He listened harder. And Derek continued to study him, lifting an eyebrow, in mute puzzlement. "There," whispered Craig. "Do you hear it? I hear people talking." Derek shook his head. "You're nuts. I don't-" A sudden crack sliced through the silence, and cut directly through Craig's eardrums. It was distant and muffled, but there was no mistaking that sound. He'd grown up in New York. And just like always, his

heart began to thunder against his chest. And then there was no mistaking the distant echoes of human screams. But just as suddenly as they had erupted, they were cut short.

"What was that?" exclaimed Derek as his eyes flitted about the room. "Somebody fired a gun. And somebody else didn't like it." Derek looked at him in disbelief. "That came from inside the house. That can't be right." Craig tapped into a fresh wellspring of energy and adrenaline. Acting purely on instinct, he headed through to the other room. The kitchen. "Yes it can. There's somebody in the house."

"Then...we should call the cops? Shouldn't we?"

"You call the cops if you want, I wanna know what the hell is going on."

Derek hesitated as Craig made his way past an enormous central island, and breakfast nook. His eyes

scoured the walls and cupboards. He even examined the floor and glanced at the heating ducts. He was looking for something. It just took him a moment to figure out what. He halted in front of a wide bay window. "A basement. First tell me if there's a basement under this house."

"Duh," replied Derek. "Every house has a basement." "Not in California they don't."

Derek blinked. "Oh. Okay. Sure, there's a basement, a cellar actually, but nobody'd be down there. It's old and damp, and it has a dirt floor. Whoever it is must be upstairs. Maybe on the third floor. It's hard to tell, the way sound travels in here."

Craig shook his head. "No. I don't think so. Don't ask me how I know, but I do. It came from under the floor."

Derek set his mouth in a grim line.

Craig persisted. "Show me."

Derek stared at him, his eyes wide. "Hang on a minute." And he was gone.

"Derek," yelled Craig, but not too loud. He hadn't really intended to face some maniacal gunman all alone. He wanted Derek's hulking frame beside him. Or, better yet, in front of him. Preferably holding a big sheet of bulletproof glass. Or maybe driving the tank.

But Derek had an even better idea. He appeared a moment later with a rifle.

Craig's eyes went wide. "Where'd you get that?"

"You probably didn't notice but this was hanging over the fireplace in the library."

"But..."

"Franki told me once that Sloan's dad always kept it loaded. For emergencies."

Craig nodded and swallowed. "I guess this qualifies."

"Yeah." Derek walked past Craig and headed to the far end of the kitchen. He pulled on a panel that

Craig had assumed was just part of the wall. But the thick maple swung open freely, revealing a whitewashed wall, and a set of rickety wooden steps. They stepped through and Craig heard the murmur of a man's voice.

They crept quietly into the gloom.

"Please," whispered Bree through lips wet with tears. "Please, please, please." She wasn't sure who she

was pleading with-God or the Devil. Maybe God was far away, gazing down upon his children with detached concern, but the Devil was right there in front of her. Sweating and ranting and holding a gun to his brother's temple.

She tugged at her bindings, even though she knew it would do no good. Her wrists ached and her head throbbed. Her eyes were scratchy with fatigue, and a fear as sharp and heavy as a medieval mace had settled in her gut. But despite the intense physical sensations, the scene still seemed surreal. Distant. As if it wasn't really happening to her, but to a character in a book or one of Sloan's movies.

Perry continued to drone on, relating his inane account of Troy's sins, but his words ran together like gibberish in Bree's brain. She caught snippets like infertility, infidelity and bribery, but it took every ounce of willpower and restraint to remain quiet as Perry's explanation drew to a close. Perry had placed the gun to Troy's head after they all screamed their outrage and terror. Its presence and the promise that he would use it if anyone uttered a word, motivated them all to keep silent.

Troy hung from his bonds-a Christ figure minus the cross and the divinity. He seemed as limp and lifeless as a corpse, and she bit her lip as she wondered if he was, indeed, already dead. The wound in his stomach had already leaked copious amounts of blood onto the dirt floor, and she couldn't see his chest to determine whether or not he was breathing.

She blinked away more tears and allowed herself a glance at Sloan. But his eyes were riveted on Perry. Absolute, undiluted rage and loathing were carved into his features, and she knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about latching his hands around Perry's scrawny neck and squeezing until his eyes bugged out and his tongue hung from his mouth, limp and purple in death. She knew that, because that was exactly what she was thinking.

She cut her gaze to Franki. And this time her eyes locked with her friend's in a shared moment of despair.

But then Perry's voice demanded their attention. "Well? Any questions, boys and girls?"

"Yeah," replied Franki. "Exactly which reptile spawned you? Your mother must have hatched you from an egg because there's no way in hell you're human."

But Perry merely smiled. He removed the gun from Troy's temple and lifted his brother's head with a fist under Troy's chin. His eyes were closed and blood had begun to leak out of his mouth, but Bree caught a movement of his chest. He was still alive.

He let go and Troy's head flopped down. "Not dead yet," he mused. And then he turned his gaze on Franki. "Now what was your question again?"

"You heard me, slimeball," she sneered through her own tears. "If you want to know the truth I'm relieved you didn't fall for my seduction techniques. I think I'd rather die than fuck a toad."

Perry stepped over to her and raised the gun. He pressed it firmly against her forehead. "Very well."

Bree and Sloan both screamed but their voices were drowned out by another voice-a deep bass that resonated through the cellar like the god of thunder. "Get away from her!" commanded Derek Waters.

Bree searched the shadows until she found him. His descent down the cement stairs must have been drowned out by Perry's riveting narrative. Derek had never been one of her favorite people, but at that moment she fell madly in love with him. And the glint of the rifle barrel pointed at Perry's head was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life.

But Perry didn't move. In fact, he smiled. "Derek! My one true friend. My partner in crime."

Derek stepped closer, well into the murky pool of light that illuminated their misery. His eyes flitted to Troy. He pressed his lips together and when he returned his gaze to Perry, and the gun that Perry held on his sister, Bree saw something flash in his eyes. They turned as hard and cold as flint, and she wondered if perhaps he wasn't as sweet and slow as she had always thought him to be.

"I was never your partner, Perry. And now I know I was never your friend." He stepped closer. "Move the gun away from her and let's get help for Troy." Perry frowned. "This is so disappointing. I would have thought, of everyone, you would understand." "Well, I don't. And if you hurt her I swear I'll kill you." "I kill her. You kill me. Either way she's dead." "And so are you," growled Derek. Perry clucked his tongue. "Such a pointless argument. Even if you killed me, you'd never forgive yourself if she died. When did you develop this noble streak, anyway?" He shook his head like a disappointed father. "The noble brother protecting his sister. But you weren't so noble when you beat that poor man to a pulp, though, were you? You're just like me, Derek. You're-"

"That's a lie. I never touched him. Craig helped me to figure it out. It was you. And you just got me drunk enough to believe I had done it."

"Craig?" whispered Franki. "Where-"

"Quiet!" shouted Perry.

Franki winced when the muzzle of the gun rammed her head back against the pole.

"He's not bluffing, Derek," shouted Sloan. "He's killed before. He killed your father. He killed all of them."

Derek's eyes narrowed and Bree could see his finger tighten on the trigger. "You killed him? You did

that and then you stood beside me at the funeral and acted like you cared?"

Bree heard something skitter behind her in the blackness. Normally a mouse or rat would have set her skin to crawling, but no beady-eyed rodent could hold a candle to Perry Elliott.

"You judge me?" seethed Perry, his face flushing pink. "You judge me when you have a whore for a sister."

"Perry..." warned Derek.

"She threw herself at me today, you know. Why do you think her shirt is ripped?" To illustrate his point Perry moved a little closer to her and with his free hand reached down to touch Franki's chest. "I felt her up and she practically begged me to lay her down and screw her."

Bree could hear Derek's breath coming in short, barely controlled bursts. "Shut up, Perry. Shut the hell up! And get your damn hands off her!"

"Oh, but she likes it so." He glanced down at her and smiled. "Don't you, you little vixen?"

Franki spat in his face.

Perry's hand recoiled, and he wiped her saliva from his cheek. His eyes blazed and the gun remained, seemingly glued to Franki's head. "You'll pay for that. I'll die happy if I can take you with me."

With disbelief, Bree saw Perry's finger tighten on the trigger, but Sloan's shout of, "Behind you!"

distracted him momentarily.

Perry looked at him and laughed. "Gimme a break, Sloan. That's the oldest trick in the book."

"Is it?" said Sloan slyly.

And then Bree saw it. A silent figure appeared out of the blackness behind Perry.

Too late Perry realized his miscalculation. His head had barely turned to find his attacker when a blond maniac appeared out of the darkness behind him. And the blond maniac was clutching an ax high above his head.

Perry never had a chance to defend himself. And he never got a chance to pull the trigger. In fact he would likely never pull another trigger as long as he lived, because that ax came hurtling down-a decisive sentence from a silent judge.

The ax connected with flesh and bone, neatly severing Perry's arm at the elbow. Bree looked on in disbelief as Perry staggered back, blood gushing from his stump and soaking Franki's clothes. He gazed with bewilderment at his hand, which lay forlornly in the dirt, still clutching the pistol. Nausea swirled through her, but even as she felt the blood rush from her head, and knew that she was about to faint, she realized that they were safe. She glanced at Sloan, and he was the last thing she saw before the world faded to black. * * * * * "Holy shit!" screamed Sloan. "Holy fucking shit!" Craig stood over Perry's writhing, screeching form, gazing down on his victim with the same kind of bewilderment that had washed across Perry's face a moment earlier.

He looked at Sloan, his eyes wide and his mouth slack. "I found the ax in the wood pile. I just wanted to make sure he couldn't fire the gun." "Well, I think you managed it," said Sloan as a strange giddiness washed through him. Finally Franki's cries seemed to cut through Craig's shock. He dropped the ax and fell to his knees beside the severed limb. He wrenched the gun out of the hand and threw it into the darkness, as if somehow it might come back to life and threaten them all. Sloan suppressed an hysterical giggle, and watched as Craig bent to untie Franki. And then Sloan sensed another pair of hands working at his bindings.

"I guess this means I owe you one." He feigned a scowl.

"Nah. I think we're even," said Derek when the knots slipped loose.

Sloan's hands finally dropped to his sides, and he slumped against the wall, suddenly weak with fatigue

and relief. "All the same," he whispered. "Thanks." "Forget it." Derek's face was grim. "Help me with Troy." As he and Derek worked at releasing Troy, Sloan called out to Craig, "Can you get to Bree? And then you better call for an ambulance, and the cops." "Already done," called back Craig. "I ran back up and called when we saw what Perry had done to Troy."

"I was the decoy," added Derek. And then he amended in a whisper, "Don't tell Craig, but the rifle wasn't loaded. I couldn't find any damn bullets." Sloan glanced in Craig's direction as Troy fell against him and he eased his friend to the dirt. Craig, his straight-and-narrow, low-key, never-take-a-risk friend had just risked his life and hacked off a man's arm to save his friends. Sloan watched as the next hot topic of Hollywood gossip and his best girl locked together in an embrace that tugged at Sloan's heart. He blinked away tears and glanced at poor Bree who was the last to be freed.

His heart stopped beating. She wasn't moving. She... "Bree?" he screamed, torn between helping Troy and rushing to her side. But in a heartbeat, Craig reached her. "It's okay," he called. "She just fainted. She's already coming around."

Sloan breathed a sigh of relief and finally looked down at his friend who lay bleeding in the dirt. He pressed his fingers to Troy's neck. The pulse was weak and irregular, but it was there.

"They'll be here soon," soothed Derek. "He'll be fine."

Sloan stripped off his shirt, and pressed it to Troy's stomach. "You better make sure Perry doesn't bleed to death," he whispered.

He glanced in Perry's direction. He had finally fallen quiet, in his frantic efforts to stem the bleeding from his stump. "I want that bastard to live forever, locked up in a tiny room with a big, horny, repeat sex offender."

"All right," growled Derek, as he stood. "But his bleeding to death would be justice." He walked over to his former friend who squealed and tried to scurry away into the darkness. Just like a rat.

"Yeah," said Sloan under his breath. "In more ways than you know."

At last he heard the wail of sirens. And then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to look up to know that Bree had joined him.