Giving You the Love of a Lifetime

“No, please . . .”

Carlo was at his apartment in Detroit with another no-name hapless woman in his bed. Names weren’t important, only the devices and the assets acquired. His Acolyte guards were planted outside in the dimly lit hallway on the other side of his bedroom door.

“Begging isn’t going to help you love . . . ,” Carlo smirked.

Arched over her body, he then leaned closer to her ear. She could feel his lips ever so gently on her skin as he whispered, 

“Relax . . .”

Carlo held her firmly in his arms and tightly to his body as he gently caressed her small delicate head and neck in one giant motion. He then violently pulled her head back with her long dark curly hair intertwined between the fingers of his large menacing hand, exposing her neck and jaw line. Her petit body throbbed and exhausted from screaming, fear, and overuse.

“Relax . . .” Carlo said as he looked deeply into the woman’s eyes with an illustrious look of calm trust. Taking the moment to observe the utter helplessness in the woman’s pleading eyes, Carlo grinned and brushed his bottom lip across her rosy cheeks 

whispering, “I’m going to kill you now.”

He continued to run his lower lip up to her ear lobe, despite her whimpered quivering. He wrapped his mouth around her smalldelicate ear. She didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know how he would kill her. Was he capable of biting her ear off? Was this a cannibal? God . . . God . . . she thought, but could God help her? Not particularly religious, she wondered if there was another side. She wasn’t ready to die. There was more to life and she was just beginning to scratch the surface. However it was there, the moment she knew was coming, she could feel his tongue on the outer edge of her ear. She could feel his lips on her lobe as he gripped it in his teeth and gently pulled on it, nibbling and gripping at it with his lips.

Breathing a deeply guttural sound, Carlo slowly and gently worked his way down the nape of her neck. He toyed with her for a while longer bearing his face deeply while making swirls with his tongue. Slowly and deliberately, he basked in the sweet smell of sweat and fear, the heat of her skin, and the rhythmic dance of her pulse. Like a new born, experiencing life for the first time, Carlo grew increasingly excited and comforted with each beat of her quickly pulsating heart he intensely felt through the skin of his cheek. And with every beat, the throbbing pain in his head signaled his quickening.

From deep within him, she could hear Carlo groan, but she couldn’t see his eyes. She needed to see his face. What was he doing? She could only feel his breath and the sharpness of his teeth running across her skin. Gripped with fear, she tried to look towards the curtains in another attempt to escape, to scream for help, anything . . . Just then she felt his biceps and chest harden compressing her in a tight grip.

What . . . ? She thought, and at the same time, smelled something stopping her cold in thought. She got the whiff of rotting flesh. It was the smell of death billowing out from between Carlos’ teeth. It stifled her ability to gasp. His strong body hardening above her, felt stiff. Not warm, cold to the touch, like her dead elderly aunt whom she found one morning while bringing her breakfast.

What is this . . . ?

She thought back to deathly moments in her past, but was quickly jolted back by the firm grip of his rock hard hands latched to her baby soft flesh. She could feel the bruises he’d left all over her body. It felt pointless trying to struggle. She knew she was in a spider’s lair. She was trapped meat. No one would hear her screams. No one would care.

The curtains were drawn shut. This gave the room a dark ominous look for the exception of the light coming from the fireplace, and a few medieval looking light sconces on the wall. The warmth of the room kept her blood fluid. This intensified the tension Carlo needed. The woman’s fear gave him a euphoric arousal that he could get no other way. She knew she would die in this place and he would be the last thing she saw. He would be her last experience in this life. She would see death, before it came.

She finally got a look into Carlos’ face when he took the moment to observe her expressions. She didn’t know why, nor what more he wanted to do before he killed her. Was this a mad man? Was he going to afflict more pain, rip her apart first, and dissect her? She had tears in her eyes. With fear and freight in her eyes, she began to squint. She was puzzled. His eyes looked almost dead, cold, life-less . . . Her eyes flung open. In that moment, she realized she was dealing with something uncharacteristic of the person she met at the club. Something she would never see again, and that she should have gone with the other guy. It was Carlos’ charm and sex appeal that drew her to him. It was the sound of his voice, his smell, his touch. She thought she was safe. It was all a lie.

He’s the lie . . .

Carlo smirked and continued his exploration of her neck kissing and nibbling with his lips and teeth. He was gentle like a lover. Maybe he was joking . . . she hoped, while closing her eyes in sweet surrender of that relaxing thought, although knowing better. She let her head fall back into his hand. She could feel his teeth bearing down on her flesh, and for the first time, she could really feel them. They felt sharp. She tensed. The thickness of the air in the room seemed to quiet the whimpering and wincing she began to make. Her head swarmed with fear. Her fear made him even more aroused. It was like a drug. Carlo buried his face deeper, while tasting the fear in her skin resonating throughout her body. It was a bigger turn on than sex. With the remaining energy in a reflexed jerk, her hands clinched at his hard torso and her eyes flipped open. Carlo had run his teeth deeper, across her neck. Instantly, she felt a ginormous pressure. The anomalous pain shot into the side of her neck worse than even the bruising, stifling a scream. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t concentrate. Wha . . . was the only thing she could muster, including the trickle she felt running down her back, and before she had an answer for her own question, without another thought, Carlo had killed her, draining the last ounce of life from her body.

Carlo gradually rose from the bed and composed himself, and in an abnormally deep and rough voice, he called, “Guards.” The small group of three walked as if gliding when they entered the room. Inside the bedroom it was warm and humid. Blood filled the air and made sensitive nostrils tingle. Aaron, Carlos’ head acolyte guard, was first to respond. As Aaron walked into the room, he subtly glanced towards the bed where the woman’s body lay motionless. He looked towards Carlo Impassively as he watched him remove himself from the bed. Carlo was still drenched in the euphoria of the experience. The servants who’d followed them into the room held their heads down in reverence awaiting instructions. Carlos’ guards stood to the side preparing to remove the body as they usually did after one of Carlos’ rituals.

“Aaron . . . ?” Carlo called his voice still rough.

“The airplane just arrived in New York.” Aaron walked closer to the bed to look at the woman. He scrutinized the situation, and signaled to the guards to remove the body. The guard’s immediately took charge walking over to the bed each taking her by the arms and legs and lifting her away. Her head dangled, and her eyes were open and lifeless like a doll. Carlo watched as they carried her to the door and out of the room. “Gustavo and Heinrich should be arriving in moments, and the files . . . should I—”

Carlo interrupted him, while grabbing his robe from the bed, and stepped from the platform.

“No. I’ll take care of them.”

“As you wish—”

“Just clean up . . . please.” Aaron signaled to the servants, women employed by the family, who immediately began pulling the sheets from the bed to redress it for when Carlo retired later that evening. Carlo walked over to his desk, Aaron following, and tossed the robe on the chair next to it. “Will you be going to the club again tonight?” In a sly and facetious grin Carlo responded, “Of course.” You could hear the changes in his voice as he began to sound like a normal robust human male.

“Faeyza’s plan should have . . .” Carlo said with malevolent sarcasm in his voice as he pulled the plug from the decanter and inverted a crystal goblet from a twenty-four karat gold tray, “. . . taken off by now.” He began pouring himself a drink and continued, “Make sure all the money is transferred to the designated accounts when it is time Aaron. Faeyza is not the only one with a plan. It is my time.”

“As you wish,” said Aaron without a care in the world, as stone to Carlos’ evil. Unrobed and naked, Carlo poured himself several more ounces of a vintage Port from the beautiful handcrafted antique decanter. It had fine detail. It was an intricately cut heavy lead crystal and twenty-four karat gold vermeil decanter that had been in the family for years. Carlo walked to the window. While two servants pulled the windows’ heavy tapestry laden curtains back, he bathed himself in the tented glow of the late morning sun, while ignoring drips of blood splatter across his bare naked chest. Aaron broke his hardened exterior to raise an eyebrow towards Carlo. Then he turned to walk out of the room leaving Carlo to bask in the glow of his terminal madness.

2

It was a peculiar morning, one of those rare perfect days when the temperature was gentle on your skin. It was calm. Stillness choked the air. It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. A feather could float in still air. And for some sinister reason, there wasn’t a sound anywhere. It was as if the universe stopped to pause in prayer. The sun shined bright high in the morning sky. Not a cloud was in sight. This is before morning rush hour, where most people are in their homes getting ready for work, school, and the basic start of their day. On one hand you have the everyday housewife gathering the children together for breakfast, or maybe early morning grocery shopping. Then on the other, you could have your morning work-out buff, at the local high-priced gym, working up a sweat before the start of their day. Now, it didn’t matter what anyone was doing, or almost even where they were, because, everyone was in their own little world, whatever their world.

Heinrich Leiber, a stock broker at a top financial management company, Morgan Stanley, was sitting in his office on the 89th floor, high above the New York City skyline. It was a bustling office where traders and brokers, financial advisers put in long hours of sweat equity making the rich, richer than God, if that was even possible. For the office staff and colleagues, the morning was just like any other morning. Heinrich had a meeting scheduled, a meeting scheduled weeks in advance with the top managers and chairmen of the company. It was said that even a few trustees would be there. They were expecting a debriefing from his team and him on the biggest account that their firm had ever managed. It was a Trump account. Heinrich had the files and the information they were waiting for, but he was running late for that meeting. He was running late, because of a call he knew was looming. A call that was very essential. It was a call even more important than Trump.

As the time ticked away, Heinrich grew impatient under that composed exterior that made him look almost inhuman. That morning, while waiting for this call Heinrich was just finishing tying up loose ends on another account. “I’m going to need you to sell high at thirty-five, and buy when it hits . . .” Suddenly his cell phone, sitting on his desk, rang disrupting his attention for the moment. A call Heinrich was expecting, a call that could mean only one thing.

“. . . you know what to do.” He said impassively to the person on the other line, and immediately hung up the office telephone, to answer his cell. “Hello . . . he’s landed . . . of course, right away.” He clicked the cell off, and paused for the moment, while hitting the intercom for his secretary. “Angela.” In her most perky sounding voice she answered, “Yes Mr. Leiber—”

“I’m out of the office for the day.” Immediately, he took a short moment to pause, then he said, “Take the rest of the day off too, I won’t need you.”

“What about the meeting—” the intercom clicked off, ending her query.

Heinrich took a brief moment to pause and scan the area of his modernly decorated room in hues of dark maroon, dark woods, and forest greens. He then began quickly cleaning out his desk taking only the most important objects, papers, and things from around the room with sun blocked floor to ceiling windows. He placed the items in his briefcase with great speed. He made another essential call on his cell phone and then hung up. He then briskly walked to a seemingly out of place painting of the late sixteenth century hanging on the wall which hid a wall safe requiring a blood sample and handprint to open. He gathered all the documents inside and placed them in the briefcase.

Suddenly he glanced up and a thin antique handcrafted box, about three to four inches wide, caught his attention. He took the moment to carefully lift it from where it sat. It was a relic, delicate as if it would crumble in his hands. At another time and place, it was his most treasured item that he kept close throughout the years given to him by someone he once held dear. But with no time to spare, he placed it carefully in his breast pocket. Lastly, he shut the lights off and headed out the door.

Angela was standing at her desk putting her jacket on. Not a word was spoken to anyone. Even with Heinrichs’ large god-like physique and speed, his movements were smooth and seamless. People in the general vicinity casually watched him in a mesmeric state, as he walked down the long dimly lit corridor towards the elevator doors. He pressed the down button and with luck, the doors immediately opened. He gracefully walked in and pushed for the downstairs lobby. As the doors began to close he heard Angela calling, “Hold the door please!” Heinrich gritted his teeth behind his cool exterior and lowered his eyes shut, just before catching the elevator doors. Angela slid her petit body between the doors, as they resumed shutting. She walked inside and stood next to Heinrich who for her seemed like a towering tree. Out of breath Angela said, “Thank you so much Mr. Leiber. I know today is going to be a nice day. And there is so much that I wanted to do today . . .” Angela continued her bantering, but she was furthest from his mind.

Downstairs, an automobile waited for Heinrich. Black as night, a Mercedes sedan with heavily tented windows. Angela followed as closely behind Heinrichs’ large pace as she could, in hopes of getting his attention, as she often tried to do. They walked down the long hallway to the outside doors. Angela said goodbye to building security while hurrying closely behind Heinrich.

As Heinrich and Angela exited the doors, she stopped short just outside the door to wave goodbye, but Heinrich didn’t notice. Angela continued around the corner to grab a taxi, while the doorman opened the back passenger side. Heinrich flew past the man and entered the automobile, but not before a click from a  camera in the background captured him exiting the building. His driver briskly walked around to the driver side and opened the door. Immediately the car started and they drove off.

Several moments later . . . screams . . . people darting . . . panicking . . . running in what seemed like slow motion from the area of the building. A loud explosion could be heard and seen from many floors up as debris began to fall.

3

Agent Mira T. Jones was young, twenty-eight, and new to New York City. The New York City Federal Office was her first transfer. She was first assigned to the Oklahoma City Federal Office three years ago fresh out of the academy. She requested to stay close to home and close to her family. Maybe it was as simple as she wasn’t ready to leave home. Whatever her reasoning was and whatever was holding her back, her request was granted. Of course at some later unforeseen awakening, when the opportunity arose, New York, she jumped at the chance to move on.

A small town girl, new to a big city, but fortunately for her, she had learned many things since working in Oklahoma. One thing she learned was to research everything well and always above all else, check your references. It was most important for her to know exactly what she could possibly walk into at any given situation, even if she couldn’t be prepared for every variable.

She researched everything she could, reasoning that she needed to know about New York, the crime, its climate and even its people. She took great care in researching FBI files on her new position and coworkers assigned to the team. Her new position was working with a taskforce that handled counter terrorism in the United States. Little did Mira know that what she was about to receive would be the greatest discovery of her life, in one of the saddest times the world would ever know.

It was the start of her first day on the job and even though Mira was running a little sluggish, it was important to her to be on time for work and ready to work when she hit the door. Not knowing her way around the city yet, she caught a cab to the office. Paying and tipping the driver a little extra, she got out and rushed into the federal building.

Inside, the lobby was tall and ominous with floor to ceiling reflective glass windows, textured concrete block on the center walls and marble like flooring. As soon as she walked in a few paces ahead of her was a security check point. And behind that, people walked a few more paces to a corridor in the center wall where the elevators were. Other than a few plaques on the walls with quotes, big block letters announcing the name of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, and plaques with numbers to floors on them, the lobby seemed sterile.

“Good morning,” she said to security as she removed her coat and satchel laying them on the conveyer belt. The security officer responded impassively. She stood in line preparing to be the next person to walk through the check point. As she walked through something metallic set off the alarm, startling Mira. “Oh, I forgot.” She chuckled, and took the keys to her apartment out of her pants pocket. Another security officer pulled her to the side. Arms out and keys dangling in her fingers, the guard used a hand held metal detector to scan her while other visitors to the building continued to walk through the check point.

While Mira stood there, she watched as individuals walked past. A middle aged woman glanced at her peevishly as she grabbed her purse at the end of the conveyor belt, and moved on towards the elevators. Mira noticed the glance, but it wasn’t what concerned her. Mira glanced around at the security standing at other posts, her items at the end of the conveyor belt, and the security guard waiting at the end where her things sat. His menacing eyes met hers which made her a little nervous. What Mira realized was that this wasn’t the Oklahoma office anymore. Things were still a little relaxed for her back home. It was a little unsettling. She was beginning to feel that pinch in her nerves that kept her from venturing out away from the warm familiar and friendly place she called home. She was beginning to fill a little overwhelmed.

“All clear, you can go ma’am,” said the officer in business-like fashion while startling her out of her reverie. “Thank you.” Mira mumbled with a nervous grin and walked over to the end of the table to grab her things. She picked up the coat, but the guard at this post took his time to release her satchel. Her heart began to jump into her throat as she looked at him, trying to assess his reasoning.

What?

Thoughts ran through her mind, already filled with anxiety. He let the bag go and resumed his attention to the other visitors to the building. Mira took her bag and walked away, taking a second glance behind her at the officer and other individuals waiting to walk through the check point. She began to relax as she walked over to the elevators where others were standing waiting to go up, or down, to their floors. The elevators finally opened and people walked in pushing buttons or requesting floors. Mira squeezed in where she could. The doors began to close, the elevator began to rise, and various voices chatted among the car. Moments later a thunderous sound was heard halting the chatter. My God!

The elevator finally opened on Mira’s floor. She, and a few other individuals, poured into the empty hallway where everyone in the vicinity had rushed to windows of the office to see the commotion. She heard the thunderous sound, but Mira’s visibility was hampered until she entered the office and glanced out the windows with everyone else. Smoke could be seen from blocks away. Then someone screamed realizing what happened as they watched the second plane crash into the towers.

This morning Mira walked into a red alert situation at FBI headquarters. Every able body person was paused in shock and awe gasping and gawking out the windows of the building from whatever position they stood in at the time. The sight was something usually seen in action movies or documentary films, the aftermath of debris, fire, and smoke. An airplane had violently crashed into The World Trade Center. “Can this really be happening?!” a female voice nearby gasped. “Maybe a fluke, maybe the pilot lost control.” A man answered in return.

Maybe the airplane was faulty . . . Mira thought.

Terrorism was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Mira stood in shock with everyone else, as they watched a second airplane fly over the Verrazano Bridge and crash into the second tower. It was clear. This was definitely not an accident, no movie being filmed. No green screen. Experienced agents in the force began working like automatons, the next thought was automatic—The President.

On the scene was Head Special Agent Brockman, a well-seasoned FBI agent for the last thirty years in charge of the field office in New York City for the last ten. He was in his private wall to wall glass office, standing behind his desk looking out the windows. On the telephone were field agents he listened and gave orders to while simultaneously giving orders to people in the main office. Agents and staff alike working like busy bees in what seemed like slow motion, as if their minds could not catch up to the motion their bodies were trained to do. And in the middle of the chaos was Special Agent Mira Jones.

Mira stepped to the door of Brockmans’ office to ask questions. Brockman waved her in, but he was receiving word over the telephone by one of the field agents.

“Sir?” Mira asked.

“Jones, find Timmons. You’re with him. Get out there . . . Go! Everyone, MOVE . . . !” Brockmans’ voice could be heard bellowing from the office as Mira walked back out into the flock of individuals making their way to the elevators and stairwells. The office was left with only a skeleton of personnel in shock at the devastation outside the window. Brockman in his strongest and most compassionate voice, while walking out his office into the great room said, “I know people, but let’s get back to work. They’re going to need all of our help.”

Down in the parking garage agents scrambled to their vehicles. Mira tried to get an agents’ attention shouting, “Who’s Timmons?” Agents rushed past her. She grabbed the arm of another agent running past who quickly gave her an exasperated glance.

“Who’s Timmons?”

Just then she heard her name from one of the black trucks driving past as it came to a halt. “Jones!” the voice shouted. The sound caught her attention, and she began running towards the vehicle, and hopped in. The door slammed and it sped off. Timmons, a seemingly over-the-top and overwhelming middle aged man with a robust athletic build and voice to match, reached over to shake hands with Mira. “Jones . . . Timmons . . . Welcome . . .” Then he continued speaking to the person on his cell. They sped out of the parking garage headed to the center of what would be known as ground zero, in hopes to control the area and catch any leads.

It was like a war zone at ground zero. Mira watched the dust and debris as it choked the air and morning sky. Like a blanket, it fell on the window of the vehicle she sat in. As they exited, they were hit with the screams, sirens and soot that surrounded them. She could barely see ten feet in front of her. The objects falling from the sky sent chills down her spine. The realization that not only was falling debris pieces of building, glass and mortar, but people, people and body parts falling from the sky.

 Mira had only read and studied the aftermath of the Oklahoma bombing, but this, it was in the moment. This sight was not for the faint of heart, she didn’t know how much she could bear. Such utter cruelty in the heart of man that could create a picture as horrific and deplorable as this was. And even more horrific, she realized, for the people who were doing their utmost very best to help the survivors where ever they could locate them.

She watched as they scrambled, frantically in every direction. The realization hit her, like a ton of bricks, that help was needed from the darkest of tunnels where the underground train station was located, deep under the buildings where people traveled to work every day. And the forgotten nameless downtrodden that called those tunnels home, and to the roof of the highest peak of the tallest building.

This was heart wrenching to the core, for everyone on this day was a hero, the volunteers who left their homes, surrounding businesses, or nameless bystanders doing their best in any way, the many service men and women of the police force, military, military vets and fire departments anyone and everyone who could have had or knew families, friends, and children trapped in the crumbling buildings, they all came and assembled to do their part. They were here, at this place, and in this moment either in thought, body, or prayer. They were here, because on this day every single individual trapped was the child or a family member or friend lost, that must be rescued. On this day, Mira watched a scene both horrifyingly tragic and divine as the people of New York City and around the world united as a family and become heroes.

The motorcade was blocked nearly three blocks away and could get no closer to where the towers stood. Up ahead in the short distance the lead vehicle was stopped. Agents poured from the automobiles trying to beat time to get closer. Special Agent Timmons and the rest of the agents announced themselves with the officers in the vicinity and offered their help. Only asking questions when they could.

Mira had never experienced the Oklahoma bombing nor the first attempt on the towers in 2009. At that time, it was a truck bomb, many people were injured and killed, but the towers still stood. Here, she was witnessing police and firefighters swarm the vicinity trying to help people exit the buildings and surrounding area of debris. She watched as people poured out of the buildings running to safety. She found herself saying every prayer she had ever known, while taking mental pictures of a sight she knew would never erase from her mind. She watched as agents hurled themselves towards survivors who seemed lost as they ran out to the streets where falling debris and smoke awaited them.

This must be just like last time . . .

“This is not like last time.” Timmons replied to the reaction on Jones’s face. “God . . . How’re they going to fix this?” Timmons mumbled.

Out the corner of her eye, while braced against one of the vehicles, Mira noticed someone taking pictures. Now, it wasn’t just the camera and the person she saw, it was the blinding flash of light in all the ash and debris. The figure was a small male maybe a little shorter than she.

Why isn’t he running?

She wondered if he was a reporter. However, from the look of his clothes he didn’t look like a reporter, more like a vagabond. She became mesmerized while studying him. He was wearing tattered and torn clothes fully dressed, begrimed in appearance, wearing a baseball cap and glasses. The more she observed, she noticed that he wasn’t troubled by the events.

Could he be taking a record or something?

A record made sense, but why? Just then a horrible thought crossed her mind . . .

. . . A record of the aftermath, its results?

Mira wanted to know what was really going on. How long had he been standing there? Could he be a witness, and what did he see with that camera? She proceeded to maneuver towards him. “Jones . . . !” Timmons shouted as Mira darted away from her hold position.

The man lowered the camera taking a short pause and made eye contact with her. Then abruptly took off running down the street to his right disappearing behind a group of bystanders huddled at the corner of a building at the end of the block. Mira swiftly began to run after him, narrowly escaping a beam that crashed down behind her. “Look out!” Timmons shouted to no avail. Mira couldn’t hear him. Lost in her own thoughts Mira wondered, why would he run?

Mira chased the man through trees of people scrambling themselves to get out of harm’s way. Then the running man changed directions and ran across the street halfway down the block. This wasn’t a problem, because traffic was at a standstill. No cars to contend with, but the vision barrier of dust almost made the chase futile. Mira nearly lost him down that street when he turned right at the end of a long New York block. Finally, making it around the corner just in time, Mira saw the back of his coat as he slipped into the door of a neighboring building.

The chase had led Mira to a building that was half way down the next block on the right side of the street. It was a place just a few blocks from the area of ground zero. As Mira ran towards the building, nearly out of breath, she noticed the dark foreboding vacancy of it. The building was a seven story grey stone commercial in the middle of a block of tall office buildings. It had rows and rows of medium sized windows, and a walk up stair case at its front. It stood so alone, leaving one to wonder as to its previous owners. Was it a place where vagabonds lived? And what would she find inside? It seemed so out of place, compared to the modernly built sky scrapers as neighbors sitting next to and across from it. There were no lights on in the building. No sign of life. However, apparently, it had been positioned here, snug and desolate for a long while. From outside there could be seen caked on dust settled on the windows.

Mira wasn’t sure if she should go inside without calling for back up. She looked around, down the street on both sides, before deciding to take a chance. She quickly walked up the steps and checked the door handle. The latch had already been opened. The door swung a little.

No lock?

She quickly unlatched her holstered gun, and pulled it, securing the safety. She had a small flashlight she carried on her key ring. It was small, but it was a strong LED flashlight powerful up to five hundred feet. It was something that cost her ten dollars on sale from an automobile store in town, back in Oklahoma. She carried it with her ever since.

Mira turned it on, steadied her hand with her gun, and carefully took her time to walk further into the entrance. As soon as she was through the door she let the door swing shut from her hip. The heavy door crashed to a close startling her. She unclenched her eyes and shoulders carefully glancing around her to make sure she was safe as she walked deeper into the lobby of the building.

As she suspected, it was as dusty on the inside as it was on the outside. Dust had settled everywhere, and cobwebs could be seen all over the walls and corners. To the left of her was a wooden staircase with worn down or missing carpet. To the side of the staircase was a dark corridor. The lobby to the right of her was an empty space except for an encased bulletin board on the large wall with yellowed papers tacked to it. In front of her was another corridor. “Which way did you go,” Mira mumbled to herself, at the same time hearing a sound. She took few steps forward and heard it again. The sound seemed to come from the back of the long hallway to her left.

She carefully darted towards the passageway, proceeding further into the building, and briskly crept along the side of the walls taking notice of the doors to offices. No glass was broken, but on a few doors she could read who the inhabitants were. The Law Offices of Barry and Barry LTD on one door, and on another it read Mark Hamilton CPA. These were offices about three to five down each side of the long corridor.

Another sound resonated, and the light of her flashlight caught flicker of movement further down. She followed the sound and rounded a corner to the left. The man picked up speed, and disappeared to the end of the hall and rounded the corner to the right. She began to hurry to catch up to him, gun firmly in hand. 

The chase with the man led her into another corridor on the right. She saw the flicker of his coat around another corner on her left, she briskly followed.

How big is this place?

She was beginning to feel like a rat caught in a maze. Corner after corner, and the adrenaline rush, she felt like she was running in circles. Was he toying with her? Finally, she caught up to him, while he was running towards the end of another long hallway. As she got closer to him, with her gun pulled, she shouted “FBI, halt!”

The person abruptly stopped. She ran towards him breathy, and said, “Turn around slowly and raise your hands.” He turned around, and raised his hands to show his palms. The camera hung around his neck. She walked closer to him. The closer she walked she noticed this was no inexpensive camera. It was a high-end advanced digital Canon. “A bit pricy for your average vagabond, don’t you think? You’re no vagabond are you?” She looked at it, and glanced back at his face. “Who are you and what were you doing at the site?” He stared at Mira impassively as if he didn’t hear her question. She could see that he was a scrawny little man with pallid skin. With insistence in the sound of her voice she asked him, “Sir, what is your name?” The man didn’t answer. “Do you speak English?” The man still didn’t answer.

The air was becoming thick, and Mira feared she had made a false move in not calling for back up, but felt compelled to take a step further towards him. He slowly began to lower his right hand to his pocket. In fear she backed up, gun cocked towards him and yelled out, “Hold it!” Disregarding her command, he continued anyway unconcerned for the gun in her hand. The man slowly pulled out a piece of paper. Still in shock and fear, Mira caught herself when she realized it wasn’t a weapon. And at the same time thinking, how could I be fearful of a little thing like this man? Thinking better of it, she remained cautious just the same. Gun raised, she walked slowly back towards him.

His left hand held firmly in the air, the right one holding out a slip of paper. She looked him in his eyes, while reaching for the paper. His eyes looked strange, almost inhuman, almost as if he were dead inside, rotting. It left her with the most eerie feeling she had ever experienced. A feeling which grabbed her at the pit of her stomach yanking her heart to her throat, and her head felt as if fingers were crawling through her mind. Immediately, the hallway seemed cold, and Mira began to feel chilly. The closer she walked she could see the age and wear on his face. The feeling was overwhelming, and she tried to shake it off. She struggled to tear her eyes from him for the moment to look at the paper in his dingy hands. She took it. It read . . . HEINRICH LEIBER. “What? 

I don’t understand. Who is this?” As she looked up from the paper for an answer, shock painted across her face. She immediately spun around puzzled and bewildered, gun still cocked. He was gone . . . vanished.

“Where were you?” Timmons asked while studying Mira incredulously. “I thought I saw something . . . thought I should check it out.” Mira said while struggling to catch her breath and dodge falling debris and ash. Slip of paper safely tucked in the breast pocket of her coat. Heinrich Leiber fixed in her mind along with the strange experience she just encountered. Another thing she remembered at her last post. Never talk about something till you know exactly what you’re talking about. Collect as much information. Go to the horse’s mouth. Any great story starts with a lie or the truth. It’s the eyes that tell it. And always above all else, check the references before spewing about vanishing acts and papers with names on them. Set ups happen. Who was Heinrich Leiber, and what does he have to do with anything? Mira had to find out before mentioning it to her team. New on the job, it could be nothing. She may have just wasted her time on a chase, and her boss was watching. She proceeded with the team in getting more people out of the area. However, it was short lived. They got a signal to vacate the area entirely. Tower two was coming down.

4

Heinrich was sitting in the limo when the news item came over the flat screen television in the back of the car. The first airplane crashed into a tower of the World Trade Center. He seemed unaffected. Staring nonchalantly into the screen as the news anchor continued to talk and then he watched as the second airplane crashed into the other tower. At that point the anchor could no longer speak. The last shot was of the anchor paused in horror failing to regain her composer. Heinrich shut the screen off, and began staring into the front window of the automobile. He was as stone. And yet under that stone exterior he wore, his jawbone flinched, in anger.

In the far distance he could see a small passenger airplane taxiing to a stop. The private jet arrived from Naples, Italy. It stopped next to a Rolls Royce, and then the door opened. Stairs folded down, the occupant exited escorted by the flight attendant. Heinrich noticed the family crest on the tail end of the airplane, 

Apratsi. This private landing pad was located on the outskirts of New York City, far from the aftermath of the towers. The driver of the Benz slowly pulled next to the waiting Rolls sent from the compound in Detroit.

It was a vintage Rolls Royce. Maroon, with heavy gold trim on the front and back grills, handles, and doors, and the family crest was lightly embroidered on the three back heavily sun blocked passenger windows. Heinrich drenched in a black Armani suit and Dolce & Gabana shades stepped out of his sedan, walked over to the rolls, and got in sitting next to Gustavo.

“I assume all is well Heinrich?”

“Of course . . . I’m sorry your plane could not continue to Michigan. The President shutting down air traffic—”

“Protocol. The boy, he’s waiting I assume.” Gustavo was concentrating heavily on other matters, Carlo, to be exact. “Yes, it’ll be a short journey to the compound.” Short Indeed my old friend Heinrich thought to himself. The long anticipated scolding of a young rogue on the loose. It was inevitable that Carlo would get what he had coming to him this way. And it was about time.

“Yes, Carlo, how has the boy been keeping himself busy these days, in my absence?”

“I’m sure he can tell you. He’s been quite . . . barring.”

“I’m sure in deed.”

“I’ve shut down the New York site—”

“As planned. You will need to move into the compound—”

“No Gustav. I need to go into hiding . . . on my own. Heinrich died in the buildings. He can’t be found. I’ve used that name far too long. I knew better. Carlo was careless getting involved with Faeyza. I don’t know what it’ll cost us. What it’ll cost the family, or me?”

“Indeed . . . ,” was Gustavo’s only response.

Innocence lost . . . Heinrich thought.

The world lost their innocence today, Adam and the proverbial apple. Things would never be the same. For Heinrich and Gustavo, it would be a short journey across state lines until they reached Michigan. Not another word was spoken. Gustavo went into hibernation, and Heinrich began working with figures and the remaining accounts on his hand held.

Gustavo was a stocky man with average looks. He appeared to be a well preserved gentleman in his late sixties, but he was much older. His haunting appearance reeked of a man from a time long forgotten. This car was every indication of that with all its aristocratic glory. Gustavo had come from a long line of clans men. However, before him, there was a clan leader, ages ago, who originated from the Balkan Seas, and held control over the clans of the Mediterranean Sea well before the holy wars. Throughout time, he insured the survival of all the tribes, with gathered knowledge, held in archives that would not be lost. Many centuries later, the Apratsi clan gained control of the archives and families crucial to the survival of their Mediterranean tribe, and over time, control of this knowledge soon fell into Gustavo’s hands as elder over the Mediterranean clans. As elder, he ruled the Mediterranean clans with an iron fist, but that fist was becoming weak.

Even now as Heinrich glanced towards Gustavo, who sat with his eyes closed, he looked almost as if what remaining life he held was slowly fading away. Yet, Heinrich knew that Gustavo was very much aware of every sound, smell, rumble of the car and the treads on the road. He could cut ten men down with his bare hands and in one blow without the bead of sweat on his brow. Imagine what he would do to Carlo. It would be a short journey, but the worst was yet to come.

5

Mira left the scene at ground zero. There wasn’t much she could do down there, so she went back to the field office to take a look at the name Heinrich Leiber. She calculated that a computer search should turn up something. Many of the agents were still back at the site containing the situation. The office was next to empty except for a few others, Amy, Mario and Brockmans’ 

secretary. Although, pretty soon even they decided enough was enough and went home.

The towers, still burning in the distance could be seen, red hot and debris still falling. No, this was definitely not like last time, she thought. All those lives lost, and the sky blackened with soot, and ash. In a melancholy malaise Mira returned to her search. 

Heinrich Leiber.

Sounds German . . .

She looked up from her computer screen for a moment. Her attention was drawn in the direction of the night janitor, Vince, who came to clean the office. He raised his hand giving the high sign to say hello. Mira was deep in thought, so she only motioned with an impassive nod of her head and resumed her search.

There was a lot of information on a few Heinrichs and little on Heinrich Leiber as she got closer to the sixteen through the eighteen hundreds. Government records could only go back as far as forty years, but the internet picked up where those records left off. None the less, this was too far back, and made no sense. It had to have been more recent . . . Or else why was that man there, and why did he hand me this name?

The further Mira searched she eventually came upon the name Heinrich Leiber found in Italy. Articles indicated where he lived and died. Died? Family related, maybe? She wondered if this was what the little man was trying to tell her. However, what did they have to do with the towers? Of course anything was possible. No one had any solid lead as to who was behind the attack. And a few more planes had gone down by evening.

Upon more delving, Mira discovered a business finance article naming one more Heinrich listed recently in New York, but there were no pictures, nor last name. The thing that stood out was not that his name was Heinrich it was the fact that he worked for Morgan Stanley in New York. Earlier in her search, Mira found an issue of a finance newspaper naming a Heinrich linked to an account with Morgan Stanley, but it hadn’t mentioned the location of the office in which he was affiliated, or any other useful information, except for Italy and Apratsi.

Apratsi . . . “Wait a minute . . .”

She immediately began thumbing through some printouts looking for the article on Italy she previously found. The article on Heinrich Leiber and the name Apratsi, “Found it. Now, is it the same one?” The year on the article was dated 1945, so she had immediately dismissed it. “But it said he died, how old is this guy? Or is it a son, grandson maybe?”

The more Mira thought about it, she became increasingly bothered because the search was not informative enough, and given the state of events, she wondered what she was actually getting herself into. The man she chased, actually frightened her. The events of the experience were out of her league, beyond anything ordinary she had ever encountered. Could she be chasing a ghost, a ruse, a game? Mira was not intent in wasting time on an errant venture, she worried, could cost her position on the team if she was wrong. She thought long and hard weighing the odds in that period of time, wondering if it was worth it to her?

Suddenly, from deep within, intense anxiety hit her. Maybe from exhaustion, fear and worry, she didn’t know, but slowly her eyes drifted towards the paperwork on her desk and the computer screen calculating her next move. Anxiety still gnawing away at her conscience, she glanced out among the other desks, the windows to the office, the corridor beyond the office leading towards the elevators. Looking, looking for what? She didn’t know, an answer maybe, a sign from God, something that could tell her that this was the direction in which to go.

Then automatically, as if it was always known to her, she knew . . . “I have to travel.” Mira whispered to herself. In the process of preparing herself for a journey, Timmons would find out about this lead, and Mira wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Morgan Stanley was one of the companies in the towers. She wondered is this the company where Heinrich was located. A manifest of the towers personnel was needed. Mira specifically needed Morgan Stanley’s office. “There should be a record of people who showed to work today.” She mumbled, while reflecting on the possibility that Heinrich could he be one of them. There was a reason why that vagabond had his name. There was a reason why he was there at that site taking pictures.

Was this Heinrich in those pictures?

Exasperated, Mira had enough. She sat there for the moment closing her eyes, rubbing her forehead and pinching her nose. Her neck had tensed up. Her mind was filling up with questions too fast for the answers. She was exhausted and it was her first day. She looked around the dark silent room of the office. She had remained there as late as any human could on the job, clocking in about sixteen hours already. And at her desk was printout after printout of Heinrich Leiber. She was tired.

Tomorrow . . .

She began packing her satchel with the printouts, grabbed her coat and left the office walking straight for the elevator. And as an afterthought, remembered the elevators were out, so she headed for the stairs instead. Earlier in the day, power began to wane in certain areas of the building, the elevators, at that point, were deemed unsafe till further notice. She hurried down the stairwell at first, but slowed midway down the building slowed, when the realization of height and depth, and the fact that she was terribly out of shape for this and struggling to catch her breath for stairs and an office on the fourteenth floor, please.

By the time Mira reached the lobby she looked forward to taking a taxi home. However, upon exiting the building traffic was at a standstill. After the destruction of the towers, transportation came to a halt. Mira began her journey home. It would be a long walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.

This . . . was a day.

“Welcome to New York Mira,” she said to herself as she looked up at the buildings and back off in the distance behind her. She could smell the fires still burning leaving her in a resigned and reflective state. She turned back around and began walking down the street with the rest of the small crowd of people journeying towards Brooklyn.

Mira arrived home in what felt like days and beyond exhausted. She bypassed her mailbox, leaving it for tomorrow, and miraculously made it up the three flights of stairs. Finally bumping into her apartment door and leaning on it for support, while unlocking it, and eventually flinging it open like a blast of wind.

Fortunately, she had worn her two inch heels, but none the less, very tired, so much so, that when she was nearly home, by a few blocks, Mira had removed her shoes, walking in her stocking feet the rest of the way home. As soon as she was inside the door, she flung those shoes to the floor. She hadn’t noticed that the door smacked loudly against the back wall, but caught it on the swing back and closed it shut. She tossed her satchel and coat on the kitchen counter to her left as she walked in only locking the door afterwards.

Her apartment was a small apartment, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. Expensive for New York, but she lived in Brooklyn. It was an old brown stone she lucked up on when the previous owner of the apartment passed away. The building went over condo, and the family just wanted out. So, with the money she was able to save while working in Oklahoma, and living at home with her family, she put her offer down, and they took it. She moved a few of her things in about two weeks later.

Mira had modernly and modestly decorated it in neutral and warm tones. Only a few stand out designs and paintings on the wall. Upon walking into the apartment the kitchen was immediately inside the door. The dining room table she placed on the large wall to the right. Stove, refrigerator, sink and counter space was on the left of the kitchen. Inside the living room she had a cozy convertible sofa bed, a love seat across from it and a coffee table between them. The coffee table was a piece of furniture she purchased from a flea market. Drift wood bottom and glass top. She took it upon herself to paint it white with gold leaf overlay. It was her small attempt to become an artist in college. Even so, she was proud of her work. On the table she kept a few books. One of the books was on the paranormal, one on The Seven Wonders of the World, a book of immortal poems, and her grandmothers’ Bible. She wasn’t heavily into the strange and unforeseen, but it was a hobby of curiosity to her. A passing thought in a world of danger and the unexplained.

She turned the television on as soon as she entered her bedroom. She began undressing and flung clothes in every direction just to get them off her sticky body. Her eighteen hour bra had given up ten hours ago. She was wrenched and exhausted. The elastic had bound her so tightly around her back and ribcage under her bosom she began rubbing life back into that painful area as she walked into her adjoined master bathroom. Mira’s bedroom and bathroom were brightly lit in hues of lavender, mauve, sea green and natural looking colors encouraging an atmosphere for unwinding, after a long hard day. She turned on the hot water and began taking a shower, thinking, she’d put the clothes in the hamper as soon as she woke up in the morning.

Mira began reflecting back on her day when in the other room she could hear over the television more breaking news of the devastation and aftermath of the World Trade Center, “. . . the death toll still rises,” said a news anchor. Heinrich Leiber was her only clue, though the FBI had received loads of leads as to whom the bombers were. From the Far East, terrorist groups were in the process of accepting responsibility for the action. Leads were beginning to pour out of the woodwork leaving the government to gather information like water distilleries gathering rain in a monsoon.

Moments later, Mira got out of the shower, her long thick brown hair dripping with soaking wet ringlets down her back like a mop. She grabbed a towel from the wall to quickly wrap it up and catch the water as it began to get cold quickly. What remaining warmth left vapor on the bathroom mirror where her muffled reflection sadly greeted her, which incidentally matched her mood.

She turned on the water to the sink and began wiping the mirror with her hand as she grabbed her toothbrush. That didn’t work so she grabbed another towel. Toothbrush in hand and firmly gripping the sink, wipes turned to circles, and more circles till she found herself in a daze staring blankly into the mirror for a long time while listening to the chaos on the television in the background. She dropped the towel-holding hand to her side, and lost her grip on it, leaving the towel to crumble at her feet. At that moment for the first time today, Mira broke down and wept. The water running from the sink seemed to grow louder drowning out the sound of the television in the background.