fought. I'm almost done."

Brenda paused then said quietly. "Now I know why the news got cut-off in mid-broadcast. You seized the signal, didn't you? You got to the guy."

"I'm not done yet. The real killer is still out here. Soon Brenda." The voice now switched to feminine. "He'll be dancing on my strings soon."

Brenda shivered as the call disconnected. At one time, she'd have never called upon such help. In fact, she'd have even helped the police bring them down. Until two years ago. On the night she was attacked in her own home and had her husband and daughter taken from her by one of her own clients. She had been a brilliant Criminal Defense specialist and worked for the top firm in the city. The money was good and she won her cases. Even though she knew many were anything but innocent. That all changed with one client. A man of incredible cruelty. A savage in a three-piece suit. The fact that she was charging him money was what set him off on her. He took out his anger on her family in exchange. That's when she met Daryl. That, was when she met the Puppeteer. Already notorious, the Revenge-broker told her in clear terms what it would cost to have what she wanted.

Brenda sealed fate with two simple words. Words that would be with her for the rest of her life. "I'll pay."

"Brenda? Is everything ok?" A scared young man asked.

Brenda sighed. "It's fine Gary. Don't worry."

"I didn't do it. I didn't even know that girl. They know that, don't they?" Gary asked.

Brenda felt sorry for him. He was the son of a friend and gay on top of all that. To think he would have anything to do with a little girl should have been laughable. He had always taken to older men. It wasn't a secret either.

"Yes Gary. They know." Brenda answered and wanted to both laugh and scream at the irony of it. "Everybody knows."

No one really paid much attention to the young woman with black hair slipping in through the side door. As it was a posh apartment building, they assumed she was an escort coming in to discreetly see a client. Dara moved as if she were a frequent visitor, taking the private elevator. Many of the buildings had them, mostly for the use of those she was pretending to be. As she stepped out of the elevator into the hall, a tube of lipstick was brought out of her handbag. The duffle was not out of the ordinary either. Many of the 'working-girls' carried them on calls. Needed wardrobe, and/or accessories, for the service were carried in such manner. How true that was, in this instance. She freshened her lip-color at the door and was still holding the tube as the bell was rung.

"Who are you?" A male in his late teens asked after opening the door.

Dara smiled. "Oh, I'm here to take care of you."

A look of confusion crossed his face as a soft puffing sound was heard. A sharp pain was felt in his stomach and he edged back. She followed him inside and closed the door as he fell to the floor. Dara dropped the bag and dug into it. She brought out cuffs, ankle shackles and a fetish-type ball-gag. Drew was secured in seconds. Dara moved through the apartment. She found what she was looking for in the bedroom. The Asian girl was awake and terrified, tied down to the bed. Apparently the main event had yet to begin for her.

Dara removed her gag and asked. "English?"

"Some." The girl said timidly.

Dara nodded. "You have to go. Will the dress I'm wearing fit you?"

The girl frowned. It looked like it would be big on her. "I try. I go?"

Dara nodded as she released her. "Yeah. You definitely go."

After taking off the dress and handing it to her, Dara had to sigh. The dress was at least one size too big. It would have to do though. They weren't the same body dimensions, but to somebody that didn't care, a girl with long black hair wearing a black dress came in then left. Dara showed her to the window and pointed down to the street.

"Go that way. There is a Thai restaurant close by. They will help you. Ask for Trahn." Dara instructed then had her hold up her right wrist.

The girl watched in confusion as a short length of black string was gently tied around her wrist then another around her other wrist and handed her a card. "Go. Pretend you live here. Go fast, but don't run."

She understood the words, since they were simple and did as she was told. The dress didn't fit and she was barefoot, but she went anyway. The American woman had told her a secret way to escape. As she stepped around the body of the man that hurt her, she wanted to at least kick him. The woman wanted her out fast though, so she didn't get to. He had already raped her once then taunted her with a knife. She knew he wanted to kill her and rape her again as she died. She read the small card. It was for a Thai restaurant. Lia took the secret way down and out through a door. Outside she walked quickly in the direction she had been shown. At the place she was told to go, a man saw her come in and took note of her appearance then seized her wrists.

"You saw?" He asked.

Lia nodded. "You are Trahn?"

He nodded and led her to the back. "We will get you home."

"Who was she? Why did she help?" Lia asked.

Trahn looked at her in confusion. "You are mistaken. The Puppeteer helped you. He is very dangerous."

Lia shook her head. "It was a woman. She was pretty. Even gave me her dress. I saw her body. She was no man. Why did she tie these strings to me?"

"No child. You saw the Puppeteer. The Puppeteer can be anyone they want to be. Very dangerous to evil people. Those strings tell me it was him. when I saw the Puppeteer, he was a man and spoke as a Russian. You have seen the Puppeteer and she was an American woman. Come, let us get you clean and dressed so you can go home soon." Trahn said.

Back at the apartment Daryl finished changing. He even pulled on a latex face mask with wig attached after getting dressed in male clothing from the bag. The way they had brought in the girl, was exactly how he would take out the boy. In a trunk, using the private elevator. He brought out his phone and made a call.

"I'll be down in five minutes. Get ready for me." Daryl said when the call was answered.

Five minutes later he pulled the trunk out, using a wheeled cart and brought it over to a minivan. The hatch-back door opened and he loaded it inside. The door closed and he climbed into the passenger seat.

"The usual place." Daryl said to the driver.

The older man nodded and drove away. Thirty minutes later they pulled inside a warehouse at the edge of the dock area. Daryl unloaded the trunk and closed the door.

"Come back at 4 a.m. Ben." Daryl said.

Drew woke up and felt uncomfortable. He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes and couldn't move. He opened his eyes and they began to focus. He was strapped down to what looked like a cross between a table and chair. He was on his back, but tilted slightly head up while his arms were straight away from his body. His legs however were spread and elevated while bent at the knee. He was also naked. His body felt sore, as if he had been doing all his favorite things for days.

"Oh, you're awake again." a female voice stated.

Drew could only move his eyes and saw the speaker. She was tall, moderately built with long dark hair and stunning. She came closer and regarded him then slowly drew her nails down his torso. It made him quiver.

"Who are you? What's happening?" Drew asked.

The woman continued, now teasing him with her nails and replied. "Someone not nice and something VERY bad."

Drew's body was betraying him by responding to her, which seemed to be exactly what she wanted. "My father is a councilman. He knows people."

Dara continued with her nails on him. "His so-called friends are rather busy right now, trying to cover up their connections to him. You have more pressing concerns. You've been quite the little psychopath. Doing all those horrible things to girls. If it all came out, you'd be touted as the most horrific serial killer along the Pacific coast. Rapist before that. And to think, it still wasn't enough. You had to keep trophies and made videos of them. My, my. It's going to be quite the treasure trove of depravity the police find in a few hours."

"No! No!" Drew denied. No one knew where he kept those things. Not even his father knew he even had them.

Dara slid a hollow cylinder down over his erection then placed a band to hold it on and maintain that fullness.

Drew eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

Dara leaned and purred. "You get off on doing such horrible things to girls. Raping them. Hurting them. Torturing them. Killing them. You really should share in the experience. I did ALL this; just for you. What a time you're going to have!"

A machine was brought over and aimed at his scrotal area. It had a long phallic attachment on the end of a rod. Then a robotic looking arm with a blade was brought over and a cable looped around his neck. Drew now felt fear.

Dara pointed to the one situated underneath. "That machine is going to have you experience what it's like to have someone inside you and taking their pleasure. That's not all it does. It's going to hurt you. The inside was hollow. It isn't anymore. As it STROKES your inside, spikes are going to extend outward. That precious hole of yours is going to be torn to ribbons, Drew. Just like you did to those girls."

Drew looked at it in horror. He would be raped and shredded in the process. He was about to do nothing, but scream.

"This clever thing." Dara said and patted the robotic arm. "Is going to randomly cut your body, all over. Some deep, some shallow, some long and some short. Everywhere, but your face and jewels. No, no, Drew. You're going to be attractive and intact. This thing here is going to suck. It'll draw every drop of juice out of your dick and keep going. You can forget about it slipping off after you pop. That band doesn't just hold it on, it keeps you hard. You're going to wish it gets cut off. I hear that if such a device is used for too long, it actually starts pulling blood out. Bet you can't wait to find out if that's true!"

Drew Gloutner was now terrified and she wasn't done. A slight tug at the cable around his neck refocused his attention back to her.

"I'm sure you already know; strangulation does some fascinating things during sex. Well, it's going to take you to NEW heights as well!" Dara announced then looked at her watch. "Wow! So early. It's just barely 10! Well, let's not waste a second of your time. Enjoy Drew, all this; JUST for you!"

A remote control was held in front of his face and a button was pushed. The sound of a machine starting its action was heard and he felt a tightening around his penis just as something nudged his anus. A moment later, there was a savage thrust into him then repeated withdrawal and insertion as he howled. Soon he felt sharp tingling inside himself and pain. The noose around his neck began to tighten and the cylinder on his shaft started a stronger pulsing of suction as a blade slid across his left pectoral. He went from yelling to gurgling as his vision began to get fuzzy. This was only the beginning. In minutes he would become hoarse from his protests of things that were not going to stop for hours to come.

All day long, the news ran the story. Councilman Gloutner's son had been found dead and dumped in one of the Councilman's many secretly owned properties. The local stations had received a video file via an anonymous email account. Drew happily recounted every vile thing he had done, including the recent rape and murder of 13 year old girl, provided by an associate of his father, which was being pinned on the son of a man that refused to cooperate and fund his father's reelection. One little detail was being held back from the press. Though Drew Gloutner's body had been found dressed post-mortem, he had also been found with several black strings tied to his body. Ankles, wrists and neck. Strings that had been roughly cut and frayed at the free ends.

The Detective in charge had looked on in fury and muttered. "Damn you, Puppeteer. One day I'm gonna catch your ass and sell it to the highest bidder! I have IAD crawling all over my ass now, because of you!"

Daryl shut down the monitors and silently padded to his bedroom on bare feet then laid down. It had been a long week. Just as his eyes began to drift closed he looked over at the picture on the nightstand. It was the only photo in the house.

"G'night, Dana. Everybody knows, sis." Daryl sighed and went to sleep.

To be continued.....