A typical K&R vigil. Six days passed before anything happened. Room service unexpectedly and mistakenly knocked and pushed a breakfast cart into the room. When Grant opened his mouth to protest (he was dying to get the fuck out of the room and have breakfast at a real restaurant) Terry blurted his thanks and pressed a cash tip into the bell boy’s palm.

After the door was securely closed and locked Terry began his search of the breakfast cart. Beneath the plate covers, food … exactly the same food they’d been ordering every morning. Cereal, fresh fruit, coffee. Not enough to get suspicious, the kitchen might have assumed it was a standing order. Beneath the plates, nothing. An examination of the underside of the tin plate covers showed nothing. Carefully sliding the white linen tablecloth from the cart, again Terry found nothing. Grant dropped to his knees and smoothed a palm along the bottom of the cart and there it was.

The envelope held two photos and a contact timetable message. Gabriel Prospect was battered and bloodied, his face swollen. He was sitting against a rough boarded dark wall. It was probably taken at night. The only light source seemed to be the camera flash, making the photo appear unreal, eerie. Unnatural.

Dino sat against the same wall, a glint of defiance in his one un-blackened eye. Again, swelling and bruises, one side of his golden orange hair was pasted with drying blood that stained and dripped along his left cheekbone. This photo was obviously taken in natural daylight.

“Suspicious as fuckin’ hell,” Terry groaned, laying the two photos side by side. The high-tech camera equipment was set to record the date and time in the lower left corner of each photo. The picture of Prospect had a glowing shadow beneath the digital information and again Terry groaned.

“What?” Grant edged for a closer look.

“This fucking thing is a photo of a photo. See, the original date is faded beneath the new date. The color’s washed out; nothing is sharp in comparison to the picture of Dino. We gotta start facing the fact that Prospect is six feet under, mate.”

Grant fingered the paper dictating a negotiation schedule. It was to start that very day. “I’ll set up the radio.”

But there was no contact that day nor the next. Seven days later Terry and Grant sat, patiently awaiting contact but again, nothing.

“This bloody fucker must’ve driven Dino mental!” hissed Terry as he paced the room.

“He’s certainly driving me fucking mental,” Grant snorted. “Are we gonna let this bastard do this? I mean a week’s passed. He could’ve killed Dino and we’d have no fucking idea.”

“Standard is to demand a new proof of life after a month.”

“A month?” Grant pushed back his hair and whistled. “Red’s face could be on milk cartons by then. Jesus.”

The radio crackled static and Terry shot a glare, waited further confirmation.

“Hullo? Hullo?”

“Showtime,” Grant grinned and sat back to watch the master in action.

Terry sat, patient and waited to hear a bit more.

“Hullo? Hullo! Am I getting through to anyone?”

Terry’s brow curled and he abruptly stood, rounded the table and grabbed Grant’s arm. Shoving him in front of the radio he sat across the table and nodded. “You talk to him.”

“What the fuck?” Grant grunted, wondering if Terry was so fucked up he couldn’t even handle a simple negotiation. He lifted the mike. “I’m here. Who are you?”

“Call me Fox. Who the bloody hell are you?”

“Who am I?” Grant hissed at Terry who grinned.

“Rabbit.”

“Rabbit? Jesus, can’t I have some tough name like Lion or Tiger or Bear, dammit?”

“Just do it,” Terry said and Grant shrugged.

“Name’s Rabbit. You wanna talk … so talk.”

And so it went, a fairly standard first negotiation and Terry was impressed with what Grant had learned over the past months observing some of the best in the business. He sat, biting his lip and pulling at his left eyebrow, his mind digesting what he knew as the numbers were mentioned. His hand dropped and he watched Grant carefully.

“Two million,” Fox stated.

“You’re crazy,” snorted Grant. “We’ve got four hundred thousand. Time to start using your head, Fox. ‘Cause Rabbit ain’t stupid.”

“Two million. Mr. Prospect’s nearly dead so you better get yourself some funding, Rabbit. There’s not much time. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“When?” Grant looked to Terry. There were no daily consecutive negotiations listed on the note, but then again, nothing that fucking note said was happening anyway.

“When I feel like it,” Fox growled and the radio went dead.

Grant drew in a long, deep breath, releasing it with a hiss. “So? Now what?”

“We wait,” Terry answered with a strange grin.

“What the fuck do you know that you’re not telling me, Ter?”

Terry stood, stretched his arms high and chuckled. “I know Prospect is still alive and well.”

“Now,” Grant leaned back in his chair, pleased to see the spark of life return to Thorne. “How the hell can you know that?”

“Because … that the bloke you just spoke to … IS … Gabriel Prospect.”