Taylor tied off another knot and rose up out of an awkward crouch to survey the work he had done. Marcus looked like an almost humorously overlarge bobbin of thread with his feet at the ankles and his upper body at the shoulders visible on either side of the mummy-like covering of thick nylon rope.

"You keep warm now," Taylor said off-handedly. "If there's anything broke on Zac I can't fix I'll be back for you."

"This time... Hanson." Taylor looked at his subjugated opponent warily. It was possible that he had some choice information he felt like sharing, but Zac was his prime concern and he still wasn't sure of his current condition.

"Spit it out, Ramses. I've gotta rescue my brother."

"Around... rated." Marcus's eyes fluttered open and he started blankly at the ceiling. Taylor blinked. That didn't sound like useful information to him.

"Alright I'm going to lean in close - don't try anything stupid... or kinky... or whatever. What was that?" Taylor leaned in close.

"This Time Around... was the most... underrated... album of... two-thousand..."

Taylor nodded stoically and lifted Marcus's head off the concrete floor by his hair.

"Yes," he agreed, letting go. Marcus's head found the floor with a sound not unlike a soft plop and he drifted back out of consciousness. Taylor fished the Sharpie he had obtained at McDonalds out of his pocket and scrawled a messy autograph on the rope over the agent's chest. "We love all our fans."

Then he heard the first gunshot, followed by a distant strangled scream.

By the time the second and then the third shot rang out, just seconds later, he was sprinting down the hall--leaping over and around crates and other obstacles in his path. He had dropped the permanent marker, which spun around in a top-like fashion before coming to a rest.

Marcus lay there silently, the grin of an unconscious fanatic who has simultaneously met, received an autograph from, and been beaten senseless by one of his idols plastered on his face.

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

Taylor had not answered his phone, and Isaac searched on. There couldn't be very many more places to look. He hadn't seen either of the goons that had brought him here, which was fine with him. But then, he hadn't seen Zac either, which was not great. Several times he had been sure he heard Zac talking, but it had always been immediately before he burst into yet another empty room, leaving as Zac-free as he had arrived.

He stopped dead in the hallway at another sound.

"Oh God... Isaac..."

This time he was certain. Sometimes Zac just sounded like a kid from California (odd considering he wasn't) but when he actually spoke Isaac's name, he sounded like Zac and no one else.

He took a few steps toward the sound and then paused, craning his neck in the way all people do for no practical reason when they are listening intently for something.

"...Isaac...Isaac..."

It was definitely Zac. He was speaking softly. There was another voice too - one not quite so deep, but Isaac couldn't make out anything it was saying. The voices drifted through a colossal steel archway. Ike pressed his back against the wall and inched through the door, peering through a large, concrete-floored room in the darkness.

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

After the gunshots and wailing there had been nothing. Taylor had no idea what was going on. Not helping was the fact that in this massive, dilapidated warehouse, with its high ceiling and long hallways, the shots had seemed to come from every direction at once.

He had reached what appeared to be the "end" of the Warehouse. There was a securely barricaded door here, and a lone light bulb hung from a long black cord before him. There were exactly two footprints in the greasy dust layer that coated the floor of the place, about four feet from the barricade. Their presence suggested that someone had hit the ground on their feet quite hard -- possibly jumping off the barricade itself or the wall to do so. No small acrobatic feat, all things considered.

He had a pretty good idea who that someone had been.

So Isaac was on the move in this place at least. He had ridden here accompanied by two men, one of which Taylor had just sorted out most thoroughly. He wasn't sure if anyone else of an enemy nature was in the building.

He had been almost sure the shots came from this direction.

Taylor turned around and jogged back the way he had came, headed for the garage where he had left Zac tied up in the corner.

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

Isaac peered around the edge of an enormous cardboard box, and had to stop himself from jumping out when he saw his brother. At this point he could hardly believe it had only been a few hours since he last saw him. Zac's clothes were covered in dust and his hair looked slept on. For a moment Isaac thought, 'I wish I had a brush... he's going to ask me for a brush.'

Then Zac looked up. Even in the dim light Ike could see the glistening of tears in his eyes. But what was he looking at?

A figure stood in the shadows in front of Zac. Even from here Isaac was picking up more voices than words. His younger brother seemed to be asking questions... occasionally shaking his head woefully.

"Oh God ISAAAAAAAAC!" Zac cried. Isaac was choking on the lump in his throat. His left hand reached out as if Zac were a GI Joe doll he could pick up and take away from whatever the problem was.

Then he saw it. The figure standing before Zac was brandishing a gun. And Zac was screaming for him... pleading for his help... while here he stood watching like a kid at the circus.

Isaac's left hand was _not_ holding a tiny GI Joe doll Zac that he could put in a tiny GI Joe infirmary and feed bowls of chicken soup to, but his right hand _was_ holding a Glock .40.

Ike reacted the only way he knew how.

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

Talk of gun control is endless, and it is everywhere. Most people believe, foolishly, that there are two camps on the subject. "Pro-gun," and "Anti-gun." Some patriots even go so far as to label themselves, "Pro-Constitution," and everyone else as "Pro-commie."

Really there are hundreds of divisions within each side. The pro-gun forces have in their ranks people who believe they should be allowed to keep armed tactical nuclear warheads in their basements if only to defend themselves from jack booted government thugs. Likewise, on the other side of the aisle are some who think that the quest to abolish handguns is merely a pit stop on the road to the _real_ dangerous weapons in this country--slingshots and paring knives.

The two things that both of the major divisions have in common is an almost frightening dedication to their cause, and a wealth of misinformation about the other group.

For example, if you were to ask both groups to define a 'full metal jacket' bullet, the pro-gun side would patiently inform you that you were speaking of a bullet 'with its lead core enclosed in a heavy copper jacket--resulting in little or no expansion and deep penetration.' They might add that 'such bullets are not recommended for hunting, as they would more likely wound than kill.' The "anti-gun" side would simply say full metal jacket bullets are 'evil.'

Similar differences in opinion would arise if you asked both groups to define someone who is "anti-gun". Their responses would be, "A responsible patriot," and a "#$#$!$ &%^^#*@ @&$ *# @ &!%@*&" respectively.

As was the case with most political issues, Merchant had no opinion on gun control. He believed that order must be upheld at all costs, and the innocent must be protected; if the innocent were going to protect themselves with guns, then that was fine and good with him.

And, up until this very moment, he had never had an opinion of 'full metal jacket' bullets either.

Then his arm exploded.

Zac actually noticed before Merchant did. They both heard the report, but since Merchant had made it this far in life assuming no one would ever shoot him, it took him a second to figure out it had just happened. The young drummer, now splattered with a small torrent of blood and God only knew what else, noticed almost immediately. The bullet passed through Merchant's arm just below his elbow and thudded into the warehouse wall.

Looking down at his mangled arm, Merchant screamed something--possibly in Klingon--and collapsed on the ground whimpering. The gun he had been brandishing clattered at Zac's feet.

"Merchant???"

It was obvious the injured man needed medical attention, but he wouldn't if he got shot again. Zac scooped up the gun and tried to focus his eyes on the dark corner the shot had come from.

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

Isaac watched his target collapse with some satisfaction. Missing was something that happened to other people. Killing was too, usually. Hanson usually had a strict policy about killing, although Ike had briefly considered bending that rule for the monster who had been about to shoot his brother.

"Merchant???" Zac wailed.

Confusion set in instantly at Camp Isaac. First Zac screams for his older brother's help, Isaac helps, and then Zac assumes it was Merchant who helped him? Did that mean Merchant was here?

Then, as he looked at the ball of a man curled up at his brother's feet--bleeding and in obvious pain, rocking slowly from side to side, and cursing up a storm with perfect English and grammar--he realized that Merchant was, in fact, right here.

"Oh shit."

Isaac shook his head in disbelief and started running towards both of them. He was so amazed and upset that he almost didn't remember to duck and roll when Zac picked up the gun and shot at him.

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

Zac's vision was blurry -- he was still teetering on the edge of consciousness -- so he was probably the least surprised of all present when he missed Merchant's attacker completely with his first shot. The black-clad figure did an impressive evasive roll, and Zac focused the gun on the spot where he would probably stop and fired again. The second shot buried itself in a door across the hallway.

When Zac thought to himself how disappointed Isaac would have been by his poor shooting, were he still alive, the twin goddesses of fate and irony patted each other on the back and had a good chuckle.

"Zac... Baby! Hey!"

"Huh?" his finger was quivering on the trigger as he lowered the gun to the figure again, who was now pressed flat against the floor. He wanted to shoot, but that voice was so...

"Zac man it's me!"

"Isaac... Isaac... you're dead. I'm... I must be dead." As near to incoherent as he was, this didn't sound right. "Wait... are neither of us dead?" Isaac slowly raise his hand holding the gun up off the floor and threw it behind him. It clattered off into the hallway.

"Zac, nobody's dead. It's me... your brother Isaac. I think you need attention, and Merchant _definitely_ does."

"If you're not dead, why did you shoot Merchant?" This sentence didn't sound quite right either. "Why did you..." Zac fell over sideways, his thoroughly concussed brain too confused to keep him conscious.

"OK just lie there, that's fine. Just stop shooting at me."

"Isaac!" Merchant hissed. "Did you just shoot me?"

"I think so."

"Well that's _great_. Is there blood on my shoes?" He gasped in a few breaths, still clutching his arm tight to his chest. "No wait... don't tell me. You should check your brother. I'm not going to bleed to death while you figure out if he has a pulse."

Zac did have a pulse, much to Isaac's relief. Whatever universe he was in right now, the look on Zac's face suggested he was content at least.

Isaac fumbled with his belt and slid it noiselessly from its loops.

"Give me your arm."

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Merchant smiled weakly as Isaac applied the tourniquet.

"Where's Taylor?"

"Dead!" Gilson crowed from behind them. "All dead! No more Hanson. Isaac dead. Taylor dead. Zac dead." Isaac pushed Merchant up against the wall and spun on his heel.

Isaac hadn't even seen Gilson when he originally surveyed the room, but he was looking pretty beat up. A line of drying blood extended from his temple to his chin. The man was holding a small black handgun--probably from an ankle holster. Isaac thought forlornly of his own guns. One of them was currently lying thirty feet away in the hallway, and the other was behind his back in a pancake holster. Would he have time to draw it?

"I told him you were dead, and you are," Gilson blubbered madly, extending the weapon towards Isaac's chest. "You just don't know. All dead. No more Hanson's. The Knights!"

The firing started, and went on for what seemed like forever.

There wasn't time to move or react. Round after round was fired, each dead on target. Then the "click click click" of a gun with an empty clip and the sickening thud that only a near lifeless body can make.

If Gilson had been the one shooting, Isaac would surely have been killed almost instantly.

Taylor advanced with each shot, his lips forming soundless curse words as he pulled the trigger. The first shot, which entered Gilson's shoulder and presumably proceeded through the rest of him, might very well have killed him. Still, Taylor reasoned, better safe than sorry. When the gun stopped firing and started clicking, he dropped it on Gilson's back.

"A clear and present danger that may have brought about substantive evil if ever I have seen one." Isaac sighed.

Taylor merely nodded.

"Taylor, We need to get these guys out of here."

Taylor nodded again. He reached for his cellular phone and punched 911 without looking. Back at the HanCave, their mainframe 'Madeline' was making the appropriate calls and transmitting location coordinates.

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

February 2001 - Arlington VA

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Merchant growled. His arm was raised in a solid plaster cast, braced against his side. If he were riding a bicycle, he would only be able to signal left turns. The day he left the hospital he had worn a tee shirt for the first time in his adult life, and the cast had forced him to wear one every day since. He still looked uncomfortable.

"It's not so bad after the first time," Isaac assured him.

Stretched out on the HanCave's massive leather couch in pajama bottoms, Zac laughed hysterically at this, clutching his still knitting rib.

"Zac, shut up. He's only doing this to thank you...for all your help you know?"

"Well why don't you pay me back for shooting me, and he can thank me for all my help some other time?"

Zac was still laughing.

Taylor entered the room and cleared his throat. Three pairs of eyes swiveled up to look at him. He looked like he'd been digging tunnels on the moon. His shirt and forearms were covered with grey and white powder, and there were red and blue patches on his face.

"Gentlemen, if you could step this way." He gestured proudly to the door.

Still chuckling, Zac hauled himself carefully off the couch and started making toward the other room.

"Not without a shirt you hick," Taylor scowled. Zac shrugged and hobbled off in the direction of his bedroom. Isaac and Merchant followed Taylor across the hall into the dining room.

"Breakfast is served!" Taylor exclaimed, clapping his hands together. He tapped Merchant on the shoulder and gestured to the head of the table. What Merchant saw there did not encourage him.

It was green mostly (spinach? Broccoli?) but had some protruding chunks that appeared to be bleu cheese. As with all of Taylor's creations, it was vaguely waffle shaped.

"You know what, I'm allergic to uh..." Merchant stared intently at the waffle - trying desperately to come up with an actual ingredient. He thought perhaps it was moving under his gaze. "...waffles," he finished lamely.

"Well you won't have any problems with this then!" Taylor said proudly. Dig in!"

Zac had found a tank top, and entered through the swinging door. He leaned against the wall and took in the scene with much amusement.

"Yeah, dig in!" Zac added. There was sound and light as the Hanson symbol in the ceiling flashed to life.

Isaac's face screwed up into confusion as he listened to the chord that played.

"B minor seven," he sighed. "We gotta get to the DOD."

"Dammit!" Taylor banged a fist down on the table. "I can put this in a box for you. It will reheat good."

"Uhhh..."

"Can I drive?" Zac asked, practically dancing.

Taylor sighed heavily.

"You can start it," he assented. Hobbled though he was, Zac looked awfully spry as he grabbed Taylor's keys off a nearby hook and skipped toward the door. "You know Isaac," Taylor said as they watched their younger brother leave. "...Sometimes I think we should have stayed fired."