Dupré got on I-5 southbound, and naturally, the Simons assumed he was going back to his shop in downtown San Diego; however, he got off the freeway and started heading east.

"I wonder where he's heading," said A.J.

"I sure hope he's not going to some estate sale to get stuff for his store."

A.J. looked around while driving and said, "It looks like, in this neighborhood, the best people can come up with is a garage or yard sale."

There were a number of vacant homes and businesses on the streets, which were poorly maintained.

Dupré slowed his car to park it on the street. It stood out among other cars, mostly beaters in various stages of falling apart. Most people with enough common sense might worry about leaving an expensive car in a neighborhood like this, but he sauntered up to the pay phone nearby like he did not have a care in the world.

"Come on, hang up the phone and get movin'." Rick grumbled impatiently keeping an eye on him.

About a half block of distance separated the brothers and Dupré, so they could not listen in on the conversation. A.J. kept his Camaro idling just in case.

After ending a brief call, Dupré started walking away from the Simons and his car.

Ready for action, Rick jumped out of the Chevy before A.J. shut off the engine.

Dupré made a turn and walked into an alley between two rundown stores.

Rick and A.J. followed him into the alley and saw him enter some commercial building through the backdoor. Rick was ahead of his brother and walking past a dumpster when a large arm shot out and struck him squarely on the jaw. The impact knocked him down.

Seeing Rick hit the ground with a loud thud, A.J. felt a burst of adrenaline and immediately got into the fighting mode to aid his brother, but someone grabbed his arm from behind, spun him around and punched him in the face.

As more blows began to rain down on them, the brothers realized that Dupré had set them up. They tried to fight back at first but soon accepted the fact that they were no match for a group of four oversized hoodlums who were obviously gym rats. They quickly realized that no weapons were involved, and that the sole purpose of this assault was intimidation. So, for the time being, they decided to surrender.

Fortunately—or, unfortunately—the brothers had had plenty of experience to know that the best way to lessen the impact of a beating was to relax the body. Easier said than done though. As Rick and A.J. tried to keep their joints loose and the bodies limp, a member of the quartet with jet-black hair gleefully taunted them, "You're not wimping out already, are ya?"

Rick's quick temper had landed him in a tight spot more than he cared to count in the past, and once again, it quashed his rational inner voice. Before the muscle with a big mouth could strike him again, Rick's booted foot shot up, hitting his abdomen hard.

The muscle staggered and landed heavily on the rear end. When he got up on his feet, he had a murderous look on his face, but Rick didn't have to see it to know he had hell to pay.

Till then, the thugs had been taking it easy so as not to knock out the Simon brothers right away. They had wanted to keep them conscious as long as possible to inflict pain and prolong their suffering in order to deliver their message: back off. But the man who had been kicked in the gut was now hell-bent for retaliation. He grabbed Rick's shirt and leaned forward to feed him a knuckle sandwich, a real meaty one.

The powerful, teeth-rattling blow felt like an explosion, and Rick's vision started graying out as he received another. He heard someone say, "Hey, what the hell do you think you're doin'?"

Mercifully, he blacked out before the angry hooligan delivered the third punch.

S&S S&S

Rick came to because of the pain. His body hurt from head to toe as though it had gone through a meat grinder—twice. After opening his eyes just a crack—they wouldn't open all the way anyway—what he saw first was the clear blue sky sectioned by the roofs of the surrounding buildings and power lines.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was and what had happened. And why he was lying in the filth on the ground. The dumpster sat between him and the mouth of the alley so the passers-by wouldn't have noticed him tossed out like a piece of garbage.

"A.J.?" He winced in pain as he spoke. "Hey, A.J., where are you?"

When his brother failed to respond, he turned over and slowly, ever so slowly, put his palms down on the cobblestones to push his body off the ground. Groaning, he gripped the corner of the dumpster to steady himself. He lifted the dumpster lid to take a look inside—no sign of his brother there.

"A.J.!"

As panic threatened to set in, he caught a glimpse of a hand peeking out of the pile of empty crates and cardboard boxes on the other side of the alley. He moved as fast as his body allowed him to, which was about the speed and agility of a ninety-five-year-old man with arthritic knees getting out of bed.

His brother was half buried under the junk; only his hand, hair and a part of his leg were visible.

Rick pulled him up, but he was still unconscious. A.J.'s pallid face was bloodied and bruised, and he figured he probably looked just as bad, maybe worse, thanks to the punk he'd had the pleasure of kicking. He noticed that A.J.'s gun was still in its belt holster, and, as he patted on his left side, he could feel his gun in the rightful place.

Grasping the lapels of A.J.'s jacket, he shook his brother gently. "Hey, A.J. You okay?"

A.J. was unresponsive lying on the junk pile motionlessly. Rick pressed his ear on his chest and heard a slow, steady heartbeat. He remembered passing out fairly early during the assault, but how much longer had A.J. remained conscious while getting worked over by four gorillas? Seconds? Minutes?

Rick was seriously wondering if he should call an ambulance when his brother finally started to come around. His body twitching, A.J. let out a barely audible moan.

"Come on, A.J. Can you hear me? For God's sake, say something!" Rick yelled while softly squeezing his brother's left hand that seemed relatively injury-free.

A.J. mumbled something that Rick couldn't quite make out.

"What?" Rick asked anxiously.

A.J.'s eyes opened slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was a little stronger, "I'm not deaf… Stop yelling at me."

Relieved, Rick felt like laughing and, at the same time, slapping him for being a smart-ass and making him worry.

Although his mouth and ears worked fine, the rest of the body did not, and A.J. needed some help getting off the heap of crates and boxes. He hobbled like a centenarian with arthritis in his knees, elbows and shoulders.

"Maybe you should have a doctor check you out," said Rick picking up and putting his hat back on.

A.J. considered his brother's suggestion for a moment but gingerly shook his head.

"You think you'll be all right?"

The younger Simon only nodded as if it were too much for him to speak.

"Wanna go home now?"

"No. Not now."

"What do you wanna do then?"

A.J. cocked his head then promptly regretted doing so grimacing in pain. "Where's the nearest police precinct?"

"What? You wanna report this?" Rick's tone was clearly that of disapproval.

"So that we'll be able to take a look at the mug shots there." A.J. elaborated. "Right now, we don't have a lot to go on—hell, we have no proof, even circumstantial evidence against Dupré. We've got to start somewhere."

Rick didn't have to think too long to agree that A.J. was right—as usual.

"Well, I'm glad your brain still works fine after getting whupped." He slapped his brother's back.

"Ow!" A.J. cried out in pain. "Damn it, Rick!"

"Oops, sorry."

"You did that on purpose!"

"What? Why do you think I'd do such a thing?"

"Because you're demented and take pleasure in tormenting your own brother!"

Rick shot an annoyed glare at A.J. "I take back what I just said—you musta gotten one knock too many to your noggin!"

As they walked back to their car, they kept yelling at each other, receiving furtive glances from the pedestrians, who avoided eye contact and hurried off.

Yelling, however, was their usual coping mechanism to vent their frustration and anger and to keep their minds off the physical discomfort. Sadly, they'd done this so many times in the past it was almost their routine after being trounced.

Getting in the Camaro slowly and carefully to not aggravate the injuries, Rick took a deep breath before speaking up again. "Are we done?"

A.J. also inhaled deeply before he answered. "Yeah, I suppose," said he tiredly.

"They're always so big," Rick said in lament.

"What?"

"The guys who beat us up—why do they always have to be so big?"

A.J. rolled his eyes because it did not hurt that much to do so. "Because that's one of very few job qualifications for a goon. They're supposed to be big and intimidating."

"And they don't fight fair. We could've clobbered them if it'd been one-on-one."

Slack-jawed, A.J. stared at his brother for a moment. "You must have had your brains scrambled. Just one of them could have tied us up in a human pretzel and put us in a hospital. We should consider ourselves lucky."

"Call me strange, but I'm not feelin' so lucky right now."

They took a short drive to the police station in relative silence and a lot of pain.