In 1997, Mike Marcus bought Middle of Nowhere. Worldwide, about eight million other people did too. He was not, in that regard, particularly unique. It _did_ however, make him unique at The Renaissance, the Knights of Anarchy's secret training camp in Idaho.

"That music's crap," his bunkmates had told him. And those had been the nice ones. But he'd taken their words. In the music of Hanson, Marcus felt he had connected with a creative side of himself lost since childhood. His grandmother gave him an accordion for his seventh birthday, and his parents had bought him a few weeks of lessons.

The day after his second lesson, he set the accordion on fire, and threw it into his Uncle's hayloft.

That was the end of his musical career.

Taylor Hanson, who had just disarmed Marcus as though he were a small child, also had a creative spark as a child. His spark also ignited a fire, but this one led to a career in music. This is part of what made Marcus a "fan", for he truly was a fan. The feeling that he and Hanson (specifically Taylor) were peers in a way. Part of him even thought the kid had burned down a barn or two.

In a way, however small, he was looking into the eyes of one of his idols. And, contrary to the diary scrawlings of a thousand love struck teenagers (generally featuring purple sparkly gel-pen and liberally dosed with words like 'dreamy' and 'piercing') these eyes burned with abject hatred.

"Did you hurt my brother," Taylor asked coldly.

"Mr. Hanson," Marcus began. That's when he got hit.

Nobody could move that fast. It was simple physics. And yet Taylor had. In wasn't the hardest punch he could have thrown, connecting just about his jaw-line, but it was hard enough to make Marcus reel. He tasted a bitter cocktail of blood and adrenaline. As off-guard as the shot had caught him, he didn't break eye contact.

"My brother. He looks hurt. Did you hurt him?"

"Mr. Han..." Marcus was prepared for the fist this time. He ducked instinctively. Unfortunately Taylor had aimed low, and to the left, and the blow grazed Marcus's temple, causing him to stumble backwards into the alcove where Merchant was standing.

"Hey," Merchant said. "You're on my foot."

In accordance with regulations of Pavlovian stimulus-response, Marcus said nothing. He was breathing heavier know--Getting beat up by one of your idols is still, basically, getting beat up--and both of them were considering their next move.

"These shoes. They're new. Could you move?" Merchant was all for espionage, in the general "Look - over there - it's espionage!" sense, but he liked to keep his shoes neat.

He was considerably relieved when Marcus left his perch, and lunged at Taylor's throat.

"Thanks, but no thanks. They're all scuffed." As Taylor and Marcus rolled backwards--fists flying--into the open center of the warehouse, Merchant decided to go look for Isaac.

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

This warehouse was probably fifty years old. Anything could have been kept here at one time, now Isaac was at a loss to say what the function of the place was. From the varying ages, types, and conditions of the woodwork he saw since he came in it had obviously been remodeled on more than one occasion.

On one such occasion, they had built this conference room. Probably at a fairly low cost, all things considered.

A good rule of general psychology was this -- "people don't look up." The foolish would-be ambushers will hide just behind a bush or just over a rise in the land, and then leap out at you. The smarter (and generally more successful ones) simply stand in a tree and jump right on your head once you're underneath.

It was this human tendency that made his current situation favorable.

The two men might not have put a lot of planning into locking him in here, but they had definitely not noticed the fact that with a little bit of physical exertion he could easily climb out. But how dumb could they be? Perhaps they did know, and they were waiting just on the other side of the door with their guns trained on the ledge.

Isaac briefly thought of the conference phone that had sat, disconnected from any line, in the center of the table.

Yes, they were that stupid.

With little effort, he slid the conference table up against the wall by the door, and started planning the jump.

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

"Was I gagged? You're the kidnapper," Zac spat. "You tell me." Apparently this was not the person who had moved him. His memory was going in and out at this point, but a spark of hope inside held out that maybe it had been one of his brothers.

"A kidnapper? I guess I never thought of myself that way. Are you saying you're a kid?"

Zac made a face at the suggestion that he, saver-of-countries and percussionist extraordinaire might be considered a child.

"You are, aren't you? You're just children," Gilson shook his head gravely. "You shouldn't have been in Austin, Mr. Hanson."

"Austin?"

"The Luxury-Arms hotel. Small but powerful bomb? Penguin?" At the mention of his signature fighting/humiliation move, Zac grinned madly. "You'd still have your day-job for one. The persons employing my organization have nothing to gain from a Bush presidency. Not that that's relevant now." Gilson kneeled down by Zac's feet.

"If it's not relevant, untie me. I'm thirsty." A fit of coughing struck Zac at the mere thought of a soothing Dr Pepper. "And my chest hurts."

"We couldn't possibly get all three of you. Not just the two of us. We only needed one. One would bring the other two, by hook or by crook..."

"You're not telling me the whole plan are you?"

"...I don't know if the Knights will ever give Marcus or myself a high-profile mission again. But, if they do, you aren't going to ruin it."

"See, if you tell me the whole plan, you're going to die."

Gilson laughed loudly.

"No, little-boy Hanson. I'm not the one in this room who's going to die."

"James Bond much?" In a spy and counterspy situation, telling the hero your entire plan spelt certain death for the villain. Zac assumed that everyone knew this.

"Sorry?

"Fine, don't take my word for it. What were you saying?" Zac shook his head.

"Your brother Isaac is already dead. Your brother Taylor will be joining him shortly. Then, at last, you." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm thinking of just burning this place down with you inside."

"Ike..."

"...is dead, yes." It was a lie of course, but being completely honest with someone you plan on killing anyway is usually unnecessary. Isaac Hanson knew far too much to kill immediately. He alone attended most of the security briefings with Bush and his cabinet. There was much to learn from Isaac.

"...is dead?"

To his friends, and his Fans, Zac was the clown prince of Hanson. He always had a joke to share with his brothers or the news media, and though his mouth often got him into trouble, his good attitude made it bearable. But this was a different universe now. A universe without Isaac and, he supposed, Hanson. Something inside the clown prince snapped and, a few seconds later, something behind his back snapped as well.

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

"According to what I've read, Zac's the fighter." Marcus crouched over Taylor and held him down to the ground. "It sounds like you saw what I did to him. Maybe you should give up now."

Taylor's eyes widened at the mention of his brother. He brought a knee up to Marcus's chest and heaved, sending the older man sprawling back.

"Maybe you should shut up about my brother."

"Don't mind me guys," Merchant called from the perimeter of the room. Agent Marcus shot him a quick worried glance, but returned his attention to Taylor as both fighters scrambled to their feet. "I think I see his gun over here, Taylor. Do you want it?"

A panicked look crossed Marcus's face.

"Nah. You keep it." Marcus dove for Taylor's feet this time. He stepped easily out of the way and watched, with no small amount of satisfaction, as he slid across the floor. "I think I'm OK here."

"I'm going to go look for Isaac, alright?"

"No problem," Taylor agreed conversationally as he dodged yet another desperate lunge. "Wait..."

Merchant paused.

"Actually why don't you go check on Zac. Isaac can take care of himself." As he spoke he caught Marcus's rapidly approaching wrist and swung him in a wide arc, at the end of which the agent's face met with a steel pillar.

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

"OK, on three," Isaac mumbled. It was habit really. He was used to coordinating semi-acrobatic fight routines with Taylor, and he always called the moves in advance. His plan was to run and jump on the table, using that as a springboard, and grab the wall.

There was a drop of sweat hanging from the end of his nose.

'Yeah, I really need that now,' he thought, wiping his face on the sleeve of his jacket. He shrugged and ran for it. The jump was good, the next jump was better, and he pulled himself up to the top edge of the wall easily. Holding firmly to the edge of the wall, he lowered himself on the other side, and dropped lightly to the ground.