Archive of Our Own

By the time he saw the lights, he'd been walking most of the day and was tired and annoyed. And freezing. Daytime had been warm enough — abnormally warm for early winter — but the sun had begun to go down half an hour ago and the temperature with it. Nights got real cold real quick these days. The toxic gases let loose into the atmosphere by the war had played hell with the weather, too, he supposed. His head was pounding and his fingers and toes were starting to numb up. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and kept moving.

He didn't argue with his pain, or try to talk himself out of it. That was just bullshit, anyway. Instead, he concentrated, focusing in on it, letting his misery work for him. With each painful step he remembered how he came to be there and why, letting his annoyance grow to genuine anger. He liked the way anger made him feel. Powerful. Invincible. Even now, after everything else was gone, his hate and anger was the only thing that made him feel alive.

The lights were brighter now and he could see where they came from. In the distance, beyond an abandoned railroad crossing overgrown with dead weeds, was a tiny store with a service station attached. He wondered how the owners survived. The population was sparse this close to New York. Not a single car had passed him for hours and there wasn't even another building for miles.

As he got closer, he saw the parking lot was empty. A smile spread slowly across his face. No one stopping off to pick up a six pack. No one filling up their tank at the station's solitary pump. Goddamn, it was fucking perfect.

He reached the front door and stopped, scanning the inside. The place was old and although the shelves were fairly well stocked, he could see there was room for plenty more on them. It had probably been a decent business once. Back when this road serviced the bigger cities and the people who lived outside them. Back before Soviet bombs laden with their obscene poisons had found their secondary targets.

He stroked the gun that sat snugly in the waistband of his jeans. The touch of cold steel made his heart beat faster and he could feel a pleasurable, quivering tension in each of his muscles. Then he took a deep breath and tugged at his jacket, making sure the weapon was hidden, and went inside. A small bell, affixed to the door jamb, announced his arrival.

The place was warm and smelled faintly of coffee and motor oil. On the wall to his left, a door led out to the service bays. Directly in front of him, on a worn white counter, the cash register sat unattended. He chuckled in disbelief and waited a minute before calling out.

"Anybody here?"

Another few seconds passed before a man entered from the garage area, hastily wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. He stuffed the filthy cloth into a back pocket and hurried behind the counter.

"Sorry," he said. "My kid's supposed to be watching the place. Don't know where she could've got off to." The storekeeper looked at his customer. The young man's face bore the marks of battle. A thin scar ran perpendicular to his mouth from his nose to left jawline and his left eye was covered by a black leather patch. The defiant stare from his good, right eye was a cold, ice blue. It was a face the storekeeper recognized.

"What can I get for you?" he asked warily.

The young man never moved. "Cold outside," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Got any coffee?"

"Sure, sure I do." The storekeeper jerked his head toward the back of the store. "Hang on, I'll get —"

As he turned to go, the door at the back opened and a girl came bounding into the store. "God, Dad, I'm sorry," she apologized. The young man looked at her, the coffee and the storekeeper momentarily forgotten.

She was young. Fifteen, sixteen at most, with straight hair that hung almost to her waist. Still, beneath the baggy sweatshirt and tight jeans he could see the beginnings of a body men would someday kill for. A familiar urge rose up in him suddenly, with the force of a runaway train.

"Go get this man a cup of coffee," the girl's father said sternly. She glanced over, unable to hide her distaste. The young man's gaze never left her as she walked away.

"You want anything else?" the storekeeper said when she was gone.

The young man looked back and smiled. "Ohh, yeah." In an instant, he closed his hand around the gun and brought it level with the man's face. The fear he saw there hit him like a jolt of meth, switching on his every nerve.

"Open it," he ordered, nodding at the cash register. The storekeeper moved toward it quickly, and pushed the right combination of buttons with shaking hands. It opened with a snap and he gathered the bills up, laying them on the counter.

"That's all I've got, I s — swear," he stammered.

The young man chuckled, his gaze darting to the rear of the store. "Not all," he said. The door opened once again and the girl came through it, her eyes fixed on the coffee cup in her hand. She walked slowly and deliberately, so it would not spill. When she reached the counter, she finally looked up.

"Dad —"

The bullet caught the storekeeper point blank in the chest. His body jumped back from the impact, thudding to the floor. The girl gasped and the coffee tumbled from her hand. She sank to her knees in the puddle it made, reaching out for her father.

"Daddy!"

Dark blood bubbled up from a hole in his overalls and the girl's hands fluttered helplessly over the wound. She made a soft, hurt sound as life ebbed out of him and the young man felt the urge inside him swell.

He was sorry she didn't scream. He liked to hear their screams, their crying. But she didn't. She only made that little sound to tease him. That's what she was, nothing but a tease. Behind him, the garage door burst open and a boy not much older than she stood there, a small pistol in his shaking hand. The girl came around the counter, crying out.

"Brian, no!"

The stranger’s gun roared again and the boy dropped where he was, a neat, round circle in his forehead. Now the girl wailed in anguish. She turned and stared at the young man, waiting her turn.

His smile turned dark and leering, and he slowly shook his head. "No way, baby," he hissed. “I’m not going to kill you.” He laid the gun on the counter and slipped his jacket off.

Understanding his intent, the girl shook her head dumbly. Then self-preservation took over and she began backing away from him. "No," she whimpered. "No. Oh, please, no."

He stopped her at the door, locking his arms around her, pinning hers to her side. She twisted like a wild animal, throwing them off balance. They went down together, landing on top of her brother's still warm body. She moaned aloud, then scrambled away into the cool darkness of the garage.

He went after her, his heart racing and his breath short, the ache inside him almost unbearable now. He could hear her breathing too, and he tracked her from the sound. She was at the far end of the service bay, behind an old, battered Chrysler.

"C'mon, baby," he called out, his voice hollow in the big room. He crawled toward her, his words covering the sound. "Don't be a tease, now."

He found her crouched in a corner, wedged between the car and the cinderblock wall, a hammer clenched in her hand. She saw him and swung it hard on his blind side, just missing his head. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her toward him, then rocked her back, letting momentum carry him forward on top of her. He slammed her wrist against the car's bumper and she dropped the hammer with a howl of pain.

Icy moonlight from the room's single window shone on her face. She sobbed openly and glistening tears streamed down her cheeks. God, he loved it when they cried. He closed his eyes briefly, dizzy from the rush it gave him, then shifted his weight to straddle her.

She clawed at him with her good hand, scratching his face, tearing open his shirt. She saw the tattoo then. A malevolent black cobra reared to strike, it moved at her with every ripple of his muscles. He saw her eyes widen in terror and he laughed.

And then she began to scream.

***

Police Commissioner Hauk strode quickly through the concrete corridors of the Liberty Island Security Control building, fixing his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the dozen or so USPF officers he passed. Nothing official prompted the urgency. It was just his habit.

The Commissioner genuinely hated the place — decorated as it was in early bomb shelter — and he hated the job that kept him here. He'd be willing to bet that none of the men who hurried out of his path could ever guess how much.

Burn out. That's what they called it back in the seventies and eighties, back when people gave catchy little names to man's petty problems. Hauk smiled grimly to himself. Since the war, no one had time for such luxuries. All that mattered now was survival. And the military had given 'Burn Out' a whole new meaning.

There were more officers in the corridor that led to his office. This time he looked at them as he passed, wondering. There was madness in their eyes. A little more every day. Did they see the same in his? Not that it mattered a damn. Crazy or not, he was in charge. King of the Madhouse. Responsible for them all.

Hauk knew all about responsibility. He'd had plenty of it during his Special Forces days. He'd figured this job was simply a trade: one war zone for another. At least he hadn't deluded himself on that point. Not like he had with the other reasons for taking the job. Those reasons — personal ones — didn't exist anymore. But still he stayed. Maybe that alone was proof of his madness.

Some days were better than others, but he hadn't seen any of the good ones for a while now. Most of the time they were days like today. Like yesterday. And the day before that.

He entered his private office and closed the door behind him, letting the warmth and quiet seep into his frayed nerves. He took a seat behind the heavy wooden desk and reached into the lower right hand drawer, pulling out a bottle of good scotch and a glass. He poured two fingers worth, glanced at it, and poured another two. Then he left it where it sat. He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his tired eyes.

Three in the last twenty-four hours. Three more attempted escapes that were terminated the hard way. Eight more people who preferred death to life inside New York Maximum Security Penitentiary. But then, by Christ, who wouldn't?

The escape attempts had grown more frequent in the last few weeks, but the reason was no mystery to Hauk. It didn't seem to matter that the inmates were denied any outside news. Somehow, word had reached them. Word that spurred a dozen other desperate schemes.

Someone had made it out. And Hauk was responsible for that, too.

Not solely, of course. Snake Plissken had a little something to do with it. It was Plissken after all, who had spit into the eye of the monster that was New York Max and escaped its fate. A slight smile melted the hard lines of Hauk's face. Although he wouldn't care to live it over again, that day had been one of the good ones. For the first time since he'd taken this job, Hauk thought he'd seen justice done.

And by the time it was all over, Plissken had dealt them all his own brand of justice. Maybe "Mousey" John Harker thought his tape was lost Inside, but Hauk knew better. He'd meant it when he said he wanted to give Snake a job and he had no intention of abandoning his plan just because Plissken didn't like the idea. Letting Snake know Hauk shared his little "secret" would be a convenient way to make sure the outlaw stayed available. Some might call that blackmail. Plissken being one of them didn't disturb Hauk much at all.

The Commissioner had tried to find him, sending squads out almost immediately after Snake left the island and advising all stations to keep an eye out. But Snake Plissken had slithered out of their grasp, disappearing as quickly and completely as a ghost. Grudgingly, Hauk had to give the first round to him. It had been six weeks now, without a trace.

A sharp urgent knock on his door brought him back. "Come," he called.

He looked up, and the surprise he felt at seeing Sergeant Henry Shaw enter was quickly replaced by annoyance. At himself. The shakeup in ranks that had gotten Tom Rheme temporarily reassigned had occurred over a month ago. Maybe it was the fact that he'd worked with Rheme since their military days that kept Hauk from remembering Shaw was around or maybe he really was slipping. It certainly wasn't Shaw's fault. He'd been invaluable in the search for Plissken and was more distressed than any of them that it had, so far, proven fruitless.

Instead of his normal, businesslike appearance, Shaw's face was etched with obvious distress. Hauk saw the familiar yellow of an emergency dispatch in his hand. The Commissioner sighed.

"Whatcha got?" he asked.

"This just came in," Shaw said, handing over the ragged-edged computer printout. Hauk slipped on his glasses and read.

The incident at the convenience store in Lambertville was not unlike a dozen others that happened in the course of a day, brutal and capricious. It wasn't until Hauk read the description of the suspect given by the young survivor that his expression began to grow cold with anger. He looked at the paper for a long moment.

"They're sure?" He asked the question without looking up.

Shaw nodded. "Yes, Sir. It was three days before the girl recovered enough to speak. But she remembered everything. Coloring. Build. The eyepatch. The tattoo."

Hauk had stopped listening. Disbelief dominated his thoughts. …You'll receive a full pardon for every criminal action you've committed in the United States ... He'd seen hunger in Plissken's face when he'd said those words. A hunger so profound Hauk thought Snake might just sell his soul for that piece of paper. Could he have been so wrong about the man?

The disbelief began to fade to something else, something he knew he had no right to feel. Betrayal. He closed it off. This could not, would not, become personal. He had a job to do. A job he hated but a job he'd committed to. Given his word. And to Bob Hauk, nothing meant more.

"What do you want to do?" Shaw asked.

Hauk's voice was hard. "I want you to get everybody available out there. I want them to check every square inch around that town. Look in every bar and boardinghouses, whorehouses, and doghouses. Look in the trees. Look in the caves. Look under the goddamn rocks, for crissakes. Twice. I kept that son-of-a-bitch out of New York and I can kick his ass right back in there."

Shaw was already moving. "Yes, sir." The door closed on his words.

Hauk looked across the room at the brown leather chair. He could see Plissken sitting there as he had six weeks ago. Had he seen the real man? Or just what he wanted to see, a comrade-in-arms who'd survived the same hell that Hauk himself had? Had his decision really been a victory for justice? Or had he simply turned another madman loose?
His gaze drifted back to the paper he still held in his hand. Two people dead, one cruelly left alive to remember. And now it seemed that Hauk was responsible for that, too. As surely as if he'd committed the acts himself. He stared at the paper until he heard the sounds of Shaw's footsteps fade down the corridor.Then he reached for the scotch and took it down in two swallows.

***

Snake Plissken approached the old, brick structure with caution. It wasn't the first condemned building he'd seen on his slow trek west, but it might have been the biggest still standing. Fourteen stories plus, it overshadowed everything else in the war-ravaged ghost town he found himself in. He wasn't even sure where that was. Jersey, still. Or Pennsylvania by now.

In the moonlight, its silhouette was an uneven, jagged line. He could see that the top floors were gone. Gutted. As if some huge monster had thundered by and taken a bite out of it. Plissken snorted. Maybe one had. It wouldn't have surprised him.

He stopped at what used to be the front door and was now just a gaping rectangular hole in the red brick face. The main room was large and the skeleton of a huge desk sat in the center, its wood panels gone long ago for fuel. On the wall behind it, engraved in the stone and almost obliterated by graffiti, were the words New Hope Hospital.

New Hope. The name was like a bad joke. It had once been a place of healing. Now it was only one more collecting place for an army of homeless. For Snake, it was simply a roof for the night. Rides were scarce today and he'd made most of his progress on foot. Now it was late and he was bone tired.

He stepped inside, picking his way carefully around the small fires and the people sprawled on the floor, looking for an open space. Several of the squatters looked up, their eyes wary. Parents cradled their dirty, hungry children, and stretched out their hands to him, begging for anything he was willing to give. The rest never knew he was there.

His search took him down a corridor that led to the stairs. Gritting his teeth, he took them slowly, putting as little weight as possible on his right leg. The wound was healing well enough, but walking all day in the early December cold had made it ache like it hadn't for weeks. He swept his gaze back and forth as he climbed. Bodies littered the landings. Dead or alive, he couldn't tell. Last time he made a climb like this, he could. The odor of death had been strong inside the World Trade Center, and the stairs slick with the slime of decay.

The door to the second floor was half off its hinges, hanging at angle and Snake had to crouch to squeeze through it. This hallway was black as pitch and an icy wind whistled through a dozen broken windows. He felt his way along, his good eye straining for any break in the darkness. The rooms here must have once been for patients. A metal railing ran along the wall and some of the rooms had numbers on their doors — those few that still had doors. Unlike the lobby, where there was a promise of safety in numbers, this floor was nearly empty and Snake soon found a room that suited his needs. The window was miraculously intact and the silver glow from the full moon lit a space under it that looked clean enough.

Plissken dropped his backpack and makeshift bedroll to the floor, unrolled it, then sat. He slipped a small bundle of dried meat from inside his jacket and took a bite, hoping to take the edge off the gnawing in his stomach if not the pounding pain in his head. After a few more swallows, he stretched out and closed his eyes. He considered taking off the jacket to use as a pillow, but was asleep before he could finish the thought.

***

Sometime later, the sound of approaching engines woke him. He came instantly alert, as he always did, and held his breath to listen. The engines got louder, then stopped just outside the building. Snake got stiffly to his feet and squinted out of the dirty glass to look.

There were two vehicles, a motorcycle and an armored van, both bearing the stark, red, white and blue eagle emblem of the USPF. A Blackbelly in full riot gear got off the bike. The van discharged two more.

Snake was already moving when the rumble of terror from downstairs reached his ears. He couldn't make out the words, but he didn't have to. There was a loud, harsh voice barking questions and several other weaker voices offering answers. Unsatisfactory answers it seemed, from the cries of pain he also heard. He felt a familiar hatred rise up in him and pushed away the dark memories to concentrate on survival.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs as he headed down the hall, toward the far exit. Without looking back, he heard the scream of the old door's twisted hinge. A circle of light jumped in front of him, shattering the darkness and a voice called out loud.

"Hold it right there!"

Snake heard the bolt of an assault rifle and froze where he was, arms extended away from his body. As if it meant anything to a Blackbelly that he was unarmed. He remembered San Francisco. No. If they wanted him dead, it wouldn't matter a rat's ass.

Two of them were on him instantly, pushing him face first against the corridor wall, his arms pinned at his back. They patted him down roughly, coming up empty, but they did not release him.

The man who held the powerful flashlight brought it up to shine in Plissken's face. The stinging, bright beam sent a stab of pain through Snake's good eye. He let out his breath as a grunt.

"Well, whaddya know, Sarge?" the man with the flashlight said, snapping up his helmet's visor for a good look. His breath was foul and his teeth visibly rotten even in the dark. "He was pretty easy to catch after all."

The Sergeant, obviously the leader of the squad, kept his distance, watching the entire scene with clinical detachment. Snake tried for a glimpse of the man, but his head was twisted back and slapped hard against the wall. The pain in his head exploded into glittering stars. "Try slithering out of this, Plissken," Flashlight said.

“Don't have to," Snake growled. "Can't you assholes read your dispatches? I'm a free man." He was jerked around suddenly to face them. "Used to be," Flashlight said. "That was before your little party up north. Now we got orders from the Commissioner himself to hit the road and collect your slippery little ass." His lips curled in a triumphant smile. "And this time you're goin' Inside for good."

Snake ignored the flunkies that held him down, and glared at the Sergeant, The man kept his visor down, his features hidden. Another faceless man who gave the orders, had all the answers. Plissken's voice was cold.

"What th' fuck is he talkin' about?"

He barely got the sentence out when the barrel of an automatic slammed into his belly. Snake doubled over and sank to his knees, fighting off the nausea.

"Don't talk dirty to the Sergeant," Flashlight said with a grin.

The silent man finally spoke. "He's talking about the two men you killed and the child you raped and brutalized in Lambertville."

Snake struggled to look up, fixing the man with a murderous gaze. "You're crazy," he hissed.

The guard raised his rifle butt again, but the Sergeant's voice stopped him. "That's enough." He inclined his head to the stairwell. "Take him outside."

Snake let them drag him to his feet. They went back down the stairs as a unit. On ground level, the frightened human mass backed away, giving them a clear path to the door. When they left the building, no one followed and only a few of the braver ones even risked a look at the unfortunate prisoner. They all knew better.

Snake strained for a look. He couldn't see the bike. He guessed it was on the far side of the van, parked ten yards away. He held his temper as they pushed and shoved him in that direction, letting the adrenaline in his system build. At the rear, they stopped. Flashlight took one hand off Plissken to reach for the handle of the van's back door.

Snake moved instantly. He pulled free of the first guard, the one on his right, and brought his elbow up sharply. The blow caught the Blackbelly under the chin, snapping his head back, staggering him. Snake spun, and thrust his knee into Flashlight's groin, sending the man to the ground, groaning in agony.

The first guard recovered quickly and swung his automatic off his shoulder. Before he could aim it, Snake grabbed the barrel with both hands, pulling it free. He thrust outward and the weapon's butt connected soundly with the Blackbelly's throat. There was a strangled cry of pain and the man went down, gasping desperately for air.

The Sergeant's gun was drawn when Snake looked up to find him. Plissken dropped as the shots rang out past him. He rolled to his knees, using the van for cover and emerged firing. The automatic chewed the ground at the Sergeant's feet, sending chunks of frozen earth into the air and forcing the man to retreat.

Plissken scrambled up. He fired a spray of bullets at the tires, then the window. Acrid smoke filled the cab as the radio inside exploded in a shower of spark and flame. Snake dropped the empty weapon and hopped on the USPF bike. He turned the key, punched the ignition switch and the engine roared alive. With no time for a backward glance, he twisted the throttle and tore off into the night.

If he had looked back, he might have seen the Sergeant slip off his helmet and calmly retrieve the empty gun with gloved hands. He might even have been able to see the man smile as he watched his prisoner disappear down the dark highway.

Snake drove for half an hour, his heart racing as fast as the bike. Sweat soaked his shirt under the jacket, in spite of the frigid wind. He felt panic grip him the way it had six weeks ago inside New York Max and he struggled to push it down.

He'd been an asshole to think they were done with him, that they'd really let him go. They'd only been waiting for time to pass, for him to drop his guard and think that he was safe. And if he wasn't going to give them a reason to throw him back Inside, then they'd just make one up.

No, not they.

He.

The hate and anger that surged through Snake finally found its focus. The combination was powerful and dangerously comforting and in its presence his panic faded, like pain melted away by a narcotic.

A crossroad materialized in the distance and Snake slowed as he approached it. He coasted to a stop on the shoulder and sat back, stretching his legs and giving his pounding heart time to quiet. Ahead of him a green road sign with faded and missing letters, offered him a choice of destinations. But Plissken had his own choices to make.

He'd been heading west. There were people there who would help him; who would hide him. His skills would make him valuable. On the bike, he could make it in less than a week. But he'd made a promise before he left New York, a promise he hadn't kept. And he'd just seen the consequences of that mistake. No, Colorado would have to wait. Snake took a deep breath and eased the bike back on to the highway, then roared off, heading north. He was going back to keep his promise.

He was going back to kill Bob Hauk.

***

He picked out the woman as she left the bar. There was a man with her, of course, but he expected nothing less from a slut. He could tell by the way they giggled and fondled their way down the snowy, empty street that both of them were drunk. So much the better. It would make tailing them easier. He smiled. And later, she'd be easy for him, too.

The two patrolling USPF morons weren't much of a problem, either. They'd passed his position twice already, but they were too busy complaining about the cold and their work assignment to spot him. He gave them a fair shot, he thought, waiting until they were nearly on him before ducking back into the alley to hide. He shook his head as they strolled by him a third time. Hopeless.

Coming here was risky. He knew that. But then he never did like playing it safe. The line he walked was razor sharp. On one side was the game and the sweet, delicious rush of winning. On the other, the heart-pounding fear of discovery and capture. Each sensation fed off the other and he no longer knew which he enjoyed more. Or needed more.

When the cops were gone, he slipped across the street and entered the building through the back door, as the woman had. He followed her to the second floor, quick and silent as a panther.

She let herself and the man into her apartment, leaving the dimly-lit landing deserted. Alone, he slipped a knife from inside his boot and tapped the handle sharply against the ceiling's single bare bulb. With a pop and a soft crunch of glass, the faint light disappeared entirely. Sheathing the knife, he positioned himself in sight of her door to wait. It wouldn't take long.

Less than half an hour later, he heard the sound of her voice again. His body tensed automatically and his breathing turned slow and shallow, waiting for the snap of the door lock. Light spilled out into the landing, framing the woman's silhouette. He held his breath then, and stood flat to the wall, disappearing into the darkness…

***

The woman followed her customer out, leaning over the stair railing to watch until he was gone. But the dark landing made her nervous and she hurried back to the warmth of her own place.

The man sprang from the shadows as she reached her open door, grabbing her from behind. A scream rose up in her, but he choked it off, clamping an iron hand over her mouth. He pushed her forward, into the apartment.

Panic cut through the whiskey fog in her brain, sobering her up instantly. The woman squirmed and clutched at him, digging her nails hard into his hand. He moved his face close to her ear.

"Easy ..." He drew the word out like a lover's caress, holding her tight against him."... easy, Babe."

He backed up, closing the door with his shoulder. Then he released her and braced himself for what was coming. She whirled on him, hand raised. He blocked it easily, catching her by the wrist. Her eyes widened in shock and recognition.

"Plissken!"

Lilah Connelly jerked her hand from his grasp and fell back against the wall. "Jesus!" she gasped, hugging her shoulders to stop the shaking. "Jesus Christ! Couldn't you just knock?"

Snake rubbed the marks left by her nails. "Didn't want to interrupt anything," he said. He walked past her to the window and stayed carefully hidden as he checked the outside. A pair of Blackbellies continued their endless loop around the empty block, ignorant of the fact that their quarry was right under their noses. He exhaled, relieved and stepped away.

Lilah was still standing where he left her, and he gazed at her appreciatively. Her short, black skirt covered only what was necessary and a tight sweater sat off her shoulders, leaving them bare. Her hair hung loose and full and she shook it back as he watched. The picture brought back a rare, pleasant memory.

"Nice," he breathed.

Lilah stared at him uneasily. "What are you doing back here?" she asked, more sharply than she meant to. "They're looking for you everywhere."

It wasn’t the welcome he was expecting. Snake's good eye narrowed. There was something in her voice. More than concern. A cautious edge he recognized immediately. The truth hit him like a fist in the gut. She was afraid of him.

Well, shit, why not? By now, she'd probably heard a dozen different versions of "his" crime from a dozen different Blackbellies, all of them guilty of worse and crazy as fuck. And she believed them. He looked away, laughing bitterly. Chalk up another little victory for Hauk. Let the bastard enjoy them while he could.

Lilah approached him slowly. Seeing him again had triggered recent memories in her, too. Memories that conflicted with the horror stories she'd recently heard. She wanted badly to hear from his mouth those stories were lies.

"You shouldn’t have come here,” she said in warning. “This whole place is lousy with Blackbellies."

Snake's mouth curled into a defiant sneer. He peeled off his leather jacket, tossing it to the table. Well, he was here and staying put, like it or not. At least until he could find somewhere safer to hide.

"Business must be great," he said sarcastically.

She watched as he opened the cabinet beneath her sink, remembering exactly where she kept her liquor. Grabbing a random bottle, he twisted off the cap and took a long swallow. Then he kicked the door shut, satisfied when she jumped at the sound.

Lilah held her temper. Snake Plissken's reputation as a dangerous man was not unfounded. She knew first hand that he was volatile and when wounded, vicious. But he did have a gentler side, a side Lilah knew from their recent past. She thought they’d gotten past all the mistrust and bullshit then. So why wouldn’t he talk to her?

"What happened in Lambertville, Snake?" she asked.

He glared at her, surprised at how much the question stung. "Startin' to believe what all those horny cops mumble while you’re sucking them off, Baby?" he snarled. "I thought whores were smarter than that." He swallowed again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned coldly.

Lilah felt her cheeks redden. This was just like him, to snap at the hand of help, like a rabid dog. Sympathy lost out to her own hurt and anger. He could go hide from the wolves chasing him somewhere else. "Forget it. Y’know what?” she said, turning away. “I don’t care. Fuck you."

He was beside her in an instant, grabbing her and pulling her to him. He held her face an inch from his own. "You offerin'?" he hissed.

Snake spun her around and pushed her against the refrigerator. It rocked from the impact and a glass jar rolled off the top to smash on the counter. He slid his hands into her hair and pulled her head to him. Lilah held her breath, expecting to feel either his mouth close over hers or a skull-splitting pain when he slammed it back against the refrigerator.

“Tell me what happened in Lambertville," she demanded.

"Can't do that, sweetheart," he growled. Suddenly, he released her and stepped away. “'Cause I wasn't there."

Lilah's breath escaped in one long sigh and she felt her strength go with it. Relief that she was right, that he hadn't committed the Lambertville attack suddenly took second place to her relief that he hadn't broken her neck. Her legs were weak and she fell into a chair as Snake took back his bottle. It was a long while before her heart began to quiet.

"Well," she said finally. "The USPF sure thinks you were. The buzz around here is that they have positive I.D. — including the tattoo. These guys are foaming at the mouth at the idea of putting you Inside for good this time."

The pain in Snake's bad eye throbbed like a drum, as all the ugly memories of New York Max flooded his brain at once. He answered without looking at her. "Fucking cold day in hell," he said, chasing the visions away with another pull of the whiskey. He reached for his jacket and groped through the pockets for his cigarettes.

Lilah shook her hair off her face and gave him an expectant glance as he lit one. When he looked at her, most of the anger was gone from his face. Only suspicion and mistrust lingered. He held the pack out to her. She took his hand with it and held tight.

They locked eyes for a moment, but his expression never changed. He pulled his hand away, and went to stand at the window. He was good at a lot of things. Forgiveness was not one of them. But then, most people didn't deserve any. He glanced back and found Lilah watching him. Maybe she was one who did.

Lilah tapped a cigarette free from the pack. Leftover adrenaline still lingered in her and it took two tries before she lit up successfully. "Someone's setting you up," she said after a drag.

"No shit."

"Who?"

"Take a guess."

Lilah sighed wearily. That wouldn't take a genius. Only one person could have maneuvered Snake back in this direction, gotten him this close to New York again.

“Hauk," she said flatly.

Although she'd never known him personally, Lilah remembered Colonel Bob Hauk from her Army days. From what she'd seen, he was a stand-up guy, different from the rest of the officers who spent more time kissing ass than they did bombing the Russians. She shook off the wave of memory. The war had changed her and everyone she knew. Why should Hauk be an exception? Still, she was surprised to find the thought disappointed her.

"But he's the one who fixed the pardon for you, why would he —"

“Said he had a job for me. Tryin’ to convince me. But this —” Snake said, cutting her off. "I don't know," he answered finally. He ground the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “But I'm sure as hell gonna find out." And this time, I'll keep my promise.

Suddenly Lilah was before him, her warm, familiar body against his. She leaned up to softly touch his lips with her own. Her hair brushed his face and the combination went to his head like a drug, overloading his senses.

"Not tonight," she whispered.

He studied her face, looking for the same hint of uncertainty that he'd seen in her eyes before. But now, it was gone. Maybe it was never really there. Now, all he saw was welcome and longing. He hesitated only a second, then closed his arms around her in a fierce grip and kissed her hungrily.

She responded with a fervor he hadn't had time enough to forget. And as they connected, he knew why he'd come back, to this place, to this woman. She was his only human contact now. He needed her warmth as strongly as he needed her passion. Needed it to fight off the pain and anger he carried within him, before it ate him alive.

He turned her to the couch and swallowed hard as she bared herself to him. Then he lowered his body to hers, crushing her beneath him …

***

... He got to his feet and took a step backward, still panting. As soon as he moved away, the woman curled up on herself. The sounds she made were whimpering moans, and she inched her way further into the corner where he had trapped her, trying weakly to get away from him.

There was nowhere she could go now. No way she'd ever forget him. He'd seen to that. The razor in his hand was stained red with her blood. The same blood that oozed through the fingers she held over her ruined face.

He'd made each slash like a twisting, curling serpent. That was a nice touch, he thought. The boss would be pleased. The woman had screamed with each cut,and he had savored every sound. When he was done with her face, he was more than ready to have her body. Still, he'd taken his time with her, leaving the lights on so she'd get a good look. That's what they wanted. Witnesses. And he liked it fine. It was him but not him. It made him untouchable. Invisible. Like a ghost. The image made him smile. A ghost had nothing to fear. Not even death.

***

Hauk had stopped telling time with the clock. Now when he took a break from his study of the reports on Snake Plissken, he judged how long he'd been at it from the rising pile of cigarette butts in his ashtray and the dropping level of coffee in the pot on his file cabinet. The second batch of coffee was nearly finished and the ashtray was badly in need of emptying and still he hadn't found what he was looking for.

He wasn't even sure what that was anymore. When he'd first dropped the stack of papers on his desk earlier that evening, he thought he knew. Somewhere in that thick file was a clue to where Plissken had disappeared and Hauk intended to find it — and Snake — before dawn. But with each page read and every old crime of Plissken's rehashed, all he'd discovered was his own growing disbelief that the outlaw was guilty.

Not that the file wasn't full of evidence to support the claim that Plissken was a cruel, ruthless and dangerous man. But all of Snake's prior crimes had been motivated by one of two things: survival or revenge. The more ambitious of them, like the Federal Reserve job that had been his undoing, had been in the name of both. Nowhere in Snake's colorful criminal history were the kind of cruel, unjust acts like those currently under investigation. So, what had happened? Had something pushed him beyond reason, to where he saw even innocents as the enemy? Was only twenty-four hours inside New York Max enough to send him over the edge of sanity?

The Commissioner sighed and stood up to stretch his aching back and refill his coffee mug. Once again, he gave himself the speech he'd been repeating since that morning: This isn't personal. Don't make it that way. But it was a waste of his time and energy just as this search was beginning to be. Snake had betrayed him, betrayed his trust and his faith in his own judgement. So, it was personal. And it would stay that way until Plissken was back Inside or dead.

Or until Hauk could prove his innocence.

But that didn't look likely. All Hauk had was a feeling and that didn't count much when the entire goddamn country up to and including the President was out for your ass. And the amount of collected evidence was large and overwhelming, even Hauk had to admit that. But although eyewitness testimony seemed to excite and satisfy his masters, it only made him more doubtful. Plissken wasn't known for his sloppiness or his generosity to the USPF. Leaving eyewitnesses was like giving them a damn Christmas present. Maybe the sonofabitch really had gone nuts.

He lit another cigarette and closed the lighter with a frustrated snap before sitting down once again to the files. Flipping open the most recent case, he read the cold, clinical report one more time.

Suspect description: Sex: male. Race: Caucasian. Age: approximately 25-35. Height: 5' 10". Weight: 170 Ibs. Eyes: Right eye blue. Black patch covering left eye. Hair: brown, long. Distinguishing marks: Left facial scar extending from nose to jawline. Tattoo on torso, black cobra snake in attack position, extending from upper abdomen to just above the pubic symphysis.

Hauk blinked. Tattoo. Upper abdomen ... pubic bone... just above. He read it again. And again. Just above ... A soft chuckle escaped him with an exhale of smoke. Well, there it was. Not much. A hunch at best. But it was a hunch based on instinct and knowledge of his enemy. And Hauk still trusted his instincts.

The chuckle became a genuine laugh. He was going to have a hell of a time explaining his thinking to Shaw in the morning. He'd be lucky if he wasn't in a straight jacket by lunchtime. And that's if he wasn't believed. If he was, the rumors of how he knew would keep the whole base chattering for weeks. But hell, it'd be worth it just to know he'd been right those six weeks ago when he'd set Plissken free.

Finally, he looked at the clock. Nearly four a.m. Satisfied at last, he traded in his coffee for two fingers of scotch and stretched out on the office couch. He sipped the drink slowly to its end, set the empty glass aside and fell asleep smiling.

***

The insistent knocking brought him to his feet hours later, well after eight. He ran his hands through what was left of his silver hair and threw the door open. Shaw stared at him, surprised.

"I'm sorry sir," the aide said. His gaze drifted beyond Hauk to the room beyond. Papers littered the desk and in the center of them was the bottle of scotch. "Reception said you were in the office. I didn't realize you'd been here all night."

"S'all right. Just doing some light reading," he said wryly. He stepped back to allow Shaw to enter. "Glad you're here. I've got something to show you."

"I'm afraid I do as well, Sir," Shaw said. Hauk automatically frowned. Shaw always addressed him in a voice formal enough for the White House. Another thing the Commissioner was having trouble with. Especially when the man usually delivered bad news, the proper speech sounded almost distasteful, like perfume layered over the stink of an unclean body. He spied the dispatch in Shaw's hand and snatched it up, scanning it hungrily.

"Same description as before," he said after finishing.

"Exactly, Sir."

"Good. C'mere." Hauk retrieved the Lambertville report from the pile and handed it to Shaw, gesturing at the two pages. "Both of these women told the investigation team that their attacker's tattoo ended just below the abdomen. Sound like Plissken to you?"

Shaw smiled patiently. "I wouldn't know, Sir. I've never had occasion to see him undressed."

"Neither have I," Hauk said, unshaken by the slightly snide tone. "I don't need to. I know him. You've seen pictures of him. You think that tattoo doesn't go all the way?"

"You mean all the way down his —"

" — dick, Shaw." Hauk finished the sentence for him. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Right down to the very tip of that prick's prick."

Shaw shrugged. "Not necessarily."

"Then why do it? Or, more accurately: Why do it there? That position implies only one thing. And if that's not true, then he's a bullshit liar.”

The aide smiled. "Of course he's a liar. And a thief and a killer. An anti-social psychopath who lives to break the rules. Any rules."

Hauk reached for the nearly empty pack of cigarettes and lit one up. "No, Shaw, not just any rules. Other's rules. Our rules. Not his own."

Shaw's response was a short burst of sarcastic laughter. "Are you telling me that there are rules he respects? Some kind of honor code he lives by that would prevent him from lying about the placement of a tattoo? I hardly think—"

Hauk glared at him and he halted the speech. After a moment, he took a breath and began again. "Are you suggesting that because of the location of a tattoo, he's above a certain sort of crime? I would think it's just the opposite. Anyone perverse enough to mutilate themselves that way would have little reluctance to hurt another."

"You're missing the point, Shaw. Two witnesses ID'd that tattoo — where it started and where it ended. If it doesn't match Plissken's, then he's not our man."

Shaw's smile turned kind enough to border condescension. " Sir, weren't you and Plissken in the same air squad?"

Here we go, Hauk thought. "No." He exhaled. There hadn't been a day since his enlistment that a subordinate hadn't pissed him off to some degree. When the hell was Rheme due back, anyway? "Both Special Forces, different units." He turned and looked at his aide. "Something on your mind, Shaw?"

The man rubbed his forehead nervously. "With all due respect Sir, I think you may be letting the fact that you were both soldiers together color your opinion of the man. I appreciate your feelings, but the evidence is clear."

"Not to me," Hauk said quietly. He moved around the desk, collecting the scattered papers and replacing them in the file as he spoke. "Look, I'm not denying what Plissken is, but he's not a fraud." He tapped the latest reports with a long finger. "This bastard is."

Visibly disturbed, Shaw threw up his hands. "So, what are your orders? Call off the search?"

"Like hell. If Plissken's nearby, I want him. And I want him before some promotion-hungry rookie blows his head off. Just make sure they don't look so hard for snakes in the grass that they miss a copycat right under our noses."

The aide nodded rapidly, still trying to assimilate the Commissioner's new frame of mind.

Hauk hefted the file under his arm and headed for the door. Shaw caught him before he could leave. "Uh, and you, Sir? Where will you be?"

“Home," Hauk said, indicating the file. "I think the answer to where Plissken's holed up is in here. I'm going to keep looking."

Shaw waited until the Commissioner was long gone, until he was sure Hauk wouldn't be returning. Then he locked the office door and took a seat in the soft leather chair behind the desk. It was more than comfortable, it was almost luxurious, as was the power that Police Commissioner Robert Hauk commanded. It would be nice to have that power, this office, this chair. Only that wasn't going to happen if he allowed the Commissioner's perverse concepts of honor and duty to gum up the precision-ground cogs of this exquisite scenario. Where yesterday stealth was important, now it was speed that had become essential.

He picked up the receiver and dialed a memorized number. A groggy, rough voice answered. There was no return greeting.

"Noon," Shaw said. "And be on time."

***

The abandoned warehouse once had a skylight. Shaw supposed it was intended to add a touch of cheer to the place, to please the menial workers as they loaded and unloaded trucks.

But as he stood waiting in one of the corners the sunlight couldn't reach, he wondered if it hadn't had the opposite effect — making them resentful of what they could see but not share in while trapped inside by their tedious jobs. Certainly he would have seen it that way.

The afternoon winter sun this day wasn't at all cheerful. It was thin and bright and harsh like the unflattering glare of a cheap fluorescent light. Shaw wasn't pleased. It would afford him a much better look at Rankin than he ever wanted.

He heard the scrape of boots on the concrete floor and stepped out of the shadows to make his presence known. The sooner he concluded this meeting, the better. The man who approached him looked disheveled and still half-asleep. Hung over, no doubt.

Shaw forced himself to meet the man's eyes. Like Plissken's, they were blue, but unlike the outlaw, both of them worked perfectly. The patch — which was not on now — was merely part of the costume. As was the tattoo that Rankin had been paid to have done. The facial scar was merely a fortunate coincidence. His build and physique were a close enough match, although Shaw had no doubt that, put to a real test, Plissken could best his lookalike easily.

But Rankin's walk was nothing like Snake Plissken's. It was slow and nearly shambling and Shaw was reminded of the prisoners he dispatched into NY Max every day. There but for the grace of God — and others who worked their miracles with influence and cash — that's exactly what this man would have become. But Eric Rankin, former USPF, had the good fortune to be just what the doctor — or rather, the President — ordered. Not only did he possess the physical characteristics for the White House's ‘special assignment’, he was a certifiable psychopath as well. It was a quality Shaw had assured President Harker they could put to good use.

Rankin stopped about ten feet from Shaw's position, as if there was an invisible barrier set up between them. Shaw was neither insulted or particularly sorry. For a long moment, silence stretched between the two men.

"Enjoying your work, Mr. Rankin?" Shaw asked finally, with a tone of mocking cordiality.

The man before him shrugged indifferently. "It's a living," he said. His voice was husky from whiskey, too little sleep and something else. Shaw thought it might be the shiver of a dark memory that he didn't have. And didn't want to. Reading the account in the morning paper had been enough.

"And quite a profitable living, too," he said. "But if you continue to allow your peculiar pleasures to interfere with your objective, the profits might just disappear."

Rankin stiffened slightly. Speak English, you pompous prick. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you were hired to impersonate Snake Plissken, not Jack the Ripper. Attacking cheap trash in bad neighborhoods is hardly going to worry Mr. and Mrs. Middle America much, don't you agree?"

"Just keeping in character." At least the character Plissken should have been, Rankin thought. If there was one thing he'd learned these past weeks, it was that Snake Plissken was like a sleek, balanced knife that was used for nothing better than to open the mail. His power, his skills, his reputation — Plissken had wasted them all.

Shaw kept his disgust for the man before him from showing on his face. This was an association made in hell, that was certain. There were more reasons than Hauk's sudden concern for justice for bringing it to a close as swiftly as possible.

He drew a deep breath. The air nearly reeked of Rankin's perversity. "Nevertheless ... The goal is to erode Plissken's folk-hero reputation, to convince the average citizen that he's a danger to them and that the Administration’s generous pardon should be revoked immediately."

Rankin's smile was chilling. "So, what are you saying? I should stick to jailbait?" He thought back to the pretty kid at the convenience store. Plissken would have let that one get away. Some badass outlaw. That just proved he was nothing but a poser — a loser, deep down.

"Or maybe I could pay a visit to a few officer's wives?" Now there was an idea that interested him. He could pay back some of the "buddies" who had supported his discharge. Plissken could take the heat. "Everyone knows Plissken hates Blackbellies —" He finished the thought aloud.

"No, no," Shaw cut him off impatiently. "There's no more time to be coy. Hauk is becoming suspicious. I have no idea whether he wants to salvage his own reputation or if he's actually convinced that Plissken is a post-apocalyptic Robin Hood, but it hardly matters either way. They both have to be stopped."

Rankin looked annoyed. "And just how the hell do I make sure of that?"

"Relax, Mr. Rankin, I'll tell you. You said Plissken was in the city?"

"I followed him in myself. Don't know where he is now though."

Now it was Shaw's turn to smile. He knew. Buried in Plissken's file, among the names of the people questioned after the New York incident, was a prostitute who claimed to have serviced him that night. If a simple background check had been run, it would have been revealed that she had been stationed overseas during the war –- at the very same base as Plissken. The sloppy oversight only confirmed Hauk's incompetence –- he'd been assigned there as well! But now that the Commissioner had taken home the files to study again, the lead had to become a dead end even sooner than Hauk became a dead man.

"I'm fairly certain you'll find he's taken refuge here," he said, producing a slip of paper with a scribbled name and address on it.

Rankin squinted to read it. "Lilah Connelly. Who's this?"

"An unsavory street tramp who's made herself available to Plissken in the past. Pay her a visit — in your USPF uniform. Show her the consequences of befriending dangerous fugitives. And let her think that Hauk is responsible for ordering the lesson."

"Why not just take her out?" Rankin asked. "Then Plissken's got no bolt hole." He grinned and hummed a few notes from an old song. "Nowhere to run to, baaaby," he sang softly. "Nowhere to hide."

"Your thinking is very limited, Mr. Rankin," Shaw said patiently. "I want to do more than eliminate his safehouse. I want to provide him with a motive for committing such a heinous crime as the murder of the Commissioner."

Rankin laughed in disbelief. "You think Plissken will go after Hauk just because some whore got roughed up?"

"Hardly. But he may begin to think that Hauk is responsible for his recent troubles and that it's time to end those troubles. Then you will step in and do exactly that. And the country will believe it to be Plissken."

Rankin took a step backward, shaking his head. "No way, not a chance. Close enough to be ID'd is close enough to get caught. Hauk wasn't part of the deal. Forget it."

Annoyed, Shaw sighed and bent to the floor, retrieving an object wrapped in canvas. He tossed it to Rankin. "Keep your distance if you must. But use this. It will remove any doubt as to the perpetrator."

The younger man undid the straps for a look. Inside was a compact Enfield automatic assault weapon.

"Don't touch it without gloves on!" Shaw snapped, stopping Rankin from laying a bare hand on it. "Plissken's prints are all over that."

Rankin studied the gun a moment. It was standard USPF riot gear. Now, instead of reluctance, there was a glint in Rankin's eyes. Killing such a prominent target with virtual carte blanche would be a hell of a rush. And wasting Hauk would be a pleasure. After all, Hauk had been the one to order his dismissal in the first place. He looked back at Shaw, impressed.

"How'd you manage that?" he asked.

A soft chuckle escaped Shaw. "That is not information you require, Mr. Rankin. You already know exactly what you need to know."

"Fine. Then exactly when do I get paid and get the hell out of here?" Rankin asked, re-wrapping the weapon. "After I take out Hauk?"

"No. When they drop that arrogant miscreant Plissken inside his new home," Shaw said calmly. 'That's when your service to your President will be over."

And my life with it, for sure, Rankin thought. Like there's enough money on earth to make sure I stay quiet about this setup. Like you bastards would really pay up even if there was. One thing these guys didn't count on — Eric Rankin wasn't stupid. He had a pretty good idea what they'd do with him when this was over. He'd used his time as Plissken to collect enough to let him slip away on his own. If he waited around, all he'd get from them was a bullet in the head. No, as soon as Plissken was picked up, Rankin was going to take his adopted identity and disappear. He could keep the legend going and let the country wonder forever if Snake Plissken was dead, alive or inside the Max. It was a damn good plan.

He grinned. It was better if they kept on thinking they were playing him. "Now it's a service, huh? Well, you and my President better both remember that my service ain't voluntary. We agreed on one million, remember."

"I remember."

"Fine."

Rankin turned to leave, then grinned over his shoulder. "Keep the Police Channel on," he said, gesturing with the rifle. "It'll save me a phone call." And it will be the last time you hear from me ever again.

***

Rankin watched the apartment over the bar for nearly two hours before he was certain the woman was alone. If she was a hooker, she obviously worked at night. No one entered or left and the high-powered binoculars he had revealed no one inside but a slender, long-haired blonde.

Still, he needed to be absolutely certain that he didn't stumble onto Snake Plissken. Not that he'd mind a confrontation. He'd enjoy showing that fuck a thing or two. But it would have to be on his own terms, in his own time. Maybe before this was over, he'd even get the chance. But for now he'd have to settle for Plissken's little whore.

He tucked his long hair up under the regulation USPF cap. They'd taken his shield when they busted him out, but the rest of the uniform he kept. The gun in the holster on his hip wasn't the standard issue service piece either, but he didn't think the woman would know the difference.

Outside her door, he straightened out the uniform jacket and knocked. By the time she answered, he was smiling politely.

"Lilah Connelly?"

Lilah looked him over quickly. He was no one she knew, unlike the other two cops that had arrived early that morning to question her. She'd sent them away satisfied that she knew nothing about the current whereabouts of Snake Plissken. So, why was this one here now?

"Yeah. What?"

Rankin pointed to the phony badge on the jacket. "I need to ask you a few questions about the assault last night. It'll only take a few minutes."

"I already answered questions today."

His smile held. "I'm sure you were very cooperative. I'm here on Commissioner Hauk's personal order. We're just trying to re-canvas, follow up any possible leads that might help us find Snake Plissken. It's for your own safety, Miss Connelly. May I come in?"

Lilah sighed. Arguing was useless. Better to give them what they wanted and keep suspicion to a minimum. There was no danger anyway. Snake had left long before she awoke, taking all traces of his presence with him. He wouldn't be back before nightfall. If he came back at all. But it wasn't a good idea to be too agreeable, either. She shrugged and opened the door.

"Like I have a choice," she said. She studied the officer's face as he entered. No, she didn't recognize him.

"You guys should start talking to each other," she said, slamming the door closed as he stepped inside. She moved past him, into the living room without looking back, and never saw him slip the chain and turn the deadbolt, locking the door behind them.

***

Snake only knocked once, a light, private, double rap that faded off unanswered into the silence. He hovered in the shadows only a moment before slipping the keys to the triple locks of Lilah's apartment from his pocket. He eased the door wide open and waited a moment before entering.

He expected Lilah to be there. He'd scoped out the bar downstairs and she hadn't been in her usual spot. But the apartment was soundless and grey, the only light coming from far off in the bedroom.

Cautiously, Snake stepped in and crouched to retrieve his boot knife from its sheath. He held his breath, resisting the urge to call Lilah's name aloud and made his way down the short hall. As he moved, he listened for the sound of an intruder in the small apartment. At the bedroom, he readied himself for the possibility of attack and pushed the door open.

Lilah was on the bed. Sprawled on her stomach, one arm cradled her head while the other hung limp over the edge of the mattress. On the floor by her hand, a bottle of whiskey lay in a puddle. Her hair covered her face. She was naked to the waist, where her worn khaki army shirt bunched up around her middle.

Bruises, some of them as big as a man's hand, darkened her hips and angry red welts circled her wrists. Dried blood streaked the bed's white sheets and the ivory skin of her thighs. Snake shot a last, wary glance over his shoulder and crouched down beside her, relieved to feel her warm breath against his face. But breathing didn't mean conscious.

"Lilah?"

When she didn't move, he set the knife aside and held up the bottle to check the contents. She'd swallowed more than she'd spilled. It was no wonder she was out cold. He reached out and pulled her hair back, then sucked in a breath.

"Ahh, shit."

The entire right side of her face was puffy and beginning to turn a deep purple. Her eye was nearly swollen shut. Strands of her hair, caked with blood and matted together were stuck to the spot where her lip had been split. This close, he could see more bruises on her neck.

Snake let his breath out slowly, reigning in his anger. Some bastard had taken more than he'd paid for tonight. He called her name again and when she didn't respond, he moved to sit beside her on the bed. He pushed gently against her shoulder and she came awake instantly, crying out in pain and alarm.

Lilah rolled to her back, and swung at him with clenched fists. He ducked a vicious kick, caught hold of her arms and lifted her up close to look at him.

"Hey... hey," he whispered as she struggled wildly.

She finally focused, but not before he got a good look at the terror in her eyes. Once she recognized him, she relaxed and quickly pulled out of his grasp.

"M'okay," she said, tugging at the open shirt to cover herself. As she fumbled with the buttons, he studied her battered face and body — the same body he'd held and touched and used to soothe his own psychic wounds only hours ago.

Lilah caught him staring and her eyes began to fill with tears. She turned away, climbing stiffly off the bed as he got to his feet. "C'mon now Plissken," she said. "Tough guy like you musta seen a woman slapp'd 'round b'fore. You're not gonna get all squeam'sh on me, are ya?" Her voice was thick from the swelling and the whiskey and she swayed unsteadily when she stood. Fresh blood oozed from her swollen lip and she dabbed at it with a fingertip.

Snake felt a surge of emotion, familiar childhood feelings of frustration and impotence. Yeah, he'd seen women beaten before, starting with his own mother. But Lilah wasn't his mother. Lilah was tough and savvy and self-reliant. But even that hadn't saved her tonight.

"You need a doctor?" he asked.

Lilah laughed. It was a strangled sound with no pleasure in it. "Wha' for? They’ jus' tell me th'sis n'occupashun'l haz'rd." She leaned toward Plissken and her fattened, distorted grin was ghoulish. "Prob'ly tell me he thought whores were smarter'n that." Spotting the half-filled scotch bottle at Snake's feet, she stepped toward it and stumbled, falling to her knees.

He dropped down beside her, reaching out to steady her but she pushed him away.

"Leav' me 'lone."

"Look, I'm trying to help you, goddammit!" he swore, gripping her arms again.

His touch was all it took to push her over the edge. A deep, frightening growl sounded from her throat. "Take ... your ... fuckin'... hands ... off ….. ME!" She twisted free and struck him hard in the face, then began to hit him again and again.

Plissken's reflexes were lightning quick. Stopping her would be easy and defending himself was a natural instinct. But Lilah's cries were wild with pain and rage so raw, he did neither. He dodged the open hand slaps to his head and face, but let the body blows land unchecked.

Even without resistance, the onslaught only lasted a few seconds. Panting, Lilah dropped her hands to her lap and sagged back against the bed. She rested her head on the edge of the mattress, saying nothing. Snake waited for her breathing to ease, until he was sure she was calm.

"Tell me," he demanded.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Blackbelly. Name's Rankin. I didn't r' member at first. Got a reputashun. Thought he got bust'd out 'bout a year ago for 'nacceptable conduc'." She laughed again, a high-pitched hysterical squeal. "Shows whad I know."

Unacceptable conduct. That was nothing more than the USPF's gutless way of saying that the guy was gas-crazy and on the wrong side of the wall. Snake knew personal opinion didn't matter much in Lilah's line of work but she could afford to be choosier and usually, she was.

"Why'd you bring him up here?"

Lilah raised her head to look at him, her face twisted hatefully. "I didn't bring him up here," she hissed. "He came lookin' f’you."

Snake's good eye narrowed. "What?"

“He said Hauk sen' him to follow up the 'nvestigashun'" she said, speaking with difficulty. "But all he ask'd 'bout wass you. If I'd seen you, if you'd been 'round lately. I tol' him th' same bullshit I did th' others — it was only that once, las' fall. Only Rankin didn't buy it. He start'd t' get weird. Said he knew you'd been here, he could smell you on me. Outlaw's whore. You wanna see what happens when you shelter wanted criminals, he said."

She looked down at her livid, swollen wrist and stared at it. Some of her manicured nails were broken and bloodied. Plissken watched her gaze lose its focus as her mind replayed events he couldn't see.

"Firs' I thought he wass takin' me to Lib'rty f'questioning." She laughed shortly. "Fuckin' stupid. I tried t' get out then bu' it was too late. He cuffed me t' the bed frame. Hit me, held my face down on the bed. I couldn't move, couldn't see him. But I could hear. Does he make you scream, bitch? Do you cry for him?

"He mov'd behind me, grabbed me ... knew he wass gonna fuck me ... but not like ... not with ... He drew his gun … click'd the hammer wh're I could hear it ... ever play Russ'n Roulette? Gotta speshul version f'you, cunt ... Then he took it an' he, he – oh, G-God—"

She broke off suddenly and her voice dropped to a numb and lifeless whisper. Humiliations she couldn’t voice played across her face like an ugly kaleidoscope. "Now I wanna hear you scream, he tol' me. Now I'm gonna make you cry."

Snake listened in silence, as each brutal image she called up burned itself into his brain, fueling a murderous fury. This was no routine investigation. By his own admission, this crazy was Hauk's man, following Hauk's direct order. There was precious little justice anywhere, anymore, but before this was over, Plissken was going to personally see that the Colonel tasted some.

Still, it hadn't been Hauk who'd put Lilah in harm's way.

He reached out to wipe a trickle of blood from her mouth. Lilah knocked his hand aside with a grunt of pain, like a frightened, wounded animal. She turned her head away but he reached for her again, ignoring her resistance. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to stifle the anguish given license by his small gesture. Tentatively, as if the kindness might hurt even more, she gave in and rested her cheek in his outstretched palm. He cradled her face a moment, then drew her toward him but she pushed herself away.

"I — I n-need to clea'nup," she rasped.

She clutched the army shirt to her and this time, allowed Snake to help her to her feet. Her walk was obviously painful, stiff and slow. Outside the bathroom, she stopped and looked at him. "He knows you were here. They know."

"No, they don't. All they have is one asshole with a hunch."

But it was a good hunch, he had to admit. An obvious one. Inside him, a small voice cried for panic. Plissken ignored it as he usually did. It was too early for that. The street had been quiet and nearly empty of life when he'd returned to the apartment. If they'd really expected him to be here, they'd have had an impressive welcoming committee waiting.

So, why hadn't they? If one of them knew, why not all of them? What the fuck was going on?

He shook it off and moved past Lilah into the bathroom. Over the chipped enamel sink, a small medicine cabinet sat recessed in the wall. He opened it wide and left it that way, sparing Lilah the reflection of her face in the worn mirror. Scanning the contents for a few seconds, he snared a bottle of painkillers and one of tranquilizers and handed them to her.

"Take these," he ordered. He knew that combined with the whiskey, they promised hours of sweet oblivion. After this night, she could use a little. His tone did not invite argument but Lilah was too drained to offer any. She emptied a couple of pills into her hand and swallowed them down dry.

Satisfied, Plissken left her alone. He waited outside the door a moment until he heard the burst of the shower and left before her sobbing grew louder than the sound of the rushing water.

When she finished and came back into the living room, she saw Plissken at his usual spot in front of her tall windows, staring out at the street. He held a cup of coffee in one hand. Another cup, freshly poured and steaming hot, sat on the table beside an ice compress and an opened pack of cigarettes. Lilah helped herself to a cigarette, but her mouth couldn't close tight enough to get a decent drag. After two half-hearted puffs, she gave up, ground it out and settled for the coffee.

Curling up in the corner of the sofa, she pressed the ice pack to her face gingerly. The cold and pressure brought tears to her eyes once again.

"Shit!"

Snake turned to look at her and the slight wince in his good eye told her everything her mirror hadn't. She choked back a sob. "You're a thief," she reminded him. "Got a ski mask I could borrow?"

His mouth curved slightly, more out of relief that she'd made the joke than any pleasure with it. "Sorry, Babe," he said.

He was quiet a long minute, giving her time. "He said Hauk sent him?" he asked finally.

Lilah sighed. The booze and the drugs had taken the edge off her pain and fright. Now, all she wanted to do was sleep. "So whad? Hauk sends them all, doesn't he?" she said bitterly.

"Yeah." Snake moved away from the window to take a seat at the table. "So why announce it? And why do that?" He tipped his chin at her.

"Because he could?" she sneered sarcastically. But the question made her think. "Because we're c'nnected. Maybe the Commiss’ner knows that. You said he's setting you up. Maybe now he's baiting you too."

That would be sweet if true. Like an invitation to an old-fashioned gunfight. Snake had to admit he'd enjoy a confrontation, enjoy keeping his promise and watching the old warhorse crumple at his feet. Too bad wearing notches on your belt was a custom that belonged to a different time. He shook the pleasurable fantasy out of his head. Something about it felt wrong.

"Why bother?" he thought aloud. "If he knows, then why all the fucking drama? Doesn't make sense."

The pills were getting to Lilah. The ugly pictures that continued to run through her head were beginning to fade. And Snake's voice sounded distant, his rough whisper swirling with images of him from her memory. She yawned and stretched out on the couch.

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything," she said wearily. "Maybe Rankin was just fuckin' with my head, too. I tol' you he's crazy and vicious. Like the psycho who did the things they're tryin' to hang on you." Her eyes closed. Rankin's face surfaced from the miasma, then melted away.

"Yeah. The psycho that’s supposed to be me," Snake said.

A painful flashback seized Lilah. Blue eyes, inches from her own ... Rankin's body, heavy on her back ... the brush of his non-regulation length hair on her shoulder ... perversely familiar... the turn of his face into the shadow, only one eye visible... his mouth, revoltingly close ... close enough to see the scar that ran from nose to chin …

She sat straight up, her eyes wide. Recognition slammed into her like a shockwave. "He did," she said. "Oh m’ God, he did. He did look like you!"

That's impossible, Snake thought immediately, but he knew it wasn't. He opened his mouth to ask her more, but she never gave him the chance.

"God, I didn't see it — th' uniform — but his hair was too long for regs — it was tied back — 'til later — but he did — his eyes — his build — ohhhh — God, it was him, that sick bastard — it was, Jesus, it was!" And he'd been with her, close enough to hurt her, close enough to maim and disfigure her, rape and mutilate her as he had the others. The thought of how close she'd come to all of his perversion sent a flood of adrenaline through her that even the drugs couldn't combat. Her stomach rolled and her whole body shook. She moaned aloud.

Snake came and crouched before her, taking her gently by the arms. "Look at me," he ordered. He knew what she was thinking, feeling. The sonofabitch had taken her to hell and now they'd discovered she'd gotten off easy. "It's over. Just calm down." After a moment, she nodded but he didn't let go until he felt the tension drain from her. He handed her back her cup of coffee and waited as she took a sip.

She looked at Snake with liquid eyes. "Why? Why would he do this?"

In a tight voice, he spoke her own words back to her. "Because he could."

"But then why not finish it? Why didn't he —"

She froze as a knock at the door choked her words back into her throat. The cup dropped from her hands and she clutched at Plissken's shirt. Terror replaced the confusion on her face.

"It's him," she breathed. "Snake — oh, God — it's him."

"Quiet," he said firmly. He listened a moment for the sound of someone picking the locks. But there was nothing. They waited in silence until the knock came again. Plissken met her eyes and tilted his head at the door.

Terrified, Lilah shook her head frantically. "No," she whispered. "I can't —"

"Do it," he said. Suddenly, he was as anxious as she was afraid, as eager as she was reluctant. The idea of paying back that sick fucker was almost too satisfying to imagine. He stood, drawing her to her feet with him. From inside his boot sheath, he produced the knife again.

"I'm right here," he breathed in her ear. He eased away from her side, soundlessly taking up a position that would leave him hidden behind the open door.

Barely able to take a step, Lilah moved after him. With trembling hands, she undid all the locks except the heavy chain. For a moment she was numb with fear, imagining Rankin's cruel face on the other side, red with rage and looking for blood.

"W — who is it?" she asked thickly. She tried to keep her voice from shaking, but couldn't.

The voice came back, deep and authoritative. "Police Commissioner Hauk. I want to talk to you." A different kind of fear shot through her like an icicle down her spine. She looked beside her quickly. If Plissken was surprised, he didn't show it. He placed a finger to his lips and then held it up a brief second before gesturing in the direction of the apartment beyond. When Lilah nodded that she understood, he disappeared without making a sound.

She paused to take a deep, calming breath and then opened the door a crack, giving Hauk a glimpse of her battered face. "Sorry," she said. "We're closed for renovations." Lilah moved to close the door, but it wouldn't budge. His large hand held it firm.

"I said talk," he repeated in a tone she hadn't heard for years. "Now, Lieutenant."

Her mouth went slack at the use of her old rank. He did know! God, he knew all about her! Everything they'd just realized was true. He was in collusion with Rankin, had enlisted Rankin to frame Snake, to seek her out. In spite of that, she hesitated, her fingers hovered over the chain, knowing that if she let him inside, he would not leave alive. Finally, she slipped open the lock quickly, before she could change her mind.

She'd forgotten how tall he was. He towered over her, still an imposing figure after all these years. She did remember his steel blue eyes. There was warmth there when the situation warranted it, but most of the time they were hard. All business. Like now. He looked tired. Not physically, although that was part of it. But this was psychic fatigue. Lilah was looking at a man who was tired of life. It only made him colder, more remote. He was an easy man to be afraid of. She seemed to attract them like magnets.

Hauk stared at her, blatantly studying her ruined face until she looked away. She watched him survey the apartment as she picked up the coffee cup from the floor and mopped up the spill. When she was done, he retrieved her ice pack and handed it to her.

"Who did that?" he asked.

He sounded sincere. As if he really didn't know. For a moment Lilah was almost swayed. But the throbbing in her face and the horrific memories in her head reminded her that he knew damn well who was responsible. He was. Him and that monster he'd sent to her.

She snatched the ice from his hand. "Fuck you," she spat, amazed at his audacity. Hauk's eyes widened slightly and she felt a rush of satisfaction. It withered quickly under that relentless gaze. She looked away, carefully pressing the ice bag to her face once again.

"Just trying to help, Lieutenant."

Lilah winced. The title stabbed at her soul. And he probably knew it. He was one infuriating bastard. Almost as bad as Snake. Maybe it was something in the water or the air over Helsinki. Maybe the gas they were exposed to didn't make you crazy. Maybe it just made you a pain in the ass.

"What d'you want here?" she demanded, refilling her coffee cup. She didn't care what his answer was. But she would keep him talking, keep him distracted until Snake made his move. In a moment, it would all be over. She sat at the table. Without asking, Hauk sat opposite her, his back to the hallway where Snake was hiding. Inwardly, Lilah tensed.

"Snake Plissken. You can contact him," Hauk said. It was not a question. "Do it."

That did it. The officious, commanding tone in his voice snapped her final, thready hold on restraint. "What happened, Colonel?" she sneered, shaking as she spoke. "Your psycho messeng'r boy screw up his assignm'nt so you need t' come down here and handle it yourself?"

Hauk's sharp eyes narrowed in confusion. "What —"

Even though she knew it was coming, Lilah jumped as Snake appeared behind the Commissioner, circling an arm under his jaw, cutting off Hauk's words and his air. Plissken yanked his head back roughly, stopping Hauk's attempt to break free with a knife against the man's throat.

Hauk's immediate panic was tempered by a rush of satisfaction. His instincts, it seemed were still in good working order. Now he was about to learn if his decision to come here unarmed was a smart one or the last one he'd make.

"Hello, Snake," he croaked calmly. "Figured I'd find you here."

"And here's your reward." Snake pressed the knife blade deeper, breaking the skin. Hauk felt the warm trickle of blood inch toward his chest. His voice was strangled. He was losing air. He brought his hands up to tug on Snake's arm but made no other move to break free. "Let me ... talk to ... you. Can ….. always kill ... me later."

Lilah watched in breathless silence as emotion flickered over Plissken's face like the flames of a fire. A muscle in his arm twitched from strain of his effort and his rage. He was equally capable of both reason and mindless fury, equally capable of backing off or cutting Hauk's throat right in front of her. And though she knew him, she didn't know which he would choose. She closed her eyes and turned her head away.

The action brought Snake up short. He hesitated. She'd been through enough tonight. Hauk may need killing but she didn't need to see it. He tore himself away, moving to the far end of the room, not trusting himself enough to stay within striking distance of the Commissioner.

What Lilah heard was not the muffled scream of a dying man or the sickening gurgle of blood but a sudden desperate gasp. When she gathered up the courage to open her eyes, Hauk was still in the chair before her, coughing and drawing in deep lungfuls of air.

"I made a mistake not keeping that promise last time," Snake said with deadly menace. "I won't make it again."

He caught Lilah's eye. "Move away from him." She did, sliding into the corner of the sofa. Still keeping a wide safety zone, Snake positioned himself away from the windows, between his enemy and his friend.

"Talk," he ordered Hauk.

Hauk pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to the small cut on his neck. He checked the bleeding and replaced it, keeping the pressure up. "I'm here to help," he said simply.

"Bullshit."

"Straight. I know you didn't commit those assaults."

Snake made a sound of mixed disbelief and disgust. What balls! It took a smart man to score a pre-emptive strike on Snake Plissken and that's just what Hauk had done to him in New York. The charges he'd ordered implanted in Snake's arteries were one hell of a deterrent to Plissken's plan to take the Gulffire north to freedom. Angry as Snake had been then, he was still impressed that Hauk could read him so well. But that was only going to happen once. Evidently, Hauk didn't know that.

"You oughta," Snake said. "You're pulling the strings of the puppet that did."

"Plissken, what the hell are you talking about?"

Snake lunged at Hauk, the knife aimed straight for the older man's heart. "Don't fuck with me!" he breathed, enraged. The knife point stopped an inch from Hauk's chest. "He was here. Just like you are now."

Ignoring Plissken and the weapon, he turned to Lilah. "Is he the one who did that? The copycat?"

With difficulty, Lilah sat up straight, meeting his penetrating gaze. At least they all agreed there was a double. But someone still wasn't telling the truth. "Yeah. And he said you sent him."

Hauk's hawk-like eyes narrowed in a mixture of anger and confusion. At least that explained the warm welcome he'd gotten here. He checked the handkerchief one more time. The bleeding had stopped. He stuffed it back in his pocket, shaking his head. "No. I gave no such order. You have my word."

"That's real comforting," Snake hissed.

"It's the truth. I only just made the connection between you two an hour ago." Snake studied the Commissioner, looking for any hint of deception. Not that Hauk wasn't a practiced liar. He'd have to be, to command the position he did. For a second, his mind wandered back to their army days. Had Hauk known about the real purpose of the Leningrad Ruse and lied to his own men about it? Or had he been lied to along with all the rest of them? On what side of the line had he stood then? Now?

He held his temper. Maybe letting the bastard think he was convincing them was a way to get him to drop his guard and let go of some proof that he was behind this whole nightmare. Or proof that he wasn't.

"Then where did this asshole get his information?" he asked, backing off with the knife. "And the Blackbelly uniform he was wearing?"

"What?"

Lilah nodded. "Regulation."

Hauk held up his hands. "Hold on a minute. You're not making sense. I thought you said the guy was Snake's double. Are you telling me you think this copycat is a cop?"

Plissken snorted. "’Bout time you caught up," he said. He swung an empty kitchen chair around and straddled it.

Hauk considered a moment. He had to admit the idea had merit. "Yeah, could be," he said. "That would explain how he got hold of enough information to pull off a credible impersonation."

He reached into his shirt pocket and as he did, Plissken tensed. Hauk pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held them up before Snake.

"Just a smoke." He grinned. "Help yourself," he said, taking one and tossing the rest to the table. "And for crissakes, relax, will you?"

The suspicion and distrust in Snake's features never mellowed. He slipped his own smoke from the pack, without ever taking his eyes off Hauk.

"Like hell," he whispered.

The Commissioner took a deep drag. "You can describe this guy?" he said, addressing Lilah.

"Don't have to," she said coldly. Her thinking was getting fuzzy around the edges. She stretched out on the sofa, resting her head on the arm. "I ripped his I.D. tags off his neck. He thou't I didn't see anything bư' I did." She paused. "Rankin," she murmured. Just saying the name, she could taste the blood in her mouth all over again. "His name was Rankin."

"Eric Rankin?" Hauk shook his head again. "He was dismissed about eight months ago."

"You give him a little work off the books, maybe?" Snake said, lighting up his own smoke. “Like you offered me?”

Hauk sighed. Plissken adamantly refused to believe him, refused to trust him. He supposed he could understand it, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. "Look, Plissken," he began again. "I'll say it again. I'm not involved. If they can pin these incidents on you, you're going back Inside. I already told you that's not what I want. Why would I set this up?"

"Simple. Payback."

Hauk smiled. "Payback is a luxury, Snake. And it's usually pointless. You're much more useful to me, free to operate."

"Leverage, then."

"You give me too much credit," Hauk said with amusement. "Even I couldn't deal you out of New York after crimes like these. Public opinion wouldn't let me."

Snake dragged on the smoker in silence. The old bird was right. He'd figured Hauk had orchestrated this set-up to get him back to the bargaining table. But these crimes went beyond what was necessary for that. And if he was caught and sent back Inside, it would defeat the purpose.

His only concession was a grunt that said: maybe. He followed the line of thought. "Okay, so if it isn't you, then who? Where's this Rankin getting his information from? Who's running his interference?"

Hauk shrugged. "Don't know. Buddies, maybe. But I don't even know how they knew you were back in the area. We've been looking for you for weeks now. Nothing."

"I'd say New Hope was something. Almost had me there."

The Commissioner looked confused again, but this time there was an edge of anger to it. "You were picked up in New Hope? When?"

"Day before yesterday. Wrecked a van and stole a bike getting away."

The information — like most of what he'd learned since he'd arrived was news to Hauk. And not good news from the steely anger in his eyes. "Is there a phone here?" he asked.

Lilah had finally fallen asleep, so Snake answered for her. "Bedroom." As the Commissioner got up, Snake got up with him, following him the whole way. He watched Hauk's expression turn grim as he surveyed the telling condition of the room. Without comment, he found the phone and dialed Liberty Island Security HQ. Snake listened from the doorway.

"Yeah, this is Hauk. I need you to run a file for me." Pause. "Arrest reports from yesterday. I'm looking for anything that went down in New Hope." He was silent for a long moment, listening to the distant clicking of a computer keyboard as the officer called up the file.

"I see," Hauk said, frowning. He glanced over to where Snake waited. "A John Doe, you say? And he was questioned and released. Good, that's good, Lenny. Now, one more thing — who signed off the report?"

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." He set the receiver softly back in the cradle with a bitter laugh. It wasn't that he was surprised, really. He was too damn old and jaded for that. Men took their opportunities where they could these days and even loyalty was a negotiable commodity. But he was disturbed at his own gullibility. Maybe he was just too damn old and not jaded enough.

"Well?"

Snake's impatience jerked him out of his self-pity. "Yeah. It was in the log. But it didn't mention you or the stolen bike. Somebody wanted to keep that information to themselves."

"You’ve got a rat.” Snake stated the obvious. “Any idea who?"

"As a matter of fact …" Good old, by-the-book Shaw. Unflagging loyalty to his superior. Unfortunately, that superior wasn't Hauk. And evidently, it never had been. So that's what Rheme's sudden assignment was all about. "The arrest report was signed off by a Sergeant Shaw. He's been heading up the search for you."

"And keeping you out of the loop." All at once, Snake remembered the leader of the arrest team, the one whose face he couldn't see. ...don't talk dirty to the Sergeant … "There was a Sergeant in charge that night," he added.

“Looks like he's been in charge a while now. Time to end that." Determination replaced humiliation he'd been feeling a moment before. He smiled slyly at Snake. "Ready to take that job I mentioned after New York?"

"Maybe." He studied his enemy, who now wanted his help, his trust. If the Commissioner was acting, then he deserved an award. Snake couldn't put his finger on when or how, but somewhere over the last hour, he'd begun to believe Hauk. And there was one fact that even Plissken couldn't argue. Without him, Snake had no chance of beating this set-up and staying a free man.

"What'd you have in mind?"

Hauk talked as they moved back into the kitchen. "There's only one reason why this sonofabitch would drop my name every chance he could."

"He wants me to kill you," Snake said. He looked at Hauk and the corners of his mouth lifted. "Somebody shoulda told him he didn't have to try so hard."

"Save the jokes, Plissken. I figure if you don't do it for him, he'll do it himself —"

" — and hang it on me," Snake finished sourly.

"So, I'm gonna hire you," Hauk said. "As my bodyguard."

That drew a genuine, astonished chuckle from Snake. "Gettin' feeble, Hauk. You want me to watch your back? I'd just as soon stick this in it." He flipped the knife up before the Commissioner's face.

Hauk didn't even blink. "No, you won't, Plissken. You see, like or not, I know you. I know how you think. You may kill me, but it won't be by stabbing me in the back. If you kill me, you're gonna want to look in my eyes when you do it."

Snake was silent except for a snort and a knowing smirk. He hesitated before answering. Bodyguarding Hauk was the last thing he wanted to do. If he was being set up again, he was walking right into it. But it was the only sure way to keep the man within sight and reach.

His gaze fell on Lilah who was mercifully asleep. If they were wrong... If Hauk wasn't the target…

No. The best way to keep her safe was to catch this psycho sonofabitch. He moved to the window and took a long look outside. A light snow was falling again. No one was hovering around on the block. There were only a few cars, and they appeared to be empty. It was no guarantee, but then how often did he get those?

All right," he said finally, resigned. "What next?"

"My place. I need my terminal to access more files. See if I can get the jump on Shaw — that’s his name – before he figures this out, too," Hauk said.

"We shouldn't leave together," Snake said. "Keep them off-guard, if they're watching."

"Black Lexus," Hauk told him. "Parked a few stores down, by the bodega."

Plissken snorted again. Lexus. In this neighborhood. Maybe if Hauk was lucky, it would still be there in one piece. "Give the driver the night off?" he said.

"Something like that, yeah."

Snake collected his jacket and slipped it on, giving the apartment a last glance. He wouldn't be back now that Hauk and the rest of the USPF had discovered it. Too bad. He'd miss the safety it provided. And everything else that went with it.

He crouched down beside Lilah and quietly called her name until her eyes fluttered open. "Hey," he said. "I gotta go. You need to lock up."

Lilah dragged herself to consciousness. "Go? Where? Why?" she asked when his words finally registered.

"It's okay," he told her. Just lock up behind us." She nodded.

Hauk saw Plissken's hesitation. Loyalty, it seemed, wasn't for sale everywhere. "I'll make sure," he said.

Snake got to his feet. "You better," he growled. Then he slipped silently out the door.

Lilah sat up, yawning and combing a hand through her tangled hair. It took a few seconds for her to wake up completely.

"Think he'll run out on me?" Hauk asked conversationally as she got up to refill her coffee cup.

She shrugged, indicating she didn't care much one way or the other. Taking a sip, she faced the Commissioner. "How'd you know?" she asked.

"Know what?"

"You said you knew he wasn't guilty. How?"

"Witness descriptions didn't match." he said simply.

"That's not what I heard."

Hauk shook his head. "The tattoo they described ended on the abdomen. S'that where Plissken's ends?"

For the first time that day, there was amusement in Lilah’s eyes and even though it hurt, she smiled.

***

Hauk listened for the soft thunk of Lilah’s deadbolt before heading out of the apartment and back down to the street. Outside, his sharp eyes scanned the area, seeing nothing out of place. Plissken was nowhere to be found. Briefly, Hauk wondered if he'd been a fool to put his trust in the outlaw. He smiled wryly to himself. He'd know in a moment, when Snake did or didn't show up.

A light coating of snow had dusted the sleek black car, and he paused to brush off the driver's side window, using the moment to search for Snake again. The block was riddled with tiny storefronts and residences, separated by long, narrow alleyways. It was a throwback to earlier times and not upscale enough to warrant any kind of urban renewal. There were a dozen different dark corners Snake could have disappeared into. Hauk expected him to appear as he approached the car, but he didn't. Frowning, he pulled the remote laser key from his pocket and unlocked the door. There was a chirp and soft clicking sound as the sophisticated alarm system disengaged. He swung open the door, looking around one more time. Nothing moved in the stillness. Hauk felt a swell of anger and humiliation.

Plissken, you sonofabit –

The curse was cut short as a figure appeared from the darkness, tackling Hauk from the side. As he went down on his knees, head first to the front seat, the loud, staccato blast of an automatic assault rifle cracked the stillness. The grey-tinted window he'd just cleaned off exploded into a mass of glittering fragments. The heavy body on top of his whispered in his ear.

"Worried?"

Plissken.

"A little," Hauk said, heart pounding.

"Good."

Plissken's weight lifted from his back. "Stay here." Snake ordered. Before Hauk could even turn for a good look, Snake broke into a run, heading for the spot where the weapon's muzzle flash had lit up the darkness.

The elements were on his side. The snow had accumulated just enough to take a shallow impression of footprints that could only belong to Rankin. Snake followed them, from the building doorway where the assassin had hidden, around the corner of the block where they disappeared into a service alley.

In the alley, he slowed his pace slightly. The buildings on either side blocked the light and made the trail harder to see. Precious seconds slipped by as he made his way to the end where it turned and narrowed to an even smaller passage.

There was only enough room to walk two abreast here, and the collection of trash and debris cut that space considerably. But at the far end, the passage opened up to a street one block over. From there, it was open territory. Snake picked up the pace, straining in the dark to keep the trail in sight.

The footprints stretched past the service entrance to one of the stores on the street and then stopped. Snake looked around rapidly, searching for where it began again. The snow was falling harder now, and the wind had picked up considerably. Could the rest of the trail be obscured already?

"Fuck," Snake cursed under his breath. He stared at the ground again. At the end of the trail, there was a wide patch where the snow had been swept aside. As if something had been dragged those few feet. Or as if something had deliberately obscured another set of prints.

The service entrance beside him was basement level. He studied the railing and the few steps down to the door. The steps were clear, but the railing's snow had been disturbed and so had the snow on the landing before the door. He smiled coldly.

Silently, Snake descended the stairs. Sure enough, the door was broken in. He yanked the knife from his boot sheath and eased his way inside. The storage room was completely dark. Precious seconds crawled by as Snake's vision adjusted.

And when it did, he still could see nothing more than indeterminate shapes and shadows, none of them moving. He held his breath, not wanting his own breathing to confuse his only working sense — his hearing. For what seemed like an hour, Snake waited for a sound that would give Rankin's presence away. But nothing came. Just as he was about to admit that maybe that bastard had managed to slip his grasp, the faint sound of fabric against wood touched his ears.

Snake turned just in time to avoid the butt of the Enfield against his head. It connected with his shoulder though, sending a deep, dull pain through his arm and back. His hand with the knife came up, making contact with something soft, but solid. Clothing certainly. But flesh? The harsh curse he heard a moment later told him he had hit his target, however minimally.

He spun, trying to anticipate Rankin's next move. He heard footsteps scraping the concrete floor and used the sound to gauge his opponent's location. He hefted the knife, ready to lunge when suddenly, the overhead lights came on, flooding the room.

Plissken swore, squinting in the sudden, painful light. Rankin's form materialized from the colors dancing behind Snake's good eye.

"Enough slap and tickle," Rankin said. "Come on, if you want a piece of me." Snake finally focused. They were in a tiny storage room, surrounded by stacks of crates and cartons.

The figure opposite him was a damn credible double. The build, the outfit, the hair all were similar. Add an eye patch and it was easily enough to convince the average stranger that this psycho was the oh-so-legendary Snake Plissken.

"Looks like the other way ‘round," he rasped.

Rankin laughed. "I already have it. You weren't using it anyway. Time for you to fade away and let someone who knows what to do with the reputation put it to good use."

Good use? True, there were some things connected to the name Snake Plissken that Snake himself wasn't very proud of. But that bitterness was part of who he was, and he'd learned to accept it. And though his name didn't call up the classic image of a righteous man, it was the only thing that fate, and circumstance hadn't taken away from him. And now this asshole thought he could?

His voice was barely audible, animated by cold fury. "Don't think so," he said.

Rankin jumped at him, but Snake stepped aside, following up the dodge with a blow to the back of Rankin's head. Rankin went down, clipping the back of Plissken's legs, knocking him to his knees. He drove a clenched fist into Snake's side, ramming his kidney, then pulled back quickly and did it again. Groaning, Snake dropped the knife as he hit the floor face down. Forcing himself to move, he twisted away from the third punch. He rolled to his back and swung his heavily booted foot at Rankin's skull connecting with his temple. Rankin fell back as blood from his split scalp ran freely down his face.

Snake pressed his advantage with a tackle that pinned Rankin to the ground where he was. He pounded at the man's face — the instrument of his deception — intending to turn it into a bloody pulp. But Rankin freed one arm and thrust it up at Snake's chin, snapping his head back and forcing him off.

Pain rocketed through Plissken's jaw. Broken? There was no time to dwell on it. Rankin was coming at him again. He scrambled for the discarded knife, but Rankin kicked it away before he could reach it. He was too late pulling his hand back and Rankin stomped on it. Snake cried out loud.

"You scream almost as nice as she did," Rankin taunted. He raised his foot and kicked, catching Snake in the head. Nausea and dizziness swept over Plissken, and he struggled to stay conscious.

"I'd like to stay and play some more." Rankin's triumphant voice was saying. "But I have work to do. By the time I make it back, the cops will have you. Guess I'll have to settle for finishing up with that little cunt of yours."

Snake got to his knees and raised his head in time to see a wooden crate coming straight at him. He tried to duck but his brain couldn't process the message in time. Crashing pain and crushing darkness took him at the same time.

***

Hauk circled the block again, moving the car at little more than a crawl. He peered into each and every doorway, alcove and alleyway, searching for Plissken. All he found were a pair of drunks arguing over a ball game that had been history for ten years and a working girl and her customer, braving the elements for a quick buck and an even quicker thrill.

Damn it, Plissken. Where are you?

He was afraid he knew.

Snake Plissken was one of the best trained hand-to-hand combat fighters he'd ever seen. But Hauk had worked with Eric Rankin, and watched him in action, too. Both men were capable of ruthless cruelty but there was a perversity to Rankin's that was undeniable. It was one of the reasons he'd been dismissed from the USPF. In spite of what the country thought, what the Force thought — what Shaw thought — Rankin was a lot farther down on the humanity scale than Snake was. And Hauk didn't think that would put the odds in Plissken's favor now. Still, Plissken had plenty of incentive tonight. And if the way Hauk had been nearly decapitated earlier was any indication of his resolve, then he didn't have a thing to worry about.

He snapped out of his reverie. A long-haired figure was making his way down the street toward the Lexus. He looked weary and out of breath but confident, not bothering to hide his presence or look over his shoulder. He was in no hurry, and he carried no weapon.

Snake.

Hauk eased the car to the curbside, leaving the engine running. He opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

"Plissken!" he called out quietly. He waved a hand to signal.

The figure looked up and paused, then headed toward the car. Intent on the man coming toward him, Hauk never sensed the presence of the one who appeared from nowhere to stand behind him.

"Hauk —"

The Commissioner turned and looked into Snake Plissken's battered face. Shocked and confused, he whirled for another look at the first man. Now, there was an assault weapon in his hands, aimed at Hauk.

"Plissken, what the hell —"

Without another word, Snake plowed a fist into Hauk’s gut. As he doubled over, Plissken took his head and slammed it against the car's rear passenger window. Hauk blacked out instantly.

Plissken stood up just as Rankin got to the car. He never flinched as Rankin swung the assault weapon around to aim at Snake. Snake held up his hands in a gesture of truce.

Rankin approached him slowly. When Snake made no threatening moves, he slowly lowered the gun. Not getting close enough to give Snake an advantage, he peered through the blown-out car window to see snow falling softly on Commissioner Hauk's unconscious body.

"I thought you were working for him," Rankin said.

"I don't work for anybody," Snake replied quietly. He leveled his gaze at Rankin and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "But I do work with people if it suits me. If they're smart. And if they can handle themselves." He rubbed the swelling at the side of his head where Rankin's boot had left an ugly bruise. "Like you."

Rankin laughed. "Well look at this. I got Snake Plissken sucking up to me."

Snake kept on smiling, unperturbed. "Just complimenting talent when I see it."

Taking a step closer, the former USPF officer studied Hauk's body. He wasn't even close to waking up. Plissken had done the job right. "I'm supposed to kill him," he said casually.

Plissken gave the Commissioner an indifferent glance. "Go ahead," he said. "Doesn't mean shit to me."

"You'll go down for it, you know."

Snake sighed. "S’that your agenda or the one who pulls your strings?"

"Nobody controls me. I make my own decisions."

"And you think getting me back inside New York is gonna work for you?" He shook his head. "No way. Your masters might pay you, but they'll never forget what you know. They can't brag about putting me away if you're out there being a bad boy. You won't have much of a chance to enjoy being Snake Plissken. One day they'll get you. When you're not even looking. You're smart. You know that's not bullshit."

Rankin stared at the man before him. He'd beaten the absolute shit out of him less than half an hour before and now Plissken was making nice. What the hell for? He tried to make the intense curiosity he was feeling appear as indifference. "You got something in mind?" he asked.

Now Snake grinned. "Yeah. Snake Plissken fucks the government, right? Work with me and we can make it a regular gang bang. The goddamn government wouldn't know which end they were getting it in from one minute to the next."

Rankin breathed a short, disbelieving laugh. "You want us to work together?"

"Why not? Two men working as one. It would send them scattering across the country like cockroaches. And it would make us rich."

Even in the dark, Snake could see Rankin's eyes lighting up with the idea. He looked around them. No one was outside but who knew how many were watching from behind their blinds. He didn't care, really. But they'd been talking too long already.

He gave Hauk another glance. He was gonna come to any minute. He nodded in the Commissioner's direction.

"Finish him," he said. "Then let's go someplace and have a drink."

He stepped around the car door to Rankin's side, moving in close. Rankin slid the assault rifle to his hands and took aim. "Been waiting for this," Rankin said, stepping back to get a clear shot at Hauk's head.

Snake slipped his right arm in the gap between his double and the car. He dropped it down and from inside his jacket sleeve, his knife fell neatly into his palm.

"Me too," he breathed. Closing his hand around the hilt, he drove it forward, plunging it into Rankin's belly. Illuminated by a nearby street lamp, the pain and shock on Rankin's face was almost horrific.

"Motherfuck —" he started to say but the words dissolved into a sickening groan of pain. He swung the gun in Snake's direction again, but the twist of his body only forced the knife in deeper.

Untouched by his suffering, Plissken jerked the gun from his grasp and tossed it aside. He grabbed a handful of Rankin's hair and yanked his head back roughly, turning his face so that he could see it clearly.

"You gonna scream, tough guy?" he said calmly, forcing the man to look at him as well. He turned the knife and Rankin's eyes rolled to white. A mouthful of blood gurgled up from his throat and spilled over his chin. "C'mon, asshole. Now it's my turn to see you cry."

Plissken kept the knife moving until Rankin's body became too heavy to support, until the last flicker of life had drained from his eyes. Unsmiling, he let the body fall to the street. With the edge of his shirt, he wiped the handle free of his fingerprints then circled the door to where Hauk's unconscious form lay. He took the Commissioner's limp hand and pressed it firmly around the hilt before plunging it back into Rankin's still bleeding corpse.

Then, he turned his back and walked off into the storm.

***

Four days later, Bob Hauk was back in his office recovering from a concussion, nursing a headache and a very bad mood. The headache he could take care of with a few aspirin. The mood was a little harder to dispel. The rest of the USPF troops on Liberty Island were at a loss to explain their commander's foul temper. After all, hadn't he figured out who was really behind those assaults and murders and hadn't he pretty much single-handedly taken out their old buddy Rankin, who had gone gassed on them? He was a regular old-fashioned hero, he was. And if he heard congratulations from one more man, he was going to order them shot on the spot.

But the memo on top of the pile of mail on his desk did give him real reason to smile. He read it over twice to make sure his knock on the head wasn't giving him hallucinations, then notified his aide to send for Sergeant Shaw.

Shaw arrived promptly, in a mood even less jovial than Hauk's. Hauk would have liked to call the slimy traitor on his bad humor. He wanted to have the personal joy of informing him it was only going to get worse. What he wanted most was to kick his ass out of the world and into the hell of New York. But he couldn't do that. And Snake Plissken was the reason.
He supposed it was a bit ungrateful to be angry at a man who had saved your life. But in doing things his way, Snake had seen to it that there was no one alive to interrogate about this entire incident. And without Rankin's statement, they had nothing on Shaw. Even the tampered computer files had been mysteriously lost. Hauk himself had spent hours searching for them, for anything that could incriminate the Sergeant, all for nothing. And Plissken, of course, had once again disappeared like a mirage.
He looked up as Shaw entered the office.

"Good morning, Sergeant, " he greeted politely and with little warmth.

"Good morning, Commissioner."

Hauk retrieved the memo from the pile. He spoke as if it were an ordinary meeting. "Got a transfer notice this morning, Shaw. Tom Rheme's coming back here effective Monday." The Sergeant's eyes widened for just a moment. He cleared his throat and asked: "Will I be staying on?"

"--- Sir," Hauk finished for him.

"Sir, yes, of course."

"No, I'm afraid not. You have new orders. They're here, too." He snatched another memo from the pile and smiled again.

"Seems you're wanted in Northern Maine, Sergeant. You're being assigned to the new base they're building up on the Canadian border. Beautiful country up there, still. Not a human in sight for miles and miles."

Shaw's face reddened. "Maine? But that's impossible —"

"That's impossible, Sir," Hauk finished again. He kept his tone serious.

"Commissioner Hauk — Sir — I have some rather influential friends who might be disturbed to see me stationed in such a remote area. I'm certain that if you let me contact them —"

"No can do, Shaw. And I doubt they'd be much help. These orders have been okayed by the President himself. Can't get more influential than that." His eyes narrowed. "Can you, Sergeant?" he asked pointedly.

Shaw laughed bitterly. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

“Aren't you, Sir." Hauk corrected yet again, this time with an edge to his voice. "You bet your ass I am, you backstabbing sonofabitch."

The shock in Shaw's eyes was edged with fear. "I beg your pardon?"

"You ought to, you traitor. And not just mine. But thanks to some very smooth backpedaling you won't have to. But let's get one thing straight —"

He stood up and came out from behind the desk, standing toe to toe with Shaw. "I know it was you. You found him. You set him up. You gave him instructions. You paid him. And if the day ever comes that I can prove it, I'll send you straight to hell right along with him."

Shaw stammered. "I — I have no idea what you're talking about —"

"--- SIR!" Hauk barked. He stepped back and took a seat on the edge of the desk. "Save your hot air, Shaw. You'll need it where you're going. Now get the hell out of here." Defeated, Shaw turned on his heel and left. Hauk returned to his desk, savoring the delicious satisfaction.

He smiled. His headache was gone.

***

Plissken gave them a week to stop looking for him. He figured it would take that long for the Blackbellies and the news media to tire of the “Doppleganger” story and move on to the next big winner of the news cycle. Of course, Hauk would still be wanting a debriefing to finally understand what the fuck had actually happened. But there was only so much money and manpower available to keep searching for a man who wasn't legally wanted anymore. So, for a few more nights and days, he stayed hidden, moving from one dark corner to another, patiently waiting them out.

When he finally did emerge, he did so in broad daylight, when they’d least expect it. Still, he watched Lilah's apartment for over an hour for any sign of the USPF before climbing the stairs to knock on her door.

Still cautious, Lilah left the chain on and looked to see who it was before letting him in. "Hey,” she said in surprise. “I figured you were long gone."

"I'm hoping the Blackbellies will figure that, too."

Her face clouded. "They still want you? I thought —" She’d deliberately avoided the bar where her battered face and body would prompt too many unwanted questions. But the news was everywhere. She felt anxiety claw at her throat.

"It's finished," he said.

Lilah let go a breath. The dark memory behind her eyes morphed into relief and satisfaction. "Good," she whispered.

Snake looked around the apartment. Some of the cabinets were open and half empty. Beside the pillow and blanket on the sofa, sat a box filled with short skirts and dresses and clusters of costume jewelry. On the table, a khaki canvas duffle bag with faded US ARMY lettering lay open. It, too, was half-full. She was leaving.

"Get evicted?" he asked.

She snorted, going back to her sorting. "Are you kidding? I'm probably the only tenant who pays their rent on time. Or at all.” She paused. “No, I’ve just had enough of this glamorous life." Nodding at the coffee maker on the counter she told him: "There's still an extra mug in there."

Snake took the offer and helped himself to a cup. He leaned against the counter, watching her. The worst of the bruises were fading, the swelling and smaller marks were already gone. She moved easily, apparently not in any pain.

She caught him staring. "Yeah, I'm coming along," she said. "No permanent damage."

Nothing visible, anyway, Plissken thought. He knew all about invisible wounds. “Where’re you going?” he asked. “Home?”

She shook her head. "Don’t have one of those,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Just someplace not here."

Snake recognized the feeling. Home hadn’t been a word with meaning for him in a long time.

“Someplace not here,” he repeated, sipping the coffee. “Think I’ve been there once or twice.”

“Yeah? How’d you like it?” Lilah said, half-smiling as she divided her belongings into piles.

“Might not be any better.”

Lilah made a sound of disbelief. “Jesus, it can’t be any worse.”

She left him alone to gather some things from the bedroom. For the most part, the room was still trashed and disheveled the way it had been the last night Snake had been there. She hadn't slept in that bed since then and knew she never would again.

Back in the kitchen, she rolled up the retrieved jeans and sweaters the way the military had taught her and jammed them into the bag. There was still plenty of room. Over the last week, she'd realized how little there was here that she wanted to hold on to.

Snake waited for a long moment before he spoke again. Want a ride?" he asked matter-of-factly.

Lilah looked up from her packing to stare at him. On the surface it sounded like a simple offer. But she knew better.

"Snake —”

"What? What’s on your mind, Babe?”

“Look, I’m grateful, but what's this ride going to cost me? I'm done trading off pieces of myself just to survive."

"No trading," he said. "No obligations. No promises. Maybe watch each other’s backs is all. That's the deal. Interested?"

Lilah still hesitated. “I’m not Billy,” she said softly. She knew, probably more than anyone, how much Snake felt the loss of Bill Taylor. That was a void she could never fill.

“Uh, yeah,” Plissken answered with a wry grin. “You don’t talk nearly as much.”

She sighed. "For how long?"

"Long as it works."

“Yeah, but what'll I do after tomorrow?" she teased. He snorted a laugh. She studied him, remembering the young pilot she knew years before. He wasn't the same person but then, neither was she. If he was willing to risk connection, maybe she could do the same.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tonight. Around six. Six-thirty I go, with or without you."

"Understood."

He nodded, set the coffee mug on the counter and headed out the door without another word. Lilah locked up after him and then went to finish packing.

END