8

Ianto sprints home, entering to close and lock the door behind him. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales, centering himself before moving into the living room where he turns on the lights... ...to find the room morbidly stained with ARTERIAL SPRAYS and POOLS OF BLOOD beneath countless bodies of the dead.

"...shit..." Ianto turns off the light.

Up in the master bedroom Ianto rips off his clothes, uses a towel to quickly wipe off the foam and blood from his body, and gets dressed in a new outfit.

Jack, Blake, and Alice glances up at the sound of internal latches moving as -with a pneumatic hiss- the door opens. Ianto enters sheepishly.

Jack leads through the kitchen, followed by Blake...both of whom recoil at the sight of a dead gunman laying face down in a large puddle of blood.

"Jesus." Jack sighs with annoyance.

"Dad?" Blake hisses as Ianto follows with a hand over Alice's eyes.

"What?" Alice asked with confusion.

"Just... keep on moving everyone." Ianto demands.

With Blake and Alice in the minivan, Ianto closes the door to face Jack who is looking pissed, about to completely blow up "Ianto... you gotta' give me somethin' here."

"I... can't. Not really. I will, but... not now. (motions) Go hunker down with your dad. I'll circle back once I take care of this." Ianto assures him.

"What is... this?" Jack demands.

"It is..." Ianto shrugs "...what it is. I love you, Jack. I just... I just need you to trust me here. Blind for the last time, I promise you. It's… a Nobody thing. You know what you married, you knew. Well… Houston we had a problem."

A beat... and Jack nods, hugging him as he says softly "When you are done crunching bones, come back to us."

Jack abruptly gets into the minivan and drives off. As Ianto looks on, Alice waves at him with a huge grin -none the wiser- which he returns.

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With the bed perfectly made, Ifan sleeps in the rocking chair beside it. When the phone rings softly, his eyes open revealing him to be a terribly light sleeper- as he reaches over to place the handset to his ear.

"Heads up, Tad."

Ianto ends the call. Ifan lowers the handset back down, turns his face to the window... and smiles.

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Ianto removes the suppressor from a pistol which he then shoves into a pair of garbage bags, each full of weapons, magazines, and knives.

"Well, fellas." Ianto sighs "...here we are, as it were..."

Holding a glass of bourbon in one hand, Ianto lowers the needle down upon a record which begins to play a slow, acoustic rendition of a classic jazz tune.

Ianto mutters with a growl "...history repeating itself..."

Ianto removes his father's Colt from his lower back, screws the silencer into place, and tucks it back into his pants as he sinks down into his chair with a guttural sigh... ...to now face the bodies of the dead gunmen who now sit upon the couch and the floor, facing him.

"A couple of chapters back, there this was this guy named... "Ianto opens the front of the pinball machine searching, then "Hank. No."

He slides out the hidden sleeve. "Henry? Wait."

Ianto opens it, finds an antique bank book, and taps out a small, translucent envelope full of stamps which he tucks into his pocket. "Alan. Yeah. Alan Breiseth."

Ianto slides the sleeve back into the machine and closes the door. "He was a lower-level shit-heel for a minor crime family operatin' out of Dublin. Had a small family, medium debts, and large illusions of grandeur."

Ianto takes a long sip from his drink, pausing to savor it before swallowing. "So when he figured out how to glean and skim off his various takes in such a way that "none were the wiser" -or so he thought- he did, amassing a few million under the radar over the years. However... we reap what we sow. (smirks) What a day, huh? (a beat, then) Eventually, Alan found himself on the floor of his master bathroom with a broken nose, staring up at yours truly who was aiming a... uh... (thinking, then) ...H&K USP-45 with suppressor down at his face. He begged me -like they all do- and while I tended to pull the trigger before the waterworks began, for some reason this time... I listened."

Again, Ianto takes a drink, pausing to stare down at the liquid swirling about the inside of his glass. "I listened to a man who truly regretted the life he had built for himself. He wanted nothing more... "than to shed the wolf's skin... and return to the pasture as a lamb". His words. Not mine. (a long beat, then) So, I let him. Two years later, I looked in on him, expecting to find him "once more unto the fold", but instead... Alan was living in a small apartment with his family in Boise, Idaho. He'd opened up an animal shelter, rescuing strays and the like. Alan was happy. He was a fine member of society, as they say... Or so I've heard."

Ianto finishes his drink, gingerly lowering the empty glass down onto the coffee table, pausing to run his fingers along with the smooth, wooden surface. "In that moment, I wanted what Alan had... so I walked away from the life I'd known to find it. And I did. Y'know, it wasn't quite what I expected... it was better. My husband is … from where I worked, well… he was sort of one of my handlers so he knew me… a verso in of me. And I liked it. Sure, I wasn't all that good at it, but I tried, man. I tried. Deep down, maybe I always knew it was a facade... me just being the wolf in sheep's clothing, and all, but still... it lasted a lot longer than I had hoped. (sighs) Y'know, I always knew this day would come. Maybe not like this, but..." Ianto stands with a stifled groan. "...here we are."

Ianto studies his LP collection, searching ...to stumble upon Alice's Kitty Cat Bracelet which rests upon the shelf. "...sneaky devil..."

Ianto slips it into his pocket. "I hate to break it to you, gentlemen, but they won't find you among the rubble. Bone burns to ash at fifteen hundred degrees centigrade... and this basement has been designed to produce double that, so... as I said before... I knew this day would come."

Ianto selects an LP and studies the cover (Don't Fear the Reaper) with a smile. "I don't know why I chose this one, but..."

He slides out a record from its sleeve, and replaces it with the other upon the player. Then he mutters "It now seems pretty goddamn appropriate."

He lifts the needle, and hesitates. He glances about at the space -his space- one last time... ... before lowering the needle down onto the outermost groove, turning to grab the garbage bags and beat a hasty retreat up the stairs. 5... 4... 3... 2... and with 1-the record bursts into white hot flame which quickly spreads.

Ianto calmly exits his front door...as his home burns behind him. He walks across his yard, rolls his head around his neck, rears back his right arm-and drives it through the driver's side window of his neighbor's Maserati, oblivious to the new cuts earned upon his knuckles.

Ianto unlocks the door while muttering to himself "She's a '72 Maserati Indy, he said."

He slides behind the wheel still muttering to himself "Four-point-Nine liter V-8, he said."

In a series of seamlessly clockwork motions, Ianto rips open the column and "hot-wires" the vehicle in a matter of seconds. As the engine roars to life, Ianto shifts "Zero-to-sixty in "I'm about to find the fuck out".

… and crushes the gas pedal underfoot.

The Maserati peels out to spin before surging off into the distance.

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Driving an old Cadillac with the windows down, Anatoly and * Valentin -two, old school, Ukrainian assassins, in pricey suits with pricier watches- park at the curb by the old folk's home. They exit and approach to enter finding Joey sleeping behind his desk, arms folded upon his chest, an old episode of Mr. Belvedere playing upon a decades old television. Anatoly spins the clipboard to face him.

He sees that a few days ago, IANTO HARKNESS-JONES checked in to visit IFAN HARKNESS-JONES in room 118.

As Anatoly and Valentin approach the door, they each produce a silenced pistol. Anatoly prepares to kick in the door, but Valentin stops him with a frown and a shake of the head. He reaches for the doorknob, grasps it, and twists it to find the door unlocked.

He opens it and they enter -to find Ifan sitting in his chair with a blanket up to his neck, staring at the television in silence, his eyes unblinking as an old episode of HAVE GUN, WILL TRAVEL is playing upon the television. Rounding to face him, their weapons at the ready, Anatoly and Valentin offer one another a question look when suddenly Ifan reaches out with his right hand to push aside Anatoly's pistol, the hammer of it falling to pinch the skin between Ifan's thumb and forefinger as FOOM!- -the shotgun hidden beneath his blanket discharges.

The round catches Valentin in the center of the chest, folding him in half as he is lifted from the ground to be thrown back against the wall.

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Joey lurches forward, suddenly awake.

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Ifan's hand curls tight around Anatoly's pistol before he pulls the man into him, shifting to place the shotgun against his heart, pulling the trigger.

Fumbling with his keys, Joey -responding to the noise- sprints towards Ifan's door.

Joey tries the knob and is surprised to find it unlocked. He swings the door open inward to find Ifan sitting in front of the television -which is deafening- smoking a cigar...with the bodies of Anatoly and Valentin nowhere to be seen.

Joey sighs, grabs the remote, and lowers the volume. "Come on, Ifan."

Joey tosses the remote into Ifan's lap with a motion. "And I'll let you finish that, but goddamn, man- it smells like wet shit."

Joey leaves, closing the door behind him. A beat... and Ifan stands with a sigh, lowering the cheap cigar to be crushed out within an open DVD case. "Alexa. (thinking, then) Play Ali's Mix-tape. Volume Three. Track Six. A beat... and MUCHA MUCHACHA by ESQUIVAL begins to play.

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A barber ship. With Miles Davis playing softly from the radio, Hart -eyes closed, hands folded upon his chest beneath the sheet- sits in a chair as Itzhak -nineties, deaf- deftly cuts his hair with a surprisingly swift and steady hand.

Four of Hart's men sit nearby, reading magazines. A beat... and they look over to find Ianto standing just inside the establishment. They share a look with one another and stand.

"Gentlemen." As one, they glances back at Hart who -without looking- recognizes the voice.

"Mr. Harkness-Jones." Hart says softly, a beat, then "It... has... been... some... time."

"That, it has." Ianto agrees, hesitating, then "Although, technically... I'm still on the clock."

"No, technically, you... are long fucking dead."

"Potato, potato..." Ianto shrugs.

"...tomato, tomato..." Hart agrees good naturedly, a beat, then "What, pray tell, may we do for you, good sir?"

"What can you tell me about Saxon?"

Hart extends a hand and snaps his fingers. Ianto hands one of the goons the wax envelope.

"It's -uh- been awhile, so I'm not exactly sure how much this'll cost."

The Goon glances back towards Hart who thinks for a moment before holding up four fingers. The Goon opens the envelope -which is filled with TWO DOZEN STAMPS -each sealed in their own small plastic pouch- and selects four, tucking them into his jacket pocket as he hands the envelope back.

The goon clears his throat, signaling to Hart that the deal is done.

"Paper or plastic?"

"How do you mean?" Ianto is confused.

"Well, now... it has been awhile, hasn't it?" Hart snorts, savoring, then "Paper -as in physical- and plastic bein' digital."

"Gotcha. Paper. Please."

Again, Hart snaps... and another Goon steps forward, reaching into his jacket to produce a folded set of pages.

"Am I now that predictable?" Ianto laughs. "You been watching over me? for Jack?"

"From where I sit, Mr. Harkness-Jones, everyone is watching you." Hart replies, and then adds in almost a whisper "Jackie might have called to stat the ball rolling. After all this time he still sounds so… handsome. Still handling you too, eh?"

"This Saxon... he's not an asset, is he?"

"At some point, they all are, but at this juncture, your Mr. Saxon here has finished serving his purpose long ago." Hart motions "As you can see, he's as boiler plate as they get. Dealer, trafficker, smuggler, killer... and so on, and so forth. You know the type."

"He got a hobby?"

"Art. To the tune of eight or nine figures."

"Anything good?"

Hart mutters with a shrug "Fuck, if I know."

Ianto is studying the pages "Is this the address for…"

Hart is interrupting "It is, now... (a beat, then) Will there be anything else?"

"Yeah... uh... maybe a 'dead man'?" Ianto asks and we notice that Hart's men share a look at this as Hart himself smirks, choking back a chuckle.

Hart makes a motion "I ain't even gonna' ask."

One of his men approaches the wall where a dozen, framed pictures of professional boxers from over the years reside.

"Word of warning. When you left, you did so having abandoned a certain debt in need of repayment." Hart warns. The man grabs the top of the picture ...and pulls out a long drawer built directly into the wall, revealing it full of Shoe Boxes tied shut with twine. "Should you do what we expect you to do, your creditor -one Abraham Nithercott- will no doubt become aware of your hitherto... resurrection."

The man selects a shoe box, closer the drawer, pauses to wipe free his thumb print smudge from the glass of the picture, turns, and hands it to Ianto who takes it with a nod.

"Word of warning. So... we keen?" Hart asks.

"Yeah." Ianto tucks the shoebox beneath his arm "Yeah, we're keen."

"Audit away, Mr. Harkness-Jones! To your heart's content and beyond..."