A crumpled pack of Hillboro's flew softly over the bar and landed with practiced precision in the center of the small wire-frame wastebasket. The sound's of another Eric Wright Love Ballad wafted away into the nothingness of the empty bar and the jukebox powered down, waiting silently for someone to feed it another three dollars for a sound or two. Half-heartedly, Malcolm Singer took another sip of his, now warm whiskey and glanced out the bullet proof plexi-plastic window.

A small row of gas pumps partially obscured his view. The bar was a long way from any PZ or NoGo, and thus did very little business other than passing cavalry or roving gangs who didn't want to destroy one of the last opportunities they had to pretend to be civilized. Malcolm saw the slight rise of dust as a vehicle rose over the hill and made it's way towards the Last Way Inn. He ordered another drink and moved from the bar to one of the tables along the outside wall. He kept his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. Another long white Hillboro slid easily from his pack and was lit by the time the door opened spilling dust, wind, and a well dressed elderly gentleman into the bar.

The man glanced at the bartender and then at Malcolm. He made his way to the bar. After receiving a tall glass filled with a vibrant red liquid. He makes his way to Malcolm's table and helps himself to one of Malcolm's cigarettes.

"I suppose you know who I am?" the man asked casually, lighting his cigarette with a gold lighter.

"You're the man that called?" Malcolm asked.

"That I am."

"Good, can we get this over with. I hate this fucking desert."

A puff of smoke wafted across the table. Without paying attention Malcolm swatted it away and stared indignantly back at him. The man smiled. Malcolm hated this part of his job. Being a journalist in an office and writing a nice tight story about what happened in the NoGos was one thing. But to be drug out to the desert to deal with a madman just because he claims to have some information was something else entirely. A horse of a different breed you might say.

The man slipped a small packet from beneath his double breasted suit pocket and slid it across the table. It made a sound like a snake hissing as it slipped off the table and into Malcolm's hands.

"Take a look at those."

"What are they?"

"Just look."

Malcolm slipped the pictures out of his hand, and at the sight of the first one he almost dropped them.

"Holy SHIT! Is this the Lich!?"

"Sure is." Said the man as if he'd just been asked if it was Tuesday.

"Who took these?"

"I did. I told you on the phone, I'm a professional and I have something good. What will you give me for these."

"Ten Grand, easy."

"You still want the story?"

"Is it as good as these pictures?" Malcolm said rifling through them, occasionally stopping to look at one in closer detail.

"Better."

Malcolm stopped and looked across the table. Something wasn't right and he wasn't sure what it was. But it set him on edge.

"Tell your story." He said with a quiet force.

"Three weeks ago I was called in by Hammond Maninski to do a background check on a couple of rookie agents." He reached over and plucked a couple of pictures out of the pile. "These two."

The first was a man, early 20's, short, dark brown hair, clean shaven. Piercing blue eyes. He looked like he was probably about six foot, two-hundred. Not sculpted or ripped, but in good shape. He wore a form fitting blue suit with one shoulder done in gold. He was sort of smiling, and standing in front of a Hammond Maninski car. Clean car, no bullet holes, no scratches, no dents. Just rolled out of the garage, probably wasn't even armed yet.

"His name's Mathias Crump." The man said. "Born 1983. Dallas, Texas. Raised by his father, mother died in child birth. His father was a ranger. Got killed in '94 when that group from Alabama stole that train and killed all those nuns."

Malcolm nodded, he remembered.

"He freaked out, I mean hell the kid was only 11 right? So he starts working on cars and hanging out at all those Arena combat zones down near Houston. When he was 15 he registered as a driver, youngest ever in Houston. Fought in sixteen tournaments that year. Won exactly two. But he survived. So he moves on to bigger and better things. Got a local merchant to sponser him one year, one of those show boat cars with the name plastered all over it. Gransen's Auto Parts. He posted two straight wins in that car and then he quit. Got himself a more dangerous job, running with an Ops group. He started off small time, local group. Got himself noticed, moved on to a local town militia. Got himself noticed again and by the time he's 21 he's leading a group of five on a national level. Then he got offered a job at Hammond Maninski. His dream job. He went, applied, got turned down, and went back to the nationals. Got offered the job again a year later, and this time he got accepted. Happy as a clam this kid."

Malcolm listened patiently for the man to finish, then he looked once again at the picture and asked "What's this got to do with anything?"

"Trust me, you'll understand in a bit. Now take a look at her."

He pulled the next picture out. A blonde girl, 5'9", athletic, but not overly so. She would have been pretty if not for the hair pulled back in a tight bun, and the look on her face of grave seriousness.

"Who's She?"

"Felicia Childs. She's the other new rook. Nice legs, eh? Well don't stare at em too much, she's all about business. Her past record indicates she's never had a boyfriend longer than two weeks, and she seems to enjoy the company of her car more than anyone else."

"What's her background?" Malcolm asked, staring at the legs on the picture. Felicia's picture was much more casual, showing a young girl wearing shorts and a tee shirt, but with that hair pulled back and that serious look, she seemed to exude business.

"She was born in Michigan. Her father was one of the last true assembly line workers in Detroit. He taught her all she knew. From the day she was born she was inundated with car parts, electronics, and mechanics. She was a B+ student in high school with a grade A knowledge of cars and electronics. She got a scholarship to a local Tech Institute and got a 2 year degree in motors. She started work at the tender young age of 20 at the local auto plant, but when it closed down she was forced to go to work in the Arenas as a mechanic and stand by driver. That was when she fell in love apparently. With driving. Ever since then she's done everything she can to get recognized by one of the big Op agencies. Hammond Maninski let her test and she's in."

"Why are you doing all this research on these two?"

"SOP for Hammond. They want everybody checked out thoroughly. In fact, it's because of these two that I stumbled onto what I did."

"What is it you stumbled onto?"

"Check this one out." The man found another picture and handed it to Malcolm.

This one was an old man, in his early sixties, balding white head, a small thin white mustache, and a cane though it looked more for show than necessity. He stood in front of a large building with mirrored glass walls, and huge red letters, though the only ones Malcolm could see in the picture were an E and an I.

"Who the hell is this?"

"That's Leo Kohl."

"What's the point?"

"You hungry?"

"Do what?

"I'm getting some food."

With that the man got up and headed over to the bar. Malcolm took the time to look through the pictures again. He stopped at each picture of the lich and tried to make out any distinguishing features. There was nothing. A couple of seconds later the man sat back down.

"I got us a couple of Denver omelets and some black coffee. This will take a while."

Malcolm sighed and sat back in his chair. He resigned himself to stepping through this bull shit charade. It was worth it for the pictures. He could run those in the paper by themselves with no story and still sell twice his normal number of newspapers.

"So what's Mr. Kohl's story?" Malcolm asked.

"He's the president of Geist."

"The pharmaceutical company? What's he got to do with Hammond Maninski?"

"I don't know yet, but I've been doing some background into him anyway. I'll tell you what I know, and when I'm done you tell me what you think."

"O.k."

"Kohl used to be somebody else. I'm not sure who, but somebody."

"What do you mean?"

"There are no birth records for a Leo Kohl. Anywhere. In fact, before 1993, this guy didn't exist. He's some kind of fucking ghost. One day he doesn't exist, and the next day, poof, he starts his own company with his own money, and starts manufacturing drugs."

"What kind of drugs?"

"Simple shit at first. Aspirin, facial creams, heartburn shit, what's it called?"

"Antacid?"

"Yeah, that. So then he starts producing more complex stuff. The kind of stuff that the government and hospitals buy off of you. The experimental cures for the common cold, and life threatening diseases there ain't no cure for."

"Yeah, so."

"So then, all the sudden, he decides to start selling car parts? Where the fuck did that come from?"

"I don't follow you."

"In '02, after 9 successful years of selling pharmaceuticals, suddenly old Leo decides to invest in a car manufacturing company. Then last year, he buys a factory in Europe that makes weapons, guns, ammo, bombs, shit like that."

"What does this have to do with-"

"I don't know yet, I told you. But last Tuesday Mr. Kohl bought a shit load of stock in Hammond Maninski. I haven't put this part together yet, but I'm working on it. Now let me introduce you to our real problem."

Another shuffle of pictures and Malcolm was staring at a suit with a head. The suit was expensive, white, and clean. A black tie, a gold watch, and a pinky ring completed the ensemble. A pair of shades hid the eyes, but the rest of the face looked dangerous. Some kind of executive shark Malcolm figured.

"That's Sergei Drovin. He's a corp from Serenov Madsen."

"Nice suit."

"From what I've seen of this guy I wouldn't be surprised if he killed somebody for it. Or at least got someone axed and stepped into it."

"What's his claim to fame?"

"SNM, that's Serenov Madsen, is owned by another, larger company called GenTec. Drovin's about third or fourth on the list of people who would be in charge if mysterious things started happening to people above him. In fact, that's how he got to where he is now. Word inside is that he's looking for a way to move up the ladder a little faster, and somehow it's going to involve Childs and Crump."

"I'm not following you."

"SNM has something secret going on, some kind of experimental drug they've been working on for the past few months."

"There's a tie in for Kohl."

"Possibly, but there's a big shipment that has to be moved a long way in the next couple of weeks, and Hammond Maninski is going to be riding shotgun."

"Crump and Childs?"

"Already on the list of drivers for that one."

"Drovin?"

"He's calling the shots, but he's setting it up so that the execs above him fall. Then he swoops in and saves the day, and poof, Gentec makes him CEO."

"Some people just aren't happy with what they got."

"True." The man said smiling.

"So, do you have a full and complete history on Drovin?"

"Oh yeah. You want it?"

"Sure."

"He was a collector, hired by SNM to make small companies make their payments on time. He was good at it. Real good at it. So he got himself promoted, played the loyal company man, and took some management classes. Then suddenly he's a junior exec. Then his boss meets with a nasty accident and he gets promoted."

"What kind of an accident?"

"The kind where your car explodes when you turn the ignition."

"Oh."

"So suddenly he's in every meeting, talking at every water cooler, massing his troops, making himself visible. The guy's charismatic as hell."

"So was Hitler."

"You're starting to see the big picture."

"Not yet, but I'm getting there."

"So anyway, Drovin starts getting promoted again, out of the rank and file of executives and into the upper echelon."

"And how does he manage this?"

"Rumor around the aforementioned water coolers is that he had some nice pictures of the execs involved in their extra curricular activities."

"Mistresses."

"Well, not exactly. These are the kind of pictures that could get a man a well deserved execution."

Malcolm glanced up and furrowed his brow.

"Let's just say the parents of some junior high kids would be interested in seeing these pictures Drovin has."

"That's disgusting."

"That's life. To each his own, and it ain't my business."

Macolm looked up as the waiter arrived and dropped two greasy plates full of omelete onto the table. He sat down a pot of coffee and two cups and disappeared back to his little world behind the bar.

"I love Denver Omeletes." The man said.

Malcolm shoved his aside and poured a cup of coffe.

"So," Malcolm asked "about this Drovin guy..."

"Ok, he's in a position now where he could potentially head SNM for Gentec. I think from there he may want to work his way into GenTec and start bucking for some new promotions, but this is the point where I got cut off from my background check."

"Cut off how?"

A new picture emerged from the pack.

"By that guy."

Malcolm studied the picture intently for a second. Another man in a suit. A big man in a suit. He looked funny in a suit, like he didn't belong in it, and Malcolm had an idea he didn't. It was like ketchup on a salad, it just didn't look right.

"Who's this corporate mastermind?"

"Rudy Sectus. He's Drovin's muscle."

"I didn't think he was an accountant."

The man laughed and wolfed down some more omelete. "He's broke my camera and ruined a roll of film, otherwise I'd have a lot more pictures of him. Most of them were him coming at me like a steam roller though."

"What does SNM think of him?"

"They love him. He took Sergei's old collection route for a while, but now he's a personal assistant to Mr. Drovin, which of course the execs know means 'bodyguard'. And it's not like that's an uncommon practice among execs. Especially at SNM."

"Why especially them?"

"Cause they keep dying."

"Thought that was Sergei's fault."

"Doesn't mean they know that."

"True."

"So anyway, this guy's a real piece of work. When I asked around about him three pieces of information always kept coming up. Number one, he used to do contract killing when he was a teenager."

"Fuck." Malcolm said, drawing the word out so it sounded like, fuuuckk.

"Number two, he was apparently involved in some assassination attempt on President Heston that never got off the ground."

Malcolm's head snapped up and he smiled. "Maybe he's not so bad."

"And third, he wired the car that got Sergei his first big break."

"So Sergei sets up these two kids for a hit on a convoy, his superiors get blamed for it and he gets promoted. Why'd he pick these two?"

"Why does a serial killer pick any victim. Not that he's a serial killer, I just think he needed some likely candidates, and these two are new."

"Still can't place Kohl in here, unless he has something to do with the drug."

"That's still tugging at me. I know he's connected, and I know I could figure it out, it just won't come together in my mind."

Malcolm nodded.

"There's more. There's the two trainers."

"Trainers?"

"The rookies. They were trained by two experienced Hammond ops. One's a guy named Phestus. Phestus Syx. The female is Elle Bishop." He found the appropriate pictures and placed them in Malcolm's hand.

The male was a bit long in the tooth to still be a driver, but he had a steely look in his eyes that said any young hotshot with faster reflexes was likely to get smoked by his veteran savvy. His salt-and-pepper beard was shaved neatly into a vandyke, and the top of his head was cropped short, though not short enough to have been a military style cut.

The female was sleek, well tanned, muscled, and curved in too many of the right places for Malcolm not to linger over her picture a little longer than necessary. Her reddish-brown hair was cut short as well, though it did manage to brush the tops of her shoulders in the picture. Both pictures showed the veteran agents in front of the same car, though from different angles, and Malcolm debated, then shelved the idea of asking how he managed to take these. It was unimportant.

"Elle's been with Hammond for about six years now, though she was an op long before that. She grew up in Chicago, in the seventies. She lived outside the city in one of the local burbs, and learned how to handle herself when the gangs started moving in. She was probably a favorite target for most of them. Until they found out she could fight better than most of them." A smile crept across his face as he continued. "She did transat recon for the joint corporation slash federal government reclamation initiative when Tennesse and Georgia decided they were better off on their own as independant states. The suits and the feds wanted them back in the free trade fold and she was part of their team. She did spec-op raids in Tennessee mostly, blowing up home made satellites and network nodes, and running bootleggers out of the hills. She's a tough cookie."

Malcolm suddenly realized that the man had a crush on her. Maybe not a big one, he'd probably never spoken to her, though he might have when he did the background check on the rookies, but he was definately feeling a little more than just admiration towards that sleek little body. Malcolm smiled. The man flushed, but went on to talk about Phestus.

"Syx has been with Hammond for about 16 years, though he'll tell you it's more like thirty. He's got more war stories than most of the major motion picture studios, and all he needs is an opening the size of a dime to start tossing them into the conversation."

He has talked to them, Malcolm thought, and he doesn't care much for Phestus.

"I don't care much for Phestus. He's full of himself and his abilities, even though he's probably fifty. He's going to get himself killed, crazy old man, but he used to be something, I gotta give him that."

"Go on."

"Missouri, 87, he was a one man show. Remember that ridiculous reclamation initiative?"

"It wasn't ridiculous, it was just people who wanted--"

"Anyway, that's not the point. The point is you remember. Anyway, it was Phestus taking out fortified blockades single handedly that allowed our boys to push through Springfield and into Branson. I admire him for that. Highway 65 must have been one hellish stretch of street, but he rolled through it like a hot fork through butter."

"Knife." Malcolm supplied absently.

"What?"

"You said fork. The saying is "a hot knife through butter". Believe me I know. It's filed away in my mind under mundane shit to add to a narrative that's going long and rambling."

"Anyway. That's about it. I can't make heads or tails of it yet, but something is going on, I can just feel it. And they're all involved somehow. I had to tell somebody, and maybe you can make more sense of it than I can."

"I'll think about it. But---"

Malcolm didn't get to finish his sentence because the entire front wall of the bar chose that moment to explode inward into a billion tiny pieces of wood and smoke. The man flew forwards, snagging the table with him, and knocking both he and Malcolm to the ground. The smoke still hadn't cleared when Malcolm looked up, and his ribs were suddenly on fire. Probably broken by the table. He glanced at the bar and saw that the bartender had a shotgun pointed at the general direction of the smoke and was waiting for something to happen. The man who brought the pictures wasn't moving.

A figure stepped through the smoke and stood in the area that had once been home to the bar's front door. He surveyed the scene with grim fascination and finally settled his eyes on the bartender. A loud BOO-YAH! Came from the direction of the bar and a slug hit the newcomer in the chest, knocking him down flat.

The bartender lowered the rifle and peered cautiously over the bar. Malcolm sat up on his bottom and looked from the bar to the smoke and back again. The body on the floor, recent shotgun victim that he was, stood up.

I probably should have a heart attack, Malcolm thought. That would be the sane thing to do. And then he realized. Realized that he was going to die. That no matter what he or the bartender or the unconscious picture man did, they were all going to die. He recognized the figure in the smoke, though he was much bigger than he seemed in the pictures. The Lich.

He must be seven feet tall, Malcolm mused. Then he watched, helpless as a beam of green light filled his vision and the bartender was suddenly so much dust. The lich turned his attention to the uncoscious man on the floor near Malcolm.

He strode calmly over to the body and picked it up, as though the man weighed no more than ten pounds. He lifted the body well over his head then dropped it, hard, onto his knee. A sound like a limb cracking under the weight of the wind filled the bar, and Malcolm watched calmly as the lich pulled from his side a small fire arm. He waited patiently, knowing there wasn't much else to do.

Didn't even get to run the pictures, he thought. And then darkness.