Soon, the sun strolled to the other side of the world, swindled of its dazzle by the glowing crescent in the sky. The sound of Dylan's laughter was replaced by echoes of gunshots and the smile on his lips was washed away by the ghostly taste of blood in his mouth. An hour had passed since the nightmare jolted him awake, but the lingering sensations were still fresh in his mind—no less than the night he had lived it.

Approaching footsteps from inside his mansion resounded in the silence of the night. He knew it was Markus coming to join him on the deck; he had watched him park in the driveway only moments ago. And yet, it was enough to raise the memories that play themselves in his dreams every night in vivid detail.

The faint sounds of leather boots on the carpeted apartment floor.

A loud crack followed by the press of a trigger.

The vibrations in the chest as the metal pierced through the flesh.

And the whisper of one name as the world had gone dark: Castillano.

Dylan heard the glass doors slide open behind him as Markus stepped out on the deck. For a moment, he could feel his friend's eyes on his back. The approaching question hung in the air like the noxious scent of gunpowder had.

"Who was holding the gun this time?" Markus asked conversationally.

"I was." Dylan didn't turn to look at him. He wasn't concerned about him figuring out the lie. Markus, like others, had never been able to read him. But Markus had been there when it had happened. He knew what it had been like. And while Dylan considered that—although horrific, nightmare-inducing—part of his past an incentive to what he had become, Markus looked at it as the greatest deterrent to never step out of the line. He was always the voice of rationality, counselling caution to his audacious ways. And Dylan was in too foul of a mood to dive into that contentious debate.

"Only in the nightmares," commented Markus. Ignorance had never discouraged him from running his mouth.

Dylan glanced at the tall trees lining the edges of his private estate, separating the lawns and gardens from the Pacific coastline. Even from the deck of his stone mansion, he could notice the bright lights of the guardhouse, like orbs of flames in the dark of the night. High-tech security systems and dozens of armed guards were guarding every inch of his residence. The small apartment during his start-up days was no comparison to the security fortress he currently inhabited. Anyone trespassing the property would be detained within a minute. And yet. Dylan thought back to the outrageous burning in his chest as blood had leaked through the open wound. And yet, no amount of luxuries of the present could silence the echoes from the past.

"Remind me again why did I call you here?" Dylan turned around to lean on the stone balustrade.

Markus had made himself at home and was savouring a glass of whiskey on the rocks at the bar. "You didn't."

"Exactly."

"I heard Zeke is running some errands."

"That doesn't explain why you'd be at my place in the middle of the night."

Markus took a generous sip before replying. "There was a helicopter missing from the company's hangar and your bodyguard is out of town. You thought I was going to miss the party?"

"Last time I checked, you were being a wimp for having a party."

Markus didn't seem to take offence. Instead, he gestured with the glass in his hand as he spoke, "I'm only concerned about the bash taking a bad turn, until then, I don't see why I should deprive myself of the celebration."

Dylan recalled the tinge of exuberance in Zeke's tone when he had called him, requesting an earlier meeting. He might have found something worthwhile. Though he doubted his idea of a celebration aligned with his friend's.

"What about Sierra? Did she find the guy?" Markus asked, finishing the last bit of whiskey from his glass.

"She's been gone for weeks. She better have," Dylan stated.

"Why else would she contact Zeke if she didn't finish the job?"

Sierra's usual pattern of investigation involved breaking all contact until concrete evidence was found. It was the only way she could keep her association with his security company beyond detection. Cutting off ties not only made the job easier for her but also made it—ironically—safer. Regardless, two months was the longest she had gone without communication. And it was a first for her to request Zeke to come over rather than showing up herself.

"Let's ask," Dylan said as he heard the chopper blades slicing the air and watched the aircraft materialise through the clouds.

Within minutes, the aircraft had landed and Zeke was making his way to him to hand over the envelope containing information. Dylan kept his eyes on the guard for a moment, the envelopes would be for later. He had always preferred studying people to reading pages. In his experience, they told a far better story.

"Did she find the guy?" Markus asked as he walked from the bar to the seating area, bringing a glass of whiskey for Zeke.

"Yes. Simon Jones." Zeke emptied the liquid in a swift move before continuing, "That's his legal name, though he hardly goes by it. The neighbours around his house know him as Tim Miller who works as an investment banker. At the construction site where he actually works, he is registered as Nolan Hill. According to the data found from his social security number, he never legally worked at either of those places. His last employment record is from six years ago as a cashier at Walmart."

"What's with the secret identities?" Queried Markus.

"The investment banker is probably just a front to fit in socially. His coworkers at the construction site suspect him to be involved with some shady people. He's also quite popular among the local drug dealers. They weren't willing to talk about him, but a little persuasion with Sierra's knife to their throat was all it took for them to come clean. Turns out Simon Jones' real profession is selling narcotics."

Markus took the envelope and emptied the contents on the table. There were five different IDs, each with a different name. The picture on every one of them was of the same man, though the unique disguises were clever enough to trick the observer. Markus chose a clear picture of Jones' face among the many others scattered on the table.

"It was going to break my heart if this guy turned out to be anything else. I mean look at him," he slid the picture towards Dylan. "He's high enough to have a staring contest with flying birds."

Dylan took a quick scan of the other snapshots clicked by Sierra. Tim Miller in a suit walking towards his house. Nolan Hill at a construction site selling drugs to his co-workers. Tim Miller driving in his brand new SUV with some woman. Simon Jones snorting meth at a club. Simon Jones standing with his right leg on a bleeding man's chest outside the same club.

"What's stopping you from bringing him in?" Dylan questioned. He saw no reason why Simon Jones should not be strenuously invited to his facility for a tête-à-tête.

"There's going to be a meeting in the morning that this Jones has been preparing for the past few days. It's supposed to be with some important people. Sierra wants to wait until then. She also requested a team to be sent over for a smoother run of events and to avoid any external interference."

"Any idea who these important people are?" Markus asked. The indifference in his voice was forced. Dylan could almost see the anticipatory anxiety seep in drop by drop.

"We'll find that out very soon," Zeke assured.

Dylan recalled the zest in the guard's voice on the call and the glimmer in his eyes as he had walked through the doors to relay the information. "What else?"

Zeke's lips curled up, the shine back in his eyes. "We found another hideout. This one might be run by a made man from the Castillano family. A strip club in Bayview."

Dylan shrugged off the memories that the name brought to the surface. "Arms?"

"Drugs and prostitution."

"Evidence?"

"Enough to know what's going on there, but not sufficient for the local authorities to make an arrest. More will be required before sending an anonymous tip to the cops. They won't go ahead with the raid until they have solid proof."

Always the same, Dylan thought. There was never enough reason to start an investigation, never sufficient evidence to make an arrest, and never living witnesses to have a trial. He knew the pattern perfectly well. Good thing he had stopped playing by the rules a long time back.

Every secret hideout was a step closer to silencing the echoes. Every little step was a progression to settle the score with the people who had done that to him all those years ago. He didn't need to know who the man running the club was. He didn't care what the authorities would do to the people there. Their fates had been sealed the instant they had made an association with the Castillanos.

"We need to dig more dirt on them," said Markus.

"Or maybe throw them in the pit," stated Dylan. Zeke nodded with approval.

Markus recognised the look that was shared between his friend and the bodyguard. "You're going to do it again?"

"The usual protocol."

"By fabricating evidence," he concurred. Dylan didn't care to elaborate. If a cut was all it needed to send a bleeding man to his death, he didn't see why he shouldn't pick up the knife himself. And not only did he excel at selecting the sharpest blade among the bunch, he knew the exact nerve to hit to make the maximum impact.

"Send a team to help Sierra in Houston," Dylan sanctioned Zeke. "Assign them .22s for defence. Appraise them not to use them unless the situation gets out of hand, which should not, considering the training they go through. Go in, keep under the radar, get Jones out of there."

The bodyguard nodded. Dylan then turned to Markus. "I'm going to the headquarters right now but I need to clear my morning schedule. Can you handle some of my meetings?"

"Am I allowed to say no?"

"No."

"Then I'm going to accept your request."

"That will be all," Dylan said to the two men. He didn't wait for them to respond, he was halfway in his house by the time they decided to leave. There was a lot that needed to be done.