Dash Wilder grinned at his partner who was driving the prison van. "This is gonna be a fun trip," he chuckled.
Scott Dawson nodded. "Road trips with him are always fun. Just hate driving these back roads."
Wilder shrugged. "This is the route we were told to take. Apparently, that D.A. in Moline is worried the Authority's gonna try and take him out before he can testify."
Dawson laughed. "Joke's on him. Dumb D.A. is gonna look like an idiot when he blows that case out of the water."
Inside the prison van, Brock Lesnar heard the two guards laughing and smirked. It had been almost childishly easy to get them on his side. Money wasn't the only means of gaining allies in prison. Access to women. Drugs. The aura of power. In return for these things, they looked the other way when Lesnar had to discipline someone and sometimes even helped. Lesnar ruled the prison population, and everyone knew it.
Lesnar leaned against the wall of the prison van and chuckled. At least two nights with all the food, booze and women that he wanted. The Authority would see that he was well supplied. The stupid D.A. in Moline had no idea how well the Authority had infiltrated his office.
Lesnar was jolted out of his pleasant contemplation of the next two days by an explosion that sent the prison van upward then rolling in mid-air to the left. Flying across the van, Lesnar cried out in pain when the van landed hard on the pavement. He vaguely heard both Dawson and Wilder scream as the van bounced and skidded off the road.
Dawson dazedly looked at his partner, inwardly cursing the man for not wearing a seatbelt. His head had obviously cracked the windshield and was a bloody mess. He blinked as the passenger's side door was opened. A tall muscular man with long black hair reached in and checked Wilder's pulse.
The man chuckled in amusement. "You should always wear your seatbelt. Safety first, you know." He looked past Dawson who had just realized the door on his side of the van had been opened.
'Gloves. They're wearing gloves. Won't be fingerprints.'
An even taller man, this one broadly built with short red hair, stood staring down at him in bemusement. "Don't think the seatbelt is going to help this one." He quickly grabbed Dawson's head and rammed it into the steering wheel with a great deal of power.
Dawson was barely conscious the second time it happened.
The two men slammed the doors to the van shut and walked to the back of the prison van where a third man waited.
"They're dead," the black-haired man reported.
"Excellent work, Mr. McIntire. Mr. Kane." Aleister Black looked back at the road. "Especially with the demolition work."
Kane shrugged. "Thank Uncle Sam for the training." He and Drew McIntire pulled out their guns and trained them on the back doors of the van.
Aleister drew out a set of keys and unlocked the door. He stood back and nodded to the other two men.
Kane opened one of the doors just wide enough for McIntire to throw something inside. Then he closed the door. Both men held the doors shut as Aleister locked them.
Lesnar took a deep breath to yell at the men he'd just seen. Then he began to cough. He glared at the small flare-like object that had been thrown in to the van. It was spewing out some sort of mist and gas.
"Let me out!" Lesnar yelled. He managed to crawl to the back of the van and began beating on the door. "You know who I am? Let me out of here!"
Kane stared at the locked van doors with amusement. McIntire laughed.
Two minutes later, Lesnar was unconscious.
Aleister waited another two minutes before opening the door again. McIntire and Kane pulled Lesnar from the back of the van while Aleister retrieved the device he'd thrown into the van. Handling it carefully with gloved hands, he sealed it in a large baggie. He then followed Kane and McIntire to where their car was parked across the road. He silently watched as the two men dumped Lesnar into the trunk then got into the back seat of the car.
Thirty seconds later, they were driving away.
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The memorial service for Io Shairi was subdued and respectful. Cole wasn't sure what to expect but the brief service, although conducted in Japanese, seemed almost comforting. Her cousin, Asuka, spoke briefly about her admiration for Io's determination to succeed and her kindness to others. Her cousin, Shinsuke, did not speak.
After the service, Cole stood in line to give his condolences to the two cousins. He'd immediately seen Shinsuke's dark eyes widen when he spotted Cole in the audience. Cole silently rehearsed what he was going to say to them as he idly listened to the man in line ahead of him speak although the conversation was in Japanese.
'All is prepared. We pray for success.'
Asuka nodded once in acknowledgement.
The Japanese man bowed low to both Asuka and Shinsuke then turned and walked away.
Cole stepped forward and quietly spoke. "I hope this service brings you both peace. It was very comforting."
Shinsuke said nothing but stared at Cole. Asuka sadly smiled. "Thank you for honoring Io with your presence."
"There are a few more test results that I'm waiting on, but I should have them by late tomorrow," Cole replied. "When you wish to meet, call my office and I'll be available at your convenience."
"If you are sure you will have everything, then the day after tomorrow," Asuka decided. "We…" She glanced at Shinsuke who nodded once then took a deep breath. "We need to know."
"How about 2pm?" Cole suggested.
Asuke nodded in agreement.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Outside the building, the Japanese man who'd been in line ahead of Cole leaned against his car and took out his cell phone. He pressed a button then put the phone to his ear. When the call was answered, he spoke in Japanese.
'Message delivered and understood.'
'Excellent. Proceed as planned.'
Hideo Itami smiled when the call was ended. The man on the other end of the call wasn't one to waste time idly chatting.
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Lesnar came to abruptly when cold water was thrown in his face. Sputtering, he groaned and opened his eyes. It only took a couple of seconds to realize he was hanging from the ceiling courtesy of heavy manacles and chains around each wrist. It only took another couple of seconds to realize his feet weren't touching the floor. He glanced down then up and realized his was chained in an "X" position with his feet a few inches off the floor.
"My apologies for the rude awakening."
Lesnar saw the man calmly sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room. 'Not good. He doesn't care if I can see him. And those tattoos I can see would make him easily identifiable.'
"I would've preferred you awaken on your own, but we are a little pressed for time."
"Who are you, motherfucker?" Lesnar demanded. He cried out when something hard struck his kidneys.
"Watch your mouth," someone behind him growled.
"My name is Aleister Black." The man leaned back in his chair. Dressed entirely in black pants and short-sleeved black t-shirt, it was the lack of emotion in the man's blue eyes that caught Lesnar's attention.
Lesnar chuckled. "You've no idea who's toes you're stepping on."
Aleister raised one eyebrow. "Are you referring to yourself, Mr. Lesnar, or to the Authority?" He slightly smiled when Lesnar couldn't conceal his look of surprise. "You, Brock Lesnar, are in no position to be a threat. And, as for the Authority…" he shrugged, completely unconcerned. "They would have to know about me in order to be a threat to me."
"What's all this about then?" Lesnar demanded.
"I'm sure you'll figure it out." Aleister nodded to the men standing behind Lesnar.
Lesnar groaned as something hard struck his left thigh. "Motherfu-"
Kane sighed. "I warned you to watch your mouth." He swung the lead pipe against Lesnar's ribs.
Aleister watched dispassionately as Kane and McIntire took turns breaking Lesnar's bones with lead pipes. After each blow was struck, Aleister calmly said a name.
Broken rib. Moxley.
Broken right foot. Amore.
Busted right kneecap. Neville.
But the name that was spoken the most was Moxley.
"Fuck Moxley," Lesnar snarled, even as he tried to breathe. "What's he paying you for this?"
"Moxley, whoever he is, has nothing to do with this," Aleister assured him. He smiled when Lesnar spat blood onto the floor. "Believe me or not as you wish. It's of no importance to me. But you must know that you've created quite a list of people who want this to happen to you. And I have no reason to lie."
Broken nose. Rawley.
Another broken rib. Ellsworth.
A broken left ankle. Moxley.
Moxley's name still mentioned more than the others. Through a haze of never-ending pain, Lesnar saw Aleister just sitting in the chair. Intoning a name with each blow. Always watching him. Assessing. Coldly calculating when Lesnar would begin to scream. Because they always screamed if you worked them over long enough.
Lesnar knew that for a fact.
Broken left wrist. Neese.
Busted right elbow. Moxley.
Lesnar began screaming. His feet weren't on the floor; and even if they were, the injuries he'd suffered wouldn't permit him to stand. The broken wrist and busted elbow wouldn't allow him to hold himself up so his dead weight dragged on the injured wrist and elbow. The final blow dislocated his right shoulder.
Moxley.
Lesnar couldn't even call it a mercy when, at a signal from Aleister, he was released and fell to the floor.
Aleister calmly stood and slowly walked to where Lesnar lay. He knelt in front of him as Lesnar tried to push himself up by bracing his weight on his one good elbow.
"Jon Moxley didn't send me," Aleister quietly spoke. "His brother did."
As the two other men pulled Lesnar to his knees, Lesnar saw Aleister walk a few steps away. 'Moxley has a bro-'
Lesnar fell sideways as Aleister's boot crushed his throat. As the three men watched in silence, Lesnar died, drowning in his own blood.
"Ellsworth," Aleister quietly spoke.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Some people would be nervous, if not afraid, to walk through a cemetery at night. Most people would wonder why anyone would even consider doing it.
But Bray Wyatt wasn't most people.
He cheerfully hummed as he made his way past tombstones, barely glancing at them. The lantern he held providing all the illumination that he needed to find the specific grave he was looking for.
Finally, he stopped and stared at the fresh grave. "Oh, Io," Bray murmured, sitting the lantern on the ground. "Have you found the peace you sought? I sincerely hope so. No more trying to live up to the expectations of people who never understood you! No more wallowing in the disappointment of this wicked world!" He smiled almost happily. "Now you have all the peace you ever desired."
Bray looked up as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Grabbing the lantern, he held it waist-high and peered into the darkness. Then he smiled as he saw who approached. "Brother Strowman! You have returned to us!"
Brawn Stroman stared down at Bray then looked at the grave. "Who?" he asked.
"Sister Io," Bray answered. "You didn't know her. She had such a kind and gentle soul. One that had been bruised by those around her."
"Including you?" Brawn asked, staring at the other man.
Bray's eyes narrowed. He started to fling the lantern into Brawn's face but felt a stinging in his neck.
Hideo thrust the needle into Bray's neck and pushed down on the plunger.
Bray angrily spun around, knocking Hideo to the ground.
Brawn grabbed Bray from behind, wrapping his arms around him.
Hideo jumped to his feet and grabbed the lantern before Bray could swing it at Brawn.
Brawn continued squeezing Bray until the combination of lack of oxygen and the sedative administered by Hideo took effect. Effortlessly, he flipped Bray around and slung him over his shoulder.
Hideo silently led the way, holding the lantern in front of him.
As they walked away, a gentle breeze ruffled the petals of the flowers on Io's grave.
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Tired almost beyond belief, Mox started the drive home. Nikki Cross, he decided, was a stern taskmaster. She might give the appearance of being a disorganized mess, but she had a lot of things organized and prioritized as to what needed to be done.
"Damn lists," Mox muttered, then started laughing. He reached out and turned on the radio to the classic country station. He hummed along with Willie Nelson as he tried to figure out if he would go stop at a fast food restaurant and take dinner home or eat whatever leftovers were sure to be found in Roman's refrigerator.
'Okay, listeners, we have an update on the story we've been following. Prison escapee, Brock Lesnar, is still at large. However, the two guards who were transporting him to Moline have been found. The prison van carrying Lesnar was found wrecked with the two guards unfortunately dead on the scene. Their next of kin have been notified so we can reveal the prison guards were Dash Wilder and Scott Dawson. Law enforcement is refusing to say what wrecked the van, citing the ongoing investigation. Listeners are warned to be cautious. Lesnar is 6'3"…'
Mox turned the radio off and slammed his hand against the steering wheel. He gunned the engine, needing to get home as quickly as possible.
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"ROMAN! ROMAN!"
Both Jericho and Samoa Joe glanced at Roman with a mixture of concern and confusion.
"ROMAN!"
After a nod from Roman, Jericho stood and walked to the hallway. "In the office," he said, spotting Mox at the other end of the hall. He turned and stepped back into the office. "He looks mad," he warned Roman.
Seconds later, Mox stood in the doorway of Roman's office. He ignored Jericho who stood by the open door and Samoa Joe who silently got to his feet. His eyes were fixed on Roman who calmly returned his gaze.
"What did you do?" Mox almost whispered.
Jericho looked at Samoa Joe who barely shrugged.
Roman slowly got to his feet with an inward sigh. 'This isn't going to be pretty.'
"Roman? What did you do?" Mox demanded. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"