Agent Michael Marcus, a.k.a. 'Hawk', a.k.a. 'The Postman', swallowed hard. The way he saw it he was still in control of the situation, but it was definitely more complicated than it had been a moment ago.

As recently as a few months ago, he had been the boss. He and Gilson had been dispatched on a simple mission, with Marcus as the leader. Blow up the Austin Luxury Arms hotel during a fundraiser for George W. Bush's presidential campaign. It hadn't been a terribly difficult assignment, but they'd failed anyway. As a result of which, he'd lost his command.

But it hadn't been his fault! According to intelligence information they received later, some combination special forces/intelligence operation called 'Tulsa Thunder,' had shut them down.

"OK," Taylor continued. "I want you to put the gun down."

"I'm not going to do that. I think we have an impasse." Marcus waved the gun in Merchant's face for effect. "Why don't you back away and we'll talk about it."

"Why an impasse?" Taylor asked.

"Uh, Taylor..." Merchant began.

"You shut up!" Marcus cried defiantly. "I've got a gun pointed at your friend. You've got a gun pointed at me. Maybe I won't be able to shoot him if you shoot me, but do you want to take that chance?"

He gave Taylor time to think about it.

"Nope. No that's just wrong."

"What? You don't think I can shoot him?"

"No," Taylor sighed audibly. "I mean I don't have a gun."

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

Zac's number one priority was freeing his hands.

'If I could move my hands,' he thought, 'I could break the tape that's holding them. Then I could kill someone.'

He considered this.

'No. No first I could undo my feet,' he kicked his feet, still tied together, for emphasis, 'and then go kill someone.' Zac licked his lips at the though of extracting revenge on the kidnapper with the poor taste in music and utter lack of respect for his hair.

He licked his lips some more.

'No. No first I could find a Dr. Pepper and drink that.' He continued working his hands furiously behind his back.

"That mail-truck guy is as good as dead," he said aloud.

"I don't think he probably is."

Zac froze.

"You might not remember me. I don't know if you got a good look at me last year. I know I didn't get a good look at you." There was movement now. Heavy footsteps approached him and shoes creaked on the cement floor as the man leaned down.

The blindfold was removed. Zac blinked in the dim light.

"Last year? I remember you from the White House this afternoon. You're agent Gilbert."

"My name," the man stood up before him, brushing his uniform. "Is GILSON! Why is that so hard for people to remember???"

Gilson backed away and threw his arms in the air.

"Is it that hard to remember? You? Your brother? The freaking President!"

Zac shrugged and made a face that contrived to indicate he did not care to remember the name of a lousy kidnapper, even if that kidnapper was apparently a member of the secret service. The face went on to say that it was a damn good thing he was still tied up, or he'd have to get up and open a can.

Not a bad message for a single facial expression.

"Wait..." Gilson paused. "Weren't you gagged?"

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

The human body is a pretty amazing piece of work. Cells make up tissues, which make up organs, which make up systems, which make up men and, in almost all cases, women. Mankind has yet to duplicate, for all his tools and circuitry, the perfection of a single human cell.

Philosophers are of mixed minds on the whole thing. Someone once said that he believed there is a God, because the statistical likelihood that a machine as wonderfully complex as the human body was created randomly was the same as a tornado going through a junkyard and assembling a 747 out of spare parts.

Someone else said, "Well if you're going to bring God into this - how about the Great Flood, because I think as men of science we can agree that never happened!"

To which the more "enlightened" person replied, "It is natural for you to deny that which you do not understand."

At this point the skeptic said, "Your momma!"

Most discussions on the origins of humanity basically go downhill from there. After the dust settles and the involved parties have mentally convinced themselves that they emerged victorious, they agree to one thing and one thing only.

The human body is a pretty amazing piece of work.

Take for example the body of Agent Michael Marcus. He had trained at West Point and been selected simultaneously by the Secret Service and the Knights of Anarchy (KoA) to undergo their special training programs and become one of their top agents. He had excelled in this training at every turn, and his physical conditioning was a testimony to the ability of both World Superpowers and clandestine terrorist organizations to mold people to suit their needs.

Another example of the human body was that of non-agent Abigail Merchant. While his mind still harbored the scar of having been named "Abigail" in a fit of wishful thinking by his parents shortly after his birth, he was in reasonably good shape. A stocky man with thinning blonde hair, he had no formal fight training. Still, the functioning of his cells, tissues, and other aforementioned miracles of nature was no less extraordinary for this.

Finally the body of Taylor Hanson-respected by spies all around the world who are now partially paralyzed, desired by women (mostly) of more ages than one cares to think about, and currently afflicted with a small patch of exema on his left elbow. He too had undergone rigorous training in order to make him into an adaptable instrument for the protection of democracy.

All of these bodies reacted in different ways when Taylor announced that he did not, in fact, have any weapon at all.

Merchant (he had in fact legally changed his name from Abigail Merchant to just 'Merchant' from the comfort of his own laptop) sighed and shook his head, because he had worked with Taylor before and knew what was coming next.

Taylor didn't do anything because he, like Merchant knew what was coming next.

Agent Michael Marcus did, what he would reflect on later, was probably the dumbest thing he could have possibly done in the situation. He was faced with two people he was planning on killing anyway, and already had a loaded gun pointed at one of them. The other one told him he also was unarmed, and his mind took over.

Agent Michael Marcus turned around, and pointed his gun at Taylor who was-in the eeriest way-smiling like a madman. If the smile was a surprise, Taylor literally taking the gun out of the agent's hand and tossing it nonchalantly his shoulder was a BIG surprise.

The human body is a pretty amazing piece of work. Occasionally the mind leaves a little to be desired.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

Isaac marveled at his predicament. He was trying to keep a level head but this whole situation was pretty unbelievable. Currently he had nothing but concern for his brother Zac's well being, but some other things were bothering him as well.

As soon as he saw that the telephone on the table was not, in fact, plugged into anything, he realized that the kidnappers wouldn't be calling anyway since they were right there with him. If anything that knowledge came as a relief, because it meant Zac was probably close too. Upon leaving the HanCave he had grabbed the first aid kit and a pair of handguns from the armory. If Zac was here somewhere and guarded, both of them might come in handy.

So a big question was, where was Zac?

He considered the layout of the warehouse. It was attached to a larger industrial building, and his brother might have been in there somewhere. Possibly near machinery that would mask any sounds he might make. Ike sniffed the air for any possible trace of Calvin Klein's 'Eternity' which Zac had a tendency to wear just a little bit too much of, but detected nothing. He probably wasn't terribly close.

Another big question was, where was Taylor?

The last time Isaac saw him he had headed off in his car looking for "leads." He had probably been back to the Cave by this point and found it deserted, but he had made no effort to communicate. Isaac checked his satellite phone-the batteries were almost fully charged and the signal strong.

Another fairly significant question was, how was he going to get out of this room?

His captors had been pathetically obvious that they were locking him in when they left him. He didn't care because he had been locked in rooms before and this wasn't much of one. Probably the warehouse had been here totally free of "rooms" for twenty years or more when someone decided it would be nice to have a place to sit down and drink coffee. Carpenters had come in and erected cheap walls and a cheaper door. However cheap though, the door was locked, and the walls were walls.

Walls...

Isaac looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.