Chapter 43

Burn Notice

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"Take my hand and I will lead you into a paradise of our deepest desires - a world we've all dreamed of."

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The gold-plated lighter flicked open, friction igniting flying sparks in the blink of an eye. A steady and controlled flame rose from the spring, flickering and wavering in a cold wind. His hazel eyes were briefly mesmerized by the reaction - a often occurrence for him. He held the flame beneath his cigarette and leaned against his flashing patrol car. Trails of smoke drifted from his curled lips, partially obscuring his flinty features as he observed the scuffle beside him.

Robert always liked it when they still had some fight in them.

A scraggly young man in a white tank top was pushed against the hood of the gray sedan. He struggled intensely against the grip of another man not much younger than him clad in dark blue.

"Hey, this is bullshit!" the man cried, wincing as metal cuffs were latched around his wrists. "Those ain't my weapons!" He squirmed in place again, getting another hard shove against the hood in return.

Robert peeled away the cigarette to an ashy haze that concealed his amused expression. "Ease up a little, Rick. Startin' to collect suspensions like paychecks each quarter."

Rick yanked the man up, eyeing him as if he were a skittering cockroach. "Pieces of street trash like him? Maybe we should rough 'em up before we send 'em back to their mama!"

The handcuffed man's dinner plate-like eyes darted to Rick and then to Robert, who exhaled slowly.

His partner never could control his temper, not against criminals like the one he manhandled. However, there was some pride he felt whenever he saw him in action. Rick was even younger than him when he joined the force - spry and confident. Patrolling around Charleston during his days as a rookie felt a lot like taking his son around.

He was often lost in those thoughts; of how much time he spent here instead of home.

Rick jerked his head to a deep red sedan parked behind his patrol car. "You see the firepower he's packing in the trunk? Ain't ever seen anything like it before! He could take out all the mercs on the street with 'em!"

With a flick of his spent cigarette, Robert strutted across the sidewalk toward the suspect's vehicle. He admired its glossy finish and peered inside to see plush leather seats - not a single scratch or mark upon them. "Least you're takin' good care of this beaut. The boys at the impound will like this one for sure." He stopped and glanced back, cracking a grin as he thought hard. "Caddy… Fleetwood… 1992?"

The man stared dumbly at him. "... Not my car," he mumbled.

Rick smirked. "Damn, Rob, ya sure know your cars all right. Maybe we need a new detective 'round here."

He winked before rounding the car until he reached the trunk. Popping it open, his eyes were feasted to a spread of criminal delights. Handguns, assault rifles, sawed-off shotguns - even a cluster of grenades - all neatly packed into one rectangular wooden crate. A find as easily and readily displayed as this was too good.

It was almost suspiciously good to him, but there was a time and a place, and he considered this a small victory nonetheless.

Robert whistled as he withdrew one of the sawed-offs from the trunk. He held it high for his partner to catch a glance. "Hah! Don't think ya can get a permit for that one, man!" Rick exclaimed, jostling the cuffed man.

"Not my car, like I sai-"

A thump against his head shut the man up. "We'll figure that out, thank ya very much."

"Watch it, Rick," Robert warned again before returning to the trunk. "No serial numbers on these guns - no brandin', no model numbers. They look… brand new, I reckon."

It was hard to say if this was his smoking gun, ironically enough. This was the proof he needed after all of the cases of other appearances went cold, yet there was a missing link. Something tangible and real that tied back to the true culprit unleashing these weapons of war upon the city streets.

But this was a chance.

Slamming the trunk door, Robert marched over to the man in handcuffs, adopting the best stern expression he could muster past the joy filling his heart. "Mr. Peterson, you're under arrest for possession of multiple firearms and explosive ordinance with not a lick of a permit whatsoever. Anythin' you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. That understood?"

The man said nothing.

A smile split Robert's features. "Smart. Rick, take him to your car. You bagged him, after all."

"Yessire, I did!" Rick shoved the man forward. "C'mon, you - get movin'!"

Walking back to his cruiser, Robert opened the driver-side door and sat down with a heavy sigh. His back hit the seat, his gaze lazily drawn to the baggy, sunken eyes in the mirror staring back at him. With his short brown hair and that permanent five o'clock shadow he wore that Angelica loved, sometimes he could not recognize the man he saw.

Despite being one of the youngest officers in his unit, the job had visibly drained him of his youth through the years.

'Or maybe it's chasing ghosts that did it for me,' he remarked to himself.

He was close; he could feel it. And when he was finally behind bars, he could rest easy knowing his family was safeguarded against anything. It was a reassuring feeling to constantly chase down. A better part of the year he spent hounding the police chief for a proper investigation. They knew nothing of what he knew, and he had to keep it that way if this were to work.

'And the bonus I'd get would go nice for Liam's college fund, heh. June, too, when she's ready to finally come out.'

A swift hand clasping the driver's side door wrenched him from his thoughts as his head swiveled over to meet Rick's head poking inside. "Hey! Thanks for backin' me up here. Never know what these rats are gonna pull on ya, huh?"

Robert took a moment to compose himself. "Any time. That tipoff we got 'bout this route worked like a charm. Might even score us a search warrant on the business if this guy is willing to rat out his supplier."

"This punk? He'll make bail for sure and slink off back to his hole or wherever he came from. Chief thinks all these 'gun merchants' of yours are related to the merc companies; thinks maybe you should back off them."

He scoffed. He was warned many times to stop investigating the mercenary companies operating in the district, but they were not what he was truly after. Still, the power they slowly accumulated through the years spread through corruption and other bureaucratic manners far above his pay grade was a huge threat looming above him at all times.

Officers had been threatened, even killed to keep their operation going. It sickened him, but his job was not to merely stand by.

"We signed up for this kind of shit, Rick. Chief has already gotten us into this mess by trying to get these ghost guns off the streets, and I'm damn well certain there's another player in this game besides the mercs. As far as I'm concerned, they're just another player."

"I'm serious, Rob," Rick said, his face mirroring his words. "We ain't the FBI or CI-whatever - we're just local guys. We don't know what these people are really capable of, right?"

How could he stop the pursuit when it was always nagging at the back of his mind? No, he could not just let it go.

"Right." Robert's hand latched onto the door. "I gotta do a few more visits before the end of my shift, so I'm headin' out." He pointed a finger. "You make that runt talk, 'kay? Find out where's he gettin' his supply, who he's sellin' these weapons to, and keep him scared."

"I'll make him squeal if I have to, Rob."

He smirked at his partner's aggressiveness and turned his key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. The small computer mounted to a desk beside his main console whirred to life, the black and white display spitting out blurbs of text and a seal of his department.

"Ah, ah, ah! I need to know the next time I can come over to your lovely home," Rick said, still lingering.

"Oh yeah, It'd have to be this Saturday. Angelica is thinking of us hosting a barbeque with some of the neighbors… Even the ones I don't like."

"Shucks, as long as Angel makes those famous hushpuppies and sweet tea of hers. I've been fixin' for 'em all week."

"Can you believe it? Before I met her, she didn't even know what a hushpuppy was."

Rick shook his head. "Yanks…" He slapped his hands on the door one last time. "Anyhoot, I'll let ya be. See ya down at the station later!"

"See ya, Rick."

Slamming the car door shut, he breathed another sigh - one that always left him after dealing with Rick. He liked the guy like any other friend, but there were some he could only stomach for so long. His thoughts eventually drifted to later as he gripped the steering wheel.

'Gotta type up the report on this and add it to the main evidence file, avoid Denise on my way out, then pick up some morning sickness meds for Angel.'

His musings of these mundane tasks were ripped away by a discordant, staticky noise spewing from his police radio. "Dispatch, 10-33 - available officers respond," a monotone female voice pierced through the criss-crossing of other officers on the line.

'Fuck. And on a day I wasn't even supposed to be on duty…'

Robert shook his head and added another mental note to his foreboding task list. He picked up the radio and held the wired instrument to his mouth. "10-98."

"10-57 at White Garden Street with 10-54. Witness on sight spotted a maroon-colored sedan fleeing the scene."

His heart dropped.

Ice flooded his veins as he recognized that street, the street he lived on, the street his wife and son lived on. His hand tightened around the radio, a terror he had not felt in a long time gripping his senses. "10-4," he uttered before tossing away the radio and ripping the car's transmission lever into drive.

Rubber tires squealed against the cold asphalt as his patrol car took off, whaling and blinking in distress. Other vehicles that drifted to the side to avoid him were but a blur. His foot never left the gas pedal as his mind hyper-fixated on one single coded message from the short blurb of static.

'10-54, 10-54, 10-54, 10-54…'

Robert drove faster than he ever did before.

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They told him there was nothing that could be done.

He found that hard to believe.

Robert was hunched over a clothed kitchen table, nursing a glass of his favorite bourbon that never remained far from his lips. He turned through another page of the open binder resting on the table. Grainy wedding photos were glued to the pages - clearly unprofessional as they were taken by Angelica's sister. He smiled softly and continued flipping through the binder.

There were so many pictures of her in his foolish attempt to capture her radiance for the ages. But a photo could not ensnare the feelings he felt whenever she neared a corner. He stopped at a photo in particular - Angelica holding a baby Liam wrapped up in a blue blanket. Her long scarlet hair, that warm smile that made every long day cooped up with paperwork at the station oh so worth it.

He could never have that feeling again.

They told him she died instantly from the one bullet to the head.

He found that hard to believe with the multiple shots they riddled her with.

Rage flooded his system as he slammed the binder closed. Two weeks had passed since their family was shattered, and the fleeing car and suspects vanished without a trace. Not a single cigarette butt left behind or stray hair to be analyzed. It happened fast; it was coordinated, and that was what enraged him most.

Turning his attention to the other item on the table - a letter with sharp handwriting - his eyes tracked the words addressed solely to his eyes again and again.

'RETIRE. OR THE BOY GOES NEXT.'

Dropped into his mailbox yesterday. That was all it said - all it needed to say to convert his mourning into something more.

Truth be told, he had already resigned a week after Angelica's death. How could he look at the faces of his fellow officers when he failed the ones closest to him? How could he force down the bitter feelings that they, too, failed him when they were meant to be brothers and sisters.

He could not let his guilt or his animosity overwhelm him in the face of duty. Now he spent most of his afternoons and evenings sulking in an empty house and replaying the events of that day over and over in his mind.

His footsteps bounced off walls as he ascended a staircase up to the second floor. It felt cold within these wooden walls, vibrant colors dulled to a greyish hue that melded with the overcast rays peeking through windows obscured by curtains. The outside world felt dangerous, but the inside was soul-crushingly lonely.

His fist rapped against the door of Liam's room. "Liam! You up? Could fix us up some grub if you're hungry."

He waited. Silence. He lingered some more, silently praying for even a decline of his offer. But only more silence.

"… Well, if you change your mind, just come out of your room."

Liam took it the hardest when she died. They used to have problems keeping Liam in his room, but now he never seemed to leave. There was never an outcry or release of emotion from the boy, only bottled-up feelings and blank, almost lifeless stares into space whenever they crossed paths.

There was a light in that boy's eyes that died, and he was unsure if it would ever reappear.

Robert descended the stairs, drifting back into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. The jars of sweet tea lovingly made on the day of her demise caught his attention. They were beyond rancid at this point, but he refused to throw them away.

They told him he would eventually move on and heal.

But he could not let it go. He could not live in fear for his son's life and stew in guilt.

Slamming the fridge door shut, he marched into the living room and yanked a phone book from a shelf. Slapping it onto the kitchen counter, he thumbed through the yellow pages before spotting the page he bookmarked previously. Flipping to that page, his eyes ran across one of the advertisements displayed prominently.

A bearded man with wavy black hair and a wide open-mouthed smile was leaning against a silver Mustang. Below the grainy-looking advert was the name of a business and a phone number.

Robert hesitantly reached to pluck the phone off the hook next to him. His mind was at war with his instincts to close the phonebook and forget ever suggesting what he was about to do. But now he felt cornered. And that was the worst position you could put a man in.

'If I go down this road, will I ever get the hell off it? Is this really the right thing to do?'

Nobody in his life could advise him except for himself. As he slowly dialed the cursed number and held the phone to his ear, he knew he signed his fate right then and there.

He could not escape this life any longer.

He listened to the dial tone, heart thumping in his chest. The repetitive noise jackhammering into his skull then suddenly cut off. There was a still second, the sound of metallic cranking and distant voices filling the void until a familiar gruff voice barked through the speakers.

"You've reached Jackson's Auto Parts And Repair. This is Jackson speakin' - how can I help ya?"

Almost thirteen years had gone by without hearing that voice but it was still recognizable. Robert cracked a smile as he considered his next words carefully. "... Hey, J. Been a while. You remember this voice?"

There was a pregnant pause. "... I ain't followin' what you're sayin', sir. Is there a problem with your automobile that I can fix?"

Robert's smile grew. "Summer of '84. I stole a pack of cigarettes from Mr. Aldens office. You and I shared 'em underneath that broken bridge near the orphanage; it was rainin' cats and dogs that day. You remember this voice now?"

"... That's ancient history. What's the real reason you're callin'?"

"I need your help, and you're the only one I think can help me."

Another long pause. "Let's discuss this in person. I hate talkin' over the phone."

"Where at?"

"Diner I like - Dolly's - up near Bayview Street. Ya been?"

"'Course I've been. Best damn omelet in the state, far as I'm concerned."

A snort. "Meet me there in the morning - nine o'clock sharp - just you and the clothes on your back."

The dial tone buzzed into his ear again as he withdrew the phone, placing it back on the hook. He leaned against the counter, a dizzy feeling overcoming his senses. He raised a hand against his beating heart.

'Why the hell am I even doing this? Would it help? Or am I makin' it worse?'

He needed security and safety for Liam, but he needed closure the most. He made contact, made his bed, and made the grave.

Now he had to lie in it.

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The cup of steaming hot coffee rose to his lips as his eyes swept across the crowded diner. The chime of a bell above the diner's entrance was like a signal of impending doom - a constant reminder of what he was going to embroil himself into.

Robert resigned his stare to the white laminate table.

'He was always paranoid before. Is he even gonna show? Or maybe this is a trap.'

Glancing at the window on his left, he squinted past the morning sun's rays and into the parking lot. He scrutinized each car that came in parked, each person that stepped out that could deliver him his final fate.

Perhaps he was the paranoid one now.

"Ho-lee shit…" a gruff voice snapped him out of his daze. "Didn't recognize ya at first, but here you are."

Robert turned just as a man suddenly took a seat in the booth directly across from him. He was alarmed at first but relaxed when he saw his features. The man had a short ducktail beard and swept-back black hair. He wore a gray button-down shirt and a wide grin as his sharp, calculating blue eyes met Robert's.

Robert's mouth parted in shock. "I thought you weren't gonna show."

"James Callaway..." Jackson sounded out, laying his hands flat on the table. "You thought I would leave my best friend from the old days high and dry?"

"It's Robert now - changed it once I returned to SC. Maybe I thought you were too busy to meet me, seein' as ya got your own repair shop now. Nice to see that, by the way."

Jackson shook his head. "That place runs itself without me there. And seein' as how you reached out to me after thirteen years without even a damn 'hello', safe to say my interest peaked."

Robert could sense the bitterness in his tone, and he could not blame him. He wanted to distance himself from that world, start a new life, and become a father. There was bound to be resentment from those who remained attached when he pushed the abort button.

"Look, Jack, you know how I felt. After that last botched robbery and the fallout from it, hidin' out in New York, comin' back, I just couldn't-"

Jackson waved a hand. "I get it. You wanted out. You found yourself a pretty girl, had a baby, and then everythin' seemed to click. I didn't get that at the time, but I did over the years."

Robert took another sip of his coffee. "As long as we're on the same page - and there's no bad blood between us."

"Far as I'm considered, water under the bridge. Nice to see ya again, James."

"Same to you, Jack."

A waitress came over, refilling Robert's cup and taking their orders. Little by little, he felt the tension evaporate. Robert felt his nerves ease up to a certain degree. Though perhaps it was just his mind jumping to conclusions, and Jackson knew nothing.

"So I heard you became a cop over the years, just like you said you would. A pretty good one from what I've heard."

"From what you've heard?" Robert shot his words back.

"Eyes and ears everywhere - I found out the real 'Robert Lachaise Shaw' ages ago when you first got the house built. I knew you would stay here in South Carolina; lots of folks try to leave home and just can't."

He was not sure what to feel knowing that Jackson had been aware of his presence for a long time. On one hand, this was a friend he could trust, on the other hand, unpredictability was what he had known Jackson for in the past.

"So you knew about me this whole time and didn't say anything. And I'm the bad friend for not reaching out sooner?"

"We stayed away from each other for good reasons. You couldn't taint your image by associatin' with someone like me anymore."

"And who are you now? If I could turn over a new leaf, what about you these past thirteen or so years?"

Before Jackson could answer, the waitress returned with their food. Robert continued to wait for an answer as Jackson poured two creams into his coffee. He suppressed a forming smile. Despite all the lost time, they were still very alike in many regards.

"I kept goin'. I turned our pitiful lil' crew into somethin' more. I took on rivals, crushed 'em, absorbed 'em, and carved out a piece of the city for myself." The man smirked as he stirred his cup. "If ya thought I was gonna start blendin' into the backgrounds of crowds, then you were dead wrong."

The sounds of metal forks striking plates filled the air as Robert stuffed a helping of omelets into his mouth. "I should've asked earlier, but what happened with you and Elena? Last time I saw her, she talked about headin' to nursing school or whatever."

Jackson flashed a smile and held up his left hand. A small wedding ring was fitted on his fourth finger - a gold band with an encrusted orange gem that looked more expensive than the one he gifted Angelica. "Married her close to ten years ago. She got her schooling and was a nurse for a while, but some… things happened and she stays at the house most days."

Robert gave an earnest smile. "You and Elena married…" He shook his head. "You two were pretty much perfect for each other, so it makes sense that you tied the knot."

Jackson glanced at the ring. "She's the perfect woman in my life; the only person that understands me. Never gave up her paintin' neither. Some of her work is… beyond my understandin'," he ended with a wistful chuckle. "My little wallflower…"

Seeing a man such as Jackson gush about his wife was strange to see. Robert felt emotions well up in him as he looked down at his own wedding ring. He never took it off since that day, and most likely never will. It felt like a sick joke that Jackson could continue their lifestyle and keep his loved ones while he lost them on the straight and narrow path. But there was no room for bitterness left in him.

He had to protect the loved ones he still had.

"I heard about her… Angelica. It was all in the papers a week ago."

Robert looked up, a stillness to his breathing. "… She's gone, Jack. The woman I gave all of what we had up for, and was fuckin' taken from me." The table rattled as he jabbed it with a finger. "My unborn daughter."

Jackson nodded solemnly. "Startin' to understand why you called me. Is that what this is about - revenge?"

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"This isn't just revenge. Just a few days ago I got a letter in the mail threatening my son if I didn't retire from the force." Robert's enraged expression mellowed into one of concern. "I'm scared, Jack. I already pulled Liam out of school, and we can't stay in that house anymore."

"It was a driveby, right? Did anyone know the make of it?"

Robert rubbed his face with both hands. "I don't know… a maroon Chevy or somethin' from the past decade. Nobody knew a damn thing 'bout where they went, or even got a plate."

"Professional. But still sloppy enough to figure out who did it."

"Then who? Who could've done this?"

Jackson took a long sip of his coffee. "SPMC… They were lookin' to take you out and your wife got mixed up in it. How do I know this? Few months ago one of my guys was taken out at his usual spot, and a maroon sedan was seen speedin' off."

The Southern Private Military Company. It was the opposite of a weight getting lifted off his shoulder - like a boulder falling down upon him. His worst fears were being realized.

'I should have known,' he thought, grinding his teeth. 'I should have fuckin' known…'

Rick warned him of this, but he brushed it aside. Too busy following one criminal to forget the bigger one lurking behind.

"Your department, was it tryin' to pin some crimes on them?" Jackson continued. "They've been known to do that to anyone disruptin' their operation. Scares most local cops out of tailin'."

"Chief told us other departments need our assistance in investigatin' the SPMC. Even when other officers were getting hurt in Georgia and Alabama." Robert scowled as his hands and teeth clenched in rage. "That fucker… Inviting him over for dinners when I should've put a bullet in him."

"Calm down. Any problem you have is with the SPMC, and believe me, I've got a bone to pick with 'em same as you."

Robert visibly relaxed. "… I need your help. Not just protection from them, I need these bastards in charge who took Angelica from me taken down." He jabbed the table again to enunciate his words. "Whether it's imprisonment or a bullet to the head - I don't care."

Jackson grinned. "I've got some good and bad news for ya."

"Let me hear it."

"Good news is that I'm ready to head out to war with these fucks just about now. Bad news… well, as much I'd love to do a favor for a friend, I'm gonna need your help takin' them down with me."

And here it was. The exchange for peace and mind for his family was a metaphorical step into hell and a life he left behind. Robert swallowed thickly, his mind already concluded but his mouth failed to cooperate.

"I ain't gonna promise the world, James. But I will promise I'll do everythin' I can to keep you and your boy safe."

All he had to do was embrace it.

"I'm in."

Jackson downed the rest of his coffee, eyes flicking to the window before settling on Robert. "Later tonight… around eight o'clock, I need ya to show up to the waterfront. There's a parking structure near one of the malls - you know that one?"

"By the harbor, right?"

"Yeah. You'll park near one of the alleyways and meet some of my guys. They'll take you to my safe house by the port, and that's where this job will take place."

"This job? What is it?"

"Burn notice. Got this crew of mine - they used to be solid, sold most of my merchandise through the ports, and did what was told of them. But now they've gotten sloppy; merchandise 'gets lost', and some of 'em are floatin' 'round the idea of joinin' the SPMC. So I'm gettin' rid of 'em - plain and simple."

"And by gettin' rid of 'em, you mean…"

Jackson chuckled. "Exactly what you think I mean. These boys know too much 'bout my operation, and I don't need competitors snappin' 'em up."

A dirty job. But he knew he had to start off somewhere. And if this helped him get further toward beheading the SPMC and securing his family's future, then he had to stomach it.

"All right, I'll be there at eight o'clock sharp."

"Good. I'll let my boys know beforehand you're showin' up. 'Course, I'll be there, but consider this your first test for coming out of retirement, J," he ended with a devilish smirk.

"One more thing. Since I've quit bein' on the force, I need a steady income. For a new place, for-" A wave of hands halted his words.

"You'll be taken care of - like all my guys - even more so if ya keep your mouth shut about it 'round 'em."

Robert sighed, hanging his head low. "Thank you, Jack, really. You don't know how much I appreciate this."

"Nah, I do."

Jackson stood up, digging through one of his jeans pockets and pulling out a wallet. "'Cause guys like us, when we try and try to stick to the right path, we get chewed up and spit out. We're told to suck it up, move on and let the system sort it out." He took out a twenty dollar bill and threw it on the table, catching Robert's eyes. "The right thing to do gets thrown aside by men in true pain."

Robert watched as Jackson walked away, throwing open the diner doors and vanishing from his left. He mused over the man's parting words, fork hovering over his now cold meal.

'The right thing to do… Should I have just turned a blind eye like all the others?'

Listening to the sounds and sights of happy families around him, he was thrown into a memory not long ago when he and his family dined here. Apparitions and ghostly figures manifested beside him as he quietly ate. They spoke about their day, and he spoke of his.

When he finished, he was alone. That was how it was going to be from here on out, and he needed to get used to it again.

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The bright headlights of a deep blue pickup truck shone past shop windows as the vehicle rumbled past. Splashing through puddles of rainwater, it rolled through an alleyway and into an empty lot nestled by abandoned structures. At the same time, black SUVs pulled up alongside the truck and parked.

Robert killed the engine, flopping backward in his seat and adjusting to the near silence that settled in. He could hear the muffled sounds of car doors opening and closing, clearly belonging to the entourage that corralled him here like a prisoner.

This was his reintroduction, after all.

Reaching underneath his leather jacket, he withdrew his service pistol - the one memento he got to keep. A deep breath escaped him as he laid the handgun against his rapidly beating chest. His eyes drilled into the red brick walls blocking what lie ahead, then flicked to his rearview mirrors.

Dangling from a chain, a small sculpted racehorse slowly swiveled around. Days spent watching television in the orphanage, he remembered each NASCAR and horse racing match by heart. He let it slip out one dinner, and the glint in his wife's eyes said everything. A joint project of his wife and son, with Angelica's arts and crafts abilities combined with Liam's motivation to paint everything she made growing up. He watched it spin some more, smiling and giving it a little flick with a finger.

A window to the past, a light through darkness, he felt a wave of unease the longer he stared at it.

The truck's driver-side door flew open as Robert stepped out. A dozen men of all ages and races walked past him, clad in clothing as dark as their vehicles. One of them stopped to speak to him - a stout, bearded man wearing an earpiece connected to his black jacket.

"Jack told us you were comin'. If ya still got your spurs, we wanna see 'em."

"Y'all just lead the way," Robert said. "Maybe you'll see somethin'."

Robert followed closely behind the group, a chorus of pounding boots against the wet asphalt. A cold breeze that came in from the direction of the sea made him shiver; he despised the cold. The buzzing yellow bulbs of overhead street lights distracted him from the men ahead pulling out handguns of their own from their waists.

He was starting to get reminded of various busts he performed through the years. But there would be more bullets sprayed than arrests during this ordeal.

He had never taken another life as an officer.

But could he do it as easily as he did before in his past?

These wayward thoughts were scattered as the group came to a stop near an unassuming building near the docks - likely a warehouse of some sort. The waves were particularly fierce that night, crashing against the wooden piers and spraying the air with a salty mist. Robert could see the lights of Charleston from across the sea.

The peace was then shattered by muffled gunshots and yelling occurring within the building. The stout man shot a look at Robert as shoved a new magazine into his pistol. "Ready for some action?" he said. "Just watch us mop 'em up and learn."

Jackson's goons began entering the building through an ajar door. Robert muttered a curse as he entered with them. It was dark on the inside, with only a few turned-on lamps on desks illuminating an otherwise empty room. There were intersecting hallways that forced the group to split up and search.

The tension was palpable as Robert followed one group. The further they went, the more signs of chaos were apparent. Casings littered the concrete floors, and bodies wearing bullets were slumped against walls. He could see glimpses of shadows sprinting through rooms, the flash of a gun muzzle before a deafening thud.

It felt foolish to compare a typical bust to carnage like this. This was nothing like he was used to.

"Robert, was it?" a voice whispered in the darkness. "Take that hallway - put down anyone you see that's hostile."

Robert gave a firm nod and broke away from the group, heading down a separate hall that was thankfully clear of evident mayhem. He took out his service pistol in anticipation as he hesitantly entered a spacious chamber. He briefly checked his corners before entering.

An unoccupied forklift in the corner, various large crates gathering dust scattered about, but no signs of activity. He did anything but relax; his training taught him that much. His footsteps were faint and well thought out, but a pair of boisterous steps up ahead sent him on high alert.

A shadow across the light of a dangling street lamp. A large man stumbled into his sights, bleeding from a chest wound and panting heavily as he waved a handgun around frantically.

"JACKSON!" the man screamed. "Where the fuck- come out ya fuckin' rat!"

A misstep caused Robert to step over a shattered glass bottle. With the eyes of the man darting to his position, he put a plan into motion as he withdrew his firearm and pointed it straight at the scowling man.

"Police! Drop your weapon!"

The man stared back at him in confusion before letting out an ominous chuckle. "Well, ain't that fuckin' cute. What - Jack sent ya to that say while you kill all my fuckin' guys?!"

Robert reaffirmed his stance as the man approached. "Final warning! Drop it!"

"You gonna fuckin' shoot me, sunshine? Take your best shot."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw another shadow coming into view. The gun-wielding man continued to approach until he got a good look at Robert, his eyes widening. There was a scrape of a footstep behind the man, an unraveling of a spool of wire.

"What the fuck? You're supposed to be-" A thin wire entwined around the man's neck prevented his last words. His handgun clattered to the ground as he struggled to break free.

Robert jumped back in shock as Jackson relentlessly choked the man before him. Chokes and gasps filled the air, clenched hands flailing in a desperate attempt to claw away his assailant's iron grip on the wire. Robert could not stop staring at Jackson's expression - the sheer brutality captured in one animal-like sneer half covered by darkness.

Every struggle, every futile resistance, Jackson pushed him backward. His boots squeaked against the concrete with each feeble kick. A purplish hue overtook the man's face as his eyes bulged out. His knees crashed to the floor, Jackson coming down with him. It went on for another agonizing minute until a final pathetic whimper crawled out of the large man's lips before his limbs gave out and he fell to the ground - finally extinguished. It was a haunting last moment that sent Robert reeling back.

Men should never make noises like that.

Jackson removed the now bloody wire from the man's neck, grinning victoriously at his deed. "Never used this shit before! Gotta say, worked like a charm!" He glanced over at Robert. "You all right there, James?"

Robert was hunched over, hands on his shaking knees as he tried his best not to vomit from what he saw. "Like… Like a million bucks, Jack," he forced out through a ragged cough. He heard a cackling laugh and felt a slap on his back.

"When you're done pukin' out your lunch, come help me lift this big sack of shit over to the docks."

Robert looked up, taken aback by the request. "That guy's built like a brick house, Jack. No way we're gettin' him anywhere."

Jackson shook his head and knelt down to grasp the deceased man's shoulders. "Excuses ain't gonna make this day go any faster." He hefted the man up. "Grab his boots."

"Jesus Christ…"

Robert swallowed the rising bile in his throat and grabbed onto the man's dark boots.

"All right - on three. One, two, three-"

Both men grunted heavily as they lifted the body up from the ground. Robert followed Jackson's lead as they moved backward into another hallway. An open door ahead allowed some fresh air to trickle inside, which he very much needed.

"You got here just as the fun ended," Jackson said, huffing. "Maybe it's a good thing… It'd be a shame if ya got killed on your first day back."

"Day's not over yet," Robert grumbled.

"Here's hopin'..."

They eventually made it through the open door and onto the docks. At the same time, Jackson's men looked to be mopping things up rather thoroughly. Bodies were pulled out of the building and laid out atop body bags lining the wooden piers. Robert was caught off guard at how professional and organized they were, despite his initial assumptions a year ago.

"The big guy we're carryin', Rhett was his name," Jackson explained. "Used to be the manager here and one of my best guys here. Found out he wasn't sendin' the whole cut of distribution - was takin' a portion for himself. Georgian, too - can't fuckin' trust those inbreds."

He was not comfortable putting a name on these people. If they had to be put down, so be it, but they would be nameless to him. But Jackson did not seem to mind naming the men he strangled to death. That was what separated them both; he could see the humanity inside these people that Jackson could not anymore.

'At least that's what I'm telling myself to cope with what I'm doin',' Robert thought.

"Still got that sour look on your face, James. Next you're gonna tell me you never killed someone as a cop."

"We try not to. I haven't even shot at someone in over five years. Was hopin' I'd never have to again."

"That'll change - don't you worry."

Carrying the body of Rhett over to one of the piers, they dropped him unceremoniously into one of the body bags. Jackson stopped to spit at the man and mutter inaudible curses before turning to the chubby man zipping up the lifeless faces never to see light again. Robert found himself staring at one in particular - a young man in a bloody tank top. He ripped his gaze away, gritting his teeth while also letting out a sigh of relief.

"Usual shit, Miles. Take 'em on one of the boats, dump 'em in different spots, then clean up," Jackson told his underling before returning his attention to Robert. "Easy part's over, but now we gotta torch up the safe house. Can't let the SPMC catch a whiff of weakness in my operation."

"You're takin' the threat of the SPMC a lot more seriously than the damn government," Robert commented as he followed Jackson back to the building.

"Bureaucrats are too busy stiftin' through paperwork to fix the loophole that birthed the army sweepin' these streets. But I don't have time to wait like they do."

Jackson threw open a set of double doors leading into a new section of the warehouse. It looked like a makeshift office space of rectangular tables and chairs crowded around computers and monitors plugged into wall outlets. Large wooden crates were piled high on tables or in the corners of the room, indentations in the foam within that let the mind wonder about what once filled them.

"Here we are - brains of the whole operation," Jackson said as he leaned on one of the tables. "My product gets shipped out through this port internationally. But with certain situations like today, there's gonna be some delays."

"Uhuh, and what kind of "product" are you shippin' exactly?"

Jackson chuckled and waggled a finger at him. "Now where's the fun in discoverin' that yourself?"

"I don't like bein' left in the dark on this, Jack."

"You won't. You'll learn the inner workings of my business soon. Then you can reintegrate with us just like the old days."

'Like the old days, huh?'

From what he had seen, this was anything but. The days of their scrappy partnership of robbing local banks and convenience stores had mutated into something beyond them both. Robert had realized this, but he wondered if Jackson had as well.

"I just think-"

The double doors flew open from a thunderous kick. Robert's instincts activated as he turned on a dime and whipped his extended firearm at the person standing in the doorway.

"Hey- woah! Don't shoot the messenger!" cried the intruder.

The newcomer appeared to be younger than any of the other men present, keeping a steady grip on two red cans of gasoline. He had messy blond hair and wore a Nirvana t-shirt with a v-neck; a pair of sunglasses hung off of it. He looked and dressed nothing like the rest of Jackson's crew, adding further to Robert's confusion.

Jackson lowered Robert's arm with a hand. "And speakin' of learnin'..." He walked over to the young man with a grin and noogied his hair. "I'd like ya to meet Rorke, my work-in-progress."

Rorke whipped his head away, flashing a grin of his own at Robert. "By 'work-in-progress', he means the assistant that does errands for him."

"Twenty years old and shows a hell of a lot more promise than the dogs we've put down today," Jackson said, patting Rorke's shoulders. "He was off on some business of mine in North Carolina. But since he's back, you and he are in the same boat 'bout this SPMC situation."

Robert pocketed his service pistol. "Sorry 'bout that, Rorke. Pleasure to meetcha, but be careful makin' an entrance like that next time."

"Jack, who is this guy?" Rorke asked, glancing Robert up and down. "Doesn't look like any of the other suckers you got here."

Jackson opened his mouth but Robert beat him to the punch. "Ex-cop. You could say I'm an old friend of Jackson's."

"A cop? Are you sure this guy's not wearing a wire, Jack?" Rorke jeered.

Robert threw a sour look his way as Jackson chuckled again. "I need you two to play nice, 'cause you're gonna be my ace in a hole," he said. "Now, Rorke, what'd you come bargin' in here for?"

"Miles and the other guys out there said we're ready to light this place up like Christmas on your go," Rorke explained.

"Sounds good to me." Jackson grabbed one of the jerry cans Rorke held and handed it to Robert, who reluctantly took it. "You two douse this room; make sure not a trace of anything but ash is left once it goes up. I've got some things to take care of before we're done here."

Jackson exited the room through the double doors, leaving Robert and Rorke behind. Both of them immediately got to work, creating large piles of paperwork and splashing gasoline all over it. They overturned furniture and ripped apart electronics and other miscellaneous gadgets. All of the evidence that he was going to destroy, bothered him in a way. But nothing bothered him more than when Rorke opened his mouth to make conversation.

"So… I tried asking Jack, but he wouldn't answer me. But you Southerners, do you actually eat grits every day?"

Robert sighed. "Occasionally."

"Like, what is it really? Is it like porridge or soup?"

It was like Rick never truly left.

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The metal door behind him slammed shut as Robert took a few hesitant steps on the multi-story parking structure's top floor. Jackson had told him to meet him here after everything went down. If there was any chance he had found out, he would not let his guard down.

He pulled his jacket closer to his skin, staring up at the crescent moon's silent, cold gaze upon the earth. He saw Jackson up ahead - the only soul in the area - leaning against the platform walls and looking out toward the city. He approached, throwing his hands over the cold stone and taking in the view.

Robert had to admit Charleston was magnificent at night. He could only see it through the lens of a police officer before, the grime and undesirables that emerged in the dark he had to rout out. But from this vantage point, it was dazzling lights and a thriving city. The smoke drifting into the skies caught his attention as he honed onto the source. The safehouse he was just at was now ablaze, the sound of fire trucks racing toward a product of his creation echoing throughout the city.

Was he an undesirable now? Was he any better than those he put behind bars?

"Was startin' to think you weren't gonna make it," Jackson said, interrupting his thoughts.

"... Your boy wonder, Rorke, he sure likes to open his mouth a lot. Someday he's gonna get hurt 'cause of it."

A smile played upon Jackson's lips. " Picked him up from a crew he ran with two years ago - Rorke made a lot of money for 'em before I broke it apart. Seattle kid - not a lick of a discipline in him, but he's got potential." Digging into his jean pockets, he procured a packet of cigarettes, taking one before offering it to Robert, who reluctantly accepted.

He waited for Jackson to light it up before taking a long drag, expelling a vapor of smoke over the sides of the railing. The release of adrenaline and relaxing feelings flooded his mind, but it all felt tainted somehow. One of the few fleeting pleasures in his life now felt like a constant reminder. "I was supposed to give up smokin' the day it happened - Angelica wanted me to. Enjoyed my last one near my patrol car."

Jackson grinned and took a drag of his own. "Yeah? Elena tried to get me to stop before. That was about five years ago." He blew out smoke. "Women."

Robert shook his head. "I still keep thinkin' about it… She went to go check the damn mail, 'cause I forgot to that day. That was when… it happened."

"You keep bringin' this shit up all the time; you really think that's gonna make yourself feel better 'bout it? Like you could've stopped it?"

"I swear to Christ, Jack - I find out who drove that car, who fired the shots, who gave the order, and I'll-"

"Spare me the details, James. Instead focus that anger on the SPMC."

Robert gritted his teeth and looked away. Jackson was married, but how could he fathom the pain and turmoil he was enduring? He wanted to bark out exactly that and make him truly understand but found it ultimately pointless to argue against someone so desensitized. Instead, he worked on reducing his cigarette to a shriveled nub, stewing in bitter thoughts each long drag.

"The people down there… they don't even know it," Jackson broke the silence.

"Know what?"

"That this city is mine. They can live their lives, go to their jobs, and return to their families, but they won't ever know that I run this city. All those low lives out there that use a piece, I made that happen." He looked at Robert, smirking at the uneasy expression he wore. "I've been buildin' up this for so long. Do you remember? That's what we always dreamed of back in the orphanage."

'An empire of crime,' he reminisced.

An impractical dream born from rebellious youths drunk on their recent heists, drunk on feelings of lashing out against a society they had felt robbed them. It was childish, and Robert had long since cast such thoughts out, but Jackson seemed to take it to heart. He should have known when he was disappointed to see him leave, that Jackson believed he would be missing out on an opportunity; he thought much the same for him.

Maybe he wanted to see his closest friend change like he had, or at least embrace the illusion of it.

"The way ya told me 'bout it," Jackson continued. "I didn't truly think you were serious until you put a bullet through Harper's eyes."

His greatest sin. One that always chased him through the darkest reaches of his mind. Days where he would awake in a cold sweat after remembering that fateful confrontation in the alleyway.

'I'm tellin' ya, James. With you back in the saddle, there's nothin' that can stand in our way. Even past this SPMC hurdle, it's a big opportunity if ya stick around."

"I'm here to protect and provide for my son, Jack. Once I can guarantee that, I'm out."

"Just give it some thought. 'Sides, you did good work today; I could use that in the future."

"Mighty thankful for your praise, boss," Robert sarcastically remarked. "I think maybe a bonus is in order."

Jackson cut the tension with a sharp laugh. "I'm just fuckin' with ya. You're not like any of the leeches down there on the underbelly of this thing of mine. What me and you have - it's closer than friendship - brotherhood, in a sense."

"Thirteen years gone by… and you still think of me as a brother?"

A smile - a shockingly earnest one in Robert's eyes. "One that never called or stuck 'round much, but family nonetheless. Ya gotta understand - nothing is more important in this life than family. If I didn't have Elena or you by my side in that awful fuckin' place, I… well, I don't rightly know where I'd end up."

Robert raised his glowing cigarette to the stars. "The moon. You wanted to be an astronaut - I remember that distinctly."

Jackson chuckled, shaking his head. "Kid like me would've never made it. Even I knew that back then."

"Well, if it weren't for me suggestin' we hit up that gas station, and we never met, maybe…" Robert considered his next words carefully. "Maybe you'd be someplace… better… than all of this."

Jackson looked at him strangely. He could not tell if it was restrained anger or some form of poignant sadness. It was the first time since their reunion that he looked to be in genuine thought and not already concrete in intention. "Maybe," he said, smoke drifting from his pursed lips. "But I don't think anythin' would change. I'd still be right here, makin' my mark."

He could never wrap his mind around this man, not before and certainly not now.

Robert flicked his cigarette off the edge. "It's gettin' late; I need to make sure Liam is in bed. Or at least ate somethin' today."

"I wanna see the boy again one of these days," Jackson said. "Give my respects for his Ma. Elena would love to meet him, too."

"We can arrange that. Maybe it'd pick up his spirits, too." Robert pushed himself off the stone railing. "Call me 'bout our next meetin'. And… thanks again, Jack, for everythin'."

Jackson kept his sights on the city's light show. "Go home to your boy, James. You're still a father - remember that."

"I thank God I am every day, Jack."

Robert began to walk away, only throwing a momentary glance behind his shoulder at the man who remained. Absently smoking away the night as he stared at the city - an entity he claimed solely for himself. It was strange, but Jackson always looked to be in his own world whenever he spoke - even in the past.

What was real and what was fake with a criminal was always a matter of deduction, if not guessing. But what lurked behind that mind of his continued to elude him just like his own.

'Maybe we really are brothers?'

They could not be brothers. He was different from him; he had to be. But the long walk down the parking structure's stairs forced him to reflect.

In truth, the line that separated them both was thinning, and he was terrified of that.

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Yellow-orange flames burst along his enclosed paw, bathing the blue fur in a swelling inferno. The blaze met the bottom of a pipe as he took a slow inhale. He withdrew it from his lips a second later, smoke drifting upward and partially obscuring his flinty canine features.

"This stuff, does it really work?" he asked.

"Salazzle secretions," a voice beside him said. "A mere pint is enough to ignite and burn down a structure of any material. I am quite an expert in this regard, shepherd."

Jackson observed as the Pokemon approached the building. Stained a purplish hue, the faux-guild reminded him of what he used to be, what he pretended to be. Seeing his once bright-eyed students turned cutthroat mercenaries replicate his work stirred feelings of melancholy in him. He quickly snuffed out said feelings with a sharp snort.

'I respected their game, got what I needed from them, but they had to get in my damn way… Good for nothing mercs.'

The Pokemon attired in dark blacks and steel augments started splashing the building with a colorless, noxious liquid from metal cans. They broke through windows, pilfered what once belonged to the Razor Claws, and doused all that remained. He had to admit the zealots showed promise through their religious fervor and desire to follow any and all orders.

Jackson turned, scrutinizing the Fire-type they called their 'commander'. Tall in stature, littered with deep scars engraved into his flesh, and always had a crazed look in the eye. "Your followers are pretty good; standing up to the Council's soldiers, though, is what I'm not seeing."

Blaziken smirked. "These are not my only Pokemon, shepherd; our glorious Alignment has many believers below waiting for the moment to strike. This 'Council' will never have a chance to fight back before the continent is seized."

"You're the most competent one I've seen from the Alignment. So I expect you'll prove that competency when I require your action soon."

The avian puffed out his chest feathers. "With the power of the Allmother and you, shepherd, there is no chance of failure. You have nothing to worry about - I assure you."

It was like a child aiming to impress his beloved hero. He found it amusing at first when the Alignment zealots fawned over him as some prophetic leader destined to lead them toward a promised land. But now he found it pathetic, tiresome even. This is what he desired from the people below him in the past, so why was he so put off by it now?

It never ceased to irk him.

"Once I've gathered all the Legendaries I can, and you have taken the continent from the Council, then we move on Celestial Mountain," Jackson said. "Provided we have all the necessities beforehand."

Blaziken nodded. "Yes, shepherd, but I do have some misgivings." Jackson puffed on his pipe as he silently waited for him to continue. "This 'Yveltal' beast… It failed in the destruction of Elysium City and the Council's headquarters. Can we truly rely on its ghastly powers to succeed?"

As if on cue, a hair-raising shriek pierced the cool night air. Two massive blood-red wings stretched out to form a 'Y'. Yveltal then tucked its wings into its chest and dive-bombed to the ground beside Jackson, creating a mini shockwave as it landed with a thud.

"KYOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" it screeched again, snapping its beak and whipping its head around erratically.

The horror-stricken eyes of many Alignment zealots snapped to the Legendary beast as they remained frozen in place or retreated to a safe distance. Some even dropped to the ground and muttered inaudible prayers. Blaziken, however, was a stark contrast to his soldiers - sizing up Yveltal where he stood as if to rebuff his criticisms.

Jackson found his defiance quite defining of the Fire-type's character. He raised a paw, the flickering orange ring wrapped around it quelling Yveltal's restlessness into quiet subjugation. "Yveltal used much of its energy at Empyrean," he said. "And I'll admit, the Council put up a hell of a fight at Elysium, but it's a minor setback. Once our trump card here recovers, nothing can rival it."

Blaziken crossed his arms. "And in the meantime, we must pour time and Pokè on this 'mercenary princess' and her poorly trained conscripts? How is this mercenary unlike Weavile and Bisharp - the devils that stole such a holy artifact?" His feathers became ruffled as he sneered in distaste. "My apologies, shepherd, but I detest working with such a woman."

"Serperior is useful. She's a nice roadblock for us to put down behind us. Let her have all the delusional demands in the world; when she's outlived her usefulness, she'll be taken care of - permanently."

"That is… acceptable. But I do have one final misgiving."

Smoke billowed from Jackson's mouth. "I'm still listening, aren't I?"

"This group from your past - these 'guild members'. They have not truly been disposed of, have they?"

It should have been clean. It should have been thorough and as merciful as possible. But the appearance of the Council's guards to arrest him threw a wrench into such plans. All of them could have been eliminated upon arrival back to the guild if it were so easy.

The Rose Clan mercenaries he sent after Excadrill and Team Drarosteel were repelled. Both parties were now surely going to collaborate against him.

The evidence he left behind at the guild to keep any who survived the onslaught behind bars also failed, as many escaped from the Council's clutches.

A lot went right, but a lot had gone wrong. He understood well those who knew how to stop the wheels of motion in his plan could not be allowed to remain.

'They can't last forever. Them still being around shouldn't fuck this up too bad.'

"If they become too much of an issue, I'll put an end to their efforts as well," Jackson said. "A bigger issue right now - the Weavile and Bisharp you mentioned will have to be interrogated to find where they put the damn thing." He motioned with his pipe to the building. "Tell your men to sift through the ashes when it's done, and then dig anywhere nearby; they could've buried it."

Blaziken nodded. "I will relay this to them. And I must say, shepherd, I was quite skeptical of your existence and your methods before I met you, but any such qualms have been alleviated through your wisdom."

"Yeah, whatever. I can take care of the rest here, so you take them elsewhere until I'm finished."

Blaziken put his talons to his mouth and whistled loudly. The sounds of shuffling bodies and the clinking metal of their suits filled the air as the Pokemon and their commander retreated from the area. Now by his lonesome, he was finally able to think, or at least have the illusion of being able to.

'Fucking freaks…'

Then it happened. That melodious chime that always rang in his head before a silky voice he had heard so many times in this life flowed into his mind.

"They are strange beings for sure, but their devotion to paradise is unparalleled among Pokemon."

Jackson scoffed as he looked down at his blinking ring. 'I'll work with the cultists, but don't expect me to ever like them.' Not receiving another reply, he took the initiative. 'I know you spoke with the boy. How did he take it?'

"The poor dear had reached his breaking point before our reunion. But I opened his eyes, took away his pain, and he embraced the future for this world, much like you did in the past."

He grumbled. "I guess he did."

He felt disappointed, and he was not sure why.

"Liam is quite resilient - as resilient as you. But Jackson, you put up this facade of stoicism all these years. I know you care; I know you care for a world free of pain, suffering, and death."

'Maybe I care too much. Maybe we both do. And that's the problem.'

He did not get a response - very much like her nowadays - left all alone in his jumbled, confused thoughts that were never truly private.

Flames erupted from his paws as he formed another Fire Punch. This time, he fully ignited the pipe in his grasp until the wood was smoldering and crackling. Glancing at the soaked building, he tossed the blazing pipe through one of the shattered windows.

The result was instantaneous.

Red hot flames and choking black smoke engulfed the mercenary compound like it was a box of matchsticks. In mere seconds, everything was consumed by a massive fireball that spilled burning liquid all over the grass. The heat was intense and sublime, and he could not avert his gaze from the disaster.

If Serperior did her job, and Blaziken did his job, he could do his. And if everything worked out, there would be a reason for his continued existence.

As flames danced across his eyes, he truly wondered what existence he led all this time really amounted to.

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To understand where the roots of this grand story unfurled, you must go back to where it first sprouted.

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Author's Notes: To kick off the new year, I hope you enjoyed the very first chapter to Part Three! I am still hard at work on edits all across the story; I anticipate a full scale release of them in the next update or two.

Work on the official discord for The Phantasmagoria has also begun! If you're interested in joining, add me on my Discord for any updates regarding the story or the Discord server!

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Want to discuss anything related to The Phantasmagoria with the author himself? If so, send a friend request to my Discord linked below!

Discord: z2h2z

Next Time: Of All Gods And Heroes Across Time