"Oh, my ... oh ... I'm sorry. This old wedding band's seen better days." The man finally grabbed hold of the handles to his walker as Will rubbed the underside of his forearm. "Wife's been dead for the better part of eleven years now; just been too lazy to take the ragged thing off." He reached into his pant pocket and drew out a handkerchief. "Got a little scratch there, better wipe it clean."

Mendenhall held up his hand. "Nah, it's all right, I'll put a Band-Aid on it when I go in the back. You take it easy now. If you need a hand getting back across the street, you ask the clerk at the counter, and he'll get you there."

"I'm much obliged, son, much obliged, but look here, there's that damn bus now." He smiled and made for the door. Will shook his head and held it open for him again. He waved as the old man slowly made his way to the street, then, looking both ways, went across.

Mendenhall rubbed the scratch and watched as the old man waved, wobbled once more, and then smiled as the bus doors opened. Will turned away and went through the back, or gate 2 as it was known, and into the underground maze that led to the top-secret Event Group.

The old man sat at the rear of the bus where there were no riders, leaning the walker in the aisle as he sat heavily into the large backseat. He chanced a last look out of the tinted bus window and watched the Gold City Pawnshop slide past. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the black man, knowing that standing that close to him would have made his death that much more unexpected and pleasurable. However, the man wanted Mendenhall together with the other members of the Event Group, so they would meet their fate at the same time. They would meet his wrath, his vengeance.

The man reached up and peeled the gray moustache from his upper lip and pulled the grey wig from his head, and then pulled out a bottle of aloe lotion and squeezed in into his hand. He slowly rubbed it into the skin of his face, loosening the glue he had used to create the realistic-looking wrinkles and removing the makeup-induced liver spots.

When he felt his face was clean, he watched the casinos on the strip slide by, and as he did, Colonel Henri Farbeaux, an archenemy of the Event Group, missing for the past year, caught sight of his own reflection in the window, a face that now held little humanity. Like everything else, that had been lost in the Amazon Basin well over a year before.

Farbeaux had lost his wife Danielle while he himself, against every natural instinct he had, helped the Event Group save the lives of young students on an expedition to the gold mine El Dorado. He lived because of a moment of weakness brought on by Colonel Jack Collins and his heroics in saving the group. He had assisted Collins, and paid for this weakness with the loss of his wife.

Yes, Colonel Henri Farbeaux needed to seek what he longed for in the last year--vengeance against the men and women who had cost him everything, Danielle and his faith in himself. Jack Collins and the rest of his people would learn that Henri Farbeaux was here, and those responsible for his thinking he was human would die.

He spread his hand out on the window and totally blotted out his image.

The room was cast in total darkness. The man sitting upon the bed rubbed the area around his wrist where the handcuff chafed his skin. His thoughts were on removing that handcuff chained to the railing of the bed and ending on his right wrist. He couldn't swear to it, but he thought he knew how to get the restraint off of his wrist. How he would know this was beyond him. The elderly man, his doctor he assumed, had said that his memory would be shaky for a day or so after waking, but to think he had a memory of how to escape handcuffs was worrisome and problematic. Was he a criminal? Was that why he would know? In addition, he had seen several people, men and women, enter his darkened room to check on him and bring him meals. Upon study, he had decided that he could handle them physically as well.

The man leaned back against the headboard of the steel bed. He was thinking about what he could remember. Only his death came to mind. A strange thought to say the least, only because the answer was right in front of him, as he was obviously not dead.

Through the wall and steel at his back, he was feeling movement. He knew this because he had a keen sense in his stomach that said he was moving. Every now and then, he had noticed the pitcher of water on his nightstand sway, indicating that whatever transport he was on was turning. Therefore, what little memory he had said he was on a ship.

The door opened. He shielded his eyes with his free hand as someone, or was it two people, stepped into the room. They quickly closed the door, shutting out the lights from a hallway beyond. The man heard shuffling, and as the dim light of a desk lamp came on, he saw the old man, the doctor, but he felt a presence in the back of the room. This person stood by the door and was watching him. He knew it, felt it.

"Well, my friend, it's time for you to leave us," the doctor said with a half-smile.

"Who are you?" the man asked, making no move to sit up.

The doctor laughed. It was a mournful little chuckle that wasn't mirth, but a sad sound.

"I apologize, but aren't you more concerned on just who it is youare?"

"I know that will come soon enough, but if I'm leaving you, I would like to know who you are."

"We're friends. Will that satisfy you for the moment?" the voice said from the darkness. "The doctor informs me that as soon as he triggers your memory with your name, it will all come back to you."

The man tried to peer into the inky blackness beyond the foot of his bed. He could barely see the darker shape as it stood against the far wall. Then the voice emerged again from the darkness.

"You are going home. I just wanted to tell you before your departure that I am a great admirer of yours, and of the men and women for whom you work." The female voice hesitated, then continued. "When you get home, tell your people you were treated well and that you were dealt with respectfully. In a few months, my wish is that I may still be able to call you friend. The doctor will now explain where you are, and who you are."

The door opened. The bright light flared once more, and the woman left the room. The man could see she was tall, at the very least six feet; she was dressed in dark green and her hair was jet-black, but that was all he saw before the door closed.

"It's not often that she would grace someone she doesn't know by speaking to them. But then again, I should have thought she would. I'll tell you this much, she visited you at least three times a day. It was quite unsettling to my sleep cycle having her pop in at ungodly hours," the doctor said in an English accent.

"Who is she?" the man asked, finally sitting up on the edge of the bed.

The doctor laughed again; this time the humor came through his hardy sound.

"Who she is, at the very least, is a loaded question. Suffice it to say she springs from a family of geniuses and is, by leaps and bounds, the most brilliant human being the world has ever known. Just leave it at that." The doctor shook his head but kept the smile on his face. "When all is said and done, go away with the knowledge that she respects you. That is something you will be able to tell your grandchildren. She spoke to you and she liked you; not many can say that."

"Am I supposed to be honored?" the man asked, clinking the chain that held the handcuff in place.

"Oh, that. It was for your own protection, until your memory cleared up. We didn't exactly know how you would react when you awoke. Your ... how should I put this? Ah, your preeminence in the art of death precedes you, sir."