"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you – Jefferson Tracy."

There was a hail of applause. Jeff glanced around the sea of smiling faces, seeing nothing but sharks.

"Thank you, Tony." He grasped the microphone firmly. "I'm delighted to confirm the merger of the Tracy Corporation with Kanasaki enterprises. As of today Tracy Corp represents the largest engineering company in the world. Our first assurance will be to the workers of Kanasaki; our aim is to protect jobs – outside a few senior management posts, for course," he allowed himself a brief chuckle. "Gentlemen of the press – ladies and gentlemen, sorry – time for a couple of questions…yes, you…" he squinted at a name-badge, "…Andrew, is it?"

"There are rumors you'll be creaming off Kanasaki's best scientists for the Tracy Corporation design mill, Mr Tracy. Can you shed any light on that?"

"We aim to make this period of transition as smooth as possible. Of course there'll be some cross-fertilization between the two companies. While we wouldn't force anyone to relocate, I'm sure you'll see the benefits in housing some of the world's greatest minds under one roof, so to speak, and….er, yes…" Jeff pointed to another journalist.

"Robert Banyan, New York Times. Isn't it true that your hostile takeover of Kanasaki means you've achieved a virtual monopoly over large-scale engineering projects worldwide?"

Jeff smirked faintly. "This was a negotiated merger, pure and simple. And we don't like the word 'monopoly', Bob. Healthy competition is good for a capitalist economy, we all know that. There are plenty of companies out there."

"But you own them all under one guise or another, don't you Mr Tracy? Isn't it true that you've systematically gobbled up the oppos…."

"I'd like to emphasize that Tracy Corp is a community-focused company. We've engaged in local engineering projects all over the world for the benefit of those communities. We've brought water to the Sudan. We created the Saudi flood defenses. We're a company that likes to give something back."

"So there was absolutely no substance to the allegation that you were offered lucrative oil contracts in return for…"

"None whatsoever," Jeff said emphatically. "Who is this asshole?" he asided to Tony Marchant. He was careful to put his hand over the microphone. Once bitten.

Marchant stepped smoothly up. "I'm sure you'll all understand that we've all had a very long twenty-four hours. I'm way past my bed-time." He yawned dramatically, and waited for the polite chuckle to die down. "I'll be glad to arrange a full statement from our Press Officer at a later date. For now – thank you all for waiting."

He turned to find Jeff already walking away.

Later they shared a bottle of Bollinger in the old man's office. Actually that wasn't true. Jeff rarely shared anything. They had a bottle apiece.

"You realize Kanasaki's CEO will probably deck himself, don't you?" Marchant observed.

"If these people insist on clinging to outmoded honor codes that's hardly my fault," Jeff growled morosely.

Marchant glanced sharply at him. Drink always made the magnate gloomy. "What's eating you, Jeff?"

"They hate me," he said morosely.

"You're successful. You can't be successful without making enemies."

"Once in a while it would be nice to make a few friends too."

"I'm your friend."

"You don't count," Jeff said sharply. "Besides, do you think I don't know you'd stab me in the back in an instant if it suited you? No. We have to do something about our corporate image."

Marchant eased his feet onto the four hundred thousand dollar desk and took a swig directly from the bottle. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Something that will capture the public imagination. What does the public want, Tony?"

Marchant stretched back. "Heroes. Preferably superheroes. How do you look in spandex?"

Jeff snorted. "Be serious."

"I'm perfectly serious. If you were a Tony Stark or a Bruce Wayne or a Warren Worthington they'd love you."

Jeff's brow furrowed. "Tony who?"

"Comic book heroes." He chuckled and tapped his head. "Knowledge courtesy of a mis-spent youth. They all ran fantastically successful companies in their spare time – nay, in their sleep - and made indecent amounts of money with which to finance their selfless lifestyle. The rest of the time they rescued damsels in distress, battled the bad guys, and caught the public imagination." He leant his head back and dribbled champagne direct from the bottle into his open mouth. "The public wants superheroes."

"Get real, Tony."

Marchant grinned. "Real is that your reputation is beyond redemption, Jeff."

Jeff poured himself another glass. "They rescued people?"

"In distress. Damsels."

"We could rescue people."

Marchant snorted champagne out through his nose. Then he sat up straight. "Say - maybe it could be arranged. We fire one of the buildings…" he glanced about… "not this one – too many irrespace…irrelace…priceless works of art – one of the downtown warehouses maybe. We could arrange for you to be visiting. You could carry out one of the female employees. We could make sure the press were there…."

Jeff shook his head dismissively. "I was thinking big."

"You could carry two people."

"Stop pissing around, Tony. I'm thinking."

Marchant grinned. There was a brief pause.

"How about a really high profile international rescue outfit? They swing in, save a lot of lives. A lot of lives," Jeff stared off into the half-distance. His hand raised and painted an imaginary landscape. "Lots of mystery. Lots of press interest. Who are these gallant men that swoop in and rescue the distressed without a thought for their own safety? There are no names, no faces. They're masked or disguised in some way. Then, at the height of the public hype, there's a tiny trail of breadcrumbs. Some press hound picks it up, and – hey presto, our International Rescue outfit are unmasked! And who do these intrepid heroes turn out to be?" he asked dramatically.

"Employees of Tracy Corporation?"

There was a glint in Jeff's eye as he shook his head. "Even better,' he mused.

Marchant raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Jeff pushed himself up with unaccustomed alacrity. He jabbed at a control panel on his desk.

"Research," a voice responded, tinny over the intercom. "Oh, Mr Tracy…"

"The kid. The one with the stammer and the ridiculous glasses and the unpronounceable name?"

"Er – are you referring to Professor Hackenbacker?"

"That's the one. Wasn't he wittering on about designs for some airborne salvage vehicles? Have him report to me immediately."

"Er, he doesn't actually work for us, Mr Tracy."

Jeff was taken aback. "No? Well, how do I know him?"

"I believe he's suing us for breach of patent."

"He is? Well get him, anyway."

He jabbed another button.

"Legal department….oh, yes sir."

"Hackenbacker?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't follow you?"

"Young scientist by the name of Hackenbacker. Suing us."

"I – I'd have to get the case files, sir. There are rather a lot of outstanding claims at…"

"Make it go away. I want him working for me on a private project by the end of the week."

"Consider it done, sir."

Jeff jabbed another button. Marchant watched in awe. The old man was in full flow now.

"Mattie, find out where my son is posted."

"Which one?"

Jeff went red in the face. "Dammit, Mattie, I pay you to use your initiative!" He swung around to Marchant. "Tony I need you to run things around here for a few months. I'm going on sabbatical."

Marchant cocked an eyebrow. Life, he mused, was about to get more than a little interesting.

Captain Scott Tracy lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He looked supremely relaxed and only someone who knew him very, very well – and those who did numbered in single figures – would know he was inwardly chafing at the inactivity.

There was a soft noise at the outer door. He didn't move.

"Visitor, sir," the orderly told him.

There was a soft jangling of keys.

"So what did you do this time?"

Scott's eyebrows raised ever so minimally, and he swung himself into a sitting position.

"Well, well, well. Must be serious if they've called in the old man."

"They didn't call me in. I didn't even know till I arrived in this godforsaken country that you'd gotten yourself thrown in the brig again."

"You make it sound like a regular occurrence. Last time was a mistake. What's the cost of a couple of aircraft against the life of a highly qualified and very expensive-to-train pilot? They admitted as much."

"I repeat – what did you do this time?"

Scott shrugged. "Don't tell me you don't know."

"I want to hear it from you."

"I slugged my CO."

"Oh, well done," Jeff's voice dripped sarcasm. "Was there a reason for this?"

"He's a jerk. He was picking on a junior officer."

"Pretty, was she?"

"Can't say I noticed."

"My hero."

"I aim to please."

"Why do you do this?"

"I like fast and shiny things?" Scott proffered. "Shooting things down is pretty cool too. It gives me an opportunity to indulge my more animalistic tendencies in a controlled environment."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it." Jeff sighed. "But tell me again how you managed to pass the Air Force psych tests?"

"I lied," Scott responded smoothly.

"Hm. When is the court martial?"

"Who cares? They won't do anything. I'm too highly decorated. I have a reputation."

"As the craziest head job in the USAF."

Scott shrugged "I get the job done. Besides, I'm a Tracy. They wouldn't dare."

"I've talked to the prosecuting officer. He says different. That the assault charge is all that they can pin on you at the moment but - and I quote - "it'll do to be going on with." He says you're looking at twelve to eighteen months and a dishonourable discharge. Frankly, they don't know what to do with you. George says you're one of the most brilliant technical pilots he's ever come across but you insist on being a complete embarrassment to everyone."

"Yes, well," Scott muttered. "I've had a lot of practice."

"You said it. I'm not sure I can live down having a son in prison."

"You already have a son in prison, sir."

"I do?" Jeff was puzzled. He wondered briefly which one it was.

"You probably should have brought us up better."

"I probably should have drowned you at birth," Jeff growled. "Anyway, this is why I've cut a deal with the top brass. I'm buying you out."

"Out?" Scott asked blankly.

"You heard me."

"So first you make it clear that it's the Air Force or you'll disown me, and now you want to buy me out?" He looked at his father sideways. "So what now? Photocopier boy at Tracy head office? You want me to work my way up to CEO the hard way?"

"No," his father said patiently. "I have something quite different in mind for you. I'll fill you in on the way back to the States. Then I need you to find…" he clicked his fingers rapidly three times in succession "…red-head…swims a bit…"

"Gordon, sir?

"Gordon."

The light was fading fast and the alley was gloomy. Not gloomy enough, sadly, to hide Gordon Tracy from his pursuers.

They'd kept up with him for six blocks and showed no signs of tiring. What were these guys, he asked himself pitifully. Olympic athletes?

Of course, it was a dead end. Gordon looked around frantically. He rattled a couple of doors. They were locked solid. Aside from that, nothing but dumpsters. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was probably about to become intimately acquainted with one of them.

The two who'd been chasing him slowed, apparently sensing that their prey wasn't going anywhere. Gordon railed inwardly. He was far too young to meet his end in what was likely to be an unceremonious – and almost certainly excruciatingly painful – manner.

At the open end of the alley there was a sound of tyres screeching and doors slamming. Another brace of Men in Black. Great. Just great. The two front-runners waited until the others caught up, and then they all advanced, slowly, threateningly.

Gordon backed up as far as he was able, hating himself for cringing, but knowing he would cling to life for as long as they chose to let him live.

The foremost thug whose name, he knew, was Grapelli – Leo's top man - moved forward. He was, Gordon noted, wearing a knuckle duster. Gordon wondered if there would be enough left of his face to identify at the morgue. Mentally he said goodbye to his loved ones –there weren't so many he couldn't get through them in time – and held out his hand.

At the end of it dangled his car keys. "Take my wheels," he offered rather breathlessly. "You've seen her. Worth seventy grand. I can get the rest by Tuesday."

Grapelli smirked and reached out a hand. He snatched the key out of Gordon's fingers, inspected it briefly, and tossed it back to one of his henchmen. "We'll take it," he said smoothly. "What else are you good for?"

"I told you. I'm good for the rest. You'll have it on Tuesday."

"You want me to search him for cash, boss?"

"Ner," Grapelli shook his head. "I figure he's good for more and he knows it."

"I've only got twenty bucks on me," Gordon said plaintively. "I was going to use it for the bus fare seeing as you have my car an'all, but you can have it. I can always walk home."

"I figure he's good for a good time."

Gordon mouth sagged open a little. "A good…?"

Grapelli pressed closer until he had the young man up against the wall. "What d'you say, pretty boy? D'you know what it takes to be a real man?"

"Um…a preference for women?"

He was rewarded with a fist to the stomach that snatched away his breath. He straightened slowly, tears in his eyes, and seeing stars.

"The four of us are gonna have our fun now, boy, and you're gonna like it."

Gordon wondered if it was a good idea to contradict him. He thought probably not.

There was a polite cough from behind the group.

They swung around, a little stupefied. No-one – including Gordon – had heard or seen anyone approach. A newcomer was sitting on one of the dumpsters, legs swinging idly.

"Sorry to disturb the little gathering. I was wondering if you gentlemen would take a check?"

Grapelli recovered first. He approached the newcomer who regarded him steadily – if somewhat obscurely – through reflective aviator glasses.

"Are you with this heap of shit?"

The newcomer jumped down easily and stretched his neck so he could peer around Grapelli at Gordon.

"Well, I wouldn't describe it as with exactly. I have business of my own with him."

"Well it can wait."

"I assure you it can't. Now, about that check. How much does he owe you?" The newcomer patted his pockets.

Grapelli moved forward slowly. "A hundred grand. You gonna cover it?" He sounded unconvinced.

"That's the plan. Minus the car, of course. And sundry expenses. Shall we say a round twenty-five?"

Grapelli considered it. "Throw in the fancy shades and it's a deal."

"They won't look good on you." The stranger's hand went to his breast pocket. Three guns were suddenly leveled at his face.

He raised an eyebrow and gently withdrew his check book.

Grapelli snorted in amusement. "You're really think you're gonna write a check? What, you think I'm stupid?"

"You think I'm not good for it?" the stranger purred a little dangerously.

"I think you're gonna go down the bank and draw cash. Small bills."

"I think not."

"In that case," Grapelli told him, "you can come an' join our party, pretty boy. We got plenty for the both of ya."

The stranger's face twisted a little, the first emotion he'd shown. "Did he just call me pretty boy?" he asked Gordon.

"I believe he did." Gordon licked his lips nervously.

"Oh, what did you go and do that for?"

The newcomer twisted away, his shoulders drooping downwards. His movement blurred strangely.

Ten seconds later Gordon surveyed the scene. Three of the men were unconscious – he'd put one of them on the floor himself, with a degree of satisfaction – and the fourth was rolling around clutching his arm and moaning.

The newcomer tutted. "Whenever will you learn, Gordon? You're such a lousy poker player."

"Well hello to you too."

"C'mere and give your big brother a hug."

Gordon groaned. "Do I have to?"

"Yes."

Gordon reluctantly let his brother pull him into an embrace. Scott kissed him on both cheeks. Gordon scrubbed at them. "Eeuw. I wish you wouldn't do that. Is it any wonder people want to feast on our asses when they see us do that kind of thing?"

"Aw, stop yer bellyaching," Scott said fondly. "Shall we get out of here?"

"Any time you like." Gordon leant down to retrieve the keys to his car. "You wanna tell my why you're here and not dealing arms somewhere in the Middle East?"

"That was a one-off transaction," Scott reminded him smoothly as they moved towards the main street. "I was recycling. You know I'm ecologically minded. How's WASP?"

"A drag. I must have done something wrong in a previous life."

"A previous life?" Scott asked carefully.

"Well it can't be this one, can it? They want to send me to a biosphere for a year. A year! Man, I mean. Crappiest detail you can get. Can you blame me for wanting to make this shore leave one to remember?"

"Well it certainly had all the hallmarks of a great vacation. Casinos. Poker. Near-death experiences. You're not going to the biosphere."

"I'm not?"

"I'm here to drag your sorry ass to see Dad. He has a proposition for you. Then we need to see Virgil. Together. I need your help to get him on board with this. Into the car, little one."

"What about mine?"

"Leave it. Keep the keys. You never know when it'll come in handy."

Gordon got into the passenger seat, chewing things over thoughtfully. Scott needed his help.

Life was always throwing up surprises.

Question was how to turn them to one's advantage.

Virgil Tracy was alone with his thoughts.

There was a time in his life when that had been a good thing. Now it just depressed him.

He rubbed the back of his hand absently on his beard, leaving streaks of scarlet amongst the auburn.

He stepped back to look at his picture. He wasn't happy with it. He wasn't happy with anything. He lit a cigarette.

Living as a recluse on a deserted island was supposed to be a life-changing, life-affirming experience. It was supposed to give him time to sort out his head, to get away from his god-awful family, and to break him of an increasingly heavy reliance on any substance he could usefully abuse.

Well, he'd gotten away from his family at least. The rest was work in progress.

He flicked paint arbitrarily at the canvas and considered. He decided it was a marked improvement.

In the distance there was a whine of aircraft noise.

Virgil frowned. It wasn't the first Tuesday of the month, the day, if he was lucky, the sea-plane remembered to drop supplies. He was well stocked up – well, he was running a little low on weed, but chances were, if he looked hard enough, he'd find some growing on the island somewhere. He was still trying to give it up, anyway.

The droning got louder. It was beginning to annoy him.

Virgil turned his sound system as high as it would go. Loud rock music thundered out. He knew from past experience that this threatened his portable generator for some reason he'd never been able to fathom, but he did it anyway. Then he went back to his painting.

Twenty minutes later he cursed as the sound of Turtles and Robots died mid-chord, or whatever passed for chords in 'Ninety minutes of the maddest, baddest sound show on earth'. "Freakin' genera…"

He stopped in some surprise.

Scott pocketed the knife he was carrying, and handed Virgil the plug from his sound system. "Howdy."

"Howdy yourself," Virgil said, without enthusiasm. He pocketed the plug.

Gordon crossed to the painting and studied it curiously. He turned his head first to one side then another. Finally, he turned himself as far upside-down as he could get without actually standing on his head. Virgil couldn't find it in his heart to blame him. He wasn't too sure himself which way up it was supposed to go.

"Nice place you got here," Scott said, genially. He glanced around the wooden shack. There was a hole in the corrugated roof that leaked like crazy every time it rained, and the door hung off its hinges where Virgil had slammed it in a drunken rage the previous week. It looked like a tornado had hit it, but that was just how it looked after fourteen months of Virgil living in it.

"I like it," Virgil said sourly.

"How've you been?"

"Great. Just great."

Scott nodded and shook his head all at the same time. "I can see that." He peered more closely. "Is that paint in your hair?"

"Probably."

"Thank goodness for that. I thought you might have been cutting again. Give me a hug."

Virgil's shoulders slumped. "Do I have to?"

"Don't be a baby," Scott said fondly. He pulled his brother close for a kiss.

"I hate when you do that. It's demeaning. And it somehow reminds me you're a psychopath," Virgil told him morosely.

"Mild psychopathic tendencies, please. And that was just one shrink's opinion. Now ask me why we're here."

"Why are you here?"

"Because we're starting up a new family enterprise and Dad wants everyone involved."

"Dad?" Virgil's face screwed up suspiciously. "Is he here?"

Scott glanced out of what was left of the window. "He's supervising the engineering crew."

"The…what…?" Virgil pushed past his brother and glanced out of the door. "What? There are people out there. Scott, there are people."

"Engineers are people too."

"I hate people. What are people doing here? What in hell is he doing to my island?" he headed for the door.

Scott spread his hands placatingly. "Well, technically, you know, it isn't your island…Virg?"

But Virgil was headed out of the door.

Scott sighed and went to join Gordon where he stood, still gazing at Virgil's art-work. "Thanks for the moral support there, bro'."

But Gordon's mind was elsewhere. "What do you suppose this is?"

Scott slipped an arm around his shoulders and twisted his head to one side. "I have absolutely no idea," he said wonderingly.

…

"Let me see if I've got this straight. We're going to rescue people."

"You've got it," Scott affirmed for the sixth time.

"We're going to form an outfit called International Rescue, and we're going to rescue people."

"That's it."

"We're not going to hunt them down, or beat up on them, or extort money from them, or swindle them."

"No."

"Because none of us would ever do those things. Right?"

"Virgil, I really don't know where this image of me as a vicious psychopathic killer comes from." Scott stamped his empty beer bottle down, eviscerating a tiny lizard that happened across the table at that moment.

"Dad actually wants us to help people," Virgil asked wonderingly.

"Dad wants some good PR," Scott said smoothly. "I think the idea is that when the outfit is doing its job and getting people talking that he'll leak it that it's his own boys that are laying their lives on the line."

"So he doesn't want us to help people?"

"He wants us to help people, for the wrong reasons."

"So you've got a plan, right? I - I mean, you've always got a plan. It's what you do."

"I've got a plan to make sure that the public never learns who we are. We do this, it's for the best possible reasons, not for some cheap publicity stunt. Are you in?"

"I…I need to think about it." Virgil was suddenly rather overwhelmed.

Scott shrugged. "Think all you want." Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father in the middle distance, arguing with the construction workers. He forced his attention back to what Virgil was saying.

"I just…I never thought you'd feel this way about, well, giving something back to society."

Scott sighed. "Well, you know how it is. After the first quarter century a guy gets to this age where I guess he starts thinking about things in a different way, you know? You're looking at the all new altruistic Scott Tracy."

Virgil felt tears prick the back of his eyes. "I need to…hell, I need to step out for a moment."

"Sure thing, Virgil. Bring back another six pack, would you?"

The brothers watched him leave. As the door shut, it jarred loose a fine layer of dust from the ceiling. Gordon flicked some off his jacket. "That isn't actually the plan, is it?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Scott rolled his eyes. "Oh, p...lease!" He picked up another bottle of beer. The two brothers sat in equable silence for a few minutes.

The door swung open to admit their father. "Oh, this is where you two layabouts have been holing up, is it?"

"We've been making plans," Gordon said with dignity.

"Well you'll have to move. The engineers have decided this is the best spot to site the villa. This shack will be coming down any minute."

The door swung open again, and Jeff turned impatiently. "And you are…?"

"Virgil, sir," Virgil told him. "Your son?" he added helpfully after a moment.

"Oh, that Virgil." Jeff frowned. "Were you the fourth or the fifth one?"

"No, sir."

Jeff was still clearly puzzled. "Did you always have that beard?"

"Not when he was born, sir," Scott said carefully.

Jeff grunted. "I didn't see you on the plane coming over, did I?"

"He lives here, sir."

Jeff shook his head, totally confused. "Here?"

Scott gestured around the shack.

"Don't be silly. No-one lives here. Now, move yourselves so that the demolition crew can get in."

Virgil's mouth dropped open. "Dem…"

Scott hastened his father out of the door. "I'll take care of everything….Virg, listen to me…it's just temporary. We'll have another place up and running for you in no time. Think of it. You'll have your own space, I promise. A state of the art studio…"

"I want my shack," Virgil said ominously. His fists balled.

Scott spread his hands placatingly. "We can move it for you, if that's what you'd prefer. But think of that art studio. With sea views."

"I want a piano."

"We'll get you a piano. A grand."

"A white one," Virgil said mutinously.

Scott sighed deeply. He wondered how easy it was to get a white grand piano. Perhaps they could be spray-painted. "We'll get you a white grand piano." He cast a glance at Gordon, who just shrugged.

Virgil subsided, his eyes narrowing.

Scott waited, his hands still spread.

"Hmf," Virgil said. He sank back onto a pile of rags, and picked up a beer.

Scott relaxed. "Good. That's settled. Do you think you can look after things at this end without flying off at the deep end? I need Gordon to go locate the sprout."

Gordon grimaced. "What kind of a nickname is that? He hates it. We all hate it. What's he supposed to have sprouted from?"

"Our father's loins?"

"Euew. That is so disgusting. I can't imagine anyone that old having sex. Particularly Dad."

"Well he must have got it up five times at least," Scott said reasonably. He considered. "Well, allegedly."

"No wonder Mom walked out."

"Mom didn't walk out," Scott said with the patient demeanor of someone who had explained himself many times but still hadn't quite made himself understood. "Mom died, Gordon."

"So you say. First she died in an avalanche. Then a skiing accident, then childbirth. Alan's been traumatized ever since you spun that one. Isn't it time you faced it? Mom walked out on us."

Scott's face took on a blank faraway expression.

"Fine, whatever," Gordon said hastily. "I'll find Alan for you. What will you be doing?"

Scott snapped back to the present. "I'm flying to London. I need to see a Lady about a dog collar."

"Now, Sir Jeremy," the voice was lugubrious, delicious; the sound alone was enough to make the diplomat shudder with anticipation. "Why don't you tell Lady Caw-Caw just what a bad boy you've been?"

"I...I've been v-very bad, Mistress."

"Of course you have," she encouraged soothingly.

She traced the edge of her riding crop down the length of Sir Jeremy's outstretched arm and side.

He was spread-eagled, tied firmly to the uprights of the antique four-poster which adorned the presidential suite of this very upmarket hotel. He was naked, except for a thong which barely covered his burgeoning erection, and, somewhat incongruously, his socks. Sir Jeremy did not like to get his feet cold.

Lady Caw-Caw moved around into view. She was dressed in a black corset with silver highlights. Her long blonde hair tumbled around the silver eye mask she wore to protect her identity. He sometimes wondered if she was pretty under the mask, but he had never seen her face. Ultimately, she was so good at what she did that he really didn't care very much.

Thigh-high shiny plastic boots creaked a little as she eased onto the bed in front of him. The tip of the whip trailed slowly down his chest, leaving a trail in the sweat pouring off his body. It reached the top of the small slip of material protecting his manhood and then drew a line up the inside of his thigh. Sir Jeremy shivered.

Lady Caw-Caw sat back to examine her handiwork. One hand played absently with the top of her bustiere, inadvertently unlacing the top in such a way as her pert little bosom threatened to erupt over the top.

Sir Jeremy moaned and shut his eyes quickly.

"Sir Jeremy," she chided. "I can see you having naughty thoughts again."

"I'm sorry, Mistress."

"We shall have to something about that dirty mind of yours," she said severely. She glanced downwards. "My, we are a big boy, today," she purred. "Let's ensure we stay that way, shall we?"

Sir Jeremy moaned again as a hand dipped into his briefs and there was the cold snap of metal on flesh. Then with a swift movement, she was off the bed. He tried to swivel, to see what she was up to, and she tutted. "And nosy into the bargain. Let's do something about that too, shall we?"

He felt a soft cloth being tied around his eyes.

She tested his bonds carefully. "Tight enough?"

Sir Jeremy nodded. He felt very safe, very contained.

"Now tell me, Sir Jeremy, how old are you?"

"Forty-four, Mistress."

"Then you know exactly how many to expect. Happy birthday, by the way." If she noticed that he'd had a birthday every month or so since he'd begun visiting her, she failed to mention it. "Open up for Mistress, there's a good boy. We wouldn't like those nasty bell-boys to hear you scream, would we now?"

Sir Jeremy obediently opened his mouth so she could slip in a ball gag. Cool fingers drifted down his back and rested for a moment. He felt his excitement mounting. It was the final stage before….

….aah, yes! The first blow fell across his buttocks with a sweetly sickening intensity. He arched, but had barely recovered when the next fell, just a little higher.

Sir Jeremy moaned into the gag. This was going to be the best session ever.

…

"Did all go well, Parker?"

"Swimmingly, m'lady."

The blonde beauty stretched out, her housecoat pulled demurely around her, as Parker poured tea.

"So good footage?"

"The cameras were all workin' perfectly, m'lady. We got some – huh - nice shots of the gentleman's face before you put the blindfold on 'im."

"Splendid, Parker."

"Will you require me to contact the gentleman? I take it it'll be the usual fee, m'lady?"

"No, Parker." She sat back, in reflective mood. "Sir Jeremy is one of our special customers. He has some very special contacts. Demanding money would be such a waste of his potential. No – I'll find a better use for Sir Jeremy when the time comes."

"As you wish, m'lady." Parker glanced at his watch. "We'd better be making tracks soon. You're due at the Women's h'Institute at 7.30."

Penelope shook herself. She'd quite forgotten. "So I am, Parker, so I am."

…

Parker drew the roller round to the front of the hotel. He left the engine running, and stepped out for a fag and bit of a chat and a laugh with the other chauffeurs.

At length, her Ladyship appeared, porter at her side. Considering how little she wore on these occasions, she sported a surprising amount of luggage. Parker had already loaded the Special Gear into the boot.

He opened the door for her, and then slid into the driver's seat, and froze as he looked into the mirror.

A young man sat beside her Ladyship.

Parker and Penny's eyes caught one another in the mirror. If the young man had seen the exchange there was no sign. But that might be because of the reflective sunglasses hiding his eyes. Parker's hand dropped.

"Lady Penelope, I presume."

"You appear to have me at a disadvantage, Mr…"

"Tracy. Scott Tracy. And the idea of anyone having you at a disadvantage seems remarkably unlikely."

"Why, Mr Tracy. I can't think what you mean."

He grinned easily. "Relax Parker. I took the gun out of the glove compartment."

That didn't really worry Parker, who kept another holstered at all times. He met her ladyship's eyes again for the briefest of moments, then swung around, his gun pointing at the stranger's head.

Only to find Tracy pointing one at his, and another at her Ladyship, who in turn had her little pistol stuck in the young man's ribs.

Tracy squirmed a little. "Well, this is awkward."

"Isn't it just," her Ladyship murmured, grinding the gun in a little further for emphasis.

He squirmed a bit more and then started laughing unexpectedly. "Sorry. Ticklish. Could you…maybe not do that? Look, I'm perfectly harmless. Do you think you could maybe all put the guns down before someone notices this little Mexican number we've got going and calls the police? Maybe on a count of three?" He sounded like the voice of reason personified.

Penny reached up with her spare hand and gently tugged his sunglasses off.

Blue eyes regarded her steadily. "You see? Harmless."

"Very well," she agreed in the tone of voice that told everyone that the least hint of funny business and he'd be minus a heart. "One, two, three…"

They all put down the guns. Parker kept his close by.

The young mutt had the cheek to reach forward and pat him on the shoulder. "Drive on, Parker. Lady Penelope and I have some business to discuss, that's all. Lady Penelope – my father and I are trying to establish a network of agents…."

…

"Last one!" Jeff said triumphantly, waving his cell phone. It was a minor miracle that there was any reception out here.

"Last what?" Virgil asked. He kneaded his temples in an effort to soothe away the remains of a tension headache.

"On my list. The idea is that we build up a network of loyal agents to provide intelligence and support International Rescue's endeavors."

"Loyal agents?" Virgil was feeling a little slow. "We have loyal agents?"

He watched as the ground on which the shack he'd called home these many months was bulldozed and leveled to make room for something his father had described as "a little bit bigger." Beneath them, the ground was resonating to the sound of gelignite as tunnels and caverns were hollowed out.

"Scott bet me I couldn't find fifty loyal people who'd act as our eyes and ears."

"So this is Number 50, I guess?"

Jeff shrugged nonchalantly. "Near as dammit. This will be Agent 47."

Deep in the Indiana swamps, Richard Hurst collected his final specimens for the day. "Well, that about wraps it up," he told himself through gritted teeth.

A grad student with the State University, he'd spent much of the past three months traipsing through boggy marsh land, cataloguing mosses for his research. While Richie was the outdoor type there was a limit to his love of wet boots, pre-packed rations, and mosquitoes.

Richie shouldered his pack and headed back towards his jeep.

It had been a wretchedly wet week and he picked his way miserably through the mud. There was no trail, as such, but Richie had an uncanny sense of direction, and a compass in his pack should he need it.

But a mile from 'home' he stopped dead.

In front of him where this morning he was sure there had been a four foot stream, there now gushed a small river.

"Damn it," he swore softly.

He glanced around himself. No, he hadn't taken a wrong turn. The river simply hadn't been there that morning.

But now it was, and goodness only knew how long it would take him to find a ford. The night was drawing in.

Richie felt the first stab of unease.

He glanced around. Up or down river, that was the question. If he went up, it might be easiest to cross at source. But the source might be miles away. Down gave the possibility that the water might drain off, or spread out across a shallow patch of land.

Richie set off down-stream with some reluctance. He followed the line of the new river as far as humanly possible, stopping at regular intervals to gauge the possibilities for a crossing. Twice he attempted it, only to find himself sinking into deep mud. The danger of drowning in quite shallow waters was all too real. The second time he slipped, gashing his hand on a stone and scratching his cheek badly.

The last of the light was nearly gone now. Richie reached into his pack for his flashlight. He found some disinfectant and cleaned the wound on his hand. Then, in the absence of bandages, he wrapped it as carefully as he could in a clean specimen bag.

Trying not to become disheartened, he continued to track the newly formed stream. He wondered if he'd made the wrong call. Perhaps he should have turned source-wards. He held up his watch to the torchlight. More than an hour since he'd been turned off his course. He was increasingly worried that even if he managed to ford the river and back-track, he'd miss his own trail, especially in the dark. He had GPS in the car, of course. Why hadn't he thought to bring it with him?

Another fifteen minutes and he was beginning seriously to panic. It was almost pitch

black, and he was as good as lost in a swamp that was known for its gator population. Richie stopped dead, trying hard not to hyper-ventilate.

And that's when he saw the light.

Richie stared, and rubbed at his eyes, thinking it was a perceptual trick. But no, when he opened them again, the light was still there.

"Hello?" he called. There was no response. "Help!" he tried hopefully.

He began to make his way towards the light, praying that it didn't disappear, because if it did he'd have lost his bearings both on the light and the river, and he'd be pretty literally up the creek.

But the light didn't disappear. It got steadily brighter with ever step he took.

In the distance, now, he could hear a sound. The steady crack-crack-crack of somebody chopping wood.

Richie broke into an unsteady run. "Hello?"

The sound stopped.

Richie saw the most welcome of sights looming up out of the gloom; a small run-down old cottage. It was the porch light that he'd seen in the distance. And on the porch was an old timer, who'd paused in his wood chopping activity to peer at him the gloom.

Richie ran up breathlessly. "Hello? Oh …thank…goodness…"

"Hey there, young fella! Where in the world did you come from?"

Richie pointed behind him. "River…lost my way…"

"Say no more, young fella. That ol' stream's treacherous this time o'year. I seen it rise in an hour or less. Say, you're hurt."

"It's nothing. If you could just point me in the right direction, I'll be on my way."

"You'll be no such thing, young fella." The old hillbilly looked at him kindly. "You're hurtin' and hungry, and you'll catch your death o'cold unless we git you warm and dry. Now come on in and let Ma fix you up with some warm soup."

An hour later, Richie was wrapped in a blanket in front of a roaring fire, his hand expertly bandaged, sipping home-made broth. He felt a little light-headed.

"This is so kind of you, Jeremiah. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

"Oh, stuff an' nonsense," Jeremiah said dismissively. "You'll stay the night, son. Tomorrow, I'll go find your car. Ma Tuttle and me, well we don't often git company these days, ain't that right, Ma?"

Jeremiah used the title as a courtesy. Ma had moved in with him as a slip of girl, but more than forty years on she and Jeremiah had never quite gotten around to tying the knot.

Not that it mattered much to them. As a point of fact, they were related in a number of complex and convoluted ways.

Ma smiled benignly. "That's right, son. Would you like some more o'my soup?"

Richie shook his head reluctantly. "Don't take it the wrong way, ma'am. It's damn near the finest soup I ever tasted. But I'm absolutely full up." He rubbed his stomach contentedly.

Both Jeremiah and Ma grinned, pleased. "Well, I expect you'll be wanting some sleep now, son. I'll show you up."

"Thank you. Has anyone ever told you you're a real pair of life-savers?" He followed Jeremiah up the ladder to the loft.

Ma Tuttle sat back in her rocking chair and picked up her knitting. She listened to the unaccustomed sound of voices and footfalls above her head. There were some other, softer noises and the voices and footfalls fell silent.

At length, Jeremiah came back down the ladder.

"All sorted?" she asked him.

"Just fine and dandy, Ma. Out like a light."

Ma dropped a stitch and frowned, squinting as she tried to pick it up again. She jerked her head at length. "Don't know as we got much room left in the freezer," she noted.

Jeremiah rifled through his tools for a hacksaw.

"There ain't that much meat. Sides, some of them fish in the bottom are spoilin'. Time we threw 'em to the crocs." He stopped, deep in thought. "Wonder what kind of a vehicle the young lad's got? We sure could do with a new tractor. But I guess we'll have to make do."

"Now Jeremiah, don't be an ingrate. The Lord will provide," Ma Tuttle said wisely. "We lived by that maxim all our lives."

"So we have, Ma, so we have."

"Guessin' he just darned provided."

There was the sudden shrill sound of a cell phone. It didn't come from Richie's pack. Jeremiah frowned. "Now who in the world could be ringin' ol' Jeremiah at this time of night?" he mused.

In the heart of the Massachusetts countryside, there was an unaccustomed cacophony.

The roar of revving engines and beat music was almost deafening. A bevy of youngsters sat about on car bonnets, sipping sodas and illegally obtained alcohol, impatiently awaiting the main event of the night.

For six days out of seven this was one of the quietest roads in the county. It was long and straight; for this particular three-mile stretch the road neither deviated nor crossed another, except for the occasional farm track.

It was like a lavender hedge to bees. Every car-jock in the county headed there on a Saturday evening.

Alan Tracy was the first in the queue.

And was the man to beat.

Tonight, however, was not just any race. Tonight was the prix des prix.

Alan adjusted his radio headset. He stepped on the gas impatiently, longing for the signal to release the handbrake.

And it came, and he was off, wheels squealing. The car, a fantastically pimped variant of sedate family sedan, accelerated to sixty in less than eight seconds. Alan kept his foot floored.

In the distance, he could see the headlights of his opponent.

If there was one thing Alan had learned in twenty years of being brought up with four brothers, it was how to keep his nerve.

So his response to the oncoming headlights was to grin, sit up straighter, and accelerate even harder.

The oncoming headlights loomed larger and larger.

Alan held his position.

So did the other driver.

The two cars sped towards one another at a combined speed of one-hundred and seventy miles per hour.

Alan was cool enough to freeze a pyroclastic eruption. To the other driver, a sophomore wannabe called Josh Newcombe, it must have seemed like Nemesis herself was bearing down on him.

And at the very last split second, when it seemed inevitable that the two vehicles would collide and be instantly obliterated, Josh finally wavered and swerved.

As they passed, Alan felt a jerk as the other car brushed him marginally. A grip of iron kept him on the road and travelling forwards. His opponent was not so lucky.

Alan glanced in the rear view mirror to see Josh's car flip over and into the field.

"Oops," he said thoughtfully. Then shrugged. You wanted to play in the big league, you had to learn to take the knocks.

A few moments later he'd turned back and pulled in, and easing himself through the window, punched the air in triumph.

The assembled crowd went wild.

…

There was a knock at the motel room door.

Alan poked his tousled head up above the sheets. "Shit."

There was a soft moan from beneath him. "Baby?"

Alan turned his attention back to Bo. Bo was blonde and very, very well-endowed. He'd discovered that if he tickled her under the chin she actually purred. He went back to tickling her. She arched her back a little and purred again. Alan grinned delightedly. He wondered what she would do if he tickled more intimate parts of her anatomy.

The bedclothes moved. Alan found his back being rubbed. The sensation was perfectly delightful. Rachel was as dark as Bo was blonde. And every bit as well-endowed. Hands folded around his waist, and a finger started probing his belly-button, and in place of her hands, his back was now being rubbed instead by those enormous…

The knock at the door grew more insistent.

Alan swore again. He gently but firmly removed all the body parts that were intertwined with his own and reached for a bathrobe, trying his best to ignore the moans of disappointment.

He flung the door wide. "Yes? What?" he snapped. "Oh, it's you."

"Nice to see you too, little brother. For a man who's supposed to be at Harvard, you're remarkably hard to find. It's taken me three days to track you down."

"I have a busy schedule. Shouldn't you be on a submarine somewhere? What do you want, Gordon?"

"To talk business." Gordon shot an interested glance in the direction of Bo and Rachel. The former was eyeing him up in return.

Alan interposed himself firmly between Gordon and Bo. "Not interested."

"We're starting up a new family venture."

"Definitely not interested."

"Scott wants us all on board."

"All of us?"

"He's very insistent."

"Has he forgotten that John's still got about twenty years to serve?"

"Ah yes. And how is dear Johnnie, anyway?"

"Ask someone who cares," Alan said sourly. "Look, Gordon, did I mention I'm busy? I have a life. I have plans of my own. Whatever you're all up to, I want no part of it."

He'd backed up, inadvertently, to the bed, where Rachel, pouting at the delay, was indulging her fascination with his belly button once again.

Gordon couldn't take his eyes off Bo. Bo pursed her lips and blew him a kiss.

Alan shook his head. "All right," he snapped. "You two can…whatever…if you want. Never say I don't share my toys. Then you're out of here, right?"

"Okay," Gordon said, good-naturedly.

Alan shook his head bad-temperedly, and went back to Rachel's ministrations. He tried to ignore the noises from the other side of the room. He wondered if he should mention the purr and decided against it. Let Gordon find out by himself.

Alan continued to explore Rachel. Slowly he regained his equanimity. He lost himself deeply inside her, rather forgetting that Gordon and Bo were merely feet away on the rug.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

Alan was tugged back to the here-and-now. "What now?" he snapped.

Gordon's head reappeared from underneath Bo. Alan noted absently that there was a trail of his brother's clothes across the floor. "I expect that'll be Scott."

"What?" Alan was horrified. "Scott? Here? What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be in Kurdistan or somewhere? Oh, man, he's such a prude. He's gonna freak."

Gordon just shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. He's early. I should have thought. You know how he likes to get the jump on us."

Alan, his ardor deflating rapidly, reached once more for his bathrobe.

He hadn't made it out of bed when there was a soft noise at the door and it clicked open.

Scott stood there, credit card in hand. He surveyed the scene in front of him with a faintly raised eyebrow, though his actual expression was difficult to discern, hidden as it was behind the customary reflective shades.

Then he took a breath and stepped into the room. He ignored Bo and Rachel.

"Alan."

"Scott."

Alan hastily donned his bathrobe and scrambled to his feet.

The two brothers stood staring at each other for a long moment. At length, Scott reached into his breast pocket. Alan flinched, but only marginally. Scott drew out two hundred dollar bills. He held them up and waved them gently.

Bo and Rachel took the hint, gathered their clothes, and took a bill each on the way out.

Gordon sighed.

Scott still didn't take his eyes off Alan. "Come here, boy," he said softly.

Alan rolled his eyes and crossed over to where his brother stood.

Scott framed his youngest brother's head with both hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

Alan pulled a face and leaned aside to spit into the trash. "Do you have to do that? It's so…so Mafioso," he complained. "Every time you do it I'm convinced you've taken out a hit on me."

Scott just grinned and hugged him close.

"Has Gordon explained everything to you?"

"He came in here wittering about the family business. That sounded Mafioso too, so to be honest, I didn't take any notice of him. Whatever it is, I don't want to know."

"Ah, but you're going to love this. We're going into the rescue business."

"Good for you." Alan sat on the edge of the bed. Behind them, Gordon surreptitiously began to dress himself. "I don't much care, to be frank."

"The idea is that the five of us will form an elite rescue team," Scott continued patiently. "We're going to be backed up by the latest technology. We're going to have state-of-the-art equipment."

"Not doing it."

"Dad's got the best scientists and engineers on it."

"Which bit of 'not doing it' are you not getting here, Scott? I have a life. I'm at Harvard."

"…repeating your freshman year for the third time…"

"I'm racing cars."

"…playing chicken…"

"And bedding beautiful women."

"…screwing prostitutes in motel rooms…"

"They were not whores! You were the one waving notes at them! And I'm in a motel room out of consideration of my room-mate who is revising for his finals. Satisfied?"

"What do you most, most want to be in the whole wide world, Alan?"

Alan's face twisted. "What do you mean?"

Scott pulled up a chair, took off his shades, and looked calmly and directly into Alan's eyes.

"Ever since you were tiny, you had a dream."

"A dream?"

"A dream. What was it?"

Alan shrugged sulkily. "I guess I wanted to be an astronaut."

Scott leaned forward. "Well, the idea is that for earth-bound rescues, I'll be in charge." He cleaned his sunglasses on his sleeve. "I'll have a first response vehicle that will travel at speeds in excess of Mach 10."

Alan gave a hollow laugh. "You're shitting me, right?"

"Watch your language. Now, for space rescues, we need a different kind of vehicle. And we need someone to take charge and pilot her." Glasses in hand, he poked his younger brother in the chest for emphasis. "And that someone, little brother, is you. Kid, you are going to NASA to train as an astronaut."

Alan sat back, and let it sink in. He was plainly overwhelmed. "Aw, man! NASA? An astronaut? You mean it? I have to go phone Tin-Tin."

"Make sure she knows it's top secret. If this gets out Dad will have us all weighted with cement and dropped into the Hudson."

"Right." Alan was dismissive. "Like she'd blab!"

Scott settled back as Alan grabbed his cell and shot out into the parking lot so he could get better reception.

"Did I hear right? Did you just offer him his own space rocket?" Gordon asked with an incredulous expression on his face.

Scott leant back, fingers laced behind his head. "Gordon, how many space rescues do you suppose we'll get?"

"Duh – none," Gordon said.

Scott smiled. "Precisely."

"Well this is nice, boys." Jeff was doing his very best to make conversation.

Gordon looked around dubiously. There was a half-built villa around them. It had no power, there was no hot water, and worst of all, no pool. He wondered if 'nice' had taken on some new meaning that had passed him by.

"You bulldozed my home," Virgil muttered ominously. "For this."

"I didn't mean the villa. You need to be patient, boys. Rome wasn't built in a day. And International Rescue will make Rome look toy-town. No, I meant us all being together like this. How long is it since we were a family?"

The four boys exchanged glances.

After a few moments, Scott spoke cautiously. "Actually, sir, we're not all here."

Jeff looked surprised. "We're not?"

Scott cleared his throat. "There's Johnnie?" he reminded Jeff.

Jeff glanced around and mentally counted them off. "Johnnie. Is he…?"

"The one in prison? Yes, sir."

"Well, there you go. Not much we can do about that." He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Actually, sir…"

Jeff frowned. He was beginning to find his eldest quite annoying. It was coming back to him now that that happened quite a lot.

"We're all here that can be here. Is that better?"

"Well, not really." Scott's expression was slightly pained. "You see, I was thinking that if we're going to do this, if it's going to be a family affair, then we should all be involved."

"All?" Jeff asked flatly.

"He's in full musketeer mode," Gordon observed.

"So what - you thinking about breaking him out now?" Jeff smiled smugly. Then his expression changed rapidly. "Scott? No. No. Under no circumstances. I forbid it."

"Don't give it a moment's thought."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Of course not," Scott said smoothly.

"I mean it."

"I can see that, sir. Not going to happen. Consider the subject dropped."

Jeff looked at him suspiciously for a long moment. He looked as though he was going to pursue the issue, when one of the workmen poked his head over the half-finished wall and called for his presence.

The remaining Tracys relaxed visibly as their father left.

"So," Gordon asked cheerfully. "We're going to break Johnnie out of jail?"

"That's the idea."

Virgil looked at them, open-mouthed. "Are you out of your minds? He's in a high security prison."

Scott looked puzzled. "What's the point of a top flight rescue organization if we can't even rescue our own brother? Think of it as a maiden outing for International Rescue."

Alan's mouth twisted. "Don't you think this is the first place they're going to come looking for him?"

Scott tapped the side of his nose and winked. "Ah, but he won't be here."

"He won't?"

"Uh-uh. I've got the perfect hiding place for him. Everybody in?"

"Do you have a plan?" Gordon asked.

Scott looked pained. "What kind of a question is that?"

"Then I'm in," Gordon responded easily. "Alan?"

"I guess so," his younger brother responded dubiously.

They all turned to look at Virgil. "What if we get caught? We're talking about a high security prison break."

"If we get caught then we won't have to spend all our time traveling to visit him," Scott pointed out. This sounded so reasonable that Virgil actually found himself nodding. After a moment he frowned. "Hang on. I never visit him." He looked at Alan. "Have you visited him?"

Alan looked puzzled. "No. Have I mentioned I've been really busy?" He looked at Gordon. "I thought you visited him."

"Me? No. Scott visits him. Don't you, Scott?"

"I've been posted abroad for three years. When would I visit him? I was sure you were going regularly."

"How could I go? I've been in a submarine. Virgil?"

"Don't look at me. I've been on a desert island."

The four brothers managed not to look at one another for a long moment. And then raised their beer bottles as one.

…