Shadows snaked through the corridors, trying to feed on the low watt lamps that were strewn along the walls of the passage in even intervals, each one four feet apart. This time of the morning, the lights were low to let the inhabitants sleep in beds that were inhumanly uncomfortable and rooms that were cold in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Dimming the lights seemed a futile gesture to the man walking with a purpose down that corridor. His sights were set on a non-descript door just down the hall and to the right. It was windowless and had no name on it, but the man knew who was sleeping there. His brown combat boots clunked lowly on the metal flooring, and perhaps despite the elaborate camouflage fatigues he wore, he was plainly visible against the gray, cement walls. Of course, were he in the midst of a foreign jungle among trees, bushes and wild animals, both his attire and training would render him near invisible to all but the most observant person. He was after all, a Green Beret and many would argue that they are more comfortable in the wilderness in a situation they could control, rather than storming down a dank hallway in the early morning hours to wake up a perennially cranky superior officer. This particular Green Beret would rather be under heavy fire and in enemy territory than to have this unenviable task today. He stopped with a jerk next to the door and rapped on it twice. There was no answer, so reluctantly he knocked again. More loudly. No response. He drew in an uncomfortable breath and twisted the knob, marveling in the fact that it was actually unlocked. The room was pitch black, but the man could hear the deep breathing of a body at rest. Oh, man, he thought. He is gonna be pissed.

"Duke?" he said quietly at first. The body stirred, but did not sit up. "Duke!" he shouted this time at the now mumbling body, who quickly turned over.

"This had better be good, little brother," he groaned.

"No, Duke…it’s me, Falcon. Not your brother."

"Falcon?" he sat up finally, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, man, I guess I was dreaming."

"No kidding, Top. You were talking in your sleep."

"Damn…"

"I gotta ask you, Duke. What the hell is a ‘golobulus’?"

"Trust me, Falcon…you don’t want to know. What the heck’s going on?"

"I’m not sure yet…something big. The brass wants to meet with us in forty-eight hours."

"You woke me up at friggin’…" he halted a minute to look over at his digital clock. "…three o’clock in the morning for a meeting in forty-eight hours?" he was starting to get agitated.

"Hey, I’m sorry, Top…the note came from on high. The brass wants to meet with us in forty-eight hours as the GI Joe team."

Duke sat bolt upright. "What? Where did you get this message from?"

"Mainframe relayed it to me, but he said it came from someone we didn’t have the ‘need to know’ about. So it’s big."

"We haven’t been formally classified as the GI Joe team in five years. Why now?"

"That’s what I’m hoping we’re going to find out at this meeting. There was more to the message, too."

"What’s that?"

"They want every possible effort made to track down and recruit as many of the old members as possible. They’re building us back up, man."

Duke smiled now. "I knew it was gonna happen sooner or later."

"Anyway, Duke, we’ve already dispatched ten men to start tracking people down. We’ve got our assignments, too. They want you leaving right away."

"Where am I going?"

Falcon pulled out an envelope, and handed it to the Top Sergeant. Duke glanced at Falcon and took it gingerly. "Well, I’m heading, Duke…I’ve got to go to Parris Island and round me up some Jarheads."

Duke nodded as Falcon walked out, and carefully ripped open the envelope. He pulled out an official letter and personnel file. "Oh, man, " he said, almost physically wincing. "Not him!" He shook his head as he dropped the information through the paper shredder at his bedside.

"Why me?"

The sky was bright and sunny, the weather already warm, and was just going to get warmer, which was surprising at such a high altitude. The mountains almost glimmered underneath the newly risen sun, a Kodak moment if there ever was one. The dirt road wound through the Sierra Nevadas almost like a river cutting through dry land. The trees parted like embankments to let the dirt path flow and allow these inhabitants to travel it. This was no fish travelling this path. No fins, no gills, just jungle fatigues and a heaping helping of bad attitude. The green jeep bounced and thumped over the rocky terrain, but held its course with little variation. There were no twenty-millimeter vulcans sprouting from the back, but it was still a VAMP, and it would take more than a bully dirt road in a western mountain range to deter this vehicle. The driver cursed under his breath as he dipped into what could only be considered a small canyon in the middle of the road. In these parts, it was considered a pothole. The jeep rounded the last corner slowly, but surely, and the man behind the wheel was shocked to see gray smoke spiraling longingly from the brick chimney of the cabin ahead. It reached desperately for the sky, as if making a futile attempt to escape the scalding embrace of the fire below. The smoke dissipated as it reached the bright gray/blue sky of early morning.

"The man was right," the driver said, glancing around at the glowing mountaintops. "Just like molten gold." He stepped down, his boots crunching lightly on the dirt surface of the road. With a quick gesture, he removed his sunglasses from just over his black mustache and stuffed them in the chest pocket of his green and brown tiger stripe camouflage shirt. He took one step before a strong grasp wrapped around his throat and yanked, pulling him off his feet. Stalker wheezed deeply and coughed as the arm tightened, still pulling fiercely. "You, win, pal! You win," Stalker stammered, half-laughing. There was a heavy, breathy chuckle from behind him, sounding almost like a dog chuffing with happiness. Stalker turned as the arm loosened, a smile brightening his brown face.

"Snake Eyes, my man! How are ya, bro?" Stalker stepped forward and wrapped his two large arms around the man who stood before him, who quickly returned the smile and the affection. Snake Eyes did not smile much, but Stalker had a knack for bringing it out in him. Ever since they were in Vietnam on the same Long Range Recon Patrol, Stalker and Snake Eyes were fast friends and close confidants. Yet Stalker always considered himself somewhat of an outsider. Snake Eyes was deep into Japanese culture and ninja intrigue, where Lonzo Wilkinson was simply an Army boy, doing what God and country wanted him to do. Granted, he was damn good at it, but ninja intrigue and silent weapons just plain gave him the willies. "You’re still the only man who can sneak up on a highly trained Army Ranger walking on a dirt road! You’ve gotta tell me how you do it sometime!"

Snake Eyes chuckled again, and pointed to his head.

"Yeah, yeah…it’s all in the smarts, I know."

The silent man smiled and put an arm around his old friend’s shoulder, then guided him towards the cabin.

"The place looks great. Good as new. Don’t think I’ve been up here since those Cobra goons smoked it way back when."

Snake Eyes nodded and continued the walk. The day was early, around six o’clock, and he wore a camouflage boonie cap, as he often did, to keep the sun out of his eyes. The mysterious shadow it cast over his face was an added benefit, and one that he relished, even though he had no reason to hide now. But, then again plastic surgery only softens the physical scars…it does little to aid the healing of mental ones. His familiar blue jacket was draped over his broad shoulders and a black shirt covered his chest. He wore khaki pants, baggy with lots of pockets, and a pair of combat boots most likely inherited from one of his many tours with the military. He had the look of a veteran, yet even in his walk, you could see he still moved like a well-oiled machine. A consummate professional.

"Well, you’re obviously keeping in shape, my man. Silent and damn deadly as always!" Stalker laughed, trying to add a bit of humor to the situation, as he knew that Snake Eyes probably wouldn’t like what he had to say. Army life was rough that way. You often have to do things you don’t like, simply because some old guy in a red white and blue top hat with a long white beard says so. The two men stopped just short of the cabin, which was now a little larger than before, Stalker noticed. Snake Eyes put a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder, and gestured for him to speak.

"Read me like an old book, Snakes. You know I’m not here just to see an old buddy, huh?"

Snake Eyes nodded.

"We need you, pal."

Snake Eyes looked down at the ground. He leaned up against the cabin and crossed his arms, not looking at Stalker.

"Things are hairy, buddy…we’re going to need all the help we can get. The team’s getting rolling again. You’re the first guy they wanted me to find."

Snake Eyes was shaking his head uncomfortably and Stalker didn’t like it.

"C’mon, man. I know you got the honorable discharge…you’re livin’ fat off pension…but I know. I just know you’re aching to get back in action. Back into that old black suit. We need you, buddy. I need you."

"The man’s got obligations, Stalker."

Stalker turned suddenly, his face brightened. She walked from the cabin, as beautiful as the last time Stalker had seen her. She wore a white sweater, tight fitting blue jeans, and her flowing red hair now grew to nearly her waist. She flashed him an honest, but concerned smile as he walked up and hugged her.

"Scarlett. It’s been too long, woman."

"Hi, Stalker. I’m sorry…Snakes is staying here."

"I’m sure the man can make up his own mind, Scarlett. I’m just giving him an opportunity."

"He’s had enough killing and death in his life, Stalker. Both of us have…hell, all three of us have. He’s got a chance to create instead of destroy." Scarlett lowered her gaze slightly and touched Snake Eyes lightly on the arm. "We’ve talked about this possibility many times Stalker. I’m not making decisions for him, merely speaking for him. He just can’t…we can’t. I’m sure you understand—" a low wail interrupted Scarlett in mid-sentence. It emanated from the cabin, a pained, hungry cry. Scarlett turned immediately. "I’ll be right back." She rushed into the cabin, and Stalker smiled.

"You’ve gotta live one there, bud. Hold onto that."

Snake Eyes smiled and nodded. He shot Stalker an apologetic, almost sad look.

"Hey, man…chill. I understand, don’t worry. I know, you’ve got obligations."

As if on cue, Scarlett exited the cabin, a small bundle in her arms. Stalker smiled broadly and walked over.

"And how is my Godson?" he asked happily, fawning over the small infant in the blanket. It was tiny, not yet six months old, and at the moment was very cranky.

"Tommy is doing great," Scarlett said, ever the proud parent. Stalker immediately noticed a thin glisten fall over his friend’s eyes. Stalker wondered if he’d ever get over Storm Shadow’s death. He knew naming his son after him was something that Snake Eyes had to do, but now…four years after. The mere mention of the name, and his old, rock solid buddy seemed to melt just a little inside.

Stalker still remembered those words as if spoken yesterday. Storm Shadow’s dying words to his best friend and ninja clan brother. Suddenly Stalker felt like an ass being here, invading Snake Eyes’ privacy. Trying to recruit him for God’s sake.

"Look, man," Stalker said, extending his hand. "I’m sorry…I was a real grade-A jerk for coming up here to pull you back in. You’ve got your reasons, I know. Take care of your wife and your son, Snakes…you’re going to do real solid for them."

Snake Eyes nodded and smiled then took Stalkers hand. They embraced quickly. Stalker adjusted his beret and turned to the red head.

"Scarlett, Snake Eyes done good by you. You, take care of him and little Tommy, okay? I’m sorry to come up here and ruin a nice morning like this."

"Forget it, Stalker…I worked for those guys, too…I know how…persuasive they can be. And you’re welcome here any time, Lonzo, okay?" She emphasized Stalker’s real name, and he nodded.

"It would be a pleasure, little lady." Stalker stiffened up, snapped off a crisp salute and headed back for the jeep. Snake Eyes returned the salute, then walked back into the cabin, joined by his wife and son.

The meeting room was a somewhat dark place, illuminated by a single lamp hung above the table, which sat eight. The bulk of the mission planning and choreographing took place in the Command Center. This room was for preliminary planning. Discussing the progress of training and recruiting, and making the final decision of when to run with the ball, and when to pass. Each chair was full, with the exception of the one at the head of the long, rectangular table. It was plush, red velvet chair, another stone cobra’s head carefully engraved at the top of the back. The seven men conversed among themselves when the automatic door slid open with a whisper. Two Crimson Guard Immortals halted their progress as Cobra Commander walked into the room, and swiftly lowered himself into the comfortable chair.

"Gentlemen," he said, crossing his arms and smirking behind the blue cloth hood. "I trust you all know why you’re here."

Destro was the first to venture a guess. "You’re finally going to reveal the specifics of our plan, Commander?"

"Soon, my friend…very soon. You know all you need to know for the moment. Have patience, Destro. We have other matters to discuss today. Despite the Hartford, Connecticut debacle things appear to still be running smoothly. We have remained unnoticed, thanks to Destro’s interception of all of the United States’ global satellite relay codes. How long have you been receiving that information, Destro?"

"Three years, Commander."

"Some day you will have to tell me how you do it."

"Some day." Destro’s face was an impatient grimace behind the silver steel mask. When is this plan going to get rolling? We waste time with these frivolous meetings! All to inflate that buffoon’s ego! Destro hid his thoughts well, placing his black gloved hands on the table in a relaxed fashion.

"So, Destro…how are your trainees faring?" Cobra Commander leaned in just a little.

"Well, they have grown very comfortable with the assault weapons, especially the AK-47’s and Uzi submachine guns. Their accuracy has improved eight percent over the past week."

"Good," The Commander said plainly and turned his attention elsewhere. "Zartan? How is it coming in the unarmed combat and undercover tactics department?"

"They’re eager to learn, Commander," Zartan replied, his strong voice echoing in the small room. "They have a decent grasp of hand to hand fighting styles, but more improvement is needed. Especially in the undercover tactics."

The Commander nodded. "Scrap Iron?"

"Explosives and detonation training is proceeding well. RPG and LAW skills do need some work, though."

"That all sounds good. Continue the training at a furious pace, gentlemen. The time is quickly approaching, and our men must be prepared."

"We have been making amazing strides in the Shadow Project, Commander," Dr. Mindbender chimed in. He grinned widely under his thick mustache, and his cybernetic optical attachment glimmered slightly.

"Really, Doctor? That is good news. Keep it up. We will need the Shadow Project to be in full force when the time to strike arrives. It will be vital to island security."

"Cobra Commander," the voice had a slight British twinge to it, proper yet eerily sinister at the same time.

"Yes, Overlord?" Cobra Commander replied, cringing on the inside over the ridiculous and power-drunk nickname the man had given himself.

"I would be remiss if I didn’t express at least some displeasure over this apparent ‘strike’ you keep referring to." Overlord squinted behind his monocle and ran a hand quickly through his slick, black hair.

"Well, Overlord…this is something that we have been preparing for nearly half a decade now. Any problems you have with the plan will just have to be overlooked."

"My dear Cobra Commander," Overlord began, standing from his chair. You could almost feel the tension in the air thicken as he approached the tall, red chair. "Without funding from my oil company, this little ‘project’ of yours would be nothing more than crazy jottings on a cocktail napkin. I am not comfortable with my company being linked to Cobra if you plan something detrimental to global security."

Cobra Commander surprisingly remained seated. He glanced upwards at Overlord’s gold mask wrapped over his mouth and around his head. He bare arms were crossed over his red-shirted torso, and his uncovered eye glared menacingly down at him. "Sit down, Overlord. You are allowed in these meetings because, quite frankly, you have a great tactical mind. Your time in the British Special Air Service has served you well, and will serve Cobra well. If you do not like what Cobra is doing, then you may leave."

"I will not see such a large investment go down the chute! You promised to increase my initial deposit a hundred fold, and I do not see how this ludicrous ‘plan’ you’re so secretive about is going to do that!"

"In your heart, Overlord, you are a bad, bad man. I have seen that first hand. Trust me. When you learn of the specifics of the plan, you will be impressed. You will go along with it for the sheer sake of ev—"

"I beg to differ, Commander!" Overlord was enraged. His face had grown beet-red and his brow furrowed deep crevasses into his flesh. He hand pounded the table in front of Cobra Commander, the slam reverberating loudly in the enclosed area. His face was pointed down, mere inches from the side of Cobra Commander’s head. He breathed haggardly, as if he had been holding in this displeasure and rage for too long, and had finally popped the cork.

"All right, Overlord." Cobra Commander spoke with a calm and even tone. "You are right. Without your investment, Cobra might have never pulled itself back together. For that, I owe you a debt of gratitude." He finally stood, pushing the chair back gently, and looked Overlord in the eye. "But you see, the money has come…it has been spent. Cobra has grown back close to its original strength." The Commander walked past Overlord, cradling one arm in the other. As he made his points he flashed an index finger in the air as if checking off each one as he thought of it. "So you could say, Overlord, that your usefulness has ended."

Overlord was taken aback. "What? You said your—"

"We have the money. We spent the money. We don’t need you anymore." He was walking a circle around Overlord, his eyes burrowing deep into him the whole time. "But, you do have a remarkable tactical mind. One that we could put to use. We need your mind, Overlord. We need everyone to be in synch for this plan to work, and for this plan, as much as I hate to admit it, we do need you."

Overlord smirked smugly and began to talk. Cobra Commander cut him off.

"But let me put this in terms you can understand." He stopped walking in front of Overlord, and stood still in front of him. "If you persist in interrupting me, undermining my authority, and generally railroading me every chance you get, make no mistake about it--" He took a step closer, his breath now puffing the bottom of his hood out ever so slightly. "--I will not hesitate to put a nine-millimeter bullet directly into YOUR BRAIN!" He screamed the last two words in a shocking, violent outburst, his voice almost cracking with pure rage.

Overlord stepped back awkwardly, staring at the madman in the cloth hood standing just before him. Cobra Commander’s eyes were bulging in his eyeholes, the small veins tinged a deep red. A thin trickle of sweat snaked down his forehead and disappeared.

"Are we clear on this matter?" His voice had returned to normal, and he turned to return to his seat.

"Yes, Commander," Overlord quickly replied. "I will aid in any way I can."

"I thought you would see it my way."

Destro exhaled a sigh of relief, honestly worried that the confrontation was going to end in bloodshed. He turned to The Baroness who sat next to him, and whispered in her ear.

"Something you can share with the rest of the class?" Cobra Commander asked.

"I was just discussing how our men seemed to be pretty much in shape, and was wondering if you wanted to know how our weapons and vehicles are shaping up?" Destro was eager to change the subject.

"Well…I guess now that we have that…unpleasantness behind us, perhaps we should discuss our armored division. Please, lead the discussion."

"Well, we are right on track according to schedule. We have three quarters of the H.I.S.S. Tanks operational, and they have all passed their initial diagnostic tests. The latest shipment should take care of the remaining tanks, with only a little improvisation needed for the missing crate. The Stingers are all complete and operational, every third one equipped with an Asp gun-pod. The Moray Hydrofoils are ninety percent completed and the Lampreys and Eels are finishing up diagnostics on all of those. Those are the bulk of our ground forces, although we do have lots of other smaller means of defense that are also proceeding as planned."

"What about our air force?" Cobra Commander was now focused on the task at hand, and seemed pretty close to fully calmed down from the altercation.

"For that, I turn you over to Wild Weasel," Destro gestured at the eighth man sitting at the table and Wild Weasel eagerly took the floor. He wore his bright red helmet and flight suit, mostly for security reasons at this point. Cobra employed him, but normally worked freelance for mercenary groups throughout the world, and maintained as much anonymity as possible.

"The Rattlers are all done and ready to go. For obvious reasons, we haven’t been able to fly any practice missions, but each Aero-Viper has clocked in thousands of hours in our Rattler simulator. We are ready for launch at a moment’s notice. The Fangs are working as well, as we already know. The Claws, jet packs and few Night Ravens are incidental at this point, but will be ready to roll by mission time."

"Excellent. Gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned…set your clocks. It is now seven days and counting until Cobra changes the face of the world again." He stood and stepped to the door, let it slide open and swooped out, his hood flowing out slightly behind him.

"Easy, Clutch! We may be in Florida, but this isn’t Daytona!" Duke clutched the armrest as the convertible whipped around the corner, barely even slowing.

"Sorry, Duke," Clutch said in his thick Jersey accent. "I see the ocean, and I just get a lead foot, man!" Clutch glanced past Duke, out into the open air beyond. They were on a winding road, stretching along the east coast of Florida, the Atlantic Ocean in plain view over the rocky edge of the cliff they were driving on. It was close to noon, and the sun was bright and circular over the rippling blue/green water, with hardly a cloud in the sky.

"Are we almost there?" he asked, probably for the third time in an hour. They had flown from Dulles to Atlanta, then picked up a rental car, and immediately proceeded south.

"We’d get there a heck of a lot sooner if you quit gripin’ when I reached sixty!" Clutch laughed heartily and rubbed the scruff on his face. Duke couldn’t help but smile, although his mood was not good on this sunny day.

Even with the sun beating feverishly down on the metal trailer, it was dark and dank inside. The blinds were all drawn tight, the air conditioner chugged night and day, and the air was thick and moist. The trailer was not big, but it was a fine size for the occupant who never had company. The living room took up the most space, a six-foot couch pressed up against the rear wall facing an entertainment center with a small television fit into it. There was a clear glass coffee table just in front of the couch littered with empty glasses and a full ashtray. A bottle of Jack Daniels was tipped over, but the contents remained unspilled, for the simple reason that there were no contents. Beer bottles littered the plush carpet floor like toys in a spoiled child’s bedroom and the air was permeated with alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. No pictures adorned the wall, although there were a few photographs in frames scattered here and there. If the living room were considered a disaster area, then the kitchen would have been condemned long, long ago. Piles of dirty dishes led from kitchen to stove, to refrigerator and back again, all on tacky stucco shelves and above a filthy, unmopped floor. More beer bottles and various alcoholic containers were plastered about in the kitchen. Enough empties to keep a man drunk for a week, yet these empties had only generated over the weekend. Even at after twelve noon, all lights were out, the outside world closed off by the blinds, the walls, and the mind. Voices grumbled over the television set, which was still on, and on the tattered, worn couch a body stirred. He rolled over slowly, uncomfortably, his black hair tussled and unkempt. He shot a disapproving look at the TV and groped along the floor, searching for the remote. His hand brushed over a photo in a frame that had fallen to the floor the night before, as this particular photo often did. This picture drove him to drink pretty much every night, and he could not think far enough ahead to be able to tell when he wouldn’t pass out instead of going to sleep. It was a daily occurrence, a nightly occurrence, something he did more often than bathing, which was every bit as repulsive as it sounds. He lifted the photo in the frame, and squinted at it through pained eyes. His eyes were puffy, red and bloodshot, from crying or the drinking, he had no idea which. They blended together now and he had no desire to try and separate the two. He sniffled and reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels, and tipped it up. When nothing came out he shouted an obscenity and threw it angrily towards the kitchen. It hit the counter and bounced, then rolled harmlessly to rest in the carpet among its Budweiser cousins. He flopped his head back onto the couch and let the photo drop, relaxing somewhat now that it was out of his sight. Just barely, through the wall and out in the world, he thought he heard tires scrape across the dirt road that led to his home, on the edge of the ocean. Muffled voices rattled on, growing closer to the door to his trailer. The man sat up, running his hand through his thick dark hair and stared at the door, almost trying to will the unwelcome visitors away from his house. The voices had stopped, but he could tell there was a man standing at his door. The shadows hovered in the small space between the bottom of the door and the living room floor.

The man remained seated, unsure of his next course of action. For right now, it was sitting and trying to focus his eyes through a hungover haze. The shadows moved slightly, and he thought he saw the shadow of a head trying to peek through the window.

They’ve found me! They’re coming for me! His mind raced, still quite fogged from the large dose of alcohol swimming in the bloodstream.

He remained seated, trying not to move, even the slightest bit.

"C’mon!" The muffled voice echoed from beyond the door. "Your car’s in the driveway! We know you’re here, man!"

He moved slightly, turning his ear. Did he know that voice?

"Answer the door! We just want to talk. It’s hot as hell out here," the voice reiterated.

He stood shakily, his legs threatening to wobble right out from under him. He walked slowly to the door, blissfully unaware that he was dressed only in a white tee shirt and flannel boxers. He gingerly stepped through the minefield of bottles until he was at the door.

"C’mon, buddy," the voice urged, apparently aware that someone was now at the door. He closed his fist around the knob, his heart racing. He inhaled deeply and twisted the knob, pulling the door open. The sunlight almost hit him like a fist as he immediately shut his eyes in a futile attempt to try and avoid a nasty headache. He squinted his eyes open little by little until the blond, buzz cut head filled his vision.

"Hi, Duke," he mumbled, desperately fighting off the sunlight with one hand over his eyes.

Duke felt like he stared at him forever, just trying to say hi. Gone were the boyishly good looks. Only, grim hard reality. Gone was the always-present cocky grin. Just a tight-lipped frown through pursed lips. He hardly recognized him.

"Hi, Flint. Long time no see. Can I come in?"

"No."

"C’mon, Flint…I just want to talk with you."

"The place is a pig sty. Can’t afford a cleaning lady." He chuckled a little at his own joke.

"Well, I can’t talk to you out here with you in your underwear, man. Come on. We’re all friends here."

"Fine, Duke," Flint mumbled, turning and walking back into his house. "What do you want, Duke? Gonna draft me?" he chuckled again, and half expected Duke to laugh as well. He didn’t.

"Love what you’ve done to the place," Duke said, looking around.

"Not many options. Don’t give you a pension for a dishonorable discharge." The words were spit like venom from thin lips.

"Flint, I’m not here to discuss the past."

"Funny, I don’t see much of a future here."

"We want to give you a second chance."

"You asking me to re-up?" Flint was sitting on the couch now and stared a hole in the Top Sergeant who was seated in a Lazy-Boy a few feet away.

"Yeah. All past issues forgotten. Clean slate."

"For them, maybe, not for me."

"For God’s sake, Dash! You pulled a gun on a Brigadier General! What did you want them to do?"

"At least I didn’t pull the trigger." He chuckled again.

"Is this some damn joke to you?" Duke shouted, standing. "I think I’m wasting my time. Lady-Jaye would be damn disappointed if she saw you right now."

Flint stood bolt upright. "Don’t talk about her, Duke! You have no right!"

"You’re acting like an asshole, Flint! You know it. I’m giving you a second chance…and you’re pissing it away. What do you think Lady-Jaye would want you to do?"

Flint buckled, just a little, his emotions almost getting the best of him. "Just leave, okay?" he dropped back onto the couch. His head hung low. Duke felt a little guilty. He approached him slowly, and placed a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder.

"Just think about it, okay? Don’t ruin your life."

"Duke, please."

"All right. But Lady-Jaye would want you to go on. Just because her life’s over, doesn’t mean yours is, t—"

"Allison."

"Excuse me?" Duke asked, kneeling down beside his former friend.

"Damn it, Duke…her name was Allison." Tears brimmed to the corners of Flint’s eyes, and he buried his head in his hands.

"I’m sorry, Flint." Duke stood, patting Flint softly on the shoulder. "You know where to reach me if you change your mind."

Flint didn’t reply. His shoulders shook with the force of his tears. Duke shook his head and stepped back out into the sun light, then eased the door shut behind him.

"No go, huh, Top?" Clutch asked as Duke dropped into the passenger’s seat. Duke shook his head no, and Clutch took the hint to shut up and drive. The convertible kicked up pebbles as it spun out onto the black top and drove down the road, the two passengers unaware that a face was peeking out at them from behind the blinds. Two puffy red eyes, following the car as it wound up the road back to Atlanta.