Present day

North of Honolulu, on a small, inconsequential road off the H3, in an area rarely frequented by tourists sat a small hardware store. It was a down-to-earth place, the sort where one could find just about anything if one knew where to look. The proprietor, a thin, aging Japanese man named Okuma, patiently weathered the challenges and changes as the surrounding area slid slowly into poverty, even as the city downtown flourished a few miles south. Here, the residents were forgotten by all and the village avoided by all except those who could not afford to live anywhere else.

The little village had been prosperous once, but the money hadn't stayed and the tourism wealth of Honolulu had not stretched into this bit of countryside. A few lost souls passed through the town now and then, ignoring the speed limit as they hunkered behind the steering wheel and cast furtive eyes at the barred convenience store and filthy gas station. The locals who crossed their path glared with such fierceness that these city-dwellers and visitors had no desire to stop, much less exit their vehicles at all. They rushed through on a hurried mission to be anywhere else, and felt lucky when they were not robbed, pillaged, and plundered in the process.

The village itself was nothing much to see. Flimsy wooden houses, built to last one season that stretched into years, rotted away in overgrown yards, their roofs tarped over with faded FEMA and RedCross plastic from the last major storm. Broken glass in the parking lots served as a reminder that unwatched vehicles were fair game, and the graffiti coating the bus stop (no longer in use) told the haoles in no uncertain terms to go home.

One haole liked it that way.

He went by the name Lamar, and he worked under Okuma in the hardware store.

Lamar was an older gentleman, with thin, grey hair barely covering a ruddy scalp. His stature hinted at what was once a powerfully-built man, though now his movements were starting to slow. Beneath wispy eyebrows, a pair of thoughtful, brown eyes peered out, quietly watching the world the around him.

He rented a small shack up the road from the hardware store under a grove of kukui trees with a view toward the beach. He had only moved to the area a few years ago, but the locals had already come to a disgruntled acceptance of him. Keeping mostly to himself, Lamar worked long hours in the hardware store and took long walks on the beach on his days off. Occasionally, a car would come on the weekends to pick him up, and there was always a girl in the backseat, a young teenager. She always seemed delighted to see him and, for anyone watching, he was obviously delighted to see her.

Lamar was his middle name. Okuma was one of the only people on the island who knew his full name, and he did not feel obliged to share it. After all, Lamar's story was not Okuma's to share. The case had been widely publicized at the time, and the brutal details published in the local papers over a decade ago had galvanized the island, raising Lamar to a level of notoriety only shared by Hollywood elites and international dictators.

Now that Lamar had served his time and been generally forgotten by society, Okuma understood that a new name meant a fresh start and a new identity, one not bound to the choices and mistakes of the past. Did not every man wish for second chances? Okuma was neither judge nor jury; in his eyes, this man had paid his debt, and now Okuma felt obliged to offer the man the same chance that he himself would have wanted were he in the same shoes.

Like shells on the beach, the waves of the justice system had tossed Lamar ashore at the end of his sentence and stranded him there, with no means or real plan for re-engaging with society. Despite owing the system nothing, when the request came through asking if Okuma would house and employ a recently-paroled convict, Okuma felt a sense of duty to respond. The job and the shack on the hill were all he could contribute, but he was assured it was enough.

Okuma had no regrets.

…

Lamar pulled into the parking lot and paused a moment, feeling the rough vibration of the old engine chugging under the hood before he finally turned the key. He heaved a little sigh and got out.

On the roof of the bar, a poorly-lit sign flickered; behind grimy windows, a few neon lights advertised various cheap beers. From inside came rough laughter and the low throb of conversation. It was early still and trouble wouldn't start until later; by then, Lamar would be home, in bed and asleep.

Broken glass crunched under his work boots as he moved stiffly toward the door. He'd had to move paving stones for the garden section today, and his back wasn't as young as it once was. Rubbing the offending muscles with one hand, he pulled open the bar door with the other and went in.

His seat at the end of the bar was open. A bottle slid into his hands before he could ask. He drank the first half slowly, staring at the stained wood in front of him and listening to the hum of conversation in the background. Overhead, half-a-dozen screens replayed the latest college games. Lamar didn't pay attention; he was preoccupied with thoughts his granddaughter whom he would see tomorrow, the young teenager whose smile was a perfect mirror of her father's.

"You're in a good mood tonight." The bartender nodded to him as he stacked glasses under the counter.

Lamar hadn't realized he was smiling. He touched his face in surprise. It felt good to smile again. Even natural.

"Granddaughter coming tomorrow?"

Lamar nodded. She came across the island almost every week now, her visits the highlight of his week. Somehow, his problems faded when he was with her; her laughter, like the surf on the beach, washed everything else away.

She has quite the influence on you, his new therapist had noted.

Lamar did not disagree. Life was no longer a bleak, meaningless existence; there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel, and this time, it wasn't a train.

…

Across the island, Scott Agaran settled into a dingy booth in the corner and squinted at the screen on the far wall. A special news bulletin scrolled in red across the bottom, the text unreadable at this distance, but Scott knew what it said. He was surprised it had taken this long for the news to break, but that suited him just fine. He was in no rush. He was a free man now, and he had all the time in the world.

…

Detective Danny Williams frowned as he studied the text scrolling across the bottom of the special news bulletin, checking to make sure the station was displaying the information exactly as he had sent it. Thirty-six hours had elapsed since the incident. Thirty-six hours with no leads and no clues.

He shouldn't be worried- Steve would be fine. After all, the former SEAL had 9 lives, right?

Somehow that thought wasn't reassuring.

Danny decided he was going to put a collar and bell on Steve as soon as they found him. And maybe have him chipped for good measure.

...

A/N: In hindsight, maybe starting the story here would have been better? But that wouldn't have allowed an introduction to Kurtis Foster. Hrm...