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"His name is Maximillian Augustus Wright."

"No kidding. Any relation?"

"Yup. James' grandson."

"Small world."

I stood and stared at the young man sitting in the interrogation room. He had James' hair, short and brown, loose and messy, but none of the body type. He was short, lanky and overall the computer nerd I knew he was. Dressed in a loose T and jeans, he didn't seem the type to unleash havoc on the city with his keyboard, but here he was. We had all the evidence to prove it and the court was just waiting to see his case. But...somehow I felt that the kid didn't deserve this. The case was mine, after all. Liddell approached me from the side.

"So, why the wait?"

I turned to him. Brandon went off to do paperwork related to the case and I shrugged.

"I don't know. Gathering my thoughts, I suppose. You'll be watching?"

He nodded. I stepped back and entered the room.

It was silence inside. He looked up at me, the guilt on his face was so readable, I even felt bad just being here. I sat down and gathered my thoughts. I knew Liddell was watching from behind the glass, but I kept my cool.

"Mister Wright."

"D-detective Anderson."

I straightened the paper on the desk.

"I know your uncle."

His face raised a fraction.

"Y-you do?"

"James Stanley Wright. Stand up guy if I ever saw one. I worked with his brother in Brazil."

He nodded and looked down again.

"I-I saw. Read all the articles. I'm sorry that he's dead. I heard you were good friends with the man."

"I was, yeah. Brazil was tough, trust me."

"S-so..."

"You're worried, aren't you."

He nodded.

"You tapped into the city power grid, tried to kill me, almost got another guy killed and could've caused serious harm to the infrastructure. You hacked into various secure sites and stole data from the government. It could've gotten a whole lot worse, it almost did as well."

He sighed. I could see the resignation in his eyes.

Dammit I give up.

I stood and went outside. Liddell met me at the door.

"Having second thoughts, Anderson?"

"Just doesn't feel right to make a kid spend the rest of his life in the pen."

"Yeah but he broke several of the biggest laws in the book, Anderson. If he's getting past that somehow, I won't believe it."

"Isn't there a way to at least let him live a normal life?"

"Not if he can help it, no."

I thought for a bit. I could see into the room, see how desparate he looked. It drove daggers into my heart, it did. Almost like several young criminals I've seen before, recalcitrant punks that stole to make a living for themselves, but never had the courage to make honest lives out of their own talents. This was the same. I remembered my dad telling me before, when I was young, that talent is one of the most valuable resources on the planet next to hope and dreams, and that if you squander what talent is given to you, you're not going to go very far. Young and innocent, I took it to heart, and it was one of the things that helped me through my years after the accident. I never really got back on top form after that, but I've been coping the best I can. But how would I try and help this young man use his talent wisely?

He was a tech head.

I had a brainwave.

"Liddell, how long is Fimberley going to be in the hospital?"

"A very long time, Anderson. The crash pretty much denied him the use of his legs until he starts doing physio."

It still hurt to imagine him in a wheelchair. I was responsible for that, in a twisted way.

"But what if Wright here could replace him?"

Liddell looked at me as if I'd just asked him to kiss Obama on the cheek. And not the one on his ass either, the bosses of our bosses were already doing that.

"Are you nuts, Anderson? We can't trust him, he's already proven to be reckless and aggressive!"

"He's misunderstood. You probably won't understand it, but I feel a connection to the young man. I just don't want his talent to go to waste. How about this, you find a way to commute his sentence to something mutually beneficial? Make him go under oath and US law, make him swear honesty at all times, and then give him a position as a techie to replace Fimberley? Kinda like community service."

Liddell frowned. He thought a while, then sighed and took out his phone.

"I'll do it, but you owe me, Anderson. You owe me big time."

"Thank you Liddell. This means a lot."

I went back in as he made a call. I sat back down and looked Wright in the eye.

"Now, mister Wright, I'm sure you know the implications of your actions."

He nodded.

"You'll have to sit through some long proceedings in a court of law, lots of stuff involving lots of words and lots of boring legal terms. However, I've cut a deal with those who would make ill of you, and you'll like to hear the details."

His face lit up. I finally saw that spark of hope in his eyes as he sat up, though the cuffs that bound his hands to the table impeded him some. I gave him the whole story and he damn near burst into tears. He thanked me the whole way out of the door, and I watched as the officers bundled him into the holding cells in our precinct. All the while he didn't lose the spark, even though his face fell at the prospect of spending time behind bars while waiting his trial. By then evening was fast approaching and I was getting hungry.

---

I stood on the Brooklyn Bridge. The exact same spot that I once sat on.

The night was still young, but I was tired. The case took a long time and it was draining, emotionally and physically. Not once did I expect to be under fire as soon as I had a case in my hands. I stared out across the Hudson, at the rest of New York City, and sighed. Our city was so technologically advanced that computers controlled almost every aspect of our daily lives, from our workplaces to the things we ate, from convenience stores to shopping malls and everything in between. It was jarring and downright scary that a peace that seemed so stable could be broken by one man with a keyboard. How fake was our life? How deep could I go until the facade broke?

The same applied to me. I didn't see anyone around me, so I lowered the disguise spell for the first time in months, almost a year. I stared at my paw, looked down at my warped reflection in the glass of my bottle. I'd almost forgotten about the spell, I'd lived with it up for so long that I never really bothered to take it down, even at home. I was too engrossed in my job, my life.This was who I was, yet no one really knew that. The world still knew me as the blue eyed, brown haired detective that lived his entire life in Manhattan, lost his father and mother to a car accident and then lost his wife and son in a tragic murder. No one really knew the secrets I hid, no one knew the past I really kept, my burden to bear.

I raised the spell and drank from my bottle, then tossed it over the side. Last time I'd drink crappy convenience store beer. I sat down against the railing and sighed. The late night traffic whizzed by me in a blur, but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was relax, to let go. I didn't want this shit, didn't need this shit either. All I wanted was to be normal. I guess a lot of people out there shared the same sentiment. No one wants to be a cripple, or mentally unstable. No one wants to be poor or ill. But that's the lot we drew in life. I just happened to draw the worst lot ever, having the so-called 'fate of the world' on my shoulders. I didn't even know if the events I'd been through were part of this weird 'destiny' I was supposed to have. All I'd done so far was to live my life in avoidance of the fact. I'd shoved it out of my mind, tried to lead a normal life, yet here I was contemplating it instead. Lost in thought, I barely noticed the tap of feet next to me. Looking up, I saw Brandon, a bottle in his hands, wrapped in a paper bag. He took a swig from the bottle and chucked it over the side as well, before joining me at the railing.

"Can't get enough of this place?"

"I was just thinking, Brandon. Contemplating."

"Oh? Contemplating what?"

"Life, in general, and how totally fucked up it is."

I waved a hand at the cityscape laid out in front of me.

"See how they run. No one cares if the man on the street is mugged for his money. No one cares that the old man lying in the alley freezes to death in the winter. No one cares that a young man's going to jail simply because he's used his talents for the wrong purposes."

Brandon looked at me.

"You're worried about Wright, aren't you."

"I can't help but feel that he's like a younger version of me, Brandon."

"I can tell man."

He turned to me.

"Look, just because one guy reminds you of yourself doesn't mean you have to pour your whole heart out and go all sobby sobby because of it. I'm not very emotional, granted, but I know how you feel. It bloody sucks, it does, but you have to suck it up and keep pushing on. I know you managed to cut a deal with the fibs and the court to keep the kid on a tight leash, and that's good, shows you've still got a conscience. Make sure that it doesn't go away, you get me, ya git?"

He gave me a gentle punch on the shoulder and I smiled.

"Yeah I get you."

"Good, now let's get off this bloody bridge."

---

The next day, I checked in with the station. Wright was already out by the time I got in, so I simply tracked him in the system. Turns out he got transferred late the previous night to holding cells at Federal Plaza. They were due to process him today. I debated attending the proceedings, but decided against it. I still had to write and file my closing report on the White Light case. His case. I spent the whole day clacking away at the computer, pausing only for lunch and dinner, and by the time I got out, it was dark. I stopped by Connie's library on the way home, to see how she was doing, she kept me with tea and biscuits for a while, then I adjourned myself to Brandon's bar to relax. When I came to the following day, it was already bright out. I checked my alarm clock; almost noon on a Saturday.

My phone flashed on my desk as I brought in a sandwich and a glass of water. I had a missed call from Liddell. I called him back as I got dressed and ate a sparse lunch.

"Hey Liddell, you called?"

"Yeah, its about the whole White Light thing, listen, we have him here now, on a strict leash, but he's been asking to see you almost the whole morning. Mind coming down to see what's up?"

I considered it. I honestly didn't mind.

"Sure, why not. I'll be there in fifteen."

I changed and within the hour I was at Federal Plaza, looking for Liddell, and there he was, standing over Wright as the latter's hands danced over a keyboard. I approached them and put a hand on Wright's shoulder.

"Liddell, give us a minute?"

"All the time you need, Anderson, he's our charge now."

He left and I grabbed a chair. Wright looked up at me and smiled as I took a seat next to him.

"Thanks for this, Anderson. The FBI has me on a short string, but I think I'll survive. Its better than rotting away at home, I guess."

"No problem, Wright. And you can call me Daniel."

"Then thanks, Daniel. I don't know what I would've done without you."

He resumed his typing and I smiled. It was nice to see this young man finally in a place that he belonged in. I watched him work for a while until Liddell approached me again.

"Anderson? We've got another case. Its a biggun, and we might need our newest tech's help."

I turned to Wright and smiled.

"Ready to help on a case, mister Wright?"

He gave me the brightest smile I've ever seen.

"Sure! And its Max, everyone calls me Max."

---

The manila folder contained information about a drug smuggling ring that operated internationally, and surprise surprise, these were the same people that once supplied the diMaggios with their product that they once peddled on the streets of Manhattan. However, this ring was a lot more secretive, but preliminary reports suggested that the group operated out of Russia and had ties to the mob over there. We weren't alone in this investigation either, as we were to have help from Interpol. One of their agents was here just for the occasion, and she was a bombshell.

Nina Lasseter stood five feet ten and was all woman, she had all the forms and curves that made men drop their jaws, and possibly pants, the moment they set eyes on here, us included. I picked mine up off the floor as she walked in and introduced herself.

"Name's Nina Lasseter, boys, but you can call me Nina."

"A pleasure, miss Lasseter." Me, shaking her hand as she entered.

Oh god that voice. It was so husky, it bordered on downright pornographic. But we knew she was all business, so I set my thoughts aside. At the table sat me, Brandon, Liddell, Nina and Max, and on the screen was a projection of a map. The little red lines represented flight routes, we were told by Nina, routes that were associated with the smugglers. Her office in London had already pinpointed our first suspect and our potential key into taking down this ring: their pilot. He was a man, full name Victor Ilya Kurilenko, an old fogey that had taken up piloting as a young man and spent thirty years of his life behind a flight stick and dashboard. God knows what prompted him to move from public flying to flying for drug smugglers and the Russian Mafiya, but he was the link between the diMaggios, the drug trade here, and the drug ring in Russia. We were to track this man down, take him into our protective custody and question him on the mob's activities to find something that we could use to take them down for good. We were to start here, in America, but not this state, no sir. He ran a private charter business up in a small town in Nebraska that we were to investigate, we had a flight booked first thing the next morning, so we had the whole day to pack.

Nina, finished with her briefing, sashayed her ample behind to the door and left, after telling us that she had business to finish here in Manhattan. I had to scrape what was left of my jaw off the floor again before I could leave. Back at home I packed for a short trip and phoned the precinct that I was heading upstate and to let Eddie take my cases in the meantime until I got back. Then I met Brandon at the airport and we set off.

---

Landing in Nebraska, we met our contact, a police officer named Chulsky, and he took us to our address. The charter office was located at an airfield just a ways outside the town itself, a quaint little place that had a single hangar and a runway enough for a small private plane or jet. The whole place was fenced in, but the fences were rusty and broken in places, like no one kept the place clean and well maintained. Chulsky dropped us off and left since his office was short handed so he had to return to handle other cases. I told him I'd give him a call when we were done and he drove off. I turned to Brandon and nodded.

"Shall we?"

"Yes, let's."

We walked in, past the fence gates, and approached the office. Chulsky had phoned earlier to inform the airfield's owner to expect visitors, but so far I wasn't seeing him. The office itself was a small, one room affair just in front of the runway area, but the inside was lit so I assumed he was in. I went ahead and knocked on the door as Brandon looked around. Within moments we had an answer.

"Yes yes, coming, coming."

The man's thick Russian accent, unfettered by his years spent in America, told me that he was a man that didn't forget his roots. And as he opened the door, I saw my guess was right in more ways than one.

Victor Ilya Murilenko, age 57, was an old man. The wrinkles and crags in his face belied the age in his dark brown eyes. His brown hair was swept with silver, and as he looked us up and down he led us inside with nary a word. The office's interior was tiny and cramp, with just enough space to fit two chairs for the both of us to sit in, a desk, some filing cabinets and one more chair for him. He sat and invited us to sit, which we did.

"I'm terribly sorry about the clutter, but you have to understand; things have been bad for me these past few months, I've had...to cut back a little to make do."

I raised a brow slightly. This didn't make sense. If a pilot running drugs for the mob wasn't up to his neck in moolah, something wasn't right. I kept my questions in check and smiled.

"I understand, mister Murilenko-"

"Please, call me Victor. More comforting- ah, comfortable that way."

"Too used to the old country?" Brandon, piping up beside me.

"Da. I lived there half my life, now I'm here to life other half. English not my first language, but I have to learn to make do."

He smiled, a weary one, and gestured to the mess around him.

"Thirty years I work as pilot, and see where I have come. Pathetic excuse for a business."

"It's alright, Victor, but that's not the purpose of our visit."

I leaned in a little closer.

"We're here to discuss your...side business."

"Side business? I don't know what you are talking about."

He chuckled nervously. This poor man was hiding something. I placed a manila folder on his desk.

"This file contains everything we know about your business, Victor. Flight schedules, routes, everything. All we want to know is who do you fly for."

He sighed.

"Okay, okay, fine. I fly for Russian Mafiya, okay? That enough for you?"

I knew it.

"Yes, but there's questions about them we need to ask. We're trying to shut them down, you see."

He paled.

"B-but you cut off my business like that. Less income."

"Victor, I can tell that you're not willing to work with them. Now why don't you tell me why you're working for them first, instead of the who?"

"I..."

He stood and, after realising there wasn't any room to pace, sat back down with a sigh.

"I need the money. Is to support my family back home, in Mother Russia. I come from small town, do farming and small work for little money, but we happy. Then one year, bad winter hit, my father, he gets sick. Crops not growing, family suffering. I decided to do something about it. I moved out, didn't tell family. Went to Moscow, taught myself how to fly, took flying lessons by working in cafe for change, then finally started working for Russian airlines. I fly all across world, get paid big sums, but I know what money really for, so every month I send most of it back to family, anonymous. They don't know who it is sending the cash, but they happy. I see them happy when I watch them sometimes, outside the village where they can't see me. I know I doing the right thing. Then, one day, Mafiya approaches me, says that my home village has come under their...territory. Asks me to pay them a sum of money each month as 'protection'. I didn't want to. They threatened to burn my home down. I surrendered. Now I fly for them, and in exchange they don't burn my village to the ground."

A sad story. I saw why he was so reluctant to work for them.

"How long have you been working for them now?"

"Roughly five years. I know not what happened to my family. No time to go back to visit, now that Mafiya controls me like robot. If I'm not flying regular customers, I'm flying their planes."

"Their planes?" Brandon again, breaking his silence.

Victor nodded.

"Da. Whenever they want me to work for them, they provide the planes. They say to take the plane, fly to Moscow airport, get out, then spend roughly a week or two in city, after that I go back to plane and fly back to United States, back here."

I glanced at Brandon and he returned it. I had a rough idea of how the mob was transferring their product overseas now.

"Victor, do you know why they'd provide the planes?"

He shook his head.

"Nyet. I was too afraid to ask. Scared that if I did, they'd hurt me, or worse."

"Fears well founded. Tell us, how often are these flights that the mob schedules for you?" Brandon.

"Once or twice every month. Keeps me busy, I guess. Sometimes the flights don't come for months, other times I'm flying there every other week. Is not good, flying intercontinental, the time shifts and the jet lag. I'm tired."

I could tell. The bags under his eyes could hold a week's worth of coffee powder. I shifted tack, trying to make him relax.

"You flew for Russian airlines?"

He nodded, a smile coming to his face.

"Da. I fly good. Go all around the world, see the sights. Singapore, China, Japan, Australia, UK, Africa, Brazil, Canada, I spent so many years flying I think I've been everywhere. Relaxing, sometimes, if the flight length just right."

"And what would be 'just right' for you?" Brandon.

"Halfway between a 24 hour flight and an 8 hour one. Just enough to relax and have a rest, not so long that you lose track of time in the air."

"So you've spent a lot of time in the air, eh?" Brandon.

"Da. Regular pilot, I am. One of the best. Considered going private once, didn't think much about it, but look where I am now."

That was a question I'd been meaning to ask. Why was he in a dingy little office when, theoretically, he was quite well off?

"So, Victor, you being a well paid pilot and all, why are you stuck in such a rundown place?"

"Mafiya suddenly coming into picture messed up my flight schedules. I had to go into private business so I didn't get laid off."

Made sense. No wonder he was here.

"So, Victor, ready to tell us who these guys are? The men who ruined your life?"

He was silent for a while. A long while. It gave me time to think through possibilities, when he interrupted my thoughts.

"Da."