A/N: As always- thanks much for the feedback- and I can't believe someone actually went and read my DOOL fic!  That was flattering, as soaps and WB have little in common!  Ahem- now to comments...  As you've probably noticed, I've sucked with updates.  No excuse other than the fact I've been a bit disenchanted with the direction of the show (even before it was cancelled).  I've been off playing in other fandoms.  BUT- I will finish 'Prodigal Son'.  Seriously, I HATE unfinished fics.  I figure I have a 'contract' with the readers.  So, I may not be speedy but I won't stop until it's done.  Yes, that is more a threat than a promise.  And now, on with the 'show'....

Chapter 9

"Illya?  This is a surprise."  Kenneth Irons leaned back in his chair, quirking a perfectly sculpted brow.  The effect was wasted upon the speakerphone, but protocol had been satisfied.  "I assume the weather in Moscow is as pleasant as ever?"

"I...  I've returned stateside, Mr. Irons.  Vorschlag business, you know."

No, Kenneth had not known.  But he should have guessed.  What had his wayward child been up to now?

"Nottingham has been in contact with you."  It was not a question, but he could hear Petronin squirming as he attempted to formulate a response that wouldn't get him killed.  Kenneth almost sympathized.  Caught between Ian's temper and his own capriciousness, Petronin's chances of survival were somewhat less than nonexistent.  A shame, really.  Illya had been an effective operative for many years.

"You did order that any contact with Mr. Nottingham be reported to you." 

Jarred from his musings by a man he had already dismissed as deceased, Kenneth chose to be gracious.  "And you have my thanks for doing so, Illya.  What is it that Ian requires?"

"He contacted me through secure channels and was quite adamant that his inquiries be kept confidential.  Quite adamant."  Despite the heavily accented English, Petronin's fear bled across the phone line.

"Yes, I'm sure he was,"  Kenneth replied, making no attempt to hide his amusement.  Ian had always been a quick study and he'd learned intimidation at the feet of the master. 

A muffled string of Russian curses could be heard in the background and then Illya cleared his throat.  "Mr. Nottingham might take offense if I were to discuss the particulars of his... request."

"Then I advise you not to mention our conversation to him."  Leaning forward, Kenneth began jotting down a list of possible replacements for Illya's position.

"If you think that's best..."

Irons rolled his eyes.  Petronin had enough sense not to ask why he was investigating his second in command, but it was painfully clear that he wanted to.  For a native born Russian, the man's thought patterns lacked all subtly.  Ian was going to eat him alive.

"What is it that Ian wants?" he snapped, Petronin's grace period coming to an abrupt end.

"Information on a kidnap and extortion ring," Petronin responded promptly.  "Exclusively a Russian operation.  That's why I was brought in." 

Kenneth thought it unlikely that Ian would be branching out into kidnapping.  Possible, but unlikely.  Had he hired out to the family of a victim?  More likely, it was some Sara Pezzini inspired quest for nobility.  In either case, the boy should have known better.  "Have you issued your report to him?"

"No sir.  I'm supposed to meet with him tonight at midnight.  I'm to bring the files with me."

"I want a copy of those files immediately and a full report on all of your contacts with Nottingham.  Unless you hear otherwise from me, follow Ian's instructions to the letter.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, but...  He wants me to meet him alone.  The location is an unused warehouse just off the Potomac.  I really think it might be best if I were to take a few men...."

"Petronin, it won't matter if you take a hundred men.  If Ian decides to kill you, he will.  Accept that and move on."  The man was a dolt, perhaps even fool enough to ignore Kenneth's own instructions.  There was considerable comfort in the fact that Ian would slit the man's throat for it.  Even when he was being recalcitrant, Ian served his master's will.

A knock on the door drew Kenneth's attention as Illya continued babbling inanely about his own safety.  With a wave of his hand, he motioned the doctor into his office.

"Very well," Kenneth said, cutting Petronin off mid-sentence.  "I will expect a full report from you as soon as the meeting is concluded."  He was already making plans as he shut down the connection.

"You are looking rather pleased with yourself," Dr. Immo said, placing his medical bag on the desk.

Rising from his chair, Kenneth approached the glass wall behind him.  Peering down at his city, his face hidden from the doctor, he indulged in a genuine grin.  "Ian is coming home."

"Congratulations," Immo replied.  "How did you convince him to return?  The understanding you've come to with Ms. Pezzini?"

When Irons turned back to face the room, the smile was gone.  "There will be no 'understanding' with regard to Ian.  Not with Sara Pezzini or anyone else."

"Of course not, Kenneth.  I only meant...  I am glad he is returning."

Kenneth nodded his forgiveness and returned to his desk.  He was sorely tempted to forgo this routine check-up in order to pursue Ian's machinations with the mainframe.  Knowing that the system had been accessed in order to contact Petronin made it much easier to trace back Ian's actions.  The capital was not a large city.  It was not even a city at all.  Tapping at his keyboard, he began pulling up a listing of all facilities with satellite uplink capabilities. 

"Kenneth?  A moment of your time, please?"

With poor grace, he acquiesced.  He was counting the wasted seconds as Immo tightened the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"How did you talk him into coming back?" Immo asked, unwilling to let the issue drop.

"Ian will follow my orders, doctor.  The amount of persuasion required to see that he does is a moot point."

Kenneth watched with some curiosity as Immo attempted to keep his opinion to himself.  The effort proved as futile as Ian's flight would end up being.

"Do you even know where he is?"

"Of course.  I will find him in D.C."

The doctor sighed and shook his head.  "Your blood pressure is up."

"I wonder why?" 

Immo took the hint and began packing his bag, though he was obviously not done with the discussion.  "Have you considered the possibility that it would be best to allow him to return on his own?"

"It would be best if he had never left.  But he did.  Now I want him back.  The discussion is now closed."

Pausing in the doorway, Immo risked one last comment.  "Ian's a smart boy, Kenneth.  What makes you so sure he'll be found?"

"Because he wants to be." 

His second genuine smile in one day.  Kenneth decided it must be a new record.

************

Ian pulled the GTO to the curb and cut the engine, the dying echo of three hundred and thirty five horses coaxing a grin. American cars did have a certain brutish appeal, even if this one wouldn't have normally been his first choice.  Glancing down at the baseball bat on the floorboard, his smile broadened.  Clearly, it was an omen.  Not only did a god exist, it was sending him gifts.  Who was he to refuse a gift from God?

Claiming his prize, Ian slung his gym bag over his shoulder and slipped from the car.  He stalked into the shadows, seeking the knife's edge between desire and spasm.  The concrete canyons of the warehouse district offered him up crumbled asphalt, fetid air, and the whispered promises of outrage.  If he didn't kill something soon, he might start whispering back.

Kenneth would have silenced the voices.  Sara would have drowned them out.  Jenny....  Jenny made the voices scream, so he tried not to think of her at all.  Not that it mattered.  Irons and Sara were more than capable of destroying him without any outside help.

Jenny had three days, but it was unlikely Irons would give him that long.  If Illya hadn't betrayed him, Ian figured he'd have until sometime Tuesday.  If Illya had betrayed him....

Frank would counsel looking on the bright side of things.  Perhaps Irons would bring Sara with him when he came?  There was little doubt the two reached an accord.  If either had died, he would have known.   An alliance of some sort was the only other option.

Ian struggled to grasp that mental picture.  Kenneth and Sara together, walking up to him wearing matching smiles.  Irons would be in an impeccable linen suit, the same shade of gray as his soul.  Sara... jeans, leather, and just enough flesh to make him hard.  No, the pieces of that puzzle refused to fit together.  But of course, add the missing piece, and the picture became all too clear.

He'd stand in the middle, offer himself up.  With laughing eyes and razored words, they'd rip him open, strip him bare.  Take his honor, his pride, his self-respect.  When they were done with him, there'd be nothing left but skin.  Then one of them would take that too, and the only mystery surrounding any of it was which one. 

It would be just like old times.

With a rough shake of his head, Ian focused on what he could control.  He swung the bat, testing its heft.  'Louisville Slugger'.  An ignoble name for a weapon of mass destruction.  He re-christened it 'Excalibur' and wondered how many people he could bash in the head before it broke.  With any luck, he'd find out tonight.  It was important that it happened tonight.  Tomorrow might be too late. 

It was already too late, but there was no sense dwelling on that. 

Ian swung again, stretching high to reach the streetlight.  He desperately needed to watch something break that wasn't him.  The satisfaction he felt when the glass rained down around him would have frightened anyone sane.  Ian simply admired the way the blood oozed from the cut on his cheek and wondered if it was too late to invest in a heroin addiction.  Most likely, it was.

Fuck.  He borrowed the word from Frank.  Kenneth would be appalled, but he was going to indulge in bad habits while he still had the chance.

A quick check of his watch showed two hours left before the meeting.  The rendezvous was less than eight blocks away.  Too much time with nothing to do but think, but if he'd sat in the office for one more second, Frank would have been beneath the dirt and Robert would have been very displeased. 

Irons was right- friends were a liability.  He'd been careful to avoid them ever since the Black Dragons.  His friends.  The ones he'd buried.  The ones he'd killed.

Irons was always right.  It was not an endearing trait.

Clenching his jaw, Ian turned left at the next corner and lengthened his stride.  He'd burn off some excess energy, circle ground zero.  It was simply good form to know the lay of the land. 

His rubber soled boots made no sound as he ghosted through the garbage-strewn alleys.  There was nothing alive, save for the rats that skittered out of his path.  Maybe Illya would come alone.  Maybe he hadn't alerted Irons.  And maybe Sara really liked him but was just too shy to admit it.

If Ian was going to live in a fantasy land, he chose to make it a pleasurable one.

Half an hour and three miles later, he would have sworn he was the last man on earth.  It was time to hunker down and wait.  With a burst of speed, Ian leapt up to snag the bottom rung of a convenient fire escape.  As he slithered over the roof's edge, he couldn't help a feeling of nostalgia.  Had Sara been impressed by that sniper he'd so neatly dispatched for her?  Had the decorative touch with the rifle been too much?  He'd have to remember to ask her the next time they talked. 

Quiver in his belly at the thought.  Desire or fear or both.  The fact that Kenneth evoked the same response was just one more thing he refused to think about.

Fuck.  It was a good word.  Ian was going to miss it.

His sense of direction hadn't failed him.  The warehouse where they were to meet was two buildings over, he wouldn't need to return to the ground to reach it.  Settling in, Ian awaited the sign of his betrayal.  It took longer than he'd expected.  Forty five minutes passed before the van pulled up, half a dozen black-clad men bursting from the rear doors.  If Ian had ever believed in the fantasy, he would have mourned it. 

He put Excalibur to work instead.

************

Illya Petronin pulled his overcoat more tightly around himself in the too warm summer air. The sodden wool-silk blend clung to his body like a funeral shroud, doing nothing to improve his spirits.  He hated this country, he hated its capital city, and more than anything else, he hated Kenneth Irons and his misbegotten spawn.  He should have stayed in Russia.  Granted the food was terrible and there were any number people there who would like to see him dead, but none of them actually had the ability to make it happen.  Irons and his rabid puppy could, without so much as blinking an eye.  The situation was intolerable.

He punched the alarm on his Mercedes, noting with inordinate satisfaction that it was not American made, and set off briskly for the warehouse entrance.  'Cronus Imports' faded red letters proclaimed.  Nottingham must be feeling rebellious these days.  It did not bode well.

Illya cringed as the heavy metal door screeched open, the sound echoing through the cavernous room and putting disgruntled pigeons to flight.  Handcrafted leather loafers, also not America made, waded through the offal of animals and humans alike.  It was almost enough to make him grateful that none of the lights seemed to work.  Miserable country filled with miserable people.  He would flee home to Mother Russia in the morning and never return here again.

Pausing in the center of the deserted warehouse, Illya peered into the building's shadowed corners.  The feeble glow of the streetlights penetrated the open doorway but did little to dispel the darkness.  No sign of Nottingham, no sign of anyone. 

"I have the information you requested."  His voice sounded thin, even to his own ears.  Gathering his courage, he shouted out more loudly.  Nothing shouted back.  Wavering between irritated and relieved, he checked the faint glow of his watch.   Five after midnight, and a Tag Heuer was never wrong.  He could hardly be blamed for the fact Nottingham hadn't showed.  Illya decided to be relieved.

The whir of displaced air froze his smug smile in place.  A pigeon.  Please?  Sweet Mary, mother of God, all my many sins repented in exchange for one winged rat.

"Did you come alone?"  The voice was smooth and low and... amused.  It was not a pigeon.

Fuck you, Mary.  Illya turned around slowly, reluctant to have his eyes confirm what his ears had already made plain.  His chest heaving, blood pounding, he told himself he was safe.  His men were in place.  He was valuable to important people.  Nottingham would never dare...

Hard and dark and hungry, it coiled in the shadows like a son of Beliel at play.  His heart seized as Illya Petronin recognized the face of his death. 

White teeth flashed in a predator's grin.  "Did you come alone?"

Mute nod, his throat too tight to push out words.  Illya held the thin file up, an offering with which he'd buy his life.  Nottingham didn't accept.

"I asked you a question, Illya.  I expect the courtesy of an answer."

In a silent glide across littered concrete, the beast began to circle.  Illya felt the brush of heated breath against his ear, the satin smooth taunt of leather across the back of his neck.  "Alone," he choked out.  "Yes.  Just as you ordered, Mr. Nottingham."

"Very good, Illya.  I knew I could trust you."  Amused and now dismissive, Nottingham plucked the folder from his hands.  "Mr. Irons knows nothing of this?"

"No!  No, of course not."  The words were too vehement, he was shaking his head too hard!  Divert, delay, dissemble.  "Those are dangerous men you seek.  You will need my help to take them on."  Where the hell were his men?

"Did you discover their current residence?"

Illya managed an ingratiating smile.  He could make this work.  "Yes, my people are very skilled.  Everything you asked for, it's in the file."

"Then I will not need your help."  Nottingham smiled back.

"The hostages died!"  He threw it out like a challenge.  God alone understood what Nottingham was up to, but this was the last chance he'd have for a reprieve.  "Their parents either paid up and kept silent, or the children died!  Mr. Nottingham, these men have no scruples, no qualms.  In the one instance the F.B.I. was called in, they found the children just in time to see the explosives go off.  There wasn't enough left to bury!"   

That caused Nottingham pause, and Illya knew the game was far from over.  If he could just walk out of this building alive...

"The residence is wired?"

He fed Nottingham an encouraging nod.  "We aren't certain.  Not yet.  But based on prior cases, it is likely.  You will need a team if a rescue is your goal."  Too wise to ask questions, that could come later.  But Nottingham was working for someone, and Irons would gladly pay to discover the particulars.  Illya bit down on a smirk.  Ian Nottingham was going to be brought down, and it would be at the hands of a child.  Oh, how he relished the opportunity to see Irons' brat scream.  Mother Russia could wait.

Broad shoulders, backlit by the light from the door.  Illya watched as they wilted and Nottingham gave vent to a silent sigh.  "You're right.  I'll need a man I can trust."

Still nodding, Illya began edging toward the door.  Nottingham was a stupid bastard and he would pay for his actions this night.  Irons would see to it, and Illya would be there to watch.  The sweet promise of that day was almost enough to overshadow the fear that blossomed when Nottingham's hand crashed down on his shoulder.

"It's just too bad for you that you're not that man."

Freedom was a mere ten yards away.  He could see it in the gleaming steel of the Mercedes, the quiet patter of the rain.  A little further, Mary.  It wasn't so much for an old man to ask.

The blinding pain tore through him like the first stage of a heart attack, and Illya clutched at his chest, intent on making it stop.  His lungs refused to work, bright pink blood spattering across his hand when he coughed.

"Did my father have any words for me?"

Nottingham stared at him, open and curious.  Illya half expected to be offered a cup of tea and a biscuit, and then he realized he was on his knees.  Dirt and rat droppings marred black Armani, so he brushed ineffectively at his pants.  He would have fallen over then if not for the strong grip that steadied him.  When he glanced up to give thanks, there was something very wrong with the young man's smile.

"What happened?"  The words mingled with the blood, drenched the front of the youngster's jacket.  Distant recognition that there was more blood there than one body could hold.  Confusion over how that could be.  Opening his mouth to ask, Illya Petronin fought for another breath of air. 

And lost.

************

"What happened?"  The words wheezed out, barely discernable. 

"You died," Ian replied, though it was too later to matter.  When he took his hand away, the body slumped bonelessly to the floor.  It was a sad death for a good Armani suit.

Grabbing Petronin by the tie, he dragged the body into the far corner, tucking it behind the trash bin where the other six had waited.  Digging a heavy flashlight out of his gym bag, Ian leaned against the wall and leafed through the file.  Petronin hadn't been lying about the explosives even if he had been lying about everything else.  "Fuck."  He said it aloud.  It was warranted.

A few sharp blows with the flashlight served to relieve some of his frustration.  As an added benefit, Petronin could no longer be identified by his dental records.  Briefly, he considered freeing the remnants of Excalibur from its new home inside an unknown's chest cavity, then decided a Viking funeral was more apropos.  Three heads had been one more than he'd thought it would last.  The weapon had earned its rest.  Setting the timer on the C-4, he started for the door.  The gray Mercedes pulled out of the parking lot just as the building blew. 

Arson.  It was the sloppy assassin's best friend. 

Ian flipped open his cell phone, already oblivious to the flames that streaked the sky.  "Frank?"

"Who is it?"  The sing-song voice cackled maniacally across the scrambled line. 

Ian groaned into the receiver.  Who'd have believed Frank could give Sara lessons in pissy?  "My contact proved useful.  Do you have the men standing by?"

"I'm not quite the retard you think I am, Ian.  The boys are ready and rare'n to go.  Jesse's still gathering some equipment, but other than that, just tell me when and where."

Ian rattled off the address and added a little to the list of supplies he wanted on hand.  Explosives changed things and not in a good way.

"Shit, kid.  Are we planning on laying siege to the place?  I thought you were gonna make like Batman and fly in through the skylights."

"I don't even know if the place has skylights, Frank.  That's why I want a copy of the floor plans and security specs.  Jenny's safety is my priority.  Remember?"

"Yea, I remember.  I just wasn't sure you would.  You looked pretty pissed off back at the office.  Thought you were gonna get biblical on somebody's ass."

"I intend to.  Once Jenny's out of there, I'm going to smite the fuck out of every asshole in that house."  The slang felt awkward on his tongue, but he'd improve with practice and the tinny echo of Frank's laughter told him his effort had been appreciated.

"That's my boy.  Ian, you're the son I never wanted.  Before I'm done with you, you'll be chew'n tobacco and nailing anything with tits."

"The world is grateful you never reproduced and I don't need another father figure, Frank."

"The father figure you've got sucks butt."

"I'll relay your regards the next time I see him, and I'm very much hoping that's no time soon."  Ian shook his head and sighed.  If Kenneth ever met Frank, it was going to end very badly for all concerned.

"Anybody ever tell you that you worry too much?"

"No one who lived to see old age.  I'm serious, Frank.  I need to make this happen tonight.  If it doesn't...  It might be better to call in the feds."

There was a long pause before Frank replied.  "I guess we could do that.  If you think it's safer for Jenny...."

Ian didn't, but it was definitely safer for him.  Please, just let the house not be wired, let the security system be stock.  Let this be done tonight.  "Be ready for my call," was all he said.

"We will be, you can count on me."  A hint of accusation in that, but Ian ignored it because it was deserved. 

"I know.  Just stay sharp.  The feds had a shadow waiting for me when I left Am-Tech.  They might have put someone on you as well.  That's interference I don't want.  Not now."

"Damn.  You had a stalker problem?"  Frank snorted.  "We aren't going to have to try and explain a missing F.B.I. guy, are we?"

"No.  He was watching my car, so I took a different one.  Nothing can be traced back to Am-Tech."

"Discretion, Ian?  From you?  I'm almost disappointed.  Your psychoses have become my favorite form of entertainment."

"I'll try to do better in the future."  Ian allowed himself a grin as he pulled to the side of the road to let a fire truck rush past.

"See that you do.  Where are you now, anyway?"

"Looking to liberate another car.  Something in red, I'm setting a theme."

"Viva la revolution.  And that really didn't answer my question."

"No, it really didn't."

"Prick," Frank muttered, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to deny.  "Is that the sound of sirens in the background?"

"Probably.  I believe there was an accident.  Then there was a fire.  You know how old buildings burn."

"Yea, spontaneous combustion's a bitch.  Anyone die?"

"No one important." 

"I'm starting to find you entertaining again," Frank said, chortling like a deranged chimp.  It left Ian wondering whether he was the only psychopath in Jameson's employ.

"I live to serve," he replied, which was a lot closer to the truth than he wanted Frank to know. 

"Couldn't tell it by me.  Hell, I thought you were gonna blow me off.  I'm surprised you called for back up."

"I needed a man I could trust."

"Hm, and you picked me?  Must not have had many options."

"One other, but he was no one important."

Frank had to think about that one for a moment before he snickered.  "Watch your ass, kid.  We'll be there when you call."  And then he was gone.

Slumping down in the seat, Ian began to relax.  Gentrified brownstones interspersed with gleaming steel office buildings rose up around him.  The Mercedes was no longer remarkable and the odds of finding something to replace it with had risen sharply.  No matter how critical the need for speed, he was not parking Petronin's car anywhere near his ultimate target.  Irons already had enough of an edge.

All things considered, he wished he'd killed Petronin more slowly.

************

The Jaguar was midnight blue instead of red, but other than that, he had no room for complaint.  Ian pushed the pedal to the floor and sank back into thick leather upholstery.  The engine hummed, all unleashed power and sneering attitude.  Sweet car.  Maybe he could guilt Irons into buying him one.  It took a considerable effort to evoke guilt in Kenneth, but Ian had the unpleasant feeling he was going to get the opportunity.  Not even a Jaguar would be worth that.

When the speedometer hit one hundred and thirty, the drive began to feel suspiciously like running.  To something or from something, he wasn't exactly sure.  In either case, it would be better if he simply turned around now.  He could make New York in four hours and the prodigal returned always warranted the fatted calf.  A worthless slave dragged back by his heels- what was that worth?  It was worth not thinking about.

He could keep driving, hit I-95 and follow the coast until he ran out of road.  The Florida Keys were supposed to be nice and it would be years before Irons would think to look for him there.  He'd find a little island, drink cold beer, and gawk at pretty girls who didn't hate him.  The Jag could be parked on a beach in time to watch the sun lose itself beneath shimmering waves.  If the urge struck, Ian would be free to join it. 

He was on the Fairfax exit ramp before a decision had been made.  Downshifting into fourth, he fishtailed on the wet cement as he tried to convince himself that Jenny would be just as safe left in the capable hands of the F.B.I.  Ian's presence was not required for this postmodern fairytale's happy ending.  After all, didn't beautiful little girls come pre-equipped with their own guardian angels? 

Unfortunately, self-delusion was not an Irons approved sin.  Ian knew too well that beauty dies and angels fall.  The sacraments he honored had been written by vengeful gods.  Vengeance, he could do.  Running, he couldn't. 

Besides, the only girl he wanted to gawk didn't live anywhere near Florida and she'd beat him to death if he ever called her a girl.

Fuck, again.  It really was an all purpose expletive.  Ian tried to imagine Irons' face the first time he used it in his presence.  Very bad idea.

He was sweating by the time he rolled past the entry to the gated community.  An alert looking security guard eyed him as he went by.  Not even the Jag would buy him a visit, not without being cleared by a resident. 

Grinding his teeth together, Ian kept going until he found a neighborhood that was not quite as security conscious.  He doubted the Jaguar would raise any suspicions left there and even if it did, nothing would tie it to his target.  It would have to suffice. 

Gym bag over his shoulder, Ian trotted down the sidewalk.  He might not be inconspicuous, but he was fast.  The gated community soon had an unwelcome visitor and no one would be the wiser until the bodies started to bleed.