Hello everyone! Thank you so much for finding this page; I'm very thankful and fortunate that you took the time to let me bring you back into my world and give me a chance.

For those of you who are brand new to this series, please feel free to read the first part, "A Beautiful Mind", before engaging in this one. It'll really help bring the story together and make more sense ^^

For those of you who are seasoned veterans (Like Bill ;P), thank you for continuing to join me on this journey! I hope you enjoy, and please, as always, comments and reviews are not only welcome, but appreciated so much!

~Hearts!

Frostie

It wasn't heaven, but it was theirs.

There was no golden gated entrance sitting atop a plot of clouds, guarded by the sanctified divide between heaven and earth. No angels stood watch, admitting only those who were worthy enough to have claimed good karma through their stay in the mortal life. Bliss and eternal happiness were not found around every corner, and not all appetites—hungering or otherwise—were always sated by the will of the divine.

Heavy iron bars and thick concrete walls separated the terrors of the outside world from what little sanity and peace could be regulated within military jurisdiction. Heavily armed human guards stood watch from their towers surrounding the entrance, carefully evaluating every living being that dared try to gain access to the inner sanctum. But access wasn't granted to those who tried to pay their debt in kindness; the leisure of survival was expensive, and could not be put at risk. The sick, the poor, the weak… they would have to search elsewhere for their comforts. Food was scarce and bellies were empty, as the only mouths that could indulge in such pricy luxury were the ones that sang cadence or whispered threats.

No, Camp 17 wasn't exactly heaven, but it was the closest they had.

After five long, seemingly endless years of the infection, heaven was wherever there was safety. It was where people could walk around a corner without having to check for monsters that lie in wait. It was wherever the main goal was no longer to escape, but to remain. It was where a shower, frigid as the waters could be, was a weekly schedule and not a nightly dream.

There was a place for everyone to lay their head at night—a stability that most of Camp 17's inhabitants thought they would never have again. It gave privacy. It gave seclusion. It gave the ability to shut out a cruel reality, if only for a fleeting moment, and bless inhabitants with what slumber was kind enough to grace their eyes and settle their minds.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the long, cold, concrete hallways of Residence Delta. They bounced endlessly off the walls, turning corner after corner of the massive square housing structure and lapping their source: a large, muscular man that took as much pride in his tough-guy persona as he did in his hatred for every petty thing. In his hands was a plastic tray with a crudely assembled assortment of dried fruit slices, stale whole grain toast, crusted mashed potatoes, and a rather full cup of foggy water.

Such a meal was fit for royalty around those parts.

Francis cautiously made his way around the halls, his eyes switching rapidly from the water that bounced with his every step to the ground before him. Although he had already accidentally spilled a few drops onto the tray from his initial anxious charge, he had managed to find a system of steps and breaths that worked to stabilize his powerful arms.

"Stu-… stupid hallways," he muttered to himself, pausing only to stabilize the tray after he had broken his cadence. "I…" Step. "Hate…" Step. "Hallwa-" Spill. "Dammit!"

Francis released an exasperated groan as he stared accusingly down at the new droplet of water that joined the other three blemishes on the face of the tray. He halted his motion, took a deep breath, and reset his composure before trudging on with the seemingly impossible task.

What seemed like hours of exhausting focus finally put him in front of his familiar destination—a rusty grey door with the characters "D34" hastily etched onto its surface. The cold chill of despair seeped through the crack underneath the door, jerking the hairs on the back of Francis's neck to a stand and tugging heavily at his stomach.

Behind door D34 was someone who carried a dangerous reputation. For the first few weeks of their stay, that person had been prone to outbursts of violence and self-destructive acts. The military doctors of Camp 17 had described them as "Critically Unstable". Because of the diagnosis, the inhabitant was under the rare circumstance of not being authorized to carry a weapon at any time, due to being a danger to others. But most of all, it was because she was a danger to herself.

Francis inhaled deeply, feebly attempting to take in a breath of confidence. He quietly cleared his throat before softly calling in his gravelly voice, "Zoey?"

As expected, tested time and time again, no answer came back.

"Zoey I brought you some dinner," Francis offered, bringing his cheek closer to the face of the door, while remaining ever-vigilant of the contents on the tray. "I even snuck you an extra piece of toast from Grandpa Bill's plate." He forced a chuckle, trying to lighten the thick air. "Don't feel bad though, we're doing him a favor. The old man could use less fiber in his diet."

With every second of passing silence the biker felt his grin slowly drop away into a discouraged frown. He hadn't been able to get a single snicker out of the girl since the day they had brought her to Camp 17.

"Could you open the door then at least?" he solemnly requested. "I got my hands full or I'd do it myself."

Francis's efforts were rewarded with the faint sounds of shuffling behind the locked entrance. A small "click" bounced though the resonant hallways before the door handle twisted and admission was granted with a phantom's pull.

A woman, almost unfamiliar, came into sight as the rusty hinges squeaked their final protest. A pair of cloudy green eyes were sunk into an expressionless face, although the suffering that reflected in her empty gaze said more than a tug at her lips would ever show. An unkempt head of mahogany hair hung in clumps down to her shoulders, the crude center-split accenting her unhealthily thin demeanor.

Zoey's dream-like demeanor refused to lift as she stepped to the side, allowing Francis to take a couple careful steps in before the door grinded shut behind them. The biker spotted a small, vacant card table in the middle of the rather minimalistic décor to gingerly place the meal onto. Aside from it, only a crude twin-sized mattress and a splintery, faded dresser graced the small living quarter.

No matter how hard he tried, Francis found it hard to look up at the girl—it wasn't the Zoey he remembered. The Zoey he knew was headstrong and determined. She was tomboyish and crude on the outside, but soft and motherly on the inside, with a pair of steady hands and sharp eyes to boot. The girl that stood before him was forlorn and distant. Her youthful abandon was stolen by the haunting memories of a friend lost and replaced with deep black bags that resided under her eyes. Though he knew he would have to come to acceptance that the two women were one and the same, it was just so hard to see her in such a state.

"I didn't really steal the bread from Bill," Francis admitted, afraid that the crude joke had diminished his chances of making her eat. "The man told me to take an extra piece for you, since you haven't been eating much and all." He then quickly added, "And he wants me to watch you eat it."

Zoey took a long, deep inhale, as though the very task of speaking was laborious. "Thanks," she choked out, her voice raspy with misuse. "But I'm not hungry. You can leave it there and I'll try later. Tell him I ate."

Francis sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I was afraid you'd say something like that. I might've been lying about the last part. I just…" He sighed before dropping his hand back to his side, forcing out the sentiment that he so barely liked to display. "I just want you to eat. You're too damn skinny," he cursed, hoping it would restore his manly demeanor.

However, try as he did, Zoey only shook her head and took the necessary three sluggish steps to cross the room and sit down on her creaky bed. "I'm sorry Francis," she muttered dismally. "I just can't."

The biker opened his mouth and began to form his cleverly formed retort of, "Well when will you just 'can'," but found that he could only allow the breath to escape his lips without the accompaniment of words. There was no convincing her. Weak or not, the one trait that the woman had managed to retain was her stubbornness.

It was putting it generously to say that Zoey had taken the loss of their friend the worst out of everyone. However, it came as no surprise; the two were inseparable since the day they had met. There was a special bond there—one much deeper than Francis knew he would ever understand—that didn't pass along with their comrade.

Hope was so much more than a sweet girl trapped in the form of a witch. She was the embodiment of Zoey's happiness, packed into one small yet deceptively strong package. When Zoey lost Hope, she lost everything.

"Just try when you can," Francis sighed in defeat before approaching her and delivering a soft pat on the shoulder, doing what little he could to offer comfort. He made his way to the door and let himself out, only pausing to state, "We're all worried about you, ya know."

Time may have healed all wounds, but no one ever said how much it took.

And life was only so long.

Louis didn't remember the last time he heard that inflection in Bill's voice. Hell, he didn't remember any time he heard an inflection like that in the old man's voice. No matter what the situation was when they were out on the streets fighting their way through horde after horde, he always seemed to be in control of himself and sure of his actions. Confidence had made permanent residence in his tones and each command he gave—every word he spoke—had some sort of deliberation to it. But something was off…

Louis, Bill's uncertain voice over the radio repeated in his head as he hastily made his way down a flight of metal stairs leading out of his residence. Little sound was made as he rolled off the balls of his feet with every step, gliding down the descent as his signature red tie bounced about his chest. He reached the exit door and threw his hand forward to seize the handle and twist it open, but discovered that his footspeed was much quicker than his wrist and found his cheek getting awfully intimate with the cold steel door. Louis stumbled back a step, but immediately shook it off and threw the door open. I need you to come down to the radio tower. Something's… It was that hesitant pause that had really put the businessman on edge. Something's not right. The old war vet then quickly followed up with: And keep quiet about it, I don't know what we're dealing with.

Uncertainty and curiosity propelled Louis's steps, coming to a full jog before he even realized he had picked his pace. Though he forced his feet down a couple gears, his adrenalin kept him moving forward at an alarmingly quick rate, resulting in a cross between a furious mother and a sprinting penguin. Needless to say he didn't notice the odd glances he was being thrown. Thick clouds of steam puffed forward with his every breath like a locomotive from hell as he made his way through Camp 17 and all of its residents.

All bets were off once he arrived at the stairs that wrapped around the four legs of the tall military-style radio tower. Without regard for his own safety he took the steps two to three at a time, using the railing to pull himself up a fourth step every now and then. However, his swift movement paid off when he arrived at the door of the proudly-perched room and pulled it open.

Then and only then, when he was finally able to pause, did he realize exactly how tired he was. Louis sucked in sweet air like a pregnant woman in labor, leaning against the doorframe that kept him upright. He glanced into the room to find a very unimpressed looking Bill, staring at the sweaty man as though he had just heard the worst joke of his life.

"Wha-…" Louis managed to choke out, though his dry throat locked the rest of his words beneath his neck. He swallowed hard and took a couple more heavy breaths before sputtering, "What's up Bill?"

"When you're done catching your breath, Susan," the vet teased in his gruff, aged tone, "Come in and close the door. I've got something you need to listen to. I got this call on the radio seven minutes ago."

Curiosity overcame fatigue as Louis stepped inside the warm yet cigarette-pungent radio room and shut the door behind him. He took his place in the vacant co-operator's chair, wiped the sweat from his brow, had one last deep breath, and locked eyes with Bill's aged stare.

Without request the vet's hands ran over the control board in front of him, fiddling with buttons and knobs that, to Louis's untrained eyes, had a faint resemblance to a baby playing piano. However, all niggling doubts were extinguished when the speakers popped once, and a static-ridden recording of Bill's own voice filled the room.

"Hello? Hello? This is The Vet from Camp 17, do you read? Is anyone there?"

A loud, abrupt tap caused Louis to flinch in his seat before settling back down.

"Hello, this is The Vet. Does anyone read?"

A second loud tap relayed over the speakers, but Louis was more prepared for it and found himself less startled. However, he began to narrow his eyes as confusion pinched his brows together once two more loud taps followed. He turned to Bill and asked, "Is that a radio malfu-"

"Shh," the older man hushed without breaking eye contact with the control board.

"Vet to Taptap," Bill's voice played after a short pause. "Tap if you read."

Louis's eyes widened as the tap played through the radio again. He snapped an urgent expression over to Bill and was returned with a stern, thoughtful one before returning his attention back at the elaborate series of buttons and slides, waiting for the recorded dialogue to continue.

"Vet to Taptap, tap once if you are in a position where you cannot talk, twice if you can't talk at all."

Two taps pierced Louis's ears once again, each one driving a stake into his deepest thoughts. But after a deceptively long pause, Bill's static voice could be heard just barely whispering the one thing he wasn't expecting or ready to hear.

"Hope? Hope, is that you?"

A distant yet definable shriek was heard on the other end of the receiver. The sound flashed horrifying images of a hooded figure, stalking its prey cautiously on all fours, preparing for the exact right moment to pounce on its victims and claw them apart limb from limb. Chills tore up and down Louis's spine and electrified the hairs on his arms before he was able to quickly shake the image out of his head and listen in for more.

However, none came.

Louis's thoughts became sporadic as he waited in ear-ringing silence for the continuation of the dialogue. When none came, he snapped his attention back to Bill, who was leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and twiddling his signature silver butane lighter in his fingers.

So many questions charged their way to Louis's lips that they jammed up in his throat, leaving him with his mouth open and head pounding. As much as he wanted Bill to have all the answers, he knew from the vet's composure that they were now both on the same level.

Taking a deep breath, Louis closed his open maw before it could catch any flies and allowed the silence to settle in for just a moment longer before asking in his calmest voice, "Do you think that was…"

The name couldn't make it past his clenched throat. Ever since they had lost that little beacon of innocence in their lives, her name was something he wished he could forget. Whenever he tried to form the word it acted like a poison: tightening his throat, pressuring his chest, and hurting his heart. And he knew he wasn't alone; he hadn't heard the girl's name since they had lost her. At least… not until that day.

Bill sat back straight in his chair before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He fished one out of its box, hindered momentarily by the slightest trembling of his fingers, and brought it to his lips. "I wouldn't've called you here if I knew for sure," he spoke out of the left side of his lips, the right side tightly sealed around the cigarette he was lighting. The aged man took a deep pull, bringing the bright red tip of the roll alive as it chased its way up the paper and closer to his face. Smoky satisfaction locked itself in his lungs for a brief moment before he released it back to the air while declaring, "But there sure is a chance, and that's enough for me to get on a chopper back to that hellhole to find out for sure."

"You ain't going back alone," Louis was quick to interject as he stood up from his chair. The idea of their friend surviving, regardless of how low the chance might've been, filled his body with renewed energy and his mind with one goal. "And you know you got Francis and Zoey."

Louis's heart skipped a beat.

"Zoey," he repeated. "We gotta tell Zoey!" Louis sped to the door, his heart pumping with excitement. "We gotta tell her that we can still save Hope!"

"Now hold your god damn water for just one minute!"

Bill's command froze him where he stood. Louis turned back around to see that the vet was now on his feet, standing at his full height as if he shared the same rush of adrenalin. "Don't go filling her head with ideas just yet. There's a good reason I called you here first instead of her. If we tell Zoey that Hope's alive, and we get down there and find that it's anything else but that, I'm not going to be the one explaining why we lied to her." Bill breathed a quick sigh. He pulled the cigarette from his lips as the insecurity visibly danced across his eyes and through his knees, causing him to shift unnervingly. "I can't watch her go through that again," the vet admitted dismally, his voice low and troubled. "I seen that pain a thousand times when I served in Vietnam and it never bothered me one bit." He lifted the butt back to his lips before finishing, "But never on someone this close to me. I ain't ready to deal with that shit again."

Louis sympathized with the older man's plea. He was right; as much as it may have seemed hopeful, there was no way to tell for sure if it really was Hope on the other side of that radio until they got there and found out for themselves. And if Zoey was expecting to rescue Hope only to realize that it really wasn't her in the first place…

"So what do we need to do?" he asked the vet, shaking Zoey's delicate mental state out of his head. "You know I'm down to do whatever it takes."

Bill's leader-like demeanor began to return as he realized that it was time to take up arms again, and he was at the front of the charge. "The first thing we'll need to get our hands on is a chopper," he spoke aloud, although whether it was to himself or to Louis was yet to be determined. "But all requests for deployment have to be approved by the Lieutenant Colonel himself."

Louis had to hold back a grimace at the mention of the title.

The Colonel was the head honcho in charge of the compound. If Camp 17 was the closest they had to Heaven, then Lieutenant Colonel Alan Lee was the closest thing they had to God. He was the one in charge of establishing the rules and regulations that dictated who was considered "trustworthy" and "safe" enough to enter his beloved sanctum. If there was a possible subject that needed extraction, all requests to use helicopters and resources had to be approved by him.

And just as Louis had initially theorized after hearing all of this for the first time, power had gotten to the man's head like cake to thighs. Colonel Lee was by no means a humble or kind man; Louis perfectly recalled first time their survivor group had the "honor" of meeting him. They all received complementary front row seats to an impromptu match of boxing, where the hometown favorite was the butt of Alan's rifle and the underdog challenger was an elderly woman's hopes and dreams of living in the compound… and her face.

There was no way they would be able to explain why they were going back out to New York. EZ LZ, the pilot in charge of the flight that rescued Louis's group of survivors, explained to him one day what information it took to get a flight approved.

The Colonel wanted to listen to the call, and needed a detailed report about their group size, the name of the radio operator, the evaluated mental state of the group based off of the operator's ability to cohesively converse, the specific location of the pickup, the estimated time to complete the mission, the percentile of risk that the mission would go wrong based off of the zombie population surrounding the LZ, what their mothers' maiden names were, the name of their first household pet, and if they preferred to double up on their toilet paper before they wiped.

When the last three contingencies were listed, Louis was reluctant to laugh based off of EZ-LZ's uncomfortably stoic demeanor. Even to that day, he hoped it was a joke.

Regardless, there was no good way to explain who they were going to pick up. If he listened to the call, Louis wouldn't have doubted that Alan would deny the request and dismiss it as a radio malfunction just as he, himself, was almost guilty of. And even if they managed to get past convincing the Lieutenant Colonel that she wasn't able to talk and the only reason they knew that was because they were previously in a group together, explaining how they got separated would've been quite the task. How could they explain that Rochelle went crazy and threatened Zoey and Hope's life because Hope was an intelligent, gentle girl despite the fact that she was technically infected?

Yes, Louis could see the barrels of the firing squad now.

"How the hell are we going to do that?" he summed all of their doubts up in one heavy question.

"I ain't got that far yet," Bill admitted as he moved towards the door. "But we have until we find him to figure that out."

Nick swirled what remnants were left of the pale brown liquid that remained in his small cup. The small chips of ice cubes left clinked from side to side, playing a melody to the song that only he could hear. However, he was never a patron of the fine arts, and every passing second that his glass was empty was another second he gained of his memories.

And the last thing he wanted to do was remember.

As every minute passed that his glass was empty, his senses began to come to fruition. The bar was mostly full and the heavy rock and roll music rumbled the speakers, though everything and everyone came through as muffled, jumbled, and insignificant in the conman's mind. As far as he was concerned the only things he needed present were himself, the over-worn cushion of the barstool, the unfinished face of the bar he rested his elbows upon, and the bartender that kept ignoring his request.

"Hey, bartender," Nick slurred loudly over the booming of the bass. "Bartender!"

He watched as the bartender made no effort to acknowledge his calls, despite the fact that he could hear him just fine. The conman felt his teeth grate against one another impatiently as he yelled again, "Bartender!"

Nothing.

Nick muttered a curse violently under his breath as he lifted his head a little too quickly, causing him to almost fall backwards out of his stool. However, he held himself in a seated position, gripped his glass, lifted it high in the air, and gave it one last-ditch attempt. "Hey dickhead!"

With that he threw the empty glass forward. There was no target in general; he wasn't even trying to hit the kid ignoring him. He was just trying to get some attention… and by god did he get it.

The entire bar came to a screeching halt as the glass shattered on the floor two feet behind the bar. All conversation, laughter, and arguments were brought to an abrupt halt as every eye in the bar locked accusingly onto Nick, who was finding it increasingly difficult to sit up straight. Although he couldn't give half of the shit he took that morning about the attention of anyone else, he seemed to have caught the one person he wanted.

The bartender thundered over to where Nick was so patiently waiting and slammed his fists down on the counter hard enough to make his head start to spin again.

"What the hell is your problem man?" the purveyor of drinks accused.

"My problem?" Nick met his opposition's steely gaze with as dirty of a grimace as he could muster. However, due to the numbness in half of his face, he found himself stuck somewhere between a puppy-dog face and the grimace most people make when they're constipated. "How hard is it to get a damn refill on my drink? We wouldn't have a problem if you just got me what I asked for."

The bartender swept his face down until he was only inches away from Nick's. However, after a quick whiff of the drunkard's breath, he shuddered and added a couple more inches of distance. "You listen here, you drunk," he hissed loud enough for the bar to hear. "You haven't paid your tab in the past week. You want drinks? Give me my money."

Nick couldn't help but let out a chuckle at the man's attempt to scare him. "You'll get your damn money when I get mine," he retorted sluggishly. "But until then, do your job, and get out of my face. Or I'll put my foot up your a-"

A heavy fist found its mark on Nick's cheek. He let out not a sound as he was thrown backwards out of his stool, his back slamming into the unforgiving ground before he even realized that he'd been hit.

Nick shut his eyes tightly as his ears began to ring and his head spun violently, doing everything he could to keep the alcohol where it needed to stay—inside of him. However, the time for recovery was fleeting as he felt himself being jerked violently to his feet and dragged away. Drunk as he was, even he knew the steps that followed.

The sound of a door opening was immediately pursued by a cold, sobering blast of wind that cut through his stained white suit jacket and chilled him to the bone. Nick felt himself being tossed out into the merciless winter air before crashing to the earth, his lungs voiding themselves of all breath. It wasn't until the beating music of the bar was muffled by the shutting of its doors did he even bother to open his eyes to the world of spinning and unwelcome light.

Nick gave himself ample time to adjust to… whatever had just happened before he tried to stand up. The cold air sobered him up exponentially faster every passing moment that he was on the ground. Though it may have been clearing up the twisting in his head, it also accented the dull throbbing on his cheek and the sharp pain in his back.

Two minutes was more than enough time for self-pity. With a long, drawn-out groan, Nick pushed himself up into a sitting position before shaking standing back up on his two feet. Once he found his center of balance again he brushed off his coat, getting what little pebbles and dust off of the material. After all, he'd have to look presentable before he went back in.

Oh no, it definitely wasn't over, not to Nick. Though his job as a conman had taught him to cut his losses and run with what he had sometimes, he wouldn't have been so successful in his craft had he not learned to stand up for himself and earn his own name. As far as he was concerned, that was his alcohol waiting for him inside of his bar, and the little punk that bruised his cheek wasn't welcome in there anymore.

With a deep breath and a deliberate crack of his neck, Nick moved back to the door and placed his hand on the pull bar, ready to teach a lesson or two-

"What the hell does that even mean, 'it's complicated'?"

The stern, clear tone coming from a distance jerked Nick's attention away from well-deserved vengeance and to something much more interesting. He knew that arrogant, snotty, crass voice anywhere, and once he was able to adjust his vision further down the street he had just peeled himself off of, his suspicions were validated.

Walking down the street, chest puffed and his nose high enough in the air to smell divine anus, was Lieutenant Colonel Alan Lee, or "The Man" as Francis and Nick referred to him as. He strode proudly in his military jacket, putting a deliberate swing in his every step as to rattle the various medals that clanked noisily against one another. Rows stacked upon rows of ribbons protruded from his jacket breast, bragging to Nick more about greasing palms than real valor. A short cut of sandy brown hair was combed oddly flawlessly to one side without a single stray in sight.

And of course, what was The Man without his five-man squad of armed monkeys that followed his every step and prayed on his every word, throwing whatever shit fell out of his mouth into the faces of the residents of Camp 17.

They were always a plain sight. Alan could normally be found strutting himself around the compound, making sure everyone was aware of his presence and authoritative role. It wasn't them that made the sight interesting; it was the fact that two familiar faces were walking beside him, and from their expressions Nick guessed they weren't making small talk.

"You want to know what's complicated?" Alan challenged whatever Bill and Louis had said before. Despite his company, his beady green eyes were locked firmly on the road before him as though they weren't worth a passing glance. "Organizing a helicopter flight and allocating the proper resources to carry out a mission that the two of you are too shady to explain."

Helicopter?

Nick took a step away from the bar's door just in time for it to swing open and narrowly miss his nose by an inch. He turned to face the approaching group, having no shame in blatantly displaying that he was listening into their conversation.

"Bill got a call at the radio tower and we need to send a chopper to save someone's life," Louis argued. "What more do you want explained? Someone is alive out there and we need to save them!"

"You won't divulge to me who this person is, or how you even know them," Lee remarked rather sassily. "You can't truly expect me to trust you if you hide such simplistic details from me."

"For the last time," Bill's irritation shone in his voice, "We told you that she was a survivor in our group and we got separated when the chopper came and picked us up."

As the group passed Nick's location he jumped forward and began to walk with them, catching only minor glances of curiosity from Bill, Louis, and Alan before they disregarded him completely and continued on with their conversation. The conman would've taken the dismissive gesture as almost offensive had it not served to his very purpose at that moment.

"Fine, fine," the Lieutenant Colonel waved off with a brush of his hand. "That's all well and good. But tapping on a microphone, a convincing argument does not make."

Nick sneered at the pompous man and his comment behind his back. He had always hated the way Lee talked; his unnecessarily wordy statements and olden time's sentence structure reeked of compensation worse than his liberally applied cologne.

"Mute or not," Alan resumed his point, "I'm not willing to throw resources towards such a vague rescue mission. You're telling me this isn't even an armed pickup; it's a search and rescue mission. Now not only do I have to spend money on the chopper's round trip to drop you off, but then there's also the matter of picking you up. It's asinine and unreasonable for little more than a tap on the radio."

Nick narrowed his eyes as he began to put the pieces together. The tapping on the radio... the "mute" comment… Bill's description… a "rescue mission"?

Could they have possibly been talking about Hope?

The girl's young, pale, innocent face flashed before his eyes and struck him deep in the heart. Every event that led up to Rochelle's imminent betrayal of the team was the very memory he had tried to drink away. Although he may not have spent as much time as Zoey and her team creating a bond with the small witch girl, he still couldn't shake the fact that he had formed a connection with Hope the moment he had saw her. And as much as he hated to admit it or show it, it hurt him when they lost her.

"Look man," Louis addressed the grimacing Lieutenant informally, "you need to trust us alright? She's a good person and doesn't deserve to go down just because she doesn't meet the qualifications on your checklist." Louis then redacted his statement before asking, "Why do you even think a checklist is a fair judgement if someone should live or die?"

Alan's halt of forward motion brought the entire group to an abrupt and half-expected stop, causing a couple stumbles from his loyal goons. He then turned to Louis, and spat with the coldest voice Nick had heard in a long time, "Don't you dare challenge the legitimacy of my actions." The Lieutenant Colonel lifted a finger as if to scold a lesser man. "The checklist that you deem so insignificant is what is keeping this Camp orderly. Were it not for me and my cautious ways, you and your little entourage would still be stuck in that hellhole that you're trying so desperately to return to." Lee then wheeled around on his heel to Bill, who flinched back at the sudden and unexpected attention. "Need I remind you that this isn't a free democracy anymore? Camp 17 is a creation of my own and as such, I don't play politics to satisfy petty requests. I am the sole authority here, and what I say goes."

Nick caught a small twitch in Bill's eye, followed by a minute tug at his lip that was barely hidden underneath his snowy white beard. Alan, however, must not have caught onto the tells, and continued to push.

"Your disrespect and plain disregard of my authority is not welcome and will no longer be tolerated. Consider yourselves fortunate that I don't have the both of you punished for contempt of my systems of checks and balances that have been put in place by my Martial Law-"

"Don't you throw your god damn martial law at me, son," Bill finally snarled, little to Nick's surprise. The seasoned veteran's gaze was so intensely locked onto Alan's that not even the commanding officer could hide the slight tremble in his lower lip. "I've been fighting wars before you were even a horny tingle in your old man's panties. Back in my day, when there was even the smallest chance that one of your men was still out there, you damn well moved heaven and earth to try and bring him back. And even if all we brought back was a body it was a mission well worth it. You should understand that, Lieutenant." The hardened vet pulled the still-smoking cigarette away from his lips before bringing his face only an inch away from Alan's nose. He then hissed coldly, "Or did you win your rank in a raffle, son? You ever been on the field?"

Nick had to stifle a chuckle from escaping his lips as Alan's eyes quickly diverted away from Bill's hardened stare. The Lieutenant Colonel had to clear his throat to regain his composure before he stepped away from the older man's confrontation and stubbornly said, "Though that may be the case, I cannot justify wasting the resources and money it would take to fly such a haphazard mission. Do you how many charges can be incurred just by flying a drop-off mission alone? That's not even including the Evac."

That was his cue.

The conman cleared his throat rather obnoxiously, making sure to gain the audience of everyone in the group before addressing Alan: "Then the flight's on me."

Bill and Louis exchanged bewildered glances, but Alan was the only one that remained unamused by the man's offer. "And with what cash will you be paying, Nick?"

"I know you didn't get… here," Nick brushed a finger through all of Alan's medals, creating a symphony of clashing tones, "by not following through on your word." When the Lieutenant Colonel's forehead wrinkled in confusion, Nick clarified, "Your fifty thousand dollar word."

It was only then that the two ends fully met in Alan's head, indicated by his sudden expression of hatred. His reaction alone was enough to fuel the conman's ego. "You get these boys their flight and we're square."

The Lieutenant Colonel bared his teeth as his face turned a deep red. However, Nick felt no intimidation by the man's aggressive gesture. He had him right where he wanted him, and they both knew it.

"Fine," the disgruntled man slid through his teeth. "They can have their flight, and I owe you nothing more." He then turned around to face both Bill and Louis, who had to switch their befuddled faces to ones of unwavering will. "But you both listen to me, and listen close. Just because you get your flight doesn't mean that this girl you're bringing back wins a 'Get out of Jail Free' card. She will still be subject to the same interrogation and checks as anyone else who applies to live in my compound. And if she doesn't check out…" A cocky, one-sided grin made its way across Alan's face. "Let's just say that she'll have been better off dying where she is."

Without allowing another word to trump his self-proclaimed victory, the Lieutenant Colonel stormed away with his precession, leaving the three men to their own devices.

"Fifty thousand dollars?" Bill finally addressed the elephant on the street after Alan was out of earshot. "How the hell'd you come up with fifty thousand dollars?"

"You're welcome," Nick grumbled, allowing his cocky and careless front to leave with the Lieutenant Colonel. There were more important matters at hand. "Let's just say that I played my hand right… and he didn't."

Fond memories of a victory well-deserved crept into Nick's head. If there was one thing he knew about arrogant people like Alan, it was how much they loved to gamble. It was as though winning money at a poker table was some kind of validation of their superiority and unmatched intelligence.

Yeah, Nick had played multiple nights with the Colonel with a sum of money some twenty thousand more than he actually had. Yeah, he threw the first few games on purpose and lost all the real money he had to let the man build up his confidence. But what Alan didn't know was that those games were all for the purpose of studying the deck.

Each and every night Nick studied the condition of the four aces, front and back, memorizing every single blemish on the cards. When it mattered most, he found an exact copy of the deck and replicated each one of those aces down to the last frayed edge, folded corner, and ketchup stain. That night at the table he tracked the real aces in the deck after every losing hand, cut them to the bottom on the last shuffle, and pulled the fake aces into his hand for a full table sweep.

Yeah he cheated, but it's what he did. He was a conman, after all.

"Well we owe you one," Louis admitted graciously for both himself and his older partner.

However, Nick quickly waved the statement off, completely uninterested in anything either of the men could say that didn't have to do with the rescue. "All that crap you guys were just saying," he dove to the point, "were you talking about Hope?"

The other men flinched at the name as though merely uttering it would bring about dire consequences. However, the sky remained up and the ground remained below, allowing Bill to sigh, "I guess we owe you that much."

"You're damn right you do," Nick agreed shamelessly, planting a stern finger on the vet's hardened chest. "So give it to me straight, and don't leave out any of the details." He looked Bill dead in the eyes and prepared himself for any answer before finally asking, "Is Hope alive?"

Thank you all again for taking the time to read this! Like I said in the release announcement in "A Beautiful Mind", I'm planning (and will execute!) a steady release schedule of one chapter every Saturday, so you can all look forward to seeing a new post from me every week! (Or maybe even quicker... ;P)