Hey, it's a new chapter! Things are definitely coming up to crunch time now.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter fifteen: All or Nothing

Thomas Sexton had worked for ARK since he was eighteen—minus the four years he'd been acquiring a college degree so he could qualify for a better position in the pecking order of the ARK security troops. The company was like his family, and he'd learned one thing from his father before going to ARK: Family looks out for family, and you'd better learn to hide the bodies that cropped up if your family was threatened. In this case, though, Sexton wasn't looking for hiding places for the bodies so much as he was looking for a common origin.

The evidence room covered most of the tenth floor of ARK Towers, with a break room on the other side of the low dividing wall. Desks were scattered around the room for anyone going over evidence for cases. Sexton was the only one in the room, given the late hour. He had four desks shoved together to make a decently-sized table. All of the evidence from the Appraiser case was spread out, within easy reach.

The most curious piece of evidence was the fact that each man had been wearing an engagement ring, sized for them. There was really no rhyme or reason to that, which should have made it easier to find the nutcase behind the killings. Unfortunately, it was harder than predicted. No jeweler in the city knew who'd been buying engagement rings, or two karat diamonds, in the past year. There were also no records, and all of the jewelers in the city had alibis that cleared them of suspicion.

Sexton rubbed his eyes tiredly, turning another lamp on to brighten the area up a little. It was nearly midnight, and he was working overtime. (He was doing so willingly, a fact which had nearly caused the head of evidence to have a heart attack.) Something about this… The only thing each victim had in common, aside from ARK and the rings (which didn't point to anything, since they'd all been post-mortem additions), was that they'd made their visit to Psych anywhere between three weeks to an hour before vanishing off the face of the earth.

If he'd had a little more evidence than just a vague suspicion, Sexton would have dragged everyone from Psych—from the secretary all the way up to Doctor Samuels, Fleming's personal psychiatrist and physician—into interrogation until someone cracked. Unfortunately, all he had was a hunch. And hunches didn't get much wiggle room in ARK, even if there was a crisis on.

"Burning the midnight oil, Officer Sexton?"

Sexton looked up in surprise. Speak of the Devil and He shall appear, the officer mused. Doctor Samuels had come up to his small island of light, carrying his briefcase and a flashlight. The flashlight was a bit odd, seeing as the power never got turned off in ARK—with the rare exception of lockdown drills and training exercises for the hostage rescue teams. (Those guys were fucking insane, in Sexton's opinion. And they needed to be taken down a few dozen pegs, the bastards.)

"Yeah," Sexton yawned, stretching. He'd been up since two that morning, doing the usual bodyguard duty for Trip Faraday and his paperwork at ARK afterwards. His paperwork was nearly non-existent these days, thanks to all the free time he now had. Searching the evidence from the case was just a spare hobby he indulged in, seeing as he wasn't (officially) supposed to be on the case anymore. He'd run out of coffee a few hours ago, and hadn't bothered to make any more.

"Still looking for leads?" Samuels asked in his usual grandfatherly tone. It gave Sexton the creeps, to borrow a term from his sixteen-year-old stepdaughter. The man was setting off all sorts of alarms in his head, but that was probably because his last psych eval had left an inerasable black mark on his record. (Samuels had suggested that Sexton had a few critical screws loose, and needed to be put on leave for the foreseeable future. Sexton had thrown a book at the man and left the office in a black mood. So… Alright, maybe Samuels had a point there.)

"Mmhm," Sexton mumbled, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He really needed some sleep. The security officer frowned at the shadows on his desk, sure he was seeing something, and turned around. Just in time to catch the flashlight across his face. His nose broke on impact, and his head snapped back in the follow-up blow.

Sexton fell to the ground, ears ringing and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He raised his arms to protect himself from another blow, wondering why he hadn't thought to bring his gun with him. Either Samuels had finally snapped, or he was intimately connected with the case in a very bad way.

Five minutes later, Sexton was sure Samuels was the serial killer. Unfortunately, he couldn't do much with a cracked skull, a concussion, and so many broken bones he couldn't begin to list them. The security officer watched through half-lidded eyes as the psychiatrist swept all of the evidence from the case into his briefcase.

"You…won't…get away…with…this," Sexton rasped weakly, trying to push himself up. If there was one thing he'd learned in his thirty years at ARK, it was that the job came first. The medical coverage would take care of the rest, and the pensions would always go to your family if you died on the job.

"It must be your team," Samuels said, voice tinged with irritation. He lifted the heavy metal flashlight again and brought it down across Sexton's face. The security officer fell to the ground, finally unconscious. His cheekbone had cracked, and a dark bruise was forming on his face. Sexton was unconscious in a pool of his own blood as the psychiatrist stepped over him, snapping the briefcase shut.

Samuels headed for the security office—unmanned at this hour of the night—whistling. He erased the security tapes, and peeled his gloves off after leaving the evidence room. Let ARK figure this one out. Maybe they'd blame this on Orwell…

- o – o -

There were times when Orwell wished she hadn't made it her personal mission to destroy ARK Corporation and Peter Fleming. This was one of them. She and Anarchy had been tearing through ARK's files, not having anything else to do. Both of them knew the two-week deadline was coming up quickly—only two days, actually, before Philips was dead. Trying to find evidence to track down his abductor wasn't supposed to be so hard, though. Wasn't ARK supposed to be better than this?

If Jamie hadn't been at odds with her father, she'd have told him he needed better security and investigators. This was…kind of ridiculous, if the brunette hacker had to be honest with herself. Even Vince wasn't this thick, and even he needed help. (Hadn't he been a detective? Honestly. What a nightmare some days…)

But now... She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, trying to pull it back into some semblance of order. It wasn't working, and she couldn't summon up enough interest to care.

"Well…This is bad."

Orwell looked at Anarchy, one eyebrow raised. The man had the amazing ability to state the obvious some days.

"Of course it is," Orwell grumbled, propping her chin up in one hand. She was staring at the information on her screen, or rather, the lack of information. Three hours ago, Anarchy had woken her up. Orwell had been prepared to brain the green-haired hacker with her coffee mug, until she learned what had happened.

Someone had—rather inexpertly, in Orwell's professional opinion, although a blunt instrument was just as good as a scalpel in cases like these—wiped the ARK servers, as they related to the serial killer. Fingerprints, statements, forensic evidence, coroner reports… All gone. Anarchy had given her a thermos of coffee, and they'd set to work, trying to piece it back together from whatever fragments remained. It…wasn't working. The blunt instrument in question hadn't simply cut out the information so much as simply…erased it. Or smashed it into tiny little pieces that weren't coming back together, but either way.

It wasn't good.

"So…we're back at square one, minus the reports we printed off a few days ago?" Anarchy asked, staring at his laptop, which was perched on his lap. He had his feet propped up on the command center, one leg crossed over the other.

"And those aren't even complete," Orwell grumbled, shooting a dark look at her empty thermos.

"What's not complete?"

Both hackers looked up at the sudden intrusion into their grumbling. Vince had come into the hideout, wearing a pair of running shorts and a tanktop that was soaked in sweat. He'd been on his usual run, although the duffel bag over one shoulder told Orwell that he'd carried his costume with him, just in case.

The brunette hacker shoved aside the hormones that were sitting up and taking notice of just how firm Vince's rear looked in those shorts. For one thing, she had to explain the loss of information. For another thing, he was married…and saw her as a little sister. (She'd love for him to see her as something more, but he was more likely to proclaim his undying love for her father first. And Jamie didn't think she'd be able to handle having Vince as a stepfather, because then he'd be really unreachable.)

"Ummm…." Orwell mumbled, trying to stall for time.

"All of our information just got wiped out of the ARK servers," Anarchy cut in, earning himself a dark scowl from Orwell. He smiled at her, and turned his attention back to Vince. "It shouldn't take too long, but we might be able to recover the stuff off the surveillance cameras to see who stole it."

Vince grunted. "Huh. That explains a lot, actually," he clarified.

"Oh no."

"Yep," Vince replied, tossing his copy of the Palm City Herald down on the command center. The headline blared the theft across the front page, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind as to what had happened.

"Well shit," Orwell and her male counterpart chorused in unison.

"Oh, I don't know," Vince replied. "I think it's worse: The angry mobs are starting to write music for their march on ARK Towers."

Even if Vince was joking, it didn't make Orwell feel any better.

- o – o -

Peter Fleming paced around his office, waiting for his psychiatrist to come in. He'd summoned the bastard here an hour ago, and the man still hadn't arrived. The billionaire was becoming incensed, and even Chess wasn't helping. (The psychopath wanted to hunt the shrink down and gut him, before dancing on the man's corpse. Not that that wasn't an appealing idea, but…)

Let me drive, Chess said in a wheedling tone of voice. Peter made a mental note to get a new psychiatrist instead. You're no fun, the psychopath grumbled. And I want Samuels' head on a plate.

"That," Peter murmured, "I will be happy to arrange." He leaned against the desk, fixing his usual pleasant photo-op smile in place. Charles was leading the traitorous, murderous psychiatrist with him. The billionaire pushed Chess back as far as he could, wanting no distractions at the moment.

"Peter, I was surprised to get your message," Samuels said pleasantly, in lieu of one of his usual greetings. Fleming remembered the man using the same tone from childhood visits. It had unnerved him then, and unnerved him now—more so than usual, if his suspicions were right. "Is something wrong?"

"Why don't you explain that?" Fleming replied, tone frigid with anger. He crossed his arms over his chest, well aware that it read as a hostile gesture. Samuels was not welcome here, not at the moment.

"Explain what?" Samuels asked, smiling as he sat down in his usual seat. He looked at ease with himself.

Something's wrong, Peter… Chess murmured warningly, a note of worry in his voice.

"Sexton was beaten into a coma yesterday evening. All of the evidence is missing. You were seen heading to the evidence room." The billionaire's tone brokered no dissent, and demanded answers immediately, or else.

Samuels smiled at Fleming. "When you have proof," he said, standing up and picking up his briefcase, "I'll be prepared to listen."

Fleming pulled the gun out of his desk and pointed it at Samuels. With a quiet mental sigh, he let Chess take the driver's seat.

"Oh, I don't think we will," Chess purred, a look of menace on his face. He smiled at Samuels, showing all his teeth. "Peter isn't here right now, and he's not telling me to be gentle…"

Samuels raised an eyebrow. "Oh dear, whatever will I do?" he said. The lack of concern in his voice set off all sorts of alarm bells in Chess' mind. "If you ever want to find Philips, or anything else, you and Peter will let me walk out of this building… Right. Now." He smiled at Chess, who growled something obscene.

"I don't think—"

"Red skies at morning," Samuels interrupted. Chess stared at him for a few seconds.

"What?" the criminal mastermind snarled.

"Sailors take warning." The psychiatrist watched in satisfaction as the mastermind dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. He knelt down next to the younger man's head, a smile on his face. "The last time you tried to shoot me, it didn't end so well, Peter." Samuels patted Peter's face gently. "And you don't even remember what I did to you. But Chess does, doesn't he?"

Samuels gave Peter a triumphant-looking smirk as he stepped over him on his way to the exit. "Good bye, Peter."

The billionaire couldn't even voice his frustration at his current predicament. He was trapped in his own mind…and didn't even know why. It wasn't very comforting.

- o – o -

By the time Samuels reached his car, smoke was practically coming out his ears. His timetable had been thrown completely off, and all his plans were now for naught. He'd been meaning to save the trigger for when he could finally excise Chess from his charge's psyche, but instead, he'd been forced to use it to escape.

He'd been hoping to make the most of Philips' last few days, but…

The psychiatrist shrugged mentally as he pulled onto the interstate.

Sometimes, plans had to change.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Waiting to see what's going to happen to Samuels? Drop a line and let me know!