TWENTY-SIX

No. I can't. I won't. I refuse.

It was too confusing. How could he make such a choice right now? This all could be lies. It could be the truth. But he couldn't tell the difference between the lie and the truth.

What do I do?

I need help. I wish I had someone to help me.

I can't do this alone any more.

"No, I'm not," whispered Zach. His voice rose with each word, until he was at shouting level. "I'm not curious. It doesn't matter what you say. You abandoned your family years ago. You can't fix that. You're too late!"

An injured light flashed through the man's eyes. It's an act. Don't believe it. It's a fricking act!

"Why would I want to know anything about you?" snarled Zach. "You're a murdering psychopath, a criminal. Can we just take a moment to remember that you've killed hundreds of people?" Zach paused, raising an eyebrow at the man. Hawke remained impassive. "If you care so much, then you'll let me capture you and have you arrested for your crimes."

Hawke snorted. A wry smile lifted his features. "Now that," he drawled, "I can't agree to, kid. Sorry. I have work to do."

"What, not enough blood on your hands?" snapped Zach.

The man's eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, those crystal blue eyes burning with a dark light. Hawke straightened, bearing over him. Zach's breath stole away; fear clenched his heart. He refused to back down, though. He stared at him with all of the hatred that could have withered a plant.

Falcon.

"If there is blood on my hands," whispered Hawke, "then, there is carnage on their hands."

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The rhythm of the clock broke the silence. While Hawke wasn't a huge man, he was still a number of inches taller than Zach; his presence dominated over him. Pain and agony bled within the man's tone.

No matter what, it doesn't make it right.

Zach gritted his teeth. "One wrong will never justify another."

There was a long sigh, the man's body sagging; the tension disappeared. The sinister aura faded. Hawke glanced away, a pensive expression on his features.

"A deal, then," whispered Hawke. Determination filled his voice. His gaze was powerful. "Let's make a deal. An arrangement of sorts. You agree to come visit me three times a week—"

"What—no!" cried Zach in horror, interrupting the man. "No way. That is not happening."

"Would you let me finish, kid?" snapped Hawke, his mouth twitched in annoyed amusement. He let out a low huff. Zach crossed his arms in front of his chest. "If you visit three times a week, Falcon will disappear. I'll go off the grid."

"What does that mean?" asked Zach, narrowing his eyes. "Explain it. No tricks. What do you mean Falcon will disappear, go off the grid?"

"It means no more attacks," said Hawke in a soft tone. "No more explosions. No more attacks. No more deaths. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Done. Falcon will be finished."

Zach stared at the man.

He laughed.

And laughed.

What a joke. What a hilarious and ridiculous joke.

He couldn't stop laughing. Tears burned the edges of his eyes. His chest ached. What a liar. This man was good. He'd give him that. But this was too much.

The laughter died. The tears did not.

"I'm leaving," said Zach flatly. He strode past the man. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. Zach whirled around, jerking away from the touch. He glared. "Don't. You don't touch me. Got it?"

Hawke lifted his hands in a placating gesture. They dropped to his sides. "Why?" he asked. "I just offered you what you wanted. Don't you want Falcon to stop? For three visits a week, you could stop him."

It echoed in his head.

'You could stop him.'

No. Not like this.

It's not good enough. I need to hand you on a silver platter to Sullivan. Then, my friends and I can stay together. Disappearing isn't good enough.

"You really expect me to believe you'll keep up your end of the bargain?" asked Zach, derision dripping through his tone. "You lie to the police. Why wouldn't you lie to me? What do you gain from this?"

"Time," whispered Hawke. "With you."

Zach looked away.

Yeah, right.

Would he really abandon his persona, his goals for a few evenings with Zach? These attacks had been going on for years. This man had a vendetta against something or someone – a strong one. Zach couldn't believe he'd give up years of his goals for something so small in return. Time with a sixteen year old boy – regardless or not he was the man's son – was not an equal exchange.

Zach wasn't so easily swayed by nice words. Falcon's plans were obviously very important to him – whatever twisted plans they were. A man like that wouldn't suddenly give up everything simply because he learned he had a son.

Believe or not to believe.

Trust or not to trust.

He had to admit, though… This was an interesting offer. In a perfect world, the agreement would be set in stone. Unbreakable. Neither side would go back on their word. But this wasn't a perfect world. Besides a few stories – real or otherwise – there wasn't anything enticing about this to Zach.

Ugh, this was insanity – the epitome of utter insanity.

"Well, I don't have anything to gain from this little arrangement," said Zach in a low tone. "I'm not motivated by time with you." He drew in a deep breath and lifted his chin. "I need more than your weak reassurance that you're going to quit being a criminal."

"You're just going to have to trust me."

Zach snorted, letting out a soft laugh. Trust. Right. Hilarious. The amusement died. He turned to the side, his arms tight against his chest.

"Well? Do we have a deal?"

Zach didn't respond. His breath quickened. His chest rose and fell. Stars blinked in his vision; he felt lightheaded.

How?

I can't.

I–I really can't. Not now. Time. Need to think. Pressure. Too much pressure. Seriously, too much.

The pressure built inside his lungs, cutting off his breathing. His mind raced. Fear overpowered every sense. Zach whirled around, slamming his hands onto the countertop as he doubled over. With practiced familiarity, he slowed his breathing, focusing on each breath. Any thought crossing his mind was redirected to his breath.

In.

Out.

His chest rose slowly.

It fell with ease.

"Zach?" asked Hawke, sounding hesitant. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

In.

Out.

Get it together. You've survived so far. You can survive this. I can do this. Think. Think. Think. What do you want? What can I learn?

What were all of Falcon's motives? What were the possible angles? How would Falcon turn on him? What was he expecting of Zach? Focus. Figure it out. There had to be more here than a lonely man looking to reconnect with his son.

I…

I can't.

I can't do this.

Zach lifted away from the counter, turning around. He took a steadying breath, ignoring the confusion in Hawke's face. He strode towards the hallway; he didn't look back. The man followed him. Zach paused at the hallway, looking at the front door. Hesitation burned his heart. His breathing quickened once again.

No. Stop it. Just leave!

"Is this a no?" asked Hawke from behind him. His voice was soft, a brush of disappointment in his tone. "Are you truly going to leave without saying anything? You really want nothing to do with me?"

Zach's jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides.

I don't know what I want, all right!

I don't know.

What did this man expect? This was nuts; this was ridiculous; this was unfair!

Zach dropped his face into his hands.

I don't know.

I don't know what I want. I need an answer.

He dragged his hands over his face. He looked up. In desperation, he glanced at the wall, trying to give his mind a moment of peace. His eyes caught the bright colors of the nearest painting. The brushstrokes were bold and confident, yet they were gentle in the details. It was similar to the other paintings in the hallway, but it still stood unique among them.

The greens were rich, blending together in a beautiful meadow. Small jots of the brush gave the illusion of yellow, pink, and blue flowers. The sky above was a bright blue with straying clouds. Trees were faint in the distance.

Zach's breath caught in his throat. Tears filled his eyes.

In the right hand corner was a signature. Elegant. Cursive. He knew that handwriting. Drawn to it, his heart pounding in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears, he took a step closer.

Abigail Doyle.

His jaw trembled; Zach put a hand over his mouth.

With an ever so light touch, his finger brushed over her name. The beveled lettering of the paint confirmed it wasn't a print.

He could've forged this. Right?

It could be a trick… a horrible, cruel trick.

But… It would've been a lot of effort to fake. Why bother when he could've bent Zach to his will in any way he wanted? It could've been a forgery, but Zach didn't believe it was.

He glanced at another painting. It was a desert with a lone flower as the centerpiece. His eyes focused on the signature.

Abigail Hawke.

There were four other paintings in the hallway, three on each wall. Zach didn't say anything. He looked at each one, studying them. He gazed at each signature.

Four of the paintings were signed with her maiden name.

Something loosened inside Zach's chest.

He walked towards the front door and sat down on the step. He began to put on his shoes. He heard steps from behind; he felt the man's presence.

"Are you going to leave without giving me an answer?"

His hands tensed; they tightened their grip on his shoelaces.

"I don't owe you anything," whispered Zach. He finished tying his laces, but he didn't stand up. "I don't have to agree to anything."

"I know that. I'm not expecting anything from you. I just…" The man's voice trailed off. There was a deep sigh. Zach turned slightly. Hawke drew a hand through his black hair. The man looked at him; those eyes were tired. "I just want to get to know… my son."

Bile burned his throat. Zach's head whipped back towards the door. His muscles tensed. His heart raced. He forced himself to take calming breaths. He swallowed. He got up and walked the last few steps to the front door, pausing. He stood there with clenched fists at his sides.

Then, his shoulders relaxed.

"I'm not your son."

There was a soft, nearly inaudible intake of breath. Zach didn't move. He stared at the wooden door, his eyes following the natural pattern of the grain. The clock ticked endlessly in his ears. His breathing slowed.

'I just want to get to know… my son.'

Zach lifted a hand and grabbed the cold door handle. He twisted it, the door unlatching. He didn't open it. His lungs expanded in one deep breath, one that made him lightheaded. He let it out, long and drawn out.

Am I falling into the greatest trap of all?

"I'll be here tomorrow night."

End of Arc One