Montage

Chapter 1

Bands of early morning sunshine striped their way across the empty offices of the Chicago branch of the FBI.  The light tapping of computer keys could be heard emanating from one of the offices.  A broad shouldered man in his mid thirties confidently filled fields of a crime report on a computer, pausing occasionally to ponder his next entry.  He was dressed crisply in a loose fitting but tailored business suit.  His face was rugged if not particularly handsome, and his brown hair was cut to a close Marine flat top.  The office was sparsely furnished.  Little more than a desk and a few chairs spoke to its infrequent use.  A computer monitor, keyboard and mouse dominated the uncluttered desktop.  To the right side of the desk was a picture of the man, a woman and two young boys.

A younger man dressed in work coveralls walked into the office. "Steve! What are you doing in here on a Saturday?"

Steve leaned back, smiling.  "Hey Mark. Just trying to catch up on some of this endless paper work."

"Well, would you mind helping me with some of my paperwork?"

Steve reached under his desk and grabbed his wastebasket.  As he stood to hand the basket to the young janitor, however, Steve's face contorted with intense pain and shock!  In an almost impossibly fast reflexive move --Steve dropped the basket, leaned back and kicked out!  His desk flew across the room, narrowly missing Mark!  The FBI agent's eyes didn't see this, though.  At that moment Steve's eyes weren't focusing on the room around him.


Moments earlier, south of the city in one of the more cosmopolitan suburbs, Alan Johnson --Steve's twin brother-- was sleepily walking down the stairs of his house to answer the door.  Alan was a thinner man than Steve.  His hair, a rumpled mess, was a short business cut and he had a thick mustache.  Alan pulled his robe closed over his bare chest and slight love handles protruding over his boxers.  Peeking though the eyehole he saw a man dressed in the drab brown of a deliveryman.  Mumbling about forgetting to close the gate again he opened the door.

The deliveryman looked at his clipboard and said, "Sir. Are you Henry Alan Johnson?"

"Sure thing, what do yah got?"

The man handed Alan an envelope and turned his clipboard around.  "Please sign here."

Alan tucked the envelope in his robe pocket and reached for the man's pen.

The deliveryman suddenly grabbed Alan's hand and swung the pen up; a thin red line extended from the end of the pen and passed through Alan's wrist!  In that microsecond --as Alan's severed hand fell to the ground-- his "connection" was also lost.  Time seemed to slow.  The "deliveryman" reached upward towards Alan's neck.

Alan's body, seemingly acting of its own accord, sprang back and kicked the assailant in the chest!  The deliveryman was flung back and the thin red line of the pen only grazed Alan's neck instead of passing through it.  The deliveryman landed and expertly rolled back to his feet --running; carrying with him Alan's right hand and the large white ring with the clear oval gem worn on it.


Miles away, Steve blinked and again saw his office.  The damaged desk and the astonished janitor held his attention for only an instant and then he sprinted through the door, down the hall and into the stairwell.  An echo of the slammed open stairwell door reverberated through the fifty-eighth floor.

Several seconds after Steve's abrupt departure, Mark the janitor finally exhaled.  "Daaammmb.  What was that all about??"  Slowly shaking his head, Mark picked up the trashcan and continued his duties.

By this time Steve had already climbed several floors.  Bounding up each flight of stairs, his feet barely seemed to touch any of the intervening steps.  He cleared the twelve floors to the hanger in mere seconds.  Steve paused in his mad dash only long enough for the security door retinal scan.  The female computer voice confirmed his identity. "Special agent Harcourt Steven Johnson cleared for Hangar One."

With the click of the disengaging lock Steve burst through the heavily reinforced door and raced across the hangar floor.   The level looked like a parking garage, except none of these cars had wheels.  As he reached a small two-seater he placed his palm to the side of the door.  Having read Steve's biometric signature the door slid open.  Throwing himself into the seat Steve quickly punched in the emergency go code and the hover-car slid out of its rack and sped toward the hanger exit.

As the hover car streaked from the hangar, Steve used the on-board computer to set his destination and alert local paramedics and police.  Even at the hover-car's top speed, however, it would take several, precious minutes to arrive and land at Alan's house.  A small, quiet voice insisted that he wouldn't make it in time.  That voice was Alan's.  Panic, like a tidal wave, threatening to drown them both.  Steve's will hammered into Alan, "You will not die today."

  Mentally prodded by Steve, Alan had staggered into the downstairs bathroom.  His remaining left hand pressed tightly to his cut neck, bright red blood seeping between his fingers.  His right arm hung limply at his side, leaving a crimson trail behind him.  He dizzily reached for a hand towel with his right arm and then remembered that he no longer had a hand.  Leaning against the wall he looked at the stump.  "Shouldn't it hurt?" Alan thought, bewildered.  As a nervous crazed laugh bubbled up, he felt a pulling at his lips.  Looking into the mirror Alan thought, "Something's not right.  Is the glass cracked?"  The left side of his jaw didn't line up, but as he moved his head the "crack" moved too.  Suddenly, his vision narrowed and all he could see was the horror of his face, for the energy blade had not only cut into the right side of Alan's neck but had continued up to cut though the left side of his jaw.  The world began to tilt and Alan's grip on his neck slackened.

Steve's will again slammed down.  "Stop moving!  You're only making things worse."

Alan tried to sit on the toilet, but found himself on the floor.  His thoughts were becoming disjointed with the blood loss.  "How did I get down here?  I don't remember the tile being so cold.  I'll get up in a minute.  ...I just need to rest...for a second.  Well...maybe just a little nap..."  In the distance Alan heard a bang, like a door being slammed, only very, very far away.  A hand grabbed his neck.  "When did I let go?  Who's calling my name?"  But, it didn't seem important, because he felt warm now.

Steve knelt beside Alan, blood soaking into his tailored suit.  His hand pressed to the right side of his brother's neck --willing the artery back together.  The bleeding from Alan's neck slowed...and then stopped.  Grabbing the sash from Alan's robe Steve wrapped it tightly around the stump of Alan's wrist.  He then snatched up the hand towel that Alan tried to reach with his missing hand earlier and gently pressed it to his jaw.  The blare of sirens screamed through the house and then cut off.  Mere seconds later two men in white jumpsuits rushed into the bathroom carrying several cases.  Steve stepped back to give the paramedics room to work.

Steve struggled to regain his center as his Master had taught him, to allow himself to think clearer.  The fate of Steve's twin brother was now out of his hands.  He could only hope that he had arrived in time.  Steve knew that it was now time for him to focus his mind on other matters, like questions of who and why.  Once he had answers what he would do next would depend...on whether Alan recovered or not.