A/N: This fic idea was inspired by the motion picture, The Transporter, but I've beefed it up into what I hope is a much deeper and more compelling story based on a long-standing war between Cassadines and other various power-hungry families that come into play. Some GH history as well as time-lines will be manipulated to suit this story. It features several Cassadines, Sexis, an AU Jason Morgan [He was never Sonny's enforcer], Sam "McCall", JaSam, KriSam, SamLexis, Davis Girls and other characters from canvas that I have tweaked. The first two or three chapters follow the movie pretty closely, but don't let that throw you off. It veers into my own twisted tale before long. This is part one of what will be at least two parts and, perhaps, a trilogy. The prologue is kind of brutal on one of my faves, but rest assured she gets her revenge to a large degree by end of part one. PS: I will always envision Lexi Ainsworth as Kristina Corinthos Davis unless she's the half-pint version known as Kali Rodriguez.

Disclaimer: Some dialogue may be paraphrased or directly quoted from the film or General Hospital and belongs to its respective writers. This story is Rated R for violence, adult content and adult language.

The Transporter [R]

Prologue.

May 11, 1980 1:23pm. Wyndemere, Port Charles

"Hand me the child, Natasha." Helena's voice was clipped with unveiled loathing as she stared down at the living reminder of her husband's infidelity.

It wasn't enough that her beloved Mikkos bedded that opera-house whore. He had to add further insult to injury leaving her with child not once, but twice. Fortunately Helena had seen to it that his mistress met with a fatal swipe of a dagger before she could ever reveal she bore him a second child. There was no way Helena would risk that trollop gaining an even stronger hold over her husband than already managed after giving him his first daughter.

Mikkos had been so taken with his precious baby girl that he actually acknowledged the bastard child with royal title as if she were equal to the two sons and rightful heirs Helena had given him. There was no way Helena would suffer that humiliation a second time. Mikkos had sworn the affair was over, but Helena kept close watch over the threat at hand and when the time was right she made her move.

The baby girl had been carted away before she could be discovered by her husband or his informants and a six year old Natasha had been left to watch a river of crimson flow from her mother's carotid until her body lie rigid in death. It served as a powerful lesson for the girl to learn her place and to never attempt to undermine Helena's position as the Cassadine matriarch.

She only wished the threat wasn't empty. As much as Helena wished the girl as dead as her mother, Mikkos would never forgive anyone killing his own. Whores came and went and he had even accepted his own guilt in pushing Helena to act out against Kristin by flaunting their affair, but he would kill anyone including her if they ever dared serve his flesh and blood the same fate.

Helena had little room for discourse when Mikkos insisted on taking Natasha into their home upon her mother's death, especially after boldly confessing her crime to him, but Helena was very resourceful and she had made do. She may not be able to kill Natasha, but she had managed to exact her revenge by equally devastating means. She never thought she would be grateful for that second bastard Kristin spat out, but over the years Natasha had proven as unruly and reckless in regard for her own life as her mother so the leverage of a baby sister had worked to her advantage.

"Please don't. Don't take her. Don't make me say goodbye." Natasha begged as she held her step-mother's malicious gaze.

Many were fooled by the older woman's disarming personality, hazel eyes, soft blond locks and alabaster skin, but Natasha had learned long ago of the evil that lie beneath.

"She's too little. She needs her mother. She needs, needs me." She choked out the last words as a sob escaped her throat clutching her newborn tighter.

This couldn't be happening. They couldn't force her to give up her baby. Surely her father would have mercy and intervene. He had to, because she just couldn't say goodbye to this precious life she had fallen in love with from the moment she learned of her existence. She hugged her daughter close nuzzling her rosy cheek with her own as their combined tears blended to unite a shared sorrow.

The infant had sensed her mother's distress and began crying too. Natasha was so young. Maybe sixteen was too young to be a mother, but caring for her baby and loving her felt so natural. She swayed her gently in her arms and whispered soft reassurances in her ear. She was soothed at once and fresh tears fell as she wondered how long it would be before her baby girl forgot the sound of her mother's voice.

"Enough. Save those tears for someone who doesn't know better." Her stepmother scolded. "You are no longer your father's innocent little school girl. You are a married woman with a child. It is time you start acting like it. You chose to walk away from your marriage and now it is your choice to walk away from your child."

Fury filled Natasha's weary frame as a new level of hatred burned deep in her soul for the woman before her. "I haven't had a choice since the day you murdered my mother and kidnapped my sister! How could you be so cruel as to take a baby from her mother the very day she was born?"

Helena erupted in vicious laughter. "Cruel? Cruelty would be allowing this innocent child to be raised by the likes of you. You are no better than your whore of a mother. You're every bit as weak and undisciplined. At least she had the nerve to fight for her daughters. She was willing to risk her life if it meant securing a future for you and the other one and yet you are ready to walk away. Kristin was a fool to believe she could stand against me and win, but she definitely showed more courage than you. Your husband would gladly welcome you home along with your daughter for the price of a simple apology. You wouldn't have to be without her for a moment, but deep down you are as selfish as your mother. You aren't content to have what is given to you. You insist on demanding more and if you aren't careful, dear Natasha, you too shall meet an untimely end with the tip of my blade. Now give me the child. I've indulged your histrionics long enough."

This was it. She was trapped here on Spoon Island and no one would be coming to her rescue, not even her father who was probably the only one with the power to stop this from happening. She searched the open doorway in futile hope of her father's change of heart as her own mind and heart fought the notion of letting go. As much as it pained her she knew it was her last chance to say goodbye, but her heart would never accept it. Her heart would never let go.

She breathed deeply trying to hold another stream of sobs at bay long enough to say what she needed to say. She held her sweet baby girl in front of her studying every feature and committing it to memory. She ran her fingers over a head full of silken raven hair and smiled at their matching long lashes. She traced the outline of her heart-shaped face and little pouting lips and gazed into those dark blue eyes that led her to wonder if they would remain that way like her father's or turn brown like her own. When would they turn and would she ever see them, see her again? She didn't trust her husband to keep his word, but she promised herself and her daughter in that moment she would find a way.

"I love you, sweetheart." She whispered softly not wanting to share the moment with Helena. "I love you with everything that I am and I promise you, Samantha, we will be together again one day. I would go with you, but you're safer with your father if I'm not around to anger him anymore. He may not be a good husband, but I've seen him with his niece and nephew and I know he would never raise a hand to you. You're too important to him to mistreat. It was me he didn't like and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I failed you, but I will see you again. This isn't forever."

She kissed her forehead, her cheeks and finally her lips and was unable to contain the gut-wrenching cry that left her breathless in its intensity as Helena jerked her baby out of her arms and spirited the wailing infant away just as she had done with her baby sister years ago.

xxxxx

Mikkos Cassadine eyed the younger man with barely concealed disgust as he addressed him. "Are you certain there is no alternate compromise to be met that would allow for Natasha to keep her child with her, even for the first year or two?"

"I am sorry, Mikkos." The thickly accented man spoke with false sincerity. "If Natasha insists on this divorce she may have it, but she will not keep my child from me. The only other satisfactory outcome would be for Natasha to come to her senses, apologize and come home with me and our daughter. I think that option is more than fair considering the public humiliation she has brought on both our families."

"I couldn't agree more, Andre." Helena dazzled as she entered her husband's study donning the fake persona of concerned stepmother as easily as others slipped into a worn pair of shoes.

She approached her son-in-law carefully placing the tiny infant in his embrace as she continued. "In fact I was appealing to Natasha's sensibilities only moments ago that she might see the error of her judgment and choose to do right by her husband and child."

Helena afforded a tragic sigh with a slow shake of her head. "Alas, I fear she is too much like her mother, impetuous and pig-headed."

Mikkos felt his blood boil at the slight against the woman he once loved as well as the beautiful daughter she had given him, but he said nothing. He simply gripped his glass a little tighter and considered the untold joy to have been garnered had it been his son-in-law's neck.

"She is a challenge." Andre agreed jubilantly as if stealing an infant from its mother left nothing to regret. "It is one of the many things I love about her, but it is my hope for her to see reason before the divorce is final. If not, however, I shall harbor no ill will."

He looked down at the child in his arms as he bounced her up and down. He would have preferred a male heir, but she was his blood and she would be raised as such. "At least I will have my beautiful daughter to dote on."

Mikkos took this as his opening. "She is beautiful and in excellent health. Natasha did a fine job bringing your first heir into the world."

Andre looked up from the discomfited infant to meet the black eyes of his father-in-law and family's biggest competitor. "Da, she did."

"I am pleased you agree and I am sure you will also agree such an accomplishment deserved a reward." Mikkos smiled in wicked satisfaction at the trapped uncertainty crossing Andre's features. To deny the reward Natasha had been granted now would be an insult. Andre must accept her reward or risk upsetting the truce.

The older man continued. "Natasha has chosen a fine name for her daughter and I have taken the liberty of securing the birth certificate here for you to sign before your return."

Andre's eyes narrowed as his jaw tightened. Natasha should not be awarded such control. This was what led to her disobedience in the first place. Her father had given her a false sense of entitlement confusing her into thinking a woman's voice carried as much weight as a man. She had failed to recognize her place in their marriage and forced him to discipline her as her father should have done long ago.

"How thoughtful." Andre seethed through gritted teeth.

"I thought so." Mikkos smiled in delight with the small victory. He only wished he were in position to do more. He set his drink on the table. "Why don't I hold my granddaughter while you sign?"

Andre handed the baby over as Mikkos looked down upon her with sad eyes and heavy heart.

"Samantha Alexandra Cassadine Karpov," Andre read aloud. "She honors us both with Alexandra."

Mikkos nodded as he continued to admire the baby in his arms. "She was terribly saddened to hear of your brother's death." He looked back up to his daughter's husband. "Alexander was a fine young man. Everyone always spoke highly of him."

"Yes." Andre smiled affectionately, but there was something malevolent about it as well. "I'm afraid it is true what they say. Only the good die young."

"Well then," Helena charmed as she placed one arm at her husband's shoulder and the other on the baby's head. "You must take great care of yourself for this little one's sake."

Mikkos scoffed with a humorless chuckle. "Trust me my dear. I have it on good authority heaven has no interest in the likes of men like us."

"Mikkos," Helena reprimanded. Their truce was on rocky ground at best. It would do no good to disrupt what little progress had been made.

"No, Helena. He is right." Andre smiled as he finished signing his name with flair. "My brother was a good man, but naïve. Mikkos and I suffer no such malady. We are far too calculating to be caught by death unaware."

Andre met Mikkos' eye as they both came to understand either would gladly stab the other in the back figuratively or literally at first opportunity.

Mikkos redirected his attention to the babe in his arms as Helena retreated to the bar for a drink. "Be well Samantha." He murmured. "Know that you are Cassadine and you are loved. There will always be a place for you here with us for you shall always be kept close in our hearts."

He placed a gentle kiss to her cheek and returned her to the arms of her father. "I will have my assistant forward Samantha's official certificate of birth once it is notarized and filed with the state."

"Very good." Andre agreed as he positioned the small bundle against him. "I will contact you once we are home safe. Send word if Natasha should change her mind and I will send the jet for her at once. Otherwise, she can mark her calendar one year from today."

Mikkos' brows rose in confusion.

"I wouldn't dream of asking her to miss our daughter's first birthday," Andre grinned. "Oh and please see that she gets the flowers. I believe it is customary for mothers to receive them today, though at home we celebrate our mothers on the last Sunday in November."

Bastard! If the man didn't have his infant granddaughter in his arms he would wipe the floor with him. The agreement had been for Natasha to relinquish custody of her daughter at birth, but she would still be permitted visitation at birthdays and special occasions. He never dreamed the man would be so vindictive as to make her wait an entire year to see her child again. His fist clenched until it shook. Surely Andre was only taunting him. He would not dare deny Natasha from seeing her child sooner.

Helena chimed in again upon noting the rise in tension. "The flowers were beautiful, Andre. It was very considerate of you to think of us. I'm sure Natasha will love her roses as much as I love mine."

"It was nothing." Andre's sinister grin turned from Mikkos to Helena. "A mere token of my deepest thanks. You are a lovely lady Helena. Natasha will be well-served under your continued guidance. I only hope it will benefit our family in time."

"Why, thank you." Helena oozed with sugary affection. She and Andre understood one another perfectly. "I will do my best to get through to her. Until then I hope you will consider sending photographs and updates of your daughter's progress. I have a feeling they may be a most useful tool for encouragement."

His eyes flashed with devilish admiration for the woman so willing to do his bidding. "Very well, I shall see to it weekly updates are sent to you directly. I trust your discretion to know when Natasha may be in the right frame of mind to enjoy them."

"Thank you, Andre." Helena beamed as Mikkos frowned at the exchange. "I'll make certain to make good use of them."

"I'm sure you will." He smirked. "Well, Mikkos, Helena, I'm afraid I must be going now. I am anxious to welcome my daughter home to mother Russia."

Mikkos sighed in defeat as Helena nodded adieu.

"I trust you to take good care of her, Karpov." He warned.

"As I trust you to care for my wife." Andre returned.

"Good day, Mikkos." He nodded in parting. "Helena," He smiled. "It was a pleasure as always."

"Oh no." Her lips curled in devious delight. "The pleasure was all mine."

As soon as the servant saw their guest out, Helena turned to her husband. "It isn't wise to instigate the head of such a powerful family, Mikkos. Need I remind you of what we stand to lose?"

Mikkos swat a vase from its perch sending it crashing across the floor. "Need I remind you, Helena, that man just stole my granddaughter?"

"Darling," Helena consoled. "I know how much this pains you and my heart breaks for you, but there is nothing more to be done. The alliance between Karpov and Cassadine empires would have made for a very prosperous future had Natasha not walked out on their arranged union. Her most public and shameful airing of private matters was an embarrassment that demanded atonement."

"He beat her, Helena! He beat my pregnant daughter to within an inch of her life! Had it not been for Alexander…" Mikkos sighed and placed his head in his hand.

"Andre had no idea she was pregnant at the time. He is still but a young man with the weight of a family empire on his shoulders." She reasoned.

"You yourself, though much older and wiser, have nearly reached your breaking point after suffering the tongue of your daughter. Andre has since apologized to Natasha and to our family and assures us it will never happen again. Their love is new, Mikkos, and all new love has its troubles in the beginning. They need our support and understanding to work through it, not encouragement to walk away from a commitment at the first sign of difficulty."

Mikkos just shook his head unrelenting. Helena hadn't been the one to find his daughter bloodied and bruised. It was a miracle Natasha hadn't miscarried. She hadn't seen the look of terror in his little girl's eyes. She didn't understand. Natasha told him it hadn't been the first time and he believed her. There was no way he would force his daughter back under that man's roof, no matter the cost. He owed that much to his daughter and his beloved Kristin.

"Is that how you would see your daughter live the rest of her life?" She implored with masterful cunning. Her compassion was almost believable. "As a quitter who abandoned her husband and child? Please, you know I say this with only the best of intentions."

"Andre is a great man." She asserted as she slithered to stand behind him with her hands smoothing over his shoulders.

"But he could be so much more with a great Cassadine woman standing behind him." She cooed seductively against his lobe.

"Samantha needs her mother and father together." She continued her seduction as she played with the hair at the nape of his neck. "And Natasha needs to learn what it means to live up to her word."

Mikkos sighed again uncertain if he agreed with the logic in her words or was only desperate to cling to them to appease his own guilt. "You may be right, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. How am I to face my daughter after failing her so?"

"My dear sweet Mikkos," Helena sighed as she stroked his hair. "You have it backwards. It is Natasha that has failed you. She went into this marriage of her own free will and now she refuses to honor her obligations to her husband and child. The Karpovs make for a powerful ally, but you know as well as I they would make an even greater enemy. You had no choice other than to abide by the terms of this truce. It is what is best for the Cassadine legacy and in time Natasha will come to accept her duties to this family and the consequences for disregarding them."

Mikkos nodded his submission. "I must check on my daughter."

"Remember, darling." Helena called to him as he began to walk away. "She needs you to show your strength, not enable her weakness with coddling. Natasha made the decision to walk away and it is our duty to help her learn to live with her choice and move on."

xxxxx

Mikkos made his way to the end of the west wing and through the door at the end of the hall that led to the parapet above. He'd gone to his daughter's room to find it empty and been informed by one of the upstairs maids that Natasha had insisted her roses needed sunlight and had refused to let anyone else help her. He shook his head at his willful daughter. She had just given birth that very morning and the doctor had insisted she remain in bed until her body recovered.

Natasha heard the heavy footfalls against the stairs as they neared and immediately placed them as her father's before he ever came into view. There was a confidence in his step even when he was at his lowest. She wasn't surprised someone had come looking for her. She was on strict orders not to leave her bed until the doctor gave his okay, but the staff all served as her watchdogs so it was only a matter of time before one of them ratted her out.

She had tried to stay in bed -not because she gave a damn about following orders. It was that her body was just too exhausted to do little else. The emotional and physical exertion of delivering her baby and then giving her up had taken its toll.

After Helena left her, she cried until her throat was raw and she had no voice left at all. She curled into a ball and wept silent steady tears as her heart broke more and more with every bit of distance that grew between her and her child. She had finally run out of tears when one of the servants brought in a large vase full of long-stemmed roses. She hollowly thanked the servant out of habit, but when they informed her who the flowers were from she suddenly surged to her feet as anger fueled her.

She thought to fling them across the room, but then she remembered her daughter. A minute had yet to pass that her baby girl wasn't at the forefront of her thoughts. Her arms already longed to hold her. They felt so empty without her and her heart ached to see her again. That was when she decided to come up to the roof. She would be able to see her daughter as she boarded the launch and watch until she could see her no more. Every second she could see her would have to sustain her for days, weeks and maybe even months. Who knew how much time would pass before Andre agreed to let her visit. She informed the maid her flowers needed sun as excuse to take her leave and stalked away with the vase in tow.

She saw movement at the dock and aimed the telescope to get a better look. When her view came into focus she found Andre standing there with her daughter in his arms. He must have noticed someone on the roof and guessed it was her, because he looked straight up at her with an evil grin as he held Sam's tiny hand up to wave goodbye to her mother. Natasha lost it and began sobbing once again. Her body and arms moved searching for some place to direct her rage and anguish as she hefted the large vase of flowers and hurled them over the ledge smashing them against the stone walk below.

"Natasha! Natasha, my dear child." Mikkos raced to console his broken daughter.

He pulled her body to him as she sobbed against his chest.

He stroked her long dark hair and smoothed his hand across her back until her sobs subsided. He didn't know what was worse the crying or her silence. Both tore at his heart and reminded him of his shortcomings as a father and as a man.

"Fifteen was so young to marry." He sighed as she turned in his embrace to watch the launch as it undocked. "And to have a child so soon?" His eyes roamed unseeing across the choppy waters as he spoke.

"I wish you would have waited. He knew you were innocent and was willing to wait as long as you wanted. It was the only reason I was able to part with you at such a tender age to a man ten years your senior." He shook his head at both his daughter's and his own naivety to believe they would have waited to make love. "Youth is always in such a hurry to experience all life has to offer. It isn't until we're older we learn to savor every moment as it comes."

"Please, father. Please!" She pleaded. "It isn't too late to order the captain to turn around and bring my baby home. It isn't too late for you to change your mind."

Mikkos stared down into the eyes that so closely mirrored his own and his heart was nearly swayed, but then he remembered Helena's words. He needed to be strong for his only daughter and to give in would not only be a show of weakness it would jeopardize their entire family's future. "I will call the boat back this instant if you tell me you have changed your mind. Do you wish to go with your husband and child? It was your choice to marry him. You asked for my blessing, did you not? I do not condone what he has done to you and I would never force you to return to him, but I'm afraid my hands are tied leaving us all with very little options. It is your decision to stay with your husband and daughter, or to let them carry on with their day to day lives without you in it. I will support whatever you decide, but there is nothing more to be done. You must learn to live with whatever choice you make."

Choice? There was no choice. If she returned to the Karpov compound her husband would eventually succeed in beating her to death with or without the guards her father had offered her.

For one solitary second hope had soared within her and her heart swelled to hear her father would stand up for her after all, but then the rest of his words brought her crashing back to reality. This was always what happened. He always claimed to wish to do more, but never did. There was always a reason he could never come through for her and that reason was Helena Cassadine. She should probably be thankful her father even allowed her refuge with him again after she ran away from her husband. She loved her father and wanted to believe he protected her from Andre because he cared for her, but sometimes it felt more like he cared more that someone had mistreated his possession than hurt his child.

"You're siding with him and Helena." Her voice was disimpassioned as she spoke all except for the last word which left her lips with pure venom.

She removed herself from his embrace, but he grasped her upper arms in his hands and urged her to turn and look at him as he appealed to her. His heart ached as he looked at her. She was such a beautiful young girl and so much like her mother yet so much like him as well. "Please do not be too hard on your stepmother. She only wants what is best for you."

Hot angry tears fell down her cheeks as her father defended the woman who murdered her mother to her, the woman that had caused her nothing but misery her entire life. If it weren't for fear of Helena's retribution against her baby sister, she would have told him so long ago.

"Helena was raised on tough love." He continued. "That is what she gives to our sons and that is what she gives to you as well, Natasha. She treats you this way because she wishes you to be as strong, cunning and devoted to the Cassadine legacy as she."

She turned from her father unable to look him in the eye another moment. Her face was devoid of any emotion other than the tears staining her cheeks. She stepped to the ledge of the stone wall and rested her hands there as she watched her daughter drift further and further away. The more distance between them, the darker her world became. It felt colder now. Samantha had been her light, her warmth.

"Helena should be careful what she wishes for... She just might get it."

A shiver traveled up his spine. Her tone was colder and darker than he had ever heard from her before and with it came a threat as lethal as any Cassadine had ever issued. For the first time in his life, he was afraid of his own daughter.

Natasha stood silent once again and, as her little Samantha slipped completely out of sight, she made a silent vow. She would get her daughter back and she would make every last one of them pay for taking her in the first place. Today may have been the day she gave birth, but it was also the day Natasha Cassadine had been born.

1.

Mr. Morgan sat behind the wheel of his shiny black on black BMW, parked, in an empty upper level of a public garage. It was best not to be spotted loitering in the area. A beep sounded on his titanium Omega Speedmaster and he moved to silence it. Twenty to ten -it was time to move. He turned the key then depressed a hidden button on the dash and a panel rose revealing a concealed stereo. He hit play and the sounds of Mozart filled the cabin as he clicked his seatbelt into place and donned a pair of black leather driving gloves, flexing his fists as he did so.

Anyone knowing Jason Morgan might find the music at odds with who they perceived him to be. It was something they might expect to hear the man of his past enjoying rather than the man he had become, but an old mentor of sorts taught him long ago that classical music helped soothe the savage beast. And, after his accident, savage beast wasn't a far off description of how he felt inside or how he'd acted. The soft lilt of winds and strings in the first movement of Wolfgang's Clarinet Concerto in A Major relaxed his anxieties while stimulating his brain to focus with enhanced clarity. This was great aide to a man in his profession and so he often listened to this track or others like it at the beginning of every job.

Jason hit a special pre-set button on his stereo and his license plates flipped to a new and untraceable set of plates. His car had enough modifications and tricks up its sleeves to make Q stand and take notice. He would later re-use the plates on another job or dispose of them if spotted.

He depressed another pressure sensitive panel residing in the burl-wood console and entered a code into the keypad housed there before snapping it closed again. The engine purred to life. He shifted into gear and maneuvered out of the parking structure toward the address he'd been given, Rue Massena, 1921 Banque de la Chambre de Commerce. He merged left out of an underpass and onto the Promenade des Anglais allowing the music and short drive to work their magic as he traveled along the coastline with a scenic view of the teal Mediterranean just off to his right.

The car slowed as he turned past a marina lined with boats and then again into the heart of the city. He rolled to a stop giving the police on his left a casual glance as they gave him a cursory once over before his light changed and he made another left. He arrived at his destination punctual as always to the tenth of a second. He slowed to a stop in front of the ornate architecture made of white stone and black iron and waited a whole half of a breath before chaos ensued.

Just as the clock ornamenting the roof struck ten, four masked men armed with handguns and an assault rifle stormed out of its front doors.

"Go! Go, go, go, move it! Move it!" The leader shouted as his men stuffed two large bags into Jason's trunk and slammed it closed.

The men jumped in, three in the back and the leader in the front as he yelled. "Let's go!"

"Go!" he ordered again when he saw his hired driver make no movement, but Jason wasn't going anywhere.

"There are four of you." He stated calmly. He was pissed, but had learned not to let his anger get the better of him. His tone and outward appearance remained as tranquil as the surface of a steady river while its lethal current churned beneath.

"You can count. I'm impressed." The leader sniped. "Now drive!"

"Rule one..." Jason recited. "Never change the deal. The deal was for three men with a combined weight of 254 kilos."

He didn't bother to look the man in the eye. This would not be a negotiation. The time for that had passed. He kept his eyes forward and hands on the wheel as the leader pressed the cool steel of his Beretta to Jason's temple.

"Oh yeah?" The gunman challenged. "Well, this is a new deal."

Jason didn't flinch and he would not waiver. He merely cut his eyes to the minor irritant as he explained. "An extra eighty kilos means we won't make your destination on the gas I allotted."

"So we'll stop and get more gas!" A heavily accented man from the back spoke.

They were jumpy. They'd just perpetrated armed robbery and this ass their boss hired was wasting precious time. They could hear the bank's alarms blaring all the way to the street outside. The four thieves kept checking front, sides and rear expecting police to surround them at any moment, but Jason sat still with his resolve and his cool firmly in place as he laid it out for them. "Every stop we make exposes us. Every exposure increases the risk of us getting caught. An extra eighty kilos means the special shock absorbers I installed for this job will not give us the ability to outmaneuver any police that might be chasing us."

That gave them cause to pause.

"Which means," Jason continued. "If there is a chase, we lose our advantage which also increases the possibility of getting caught."

"I don't want to get caught." He assured them as he finally turned to look the leader in the eyes. "You don't want to get caught..."

He let the man put two and two together as they sat there. The fear and uncertainty was plain to see in his client's eyes and also in the way his hand shook as he held his weapon and Jason mentally shook his head in disgust. This man had bitten off more than he could chew and would probably end up caught regardless of whether he carried out his part or not.

"Just drive the car or you're going to catch a bullet to the brain!" He threatened, but his voice was now as shaky as his hand.

Jason nearly chuckled at the empty threat. He found nothing funny about a gun being held on him, but this man was a joke and he could disarm and disable him in seconds if he chose and take out the other three with no trouble. "And who's going to drive?"

"Shoot this asshole! I'll drive!" Another French thug behind him spat.

"Not without the ignition code you won't." Jason had the upper hand. He knew it and if the guy holding the gun on him had half a brain he would know it too. Jason would sit right there until the police arrived if need be and then claim to have been minding his own business when the armed men took him hostage and ordered him to drive. It would work too, because no one had any proof to show otherwise.

It just wasn't ideal. Getting caught at this point wouldn't bring him any real trouble, but he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

Tension mounted as the leader weighed his options. They were all very aware of the three members of the bank's private security that were now slowly approaching the vehicle as he contemplated his next move.

Jason turned to his trigger happy client and looked him dead in his eyes. "Three men. 254 kilos. That was the deal."

The leader screamed his frustration at losing control he never really had and took aim at the easiest target. He fired a kill shot into the forehead of the man behind the driver's seat and the man riding bitch wasted no time reaching over to open the door and push the dead weight onto the pavement.

"Three men, 254 kilos." The leader complied.

Jason wouldn't shed a tear. His death was of no consequence to him. Robbing banks was a dangerous business and full of shady people. It was the man's own fault for not knowing his partners in crime well enough to ensure they had his back or being smart enough to pull his weapon first. Besides, he'd suggested his boss shoot him. Yeah, there was definitely no love lost.

"Seatbelts." He instructed. It wasn't for their safety. It was for his. On the off chance they were to crash Jason didn't want their bodies hurtling into him and causing injury.

Satisfied the terms of the deal were met, Jason entered the code and revved the engine as the guards attempted to box them in on foot. It was an unsuccessful attempt. Jason shifted into drive peeling from the curb as two police cars fell into pursuit.

So much for an easy getaway, he thought to himself. He preferred it whenever possible, but evading those giving chase was nothing new to him. He was an experienced operator of just about any mode of transportation known to man. He kept a low profile, but to those in the know he had a reputation as one of the best wheel men in that part of the world and it was well-earned.

Ever since his car accident a decade ago, something happened to him whenever he got behind the wheel or a gun. His mind shut off to everything around him except the mission at hand and right now his mission was getting away. He spun a razor-sharp u-turn out of parking and flew down the avenue with the two police cars hot on his tail. He shifted and braked, double-clutched and squealed down and around the narrow streets of the town as sirens wailed behind him like screaming donkeys.

Part of his escape had been planned, but there was only so much planning to be done when there were so many variables left to the unknown. He knew the city. He knew the roads. The rest was instinct and skill.

A sudden right twist of the wheel found them ascending a wide alleyway full of stairs. He looked over to the man next to him and couldn't resist. "See what I mean about the shocks?"

Even racing up a stepped path the vibration was barely felt from where they sat. They really were good shocks, Jason mused, but the man just looked at him as if he were crazy. Jason wasn't crazy. He was in his element and this was play for him, but play time was nearly over. The travel through the sleepy city had been easy, but he was about to head into the busier streets where there were sure to be more police and other obstacles in his way.

He made another turn and hit the brakes and gas at once as he threw the car into a 180 zooming through a coved alley in reverse before spinning back around and coming to a stop around another corner. The two cop cars rushed through the alley he'd just vacated just as Jason shifted into third with his foot on the brake while he revved up enough power to start from that speed. It caused his tires to scream against the pavement until finally releasing the brakes and taking off once again.

He veered down another avenue with his passengers shouting. "Wrong way, wrong way!" But he ignored them.

He used this move to his advantage as they careened onto the busy promenade in a near miss with oncoming traffic. The action created a jam as cars halted behind him littering the street and blocking further pursuit by the police.

He made use of a side pass to turn around. They needed to go in the direction they'd just come from. Cheers erupted in his car with the thieves flipping birds to the trapped policeman as they passed back by, but Jason wasn't counting his chips yet. They would radio this in if they hadn't already. There would be more police giving chase and road blocks would go up. He was sure of it. He pressed on the gas a little more and it was as if all the other cars stood still as he raced around them.

He flew past an unmarked officer causing the cop to yelp in surprise as he threw his blue light on the roof of his car and took up where the other two left off. Jason continued using every evasive maneuver at his disposal. There was speed followed by sudden braking and screeching during break-neck turns as he weaved through the myriad of automobiles avoiding the cop who persisted. Whether it was hand to hand combat or operating a vehicle Jason Morgan was an expert in close quarters.

He ripped down an arched pathway for cyclists and pedestrians as the cop kept pace alongside him. He was relentless. Jason would give him that and the unmarked car was muscled enough to actually give him a run for his money. The cop continued racing him to his left hoping to forge ahead and cut him off. Tables and chairs went flying with people scurrying to avoid the police car as he busted through a restaurant's outdoor dining area, but Jason managed to steer clear and keep the lead.

He turned down another avenue just making it past the steel pillars that popped up from the pavement. The road blocks were up and he'd lost the cop behind them. He jerked the wheel to the right and onto the next road as the last road ended and screeched to a stop in the middle of a deserted intersection. The road blocks were up. He'd counted on being out of the city before that happened, but his idiot clients had wasted his time trying to renegotiate the deal. He needed a second to adapt. He heard one of the men in the back retching and could tell his nerves had gotten the better of him. He lowered the window so he wouldn't hurl on his conditioned leather seats.

"Take us to the drop point." The leader urged.

Jason took note of two more police cars heading straight for him down a side street and knew it was too soon. He needed to lose the cops first.

"Not yet." He told them as he hit the switch on his door panel to raise the rear passenger window on the man who finished vomiting then sped off down the road.

He made another turn, but was forced to slam on the brakes as a trash truck took him by surprise. It was completely blocking off his route. The truck must be running behind schedule. This was another one of those unknown variables coming into play. He was now stopped sideways on an overpass with a trash truck blocking the road in front and the two cop cars to the rear now pulled side by side to prevent his retreat. The policeman jumped from their cars with guns drawn ordering them out with their hands up.

He took a look at the road below and contemplated driving over the edge. He breathed deep. His shocks were good, but they weren't that good. He would probably end up with four flats, a bent tie rod and ruined suspension. But he liked those odds better than the chance his car had of ramming the gargantuan waste disposal behemoth to his left out of the way or getting into a shootout with the cops twenty feet to his right. He spotted a car carrier in his rear-view and suddenly his odds felt a little better.

The upper rack of the truck was less than half loaded from what he could tell and about to pass under him. If he could only time this just right it would cushion his landing. He'd worry about getting off the truck if he made it on.

He ignored the shouts from the peanut gallery in the rear urging him to, "Do something," as well as the leader who'd noticed him eying the car carrier and wanted to know what he was thinking.

He shifted the car into gear and held the brake once again while revving up. The tires were smoking and when the RPM's reached 6 and the truck passed underneath he punched it and flew over the side landing in an empty space on the carrier in near perfect placement.

Okay, so maybe he was crazy. But it worked.

Maybe it was skill or maybe it was his guardian angel looking out. Either way he was one lucky bastard. Thanks grandmother, he said in his head.

The carrier continued on its way, but Jason was sure the trucker would probably stop to check on his load as soon as he could pull over. There was no way he hadn't felt his car landing on his rig, but for the moment they were stowed away up top. The only trouble now was getting down and, oh yeah, the six new cop cars now on his tail.

"Your gun, please." He asked of the man on his right as he held out his hand.

The man handed it over still too dumbfounded by that last stunt to know how to react to his next as Jason leaned out of his window and aimed at a large metal lever at the rear of the truck. The strike of the bullet forced the lever out of position unlocking the release mechanism. This caused the car perched behind him to slip down the ramp onto the street below causing a pile up and taking out three of the six giving chase. He threw his ride into reverse and slid down the ramp as well slamming back into gear the second his tires hit pavement.

He took the first turn and spotted a ship yard ahead. Perfect. He knew this particular ship yard from a few deliveries he'd made. He could lose the cops in there and double-back. He fell in step with the railway running through the ship yard as a train sailed down the tracks. There were now three cops on his six and two straight ahead. He gunned it as if playing chicken and waited for just the right moment. At the last available second he zipped ahead of the engine on his right and crossed in front of it. He escaped through an alleyway between warehouses and the freight train had effectively cut off any possible pursuit from the five cops he left in his wake, just as he'd hoped.

Perfect.

He'd made it out of the city and lost his tail. Now he could conclude this deal and move on to the next.

The rest of the drive was uneventful and a short while later he was pulling up to a scenic overlook along the mountainous coastline where another car and driver waited. The leader handed Jason a small envelope stuffed with Euros. He opened it and skimmed the amount. "You gave me too much."

"I need you to take us to Avignon."

"The deal was this far, no further. The deal is the deal, rule number one." He reminded.

"Rules are made to be broken." He argued.

"Not mine." Jason insisted as he held out half of the cash.

The man studied him for a moment and relented. He grabbed the money, unbuckled his belt and opened the door.

"Let's go." He ordered his men. They scrambled to remove the two bags from his trunk and jumped into the waiting ride.

Jason watched as they drove off continuing to argue amongst themselves and wondered how long until they were caught.

He put the car in gear and hit the button to flip the plates again then tucked the envelope into the interior pocket of his suit jacket before heading out. Years in the service had taught him to respect a uniform and what it could do for him. It spoke volumes without him ever having to speak a word. It was a show of power and demanded respect and sometimes instilled a healthy dose of fear when needed so after leaving the U.S. Army Jason had traded one uniform in for another, his own.

His dress shirt was made by Rufus apparel and designed and custom-fitted by Barney Bishop, his personal tailor. It was ultra fitted and made with a cream herringbone cloth. Barney claimed the textured design gave a more sophisticated air to the wearer, distinguishing himself from others and Barney was right. The cream color appeared almost white against the black jacket and pants. Its collar had medium cut away points enabling a thin or thick tie to be worn, but Jason preferred his thin black tie.

The extreme slim fit cut of the shirt accentuated his silhouette flattering the developed muscles underneath that began at his wide set shoulders tapering into a nice V at his waist. The French cuffs had rounded corners while the shirt front and back remained clean and sharp without the addition of pockets or pleats. It was the perfect accompaniment to his fitted black suit and the look was completed with comfortable but stylish black dress shoes and matching black belt. He had a closet full of that exact ensemble and he wore it whenever he worked.

An hour later, Jason was home and had changed into the standard jeans and tee shirt he preferred. He was in his garage detailing his car when he heard the familiar rumble of a motor approach. He stopped to watch as the livraison rapide delivered a wire basket to his front door containing a bottle of milk, cheeses, fresh loaf of French bread and liter of mineral water. He retrieved the basket of empty milk bottles Jason had left at the bottom of the front steps for him and was on his way without further delay.

Jason resumed in his clean-up duties once he was alone again. He needed to ensure all traces of his earlier passengers as well as the DNA splattered on his back windshield was removed. Once finished with the interior he removed the plates in front and rear that he'd used during the job and placed them inside a recessed cabinet he'd had specially installed in the wall of his garage. It was full of a dozen other untraceable plates. He put his regular set on and planned to take a drive later to dispose of the compromised set properly, but for now they would remain safe in the locked storage chest in a secret compartment behind a fake front of typical house tools. He then pulled his car out onto the drive and gave it a good wash in the gleaming afternoon sun.

xxxxx

It wasn't until the sun rose over the next morning that Jason learned the fate of yesterday's clients. His attention was drawn from the coffee pot in his hand as he poured to the small television in the corner of his kitchen. The newsman reported on the four men who robbed the bank in Nice the previous day, stating no one in the bank had been harmed, but one gunman died on the sidewalk and that the others had been apprehended early that morning when they took a wrong turn on a one-way street and ran into a taxi cab. Jason shook his head as he sipped his coffee. Amateurs. They should have hired him to drive them to Avignon in the first place. If they had, then they may have actually gotten away clean with the twenty million Euros in bearer bonds.

The news continued on with the next story as the old brass bell mounted at his front gate clanged. He stepped out of his front door to find an inspector he recognized on the other side of his bronzed gate. He didn't know Inspector Scorpio well, but he had been questioned by him a time or two. His accent was as American as his own and they conversed in English though Jason knew the man spoke French as fluently as he.

"I always say the way a man treats his car is how he treats himself." Mac greeted.

Jason walked up to the gate and glanced over at the dirty older beat up car parked in front of his glimmering BMW then looked back at Mac. "I'd say that's probably true, Inspector."

Mac chuckled. "You have a good sense of humor for a foreigner Morgan. Like the French, a sly wit with just the right amount of flavor."

Jason opened the gate as the inspector arrived at the point of his visit. "Been out driving?"

"Until they pass a law that says I can't." Jason deadpanned.

"Want to come in for coffee?" He offered. It was best to let the man think he had nothing to hide.

Mac took a look past him inside, but didn't see much. "Thank you, but I have a lot of stops to make, eighty-eight to be exact."

"That's a lot of stops." Jason agreed.

Mac turned to head back down the front steps as Morgan followed. He knew the round of questioning wasn't over and he'd rather have it outside than in his home.

"A lot of 1999 black BMW seven-three-fives with zero six in the license plate to check out." Mac replied.

Jason nodded as he walked with him. All of his plates good and bad had zero six in them. It was the series his supplier was able to obtain through his connection. He wasn't worried though. The current set was clean and so was his car. There was nothing to find.

"It's a very popular car," Mac continued, "with a certain type down here. You've seen them. They come over from Italy in those expensive suits with the pretty young girls wearing the big jewelry and too much make-up. Very... mafia."

He eyed Jason watching for a response, but found none. The man was a stone.

He continued. "There was a robbery, a getaway. Some very fancy driving."

"By someone in a 1999 black BMW seven-three-five?" Jason surmised.

Mac smiled with a pensive gaze. "With zero six on the plate."

Jason simply crossed his arms over his chest and remained silent. He had nothing to add.

Mac persisted as he turned to look at Jason's car. "Been to the city lately?"

"Not for a while." The man was fishing and Jason knew it.

"I love Nice." Mac rambled as he casually inspected the vehicle for damage or any obvious evidence. "The food, the way they grill the fish. No place in France does it the way they do in Nice. And the women..."

He rounded the car to inspect the other side. "I prefer the women there. They are more... complicated than the local variety. Wouldn't you agree?"

He finished the examination and stopped a few steps in front of Jason as he answered. "I don't particularly like complicated."

Mac studied him. "You like to keep it simple."

"Why are you so interested?"

"Oh, you know... Ever since I was a little boy military people have always intrigued me."

"I'm ex-military." Jason reminded. Everyone down at the station already knew his background. Well, all of it since he'd enlisted. Very few knew of his life before.

"I'm... ex-little boy." Mac countered and Jason gave a dismissive huff.

The inspector was holding something back, but Jason knew he didn't intend on being straight with him. He was ready to give the cop the brush off.

Jason noticed the way Inspector Scorpio's attention had been drawn to his garage.

"You sure you don't have time for coffee?" He inquired again to appear as though he were in no hurry for him to leave and hopefully to distract him from his focus, but Mac ignored him.

"Everything is always so neat with you Morgan, nothing ever out of place." He observed as he stepped to the foot of the entrance and peered inside.

The garage was immaculate. The floor was lined with large black rubber tiles and there was no clutter whatsoever. An ivory surfboard rested against one wall near a door leading to the interior of the home and some diving equipment hung from a rack on the right. There was a rolling tool chest with a smaller black tool box on top and he could see a closed storage cabinet above it. This was all typical of a man living with the Mediterranean Sea quite literally in his back yard.

Jason remained in place. He didn't want to encourage the man to move any further into his garage. He responded from where he stood. "I'll take that as a compliment coming from a man who pays attention to every detail."

Their discussion wasn't threatening, but there was an unspoken tension rising between them. Mac stood looking into the garage a moment longer before turning to make his retreat. "Maybe I'll come back later for that coffee."

Jason nodded once. "Door's always open to you."

Mac huffed in humor. He doubted that very likely, but gave the younger man a parting smile as he passed by on the way to his car.

Jason stood watching him leave before heading back inside.

xxxxx

Mac had only driven a mile down the road when his phone rang. He recognized the number and shook his head. Someone must be tracking his coordinates via GPS again.

"Yes?" He answered annoyed.

"How did it go?" The other voice said, ignoring his tone.

"As good as you hoped. He didn't bat an eye when I mentioned the mob or the robbery -or anything else for that matter." His comments about complicated women had also been a test to see how Jason would respond.

Would he be respectful in his comments about women or crude? His niece would insist Jason Morgan was nothing but respectful, but it had been many years since he'd dated Robin. They were both very young and people changed over time. Their relationship had also been very brief. So brief, in fact, that by the time Mac returned to Port Charles from a seven month undercover operation the two had already parted as friends and Jason had just left for boot camp. He'd never actually had a chance to meet the young man known as Jason Morgan until he moved to France years later and their paths finally crossed. He and Jason Quartermaine had known one another, of course, but Jason Morgan had no idea who he was -or if he did he'd never said as much.

Jason hadn't really responded to his comment about women other than to say he didn't really like complicated, but Mac took the almost non-response as respectful. A crude man would always show their true colors when given the opportunity.

"The man is cool as ice." He continued to inform the caller. "I tell you, if I didn't know what I know, I'd swear he was just a simple man living a nice quiet life."

"Good. So we're clear to move forward?"

"I still don't like this, but yeah. We're good." Mac grumbled. There were a million ways this could all go bad and he wasn't comfortable entrusting something so important into any one person's hands let alone Jason Morgan.

It wasn't that he believed him to be totally unscrupulous. He served his country and fellow countryman honorably for many years. His problem with Morgan was that he was a wild card. He played by nobody's rules other than his own. But, he sighed, this wasn't his call to make.

"Good. Keep me posted." The caller told him before ending the call.

Mac held the phone out in front of him and stared at the display stating the call had ended. What was so hard about saying goodbye before you hung up on someone?

xxxxx

A cell phone went off on a poolside table at a luxury hotel on the coast of Nice and a young man answered.

"We're good." He heard them confirm.

"Make the call and keep me posted." They ordered and, up acknowledgment, the line went dead.

xxxxx

Jason's cell phone went off. He hit talk and waited for the other person to speak as usual.

"Rudy gave me your number."

Jason recognized the name as someone he'd done business with many times before. He trusted no one, but this person would have to have a death wish to use this man's name as a reference without permission.

"Be brief." He directed.

"I'm looking for a transporter." The man answered.

"I'm listening." Jason told him as the man then proceeded to set up a meeting to discuss terms.

xxxxx

Sam was still somewhere in France, she assumed. She could hear the television in the next room and the game show host and contestants were speaking in French. France was also the last place she'd been before someone slipped up behind her and placed a rag over her mouth and nose and everything faded to black. She awoke in this tiny room lying on a lumpy mattress with both her hands and feet tied and tape over her mouth. She'd been in and out for a while. Still groggy from the chloroform they must have used on her, she suspected. She had yet to see the face of her abductors, but she could hear them laughing at the TV and talking amongst themselves.

She hadn't heard anything from either of the two distinctly male voices that would give her any answers, but she kept her ears tuned in just in case. She might not be sure who her kidnappers were, but she was pretty sure who hired them. She didn't know if that should scare her even more or reassure her somehow? The man was ruthless, but he was also her father.

She searched the room for clues, but came up empty. She could tell by the old decor and emergency escape route mounted on the back of the door that she was in an old hotel. Taking in the musty smell she considered that it might even be abandoned. She couldn't imagine anyone paying to stay there. There was no trace of natural light or darkness from the blacked out window so she had no idea of how much time had elapsed. But if her stomach was a reliable indicator she'd missed at least one meal, going on two. The last meal she'd had was at the hotel for breakfast and it felt like it might be time for dinner, but she couldn't be sure since she had a healthy appetite and missing one meal, let alone two, could send her into a food binge.

Her stomach growled and she almost laughed. Apparently it would take a hell of a lot more than a kidnapping to scare her hunger pains away, but she willed them to stop in order to focus on a way out of the mess she was in. She was running out of time, and so were they.

xxxxx

Jason stepped into the pub on time as usual. He'd agreed to meet later that evening with this Jackal person as he'd called himself to discuss the terms of the job. He spotted a male at the bar guzzling an orange soda just as he'd said he would be, but had to do a double take. He was practically a kid. Jason wasn't even sure he'd be legal to drink in America.

"Jackal?" Jason questioned to be sure.

The kid just smiled at him and nodded eagerly as Jason sat on the stool next to him. He was dressed in baggy olive green cargo pants, brown Timberland boots with a tan tee shirt and a black leather jacket, but there was nothing about him that screamed danger like the name Jackal suggested. Labrador retriever, maybe. Jason shrugged it off. He had a good reference and, as long as he also had the cash, Jason didn't really care what he called himself. He pulled out a pen and small memo-pad to jot down the specifics as the Jackal sipped his orange soda and placed it back down on the bar.

"One bag, that's it." He informed the transporter. He'd been instructed by his employer to be as brief as possible. His tendency to expound past the point of caring was well-known by any who had spent more than a few minutes in his company.

"Dimensions?" Jason inquired.

The Jackal approximated the size using his hands, causing Jason's eyes to squint. Was he for real?

"Be specific." He instructed.

It was at that point the man to the Jackal's right, who'd been eying them both since Jason sat down, spoke. He was obviously with the Jackal. In fact, the moniker suited him more than the kid.

"One meter fifty by half meter." The guy informed.

"Weight?"

"Fifty kilos, not more." The guy answered again in a thick accent Jason placed as northern European. Was Jackal here running with the Russians? Now that would make him dangerous.

Jason wrote down the answers then turned back to the kid. "Destination?"

"Twenty-four Rue du Luxemborg. You're delivering to a Mr. Alca..."

Jason held up his hand to halt him before he finished.

"Rule Two," he informed. "No names."

The Jackal observed this intensely disciplined man for a moment and decided to stick to being brief again. He waited for Mr. Morgan to ask another question. "Time of pick-up?"

Seven o'clock in the morning was his answer and then included that location as well when asked.

Jason wrote this all down then ripped the page from his notepad and replaced the pen and paper in his jacket pocket as he recited the terms. "A package; one meter fifty by fifty, fifty kilos, 250 kilometers and traveling within the speed limit with one stop for refreshments. Forty thousand; half now, half on delivery. Delivery will be at noon. If no one's there it is not my responsibility. I will leave the package. Once we make a deal, the terms of that deal cannot be changed or renegotiated."

"Another rule?" The Jackal wondered in curiosity.

"It is rule number one." Jason answered. "Do we have a deal?"

The Jackal reached inside his jacket and pulled out several stacks of Euros. He handed over twenty thousand and Jason slipped it into his pocket. He picked up the paper he'd written all his information on and lit it on fire with the titanium Zippo he'd carried since his days with Delta. He left the paper to burn in an ash tray on the bar after having committed it all to memory. He always found it helped to retain information if he spoke it, wrote it and then read it over again, but he never kept any records of transactions.

"You're very precise." The kid observed.

"Transportation is a precise business." Jason concluded as he stood from the bar and left them to finish their drinks without him. He had what he needed and had no intentions of socializing. This was business. It wasn't personal and that was just the way he liked it.

Page 28 of 28 Created: 2012-02-18 Updated: 2013-06-05 Words: 11742 Characters: 63488