An irrational panic rose in his bloodstream as he entered the crowded restaurant. R.J.'s nerves were overworked and ready to boil over at the slightest complication. The room wasn't even that full. Bodies pressed in along the corridor that ran between the bar and the tables. But the tables themselves were mostly empty. Only a few small groups sat, sipping wine and cocktails, while gripping greasy napkins filled with discarded hors d'oeuvres forks and screaming conversations to one another.

It was the noise that was the real problem. In the stark space, the high-volume chatter created a static that threatened to overwhelm him. Individual voices were lost and it became a mechanical hum like a great beast of an engine, groaning in a mash of pistons, cogs, and steam.

It mirrored the fevered buzz in his ears, when he was leaving The Music Box. It started the moment he detoured from his usual route to the elevator and hurried down a deserted corridor to the seldom used radiology lab. No one was around but R.J.'s heart beat with a body shaking rhythm as though the entire resources of the DTAA were at his heels ready to nab him.

His trembling fingers almost dropped the petri dish when he pulled it from his pants' pocket. Visions of it shattering disastrously against the floor or rolling down the hallway with him comically chasing after it filled his mind.

With the full expectation that the action would cause the bunker to go into lockdown with blaring horns and flashing red lights, R.J. took a deep breath and held the chip to the sensor panel.

Jamie's chip. The ghost in the machine.

He waited a tense second for doom to crash down around him. A bead of sweat fell from the edge of his eyebrow and he could swear he heard it splash against the tiling.

The imperceptible hope that he almost refused to acknowledge was met with the sound of the lock releasing. Unable to believe that good things could happen to him, R.J. tried the door. It opened into the dark lab. He immediately shut it and felt the lock move back into place.

Taking a similar deep breath, R.J. entered the crowd. He could see Nikki at the far end of the bar. She had a bottle of wine in one hand and seemed to be having a heated discussion with a creepy looking guy with long stringy hair. He was out of place in the hipster crowd. Nearly everyone in attendance must be a food blogger or a neighborhood regular, filling the room with far too many lumberjack shirts and beards for the hot Arizona climate.

But this guy looked off, with his pasty skin and black concert T-shirt. Could this be some type of shake down? Some degenerate stalker?

"Excuse me," R.J. said to a girl in horn-rimmed glasses and a peasant dress, who he'd bumped into while passing. She glared at him and he quickened his pace to fight through the gauntlet and reach Nikki.

The metal-head was moving off and Nikki turned to a balding man with a wiry red goatee. She poured him some of the wine.

R.J. was just close enough to pick out the sound of her voice in the turmoil by watching her lips.

"It's one of the new style Zinfandels," she said with a smile. "I'm really getting into them. The food pairing possibilities are endless, but I like this one as a sipper."

She seemed entirely unaffected by the confrontation. Perhaps he had misunderstood. Maybe it was just a dispute over tastes in wine. He was too paranoid. He was seeing threats everywhere.

Like with the teller at the bank. He had been certain that the middle-aged woman was reporting him to the authorities despite the fact he'd been careful to only withdraw nine grand—that guilty looking set of numerals that seemed to shout out his attempt to avoid the full ten thousand that would legally need to be reported to the authorities. But as he waited there, his palms greasy with sweat on the marble counter, he was sure she was turning him in. The longer she was gone the more convinced he was that she wasn't just calling her manager or the IRS but that she was actually a DTAA agent setting him up.

Even when she returned and counted out the bills in front of him, R.J. was certain it was all part of her trap. But no one tried to stop him as he left or at any point on the way back to his car.

Sitting in his parked Acura, he almost broke into tears. Because of the stress or the relief, he wasn't sure. His shoulders began to shake and he rested his head down on the pad of the steering wheel, only to set off the horn.

He quickly glanced around to see whose attention he and drawn, then started the car and left.

Doing the math he thought, okay, with the money from home, that's a little over twenty-three thousand. It better be enough.

Nikki spotted him approaching and put the wine bottle down and patted her guest on the shoulder. "I'll be right back," she told him.

As soon as R.J. was in reach, she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him in close to her and walked them both back a few feet toward the kitchen.

"I'm happy you changed your mind, but you could have dressed up a bit.

"Sorry." He was wearing the jeans and blue Oxford shirt he'd had on since the morning. Normally, it wouldn't have been too bad. This wasn't exactly a black-tie event, but the day's activity had left them limp and grungy. He must look a mess. R.J. glanced at the mirror above the bar and was greeted with a validation of his fear. He patted down his unruly hair but there wasn't much he could do about the dark stubble or the oily sweat sheen on his face.

R.J remembered the way he had left his car in front of his house and walked down to the corner, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. If the house at the end of the block had any parents, he had never seen them. Weekday or weekend, the home usually hosted a bunch of teenagers listening to loud country music, while they drank beers and worked on dirt bikes next to a jacked up pick-up.

On this afternoon, they were all inside the garage. Through the gloom, R.J. could see them passing a joint around. On the wall behind them was a hand painted Confederate flag.

When they noticed him, a rangy kid with a red doo-rag on his head came charging out. "What the hell do you want?" he asked, squaring himself off against R.J. and pumping out his chest like gorilla.

"I wanted to ask you something?"

"If you want the music turned down, you can fuck right off."

"Play your music as loud as you want, for all I care. I just wanted to know if you fellas..." On the way over he had decided to use fellas. Boys, gentlemen, guys, and dudes all felt wrong and likely to receive a poor reception.

"I just wanted to know if you fellas would like to mess with the government and make an easy grand?"

R.J. finished fixing his hair the best he could and said to Nikki, "I have to talk to you."

Nikki still held his wrist and he used her grip to drag her the rest of the way into the kitchen. The bright whiteness and the increase in temperature were startling. The cooks and dishwashers looked over at them and they retreated behind a rack of dishes and bowls for some partial privacy.

"What's going on?" The concern in her voice was clear. Also clear was her annoyance. These weren't two things that often went together, but she managed to pull it off.

In the glare of the kitchen, he finally looked at her—really looked at her.

Her hair was done up in an intricate lace work bun at the top of her head. The stylish black cocktail dress she wore hugged all her curves and made an alluring plunge at her cleavage. The lack of sleeves showed off her toned biceps and the knife tattoo on her left forearm.

"You look nice tonight.

"R.J." There was a warning in the way she said his name. "I do not have time for one of your maybe I love you talks. Not tonight."

"It's not that. I'm in trouble. Big trouble. I need your help."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

He held her hands in his. "I can't go into it. But I need to leave for a while and I need a car?"

"What happened to yours?"

"It's fine. But I need one that can't be traced back to me."

"So you want mine?"

"No. I need to buy one. One that I won't have to sign papers for."

"What the hell have you gotten yourself into and what do you want from me?" She was speaking in a hushed hiss that had the same power as a yell.

"You mentioned once that you knew a guy that dealt in less than legal transactions. I was hoping you could introduce me."

Nicki raised her fists to her temples and gave her head a simple shake, as if it might dispel her anger and frustration.

"Yeah, I know someone. But I'm not doing anything until you tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Aira. It's not what it seems. It's not a cosmetics company, it's a government facility."

"No shit." She dragged the words out like she'd been waiting to say them for years.

"You knew?"

"I knew it was something. You lied too much for it to be legit." The look on her face told R.J. she was grinding her teeth. Perhaps he should have had this conversation with her a long time ago. "So is this where you tell me you're a spy?"

"No. I'm a biologist."

"So at least that part wasn't a lie."

"I really can't go into everything but I do work at a research lab, we just aren't testing cosmetics. It's really complicated, but they're planning on killing one of our main subjects. I can't let that happen. I could never forgive myself if I stood by and let them go through with it. So I'm going to rescue her. But when I do, they'll be after me. That's why I need the car."

More lies dripped from his tongue. White lies—lies for her protection—omissions of truth, really—but lies nonetheless. He was getting good at it. He was learning fast.

He still couldn't believe he had actually lied to Maxwell and gotten away with it. At least, as far as he knew Wiley had believed him. But it would be impossible to be sure, until this plan was over and he was either fleeing The Music Box with Amy or he had a bullet in his skull.

But he couldn't think about that. He couldn't think of all the millions of things that could go wrong. If he did that he would never have the courage to go forward with it. His rescue plan was a house of cards that could be toppled with the slightest breath.

"Hey, Maxwell," he had said into the phone. His voice was quiet and the words trickled out with resignation. "Do you have a minute? I want to talk about that thing you mentioned in my office."

"Yeah. Sure. What is it?"

R.J. let out the breath he'd been holding. "I just wanted you to know..." He sniffed, grinding air against his dry nasal pathways in the hope it would sound emotional. "You're right. There's no other choice. We have to concentrate on the science and everyone else. And we..." He stopped. This time the lump in his throat was genuine. How could he talk about Amy like this without feeling the looming consequences of his failure? "We have to make sure she doesn't suffer."

"Of course. I couldn't agree more. How do you want to handle it?"

"I'll start telling the others Monday. I'll meet with them one on one and get them on board."

Only after R.J.  had hung up and was fairly confident Maxwell had bought it, did he dare open the new email message that he'd been staring at on the computer screen the whole time.  It sat at the top of the inbox of an encrypted account on a Chinese server. R.J. didn't know a lot about technology but it was pretty easy to find the instructions to set up an untraceable account. He had only used it to contact one person: Bill Redwood.

Since retiring from the Dutch Harbor fishery, his old smoking buddy had moved down to Galveston and started a charter boat business to take tourist out fishing on the Gulf.

"I can't take the cold anymore," he had said two years ago, when he told R.J. he was moving back to Texas. "And I want to be out on the open water catching fish, not behind a desk reading reports from people that do."

The window flashed open on the computer. At the top of a dozen back and forth messages was the reply: "I'll be waiting with gas in the tank and beers in the cooler."

R.J. bit his lip, happy that Bill had said yes but worrying about the funds. That agreement hadn't come cheap. One thousand to the redneck kids. Ten to Bill. Hopefully the car will be cheap.

"Please, Nikki," he said holding his hands together in a pleading gesture. "I know I'm an asshole and I'm asking way too much from you, but I wouldn't come to you unless it was important."

"Great. My boyfriend is leaving me for a chimpanzee." Nikki blinked rapidly and ran her hand over her forehead. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. When do you need it?"

"Tomorrow night."

***

The sliver of light was all.

In the darkness, he sometimes slipped in and out of sleep. He moved between the subconscious nightmares through the ephemeral fog to the conscious ones like a ghost moving through walls. But the sliver of light meant somewhere it was daylight.

Of course, it was always day somewhere. Just because he was trapped in hell didn't mean that the world had stopped on its axis, that it no longer orbited the sun, that half the globe wasn't always basked in solar rays. No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

No. It was always day somewhere. It just was never day down here. But the sliver told him that somewhere above him there was daylight.

He raised himself up on his thin arms and crawled out of his nest of rags. The calluses on his knees protected him from the rough stone floor. He worked his way to the corner and ran his fingers along the join in the cinder blocks. A little more of the concrete ran away, crumbling to dust.

He caressed the light with his fingertip.

A long time ago, he might have look to it as a way of escape. He might have tried to tunnel out, following that light, not because it was light but because it guided him out. But that was a long time ago. A long time. Ago.

Now the light was enough.

All he need was the light. And water.

Water.

When was the last time they gave him water? He was so thirsty.

Bastards! The always forgot about him. But sometimes that was a good thing. It was good to be forgotten about. Except for the thirst.

He continued to stroke the light, running his finger back and forth delicately as though he was petting a mouse. The concrete continued to crumble and flow down the wall like sand in an hourglass.

It was the dryness. The dryness and the heat. It weakened the cement. It also made him very thirst.

There: that's proof. Everything is connected.

The light and the thirst. Heaven and hell. All connected.

A chip the size of his fingernail fell from the corner. Landing on the floor it made a thud that sounded like a stone hitting the bottom of an empty well.

At the bottom of the streak of light there was now a dark hole. No light came from the hole.

No. Wait. There was something.

He leaned closer and moved his head around until he saw the glint again. A small trickle of light seeped in and gleamed off something shiny.

The hole was barely big enough for his pinky but he worked it in. His nail caught on a ridge and he could feel cool metal pressing into his skin.

Giddiness threatened to overtake him. It was bubbling up like a noxious gas from a volcanic spring

No. No. No. No.

He stamped it down. You could drown in hope. Hope hurt. Pain erased hope. It was all connected.

He pulled on the metal. There was some resistance but soon it gave way and his finger dragged it toward him.

It fell and clattered with a ting-a-ling-a-ling.

Dropping to his knees, he scrambled for it. His hands moved in a frenzy, sweeping the filthy ground. Something bit him. He cupped his hands down on the spot.

There was a time when he would have recoiled at the nip, but not now. He had learned. Things that bit had a use. Things that bit could be bitten.

He waited but there were no more bites. No scurrying. Nothing.

His hand crept over the space and there it was.

He gripped it and rose to his feet. The object between his fingers seemed to pour euphoria into him like helium that pulled him upward. He held it before him as though it were Excalibur. The faint light of the sliver shined on the nail.

No. Not just any nail.

His nail!

It was probably dropped by some careless worker during construction. It was about three inches long with only the slightest of heads. It was beautiful.

With it, he could...

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Just maybe. Maybe he could kill the demon that came to feed him. Maybe he could finally get out.

He slapped his free hand against his thigh and danced around the cell.

His feet froze. His hand clamped over his mouth. He was making too much noise. Making too much hope.

Crouching down in his nest, he ran his fingers over the washboard of his ribs.

Must keep his nail quite. Must keep it secret.

Because maybe.

The darkness whispered, escape.

Maybe, he answered mouthing the word.

Maybe the light was going to lead him out after all. And if he got out, maybe he could kill them all. Murder every last one of them.

Maybe Horus could finally get rid of Kyle Silver once and for all.

***

Author's note: Apologies if R.J.'s scene is a bit rough. It needed a lot of reworking and I ended up not getting a lot of time to smooth it out. 

So chapter two is in the bag. R.J. has a plan, Barbara's dinning with the enemy, Maxwell seems to be towing the company line, and Horus is back. I'd love to know what  you are thinking about all this.

The music was picked very last minute. This whole posting is a bit of a rush (as I type this I'm racing to get ready to leave the house). I absolutely love Galactic so it didn't feel like I could go wrong with them.