As the ship continued to pitch and roll, adjusting for the landing platform, Jaxon thought more about a potential escape. Flying through space created certain difficulties for breaking away, but once he was in a breathable atmosphere, the playing field was level.

He looked down at his shackled ankles and judged his stride to be about 12 inches. The bindings at his waist allowed his arms to freely move about the same distance in each direction, but not enough to effectively aid in any heroic maneuvers. He had to get out of the shackles first. At least he was free of the lashing cable, being held securely by a simple seatbelt now. Perhaps if his timing was right, he could pop his release button and spring onto his captor and immobilize him long enough to search for a key to his restraints.

Jaxon looked at the man in black, trying to gauge his alertness, when he suddenly returned Jaxon's gaze. It was almost as if he knew precisely what Jaxon was thinking.

"Don't try it, buddy," he said, dropping the magazine into an empty chair. The man in black sat upright and crossed his arms, glaring straight at Jaxon.

Well, the cat's out of the bag on that plan, Jaxon thought.

Moments later, a loud concussion reverberated throughout the cargo bay as the landing gear touched down. The vibrations beneath his feet subsided almost instantly. That's when Jaxon felt a faint movement, almost as if he was on the water. Have we actually landed on a sea platform?

Jaxon was aware that several private organizations had been using the floating landing pads since earlier in the century, but they were only utilized for non-habitable missions. Jaxon wondered what else might have changed since he last set foot on earth.

As this new situation began to set in, Jaxon returned his thoughts to his escape plan. He knew how to swim, and despite being off earth for such a long period of time, he still remained in good physical shape. He was confident that he could swim with ease, despite being shackled as he was. Granted, he'd have to swim like a fish, utilizing his abdominal muscles and leg kicks for propulsion. He just wondered whether it would be a better alternative than staying captive to who knows who.

With a rough escape plan in place, Jaxon decided that his best chance for success was to get near the edge of the landing platform. If he could then catch his captors off guard, he could simply jump out into the water. The likelihood of one of them following was pretty slim. Or so he thought.

The man in black unfastened his seatbelt, stood, then adjusted his posture. A common maneuver when returning to the gravity of earth after a long space flight. "Up," he said, staring directly at Jaxon.

Jaxon attempted to stand, but his own seatbelt was still fastened. "A little help?" Jaxon smiled.

The man leaned down and unfastened Jaxon's seatbelt before gripping him firmly by the shoulders, lifting him upright.

"Thanks."

The man in black guided Jaxon forward, toward the cargo bay door. As they neared the door, Jaxon felt the grip strengthen around his arm and slowly pull him backward. With his other hand, the man triggered the door release, and the pressure seal whispered softly. The pressure equalized with the environment outside and the door slowly grinded open. Once it was clear, Jaxon saw a ramp already touching the landing platform below. The man shoved Jaxon forward, causing him to nearly trip down the ramp.

The salty air infiltrated Jaxon's nostrils instantly. "Ah, earth."

As Jaxon was guided down the cargo ramp, he glanced back to see the type of ship they were flying on, hoping to determine its origin. No visible insignia appeared anywhere on the hull. There wasn't even a vessel number stenciled on the hull, which he thought was mandatory for galactic travel.

Once on the landing platform, the man guided Jaxon toward the edge of the platform, practically inviting him to carry out his plan. Jaxon watched the water carefully the closer they got to the edge, judging the swells of the sea. In the distance, Jaxon saw the horizon, where the sea met the sky. There was no land in site in any direction. They were at least a few miles from the coast and that worried him. His ability to swim was not in question, but the presence of sea life was. The ocean was full of predatory mammals, and Jaxon knew he would be nothing more than an appetizer for any one of them.

When they reached the edge of the platform, Jaxon quickly decided to deviate from his plan when he noticed a stairway leading down. About halfway down the steps, Jaxon was met with two more men coming up. They had equally menacing looks on their faces.

"Hi there," Jaxon said, trying to be disarming in his approach. "How're you doing today?"

They both ignored Jaxon as they squeezed by, continuing up to the platform.

Confusion began to set in. Jaxon had thought they'd have more guards around. And the first two people he encountered, besides the man in black, walked by him without concern. Who are these people? Jaxon wondered.

As they reached the bottom of the stairway, the man in black steered Jaxon in through a portal, then down a long corridor that ran the length of the landing platform. About midway down the hallway, they came to an unmarked door. The man in black straightened then knocked.

Motion could be heard from the other side of the door seconds before it swung open, instantly revealing the identity of his captors.

Perry Evans stood before him.

"Well, if it isn't Jaxon Rasner," Evans said, thrusting his hand out to greet Jaxon.

"In the flesh," Jaxon tried to accept his hand, but because of the shackles, it was nearly impossible.

"My God, man. Dispense with those bindings, now," Evans said sternly. The man in black quickly obeyed, removing the restraints from around Jaxon's waist before kneeling down and removing the shackles from his ankles.

"Now, where were we?" Evans asked. "Oh yes, it's good to see you, old friend," he said, pumping Jaxon's hand at the same time.

22.

"You son of a bitch," Jaxon snapped as he ripped his hand back from Evans. Evans' face turned from happiness to surprised shock.

"I ... I don't understand. I thought you would be at least a little bit glad to see me, considering-"

"What? After you tried to have me killed? Can't you tell when somebody's trying to remain unseen?" Jaxon asked, his anger building.

"You've got it all wrong, Jaxon. It was me, us, the company-we saved you. If it weren't for Miles here, you would have certainly been killed in Sector 45. He and his team had been tracking you ever since the fiasco on Taloo Station."

"Then if it wasn't you, who was it?" Jaxon asked, confused. "And you knew about me being on Taloo Station?"

Evans smiled. "Absolutely. I've known about you and your little tea shop for quite some time. I recognized the signs of burnout in your eyes years ago and knew precisely what your next move would be. I talked with the director at the time and convinced them that it was okay to let you out ... for the time being. As for who it is that's trying to kill you, my guess is as good as yours. Perhaps it's somebody from your past, and they are seeking revenge."

Jaxon began to pace in circles, trying to reassemble the past 48 hours of his life. The fact that the company knew that he was alive the whole time further baffled his mind.

"And what about Gillette? Did you know about him as well?" Jaxon asked, stopping his gait.

Evans lowered his gaze. "It appears that Gillette wasn't as fortunate as you. Yes, we knew that he was alive and well in Luna City, but he wasn't our target ..."

"But you said that I wasn't on your hit list. What do you mean your target?" Jaxon demanded.

Evans held his hands up to assuage Jaxon. "Slow down, Saber. It's not what you think. Yes, you were targeted, but for employment reasons only. You have to trust me when I tell you that our relationship is much deeper than a working relationship. I've been your handler, and friend, since the very beginning, when I recruited you into the company. I care for you, Jaxon. You have to believe me."

Hearing Evans' words caught Jaxon off guard. "What kind of employment were you targeting me for? If you knew I wanted out-hell, I faked my own death just to get out of the assassination game. What makes you think that I'll come back to that?" Jaxon asked.

Evans sized Jaxon up. "You know, you are really quite a mess right now. How long did it take for you to grow that beard? Did you just stop shaving the day that you and Gillette destroyed the space elevator?" Evans asked, a smirk on his face.

"What. Job?" Jaxon demanded, ignoring Evans' attempt to change the subject.

"In due time, my friend. We have a bit more in our journey before everything will be revealed. Please, why don't you follow Miles? He'll get you ready for departure. Also, we're fully aware of the open hit order on your life, so everything's pretty hush-hush right now. We're not taking you back to the company quite yet, and the director will reveal everything to you personally. But we have to get to land first and then get you to the safe house. Once we're secure, the director will arrive and explain everything."

As Jaxon tried to remain focused on Evans' explanation, he couldn't help but notice a nervous tic in his demeanor. His eyes twitched as he avoided eye contact. Jaxon knew he was holding something back, but what?

Jaxon followed Miles back out and further down the corridor until they came to yet another stairwell. They descended another level down into a closed-in boat dock. Tendered at various points along the platform were half a dozen speedboats and small yachts. Miles led Jaxon through the docks until they arrived at a sleek titanium-colored yacht that Jaxon instantly recognized. He'd remembered training for a number of missions on that very yacht and believed that it was Evans' personal craft. It all started to make sense.

Miles stepped onto the boat and led Jaxon into the lower level and into a windowed cabin. "There's a change of clothes for you in the closet. You also have an en suite if you want to freshen up."

Miles started to turn and leave when Jaxon stopped him.

"Hey, sorry about back on the transport ship, but I didn't know ..."

"No worries, boss. I was just following orders. I knew you didn't belong in restraints, but my own hands were tied ... if you catch my drift."

Jaxon understood. "Good enough."

"Good enough," Miles said before walking out and closing the cabin door.

Within fifteen minutes, Jaxon felt the engines fire up, and the yacht disembark. As soon as the momentum shifted to a higher speed, he decided a quick shower and change of clothes was in order. As he shed his ragged clothing, most of which was covered in soot and debris from the grenade explosion on the moon's stairwell, he was happy to see that his wounds were healing quickly. He'd always been a fast healer and was pleased that that part of his life hadn't changed.

As he mindlessly washed under the hot, steaming water, his mind remained occupied with the only thing that mattered to him.

Who was his killer?

He continued hashing through his past, trying to figure out who it might be that had it in for him.

23.

Seventeen years ago.

Brutus confidently strode through the streets of Guadalajara, despite having only been in the city a few times before. Being an American in a world filled with so many incensed natives would normally be suicide. He felt safe, though, because of his connections.

As he approached their arranged meeting location-a quaint cafe with both indoor and outdoor seating-Brutus wondered if enough time had passed since the assassination. He was taken by surprise for even getting called upon for an in-person meeting so soon.

Brutus would've preferred to sit outside, under a faded umbrella to enjoy the warm weather, but the now controlling heir to El Tonto was still reluctant to be seen out in the open, due to his facial disfigurement.

Stepping inside, Brutus walked past the barista without a word. He walked deeper into the cafe, toward the rear. Near a back hallway, most likely leading to private storage rooms, he found an inside corner booth that was almost completely out of the public view. There were three men sitting around the table, two wearing dark-colored sport coats and one in a light-colored polo shirt. Brutus reminded himself once again to not stare out of common courtesy.

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Guzman, but your city continues to confuse my navigational skills," Brutus said, standing in front of the table.

The man in the polo shirt nodded silently to his companions, and they promptly left the booth for another table, just out of earshot.

"Please have a seat," Guzman said. "Perhaps if you'd learn the language of my people, you wouldn't be so easily confused."

Brutus smiled as he slid into the booth. "I've tried many times. But it's the verbs that continually trip me up," Brutus said, maintaining eye contact in an effort to not glare at the hideous wounds on the side of the man's face.

"You'd be surprised at what a little effort could do for your learning ability," Guzman said. "I trust your trip was pleasant?"

Brutus nodded. "Absolutely sensational, thank you. It was kind of you to send a car to pick me up at the airport. I'd almost certainly have been delayed even longer if I hadn't been able to get to the hotel in such quick time." Brutus chuckled.

Guzman nodded silently but maintained eye contact with Brutus.

"I am pleased to see you're out and about. Have you experienced any aftereffects due to your injuries?" Brutus asked, noting that he couldn't completely ignore the deformities on Guzman's face.

The man smiled and lightly touched the discolored scar at the side of his head where his ear once had lived. "Other than the unyielding hearing loss, I'll be fine. The doctors tell me that the scarring is going to be a permanent exhibit to my persona. And that is quite disheartening. I've only recently started stepping out into the public-the looks that are given to me are involuntary, but are still more hurtful than the recovery period has been."

Brutus nodded. Having never experienced such an injury, he had trouble finding the right words. "I can imagine. But, with the influence of your family, I'm sure those glances will diminish with time."

"Oh, yes. My family," Guzman said, his face turning red. "The stature of my dead father no longer has any ground. He was an ugly man that had committed heinous crimes on society. His power was that people feared him, and I was quite content distancing myself from that lifestyle. But, as you can imagine, the incident from a year ago has ... changed my perspective," Guzman said, touching his scarred face once again.

Brutus understood. He'd privately known the Guzman family for many years, long before the assassination, and at the time, everyone thought that assassinating Ignacio Guzman was the right thing to do. Nobody could have guessed the repercussions of that decision.

"Regardless of El Tonto's atrocities, he was still my father-he was still family. Since his death, my mother has been a complete mess. She's become more addicted to the drug that my dad once peddled through the streets of this very city. As much as I've tried to help her, she continues to resist. I've tried everything, and I fear that vengeance may be the only cure for what ails her."

"Vengeance? For an unknown assassin?" Brutus asked.

"That is why I called for you, my friend. I remember you and my father meeting many times through the years, and I know he respected you despite your position at the GSA. I'm here to ask-to plead for your help. If you can discover the identity of my father's killer, my family would be very grateful."

Beads of sweat began to materialize on Brutus' temples. "You have my full devotion, Mr. Guzman, but I'm not sure how much I can help. At the time of the assassination, we had no agents in your country, let alone at your location," Brutus lied.

"But couldn't you investigate? I know you and my father had an occupational relationship, and I would like to extend the same courtesy to any of your agents. I do not need quantifiable results, just the identity of the person who gave me this hideous scar. I will take care of things after that."

"Absolutely, Mr. Guzman. I'll look into it personally, as well as put my best man on the job. If you could just give me a month or so to develop an adequate cover story, things could move much smoother."

"It's Pablo. Please, call me Pablo," Guzman said, leaning forward with intensity. "Take the time you need, but not too long. I want this revenge not only for my mother's sake but for the sake of my people. Despite my father's drug dealings throughout the world, this is a small community, and everyone has felt a shift in power. It is my plan to regain that power my father once had."

Brutus nearly gasped aloud. "But what about law school? Weren't you recently accepted into Harvard? Think about the power that you could bring to the community with such a notable education and degree."

"I am done with the education system. My community needs me now, not in five years," Guzman demanded.

"I, um, I don't know what to say. Am I to assume that you'll also need the GSA to extend the same professional courtesies to you as we did to your father?" Brutus asked cautiously.

"Initially, no. Production has been at a virtual standstill since the day he was killed. It is going to take me some time, at least half a year, to reach those production levels again. As we move closer to that moment, I am sure you and I will have yet another conversation. But, until then, please devote your attention to finding my father's killer."

Brutus and Pablo continued their uninterrupted conversation well into the afternoon, with Guzman feeding Brutus as much information that he knew about his father's death. Which wasn't much. The cat and mouse game that Brutus hoped ended with El Tonto's assassination had just reared its ugly head.

24.

After docking at a quiet mainland port, Jaxon was escorted from the yacht and quickly shuttled into a compact van with darkly tinted windows. He was accompanied by Evans, Miles, and another unidentified man. Having been off planet for nearly a decade, he'd anticipated a more modern approach to vehicular transportation, but that wasn't the case today. The van they were in was an older model vehicle, typical government transportation, that he remembered.