PARADIGM I
CHAPTER 1

  The spasm began somewhere near his spine, pushing him from behind and sending him leaping into the open. Now fully committed, anticipating the fatal shock with a familiar dread, he lowered his head and charged headlong into the gap between walls of crushed brick. Seeing him exposed, the Somali mob exploded with crackling fits of flame. White-hot tracers skipped down the alleyway, whirring past his ears like vicious whispers. Jets of earth erupted all around him, enveloping him in a surreal, reddish haze.
  Hank's eyes fixed on the black-faced soldier a few meters away. The world beyond the space between them ceased to exist. His eyes narrowed on the man's face, and he held his breath for the last desperate strides.
  He knew leaving cover was a fatal mistake even before he made his first move. Helpless, he watched himself act on a will unknown to him. He felt like a man clinging to the neck of a bull that was making a suicidal charge toward a cliff. He tried to scream, but his voice was silent as the bullets zipped past and death surrounded him. His boots pounded the ground as if in slow motion; each step weighed with expectation. The tips of his fingers stretched out to grab the ominous figure-despite the knowledge that just a touch meant death.
  With the blackened face only inches away, in the last possible instant before touching death's unremitting cruelty, Hank screamed aloud. The noise ripped him from sleep. His fingers clawed the air above him, and an echoing howl rang in his ears.
  His eyes drifted reluctantly to the digits glowing green on the alarm clock. He knew exactly what time it was without looking: his body was still programmed to military time and couldn't reconcile with his mind's reluctance to get out of bed. A fine shower of sweat leaped from his scalp as he scrubbed his hands over his crew cut and stared at the clock.
  Knowing that sleep-real sleep-was out of the question, Hank stretched a weary finger to the radio and began acting out his day. The familiar voice of Howard Stern emanated from the radio, but Hank didn't register a word he was saying. He remained stuck, his thoughts lingering over his dreams. The nightmares were so vivid and full of sensation, so unlike his real world. He felt almost sorry that the horrible dream was over; he even felt an odd comfort in knowing he would have it again and again.
  He stared vacantly into the void until Howard Stern's words rang out with sudden clarity: it was October third. The date issued so casually by Howard struck home like a dart, causing Hank's eyes to shoot anxiously to the wall calendar still stuck on July. Dates and figures ran through his mind-the math was all too easy. The dark anniversary marked three years to the day, he knew he would be turning thirty this year, and nothing had changed.
  A nauseous cramp gripped his stomach as he brooded over the date. He swung out of bed and hopped toward the bathroom. The pain began immediately. It crept up his thighs and set fire to his spine. He stood naked in the bathroom, feeling suddenly worn thin. The dull weight of depression and the mental erosion caused by lack of sleep numbed his thoughts. Goose bumps crawled over his flesh, and the muscles of his arms trembled. Insistent, consuming pain chewed at him with every step as he crossed the floor to his closet.
  The first glow of sunlight invaded his room through the seams of the room's only window. The early warmth promised a beautiful autumn morning. A day like today was a treat for most people in the sometimes fog-infested Bay. Today, girls would be showing off their tans and guys would be wearing shorts, but the pleasures of a sunny day were lost on him. He didn't own any shorts.
  He grabbed a pair of bulky sweatpants from a dresser and spun around to sit on the bed. After slipping into the sweatpants, he hopped onto his left foot, letting the pant-leg hang listlessly over the stump of his right leg. The empty leg swung whip-like, back and forth, as he hopped back to the dresser and climbed into a plain white T-shirt.
  He returned to the bed with a sock, feeling more than seeing the roll of fat on his gut when he bent over. Alarmed, he straightened himself and ran a hand over his abdominal muscles. The roll of flesh was gone, but he still felt soft somehow. His eyes jumped to the nightstand, where an empty bottle of Vodka stood surrounded by pill vials.
  He stood for a moment, probing the firm grooves of his stomach, before grabbing his Walkman and shoving the earphones into place. He found his prosthetic lying on the kitchen floor. He caught his reflection in the bluish titanium shaft as he peered down to examine the running shoe. The heel looked disproportionately worn on one side, and he was sure it was partially responsible for the limp in his step, but he wasn't about to run out to Footlocker to replace it.
  He strapped the leg to his thigh and began looking for his other shoe while his attention shifted to the banter coming from the radio in his ear.
  He'd been hooked on Howard Stern's radio show since he was a teen growing up in Brooklyn. He'd even paid a guy to send him tapes while he was overseas. Now he listened to the entire four-hour broadcast. It was the only time he allowed himself to laugh at the messed-up world around him. Losing himself in the on-air reality show helped him climb the grueling city streets on his morning jogs. Eventually exertion overwhelmed the pain in his phantom shin, and for a brief time Hank could enjoy a respite in the feeling of normalcy.
  Today, the comfort faded just as he took the last smoothly mechanical strides back to his doorstep. His fingers poked around his midsection as he stretched from side to side until he was convinced that he'd left the bulge of fat back on the Embarcadero somewhere. As he leaned over to stretch, he caught sight of some freshly painted gangland scribbling on the concrete steps leading to his front door. A sudden rage washed over him as the Walkman fell from his fists and shattered on the ground.
  The earphones swung from his ears as Hank yelled, kicking the broken Walkman, sending batteries skittering down the steps. He wet his fingers in the fresh paint and glanced up to see an elderly neighbor staring at him. Hank felt quick hatred for the old man and all the other neighbors who tolerated the constant tagging. Their brightly painted row houses were covered with red and blue graffiti. Hank's intense, fury-filled stare made the old man cringe and quickly turn away.
  Now irreversibly worked into a blistering rage, Hank fantasized about catching the punk gangbangers. His mind began plotting disproportionate revenge as he begrudgingly knelt to collect his broken radio. Anger and humiliation pounded his temples, and the phantom pain in his absent calf crept back with vengeance. Once again, it felt as if his missing calf muscle was engorged with blood and about to explode.
  The inner debate began as soon as he mounted his front steps. He began listing all the reasons why he shouldn't extinguish the pain with a fistful of Vicodin and a stiff drink. He tried to reassure himself that the pain was all in his head, that is was all a cruel illusion, but the sensation eating him alive was all too real. Getting slapped in the face with more graffiti was the final straw.
  Hank slid the bolt back and opened the door just enough to allow him to retrieve his keys from the lock. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. A familiar fluttering of endorphins tickled his guts and his long-dormant Delta instincts fired to life. His mind cleared and his breathing slowed as his ears strained for sound.
  Holding the door open a crack, he turned subtly to scan the street behind him. Nothing was out of place; traffic rolled past, and nobody paid him any attention, but alarms still sounded in his senses. He had learned to trust his instincts, and these were now telling him that he was in real danger.
  Turning back to his door, he paused for a moment and wondered if this feeling was what the doctors had meant when they'd cautioned him about hypervigilance. They had also said something about a psychosis. Hank's mind spun as he felt himself being taken back to a past life. He felt as if he were about to force entry into a hostile space with his Delta Team, but it was only his front door. He wondered if, like his phantom pain, he was being plagued by the ghostly feelings of a past life, or if he was simply succumbing to the insidious psychosis of sleep deprivation brought on by all the drugs.
  Hank lifted his hands to his face as if to wash himself with ice-cold water, hoping to literally wipe the anxiety away, but he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. As he pushed the door open and prepared to step inside, he caught the first tangible clue to his tension. There was a faint hint of perfume in the air. He opened the door further, pushing his face through the threshold to sniff the air. The scent was clear: a cheap perfume, the type a young girl would wear.
  Now certain that there was an intruder in his home, Hank flushed with relief, oddly more grateful for his sanity than alarmed by the intrusion. Dozens of scenarios formed in his mind as he contemplated who or what was waiting for him. The door had still been locked when he'd arrived, and there wasn't any reason to expect a lady visitor. He began to suspect that a drunken derelict had broken in through the rear window-and if she had, she probably wasn't alone. Blowing out his anxiety through pursed lips, Hank readied himself for the unknown and cautiously stepped in, closing the door behind him.
  The narrow hallway was empty and appeared undisturbed. A faint stereophonic chatter came from the radio in his room. Hank fought the urge to call out; instead, he threw his keys onto the hall-tree and proceeded toward the kitchen. Wishing to seem oblivious to the intrusion, he made no effort to walk quietly. After a few paces the aroma of coffee permeated his olfactory senses, and he could no longer detect the flowery perfume. Ready to pounce at any movement, his fists balled up for a fight, Hank prepared to round the corner into the open space of his kitchen and living room.
  As he stepped into the kitchen, the heel of his right shoe squealed on the linoleum floor. He cringed at the loud chirp and silently cursed his toy leg. From the corner of his eye he caught the amber glow from the light on the coffee maker. The pot was now more than half empty. He paused, cocking his head and scanning the kitchen as the shoot/don't shoot reflex in his mind told him to stand down. Hank forced open his clenched fists and let out a long breath. He turned from the kitchen and stepped evenly into the living room. As soon as he rounded the corner, he stopped short with astonishment, his chin dropping to his chest in a dumbfounded gape.
  A stunning young woman sat on the desk opposite him. Her youthful, slender
  body was nearly naked. She sat with her legs crossed. Hank could barely make out the thin black line of her panties arcing over her hips. She smiled apprehensively, shrugging her bare shoulders slightly as she chewed her lower lip. Dark hair, cropped uneven and wild, hung over her face and obscured her eyes. Her flawless skin glowed in the dimness, making her appear shockingly young. She was trying hard to look sexy, but Hank could tell she was frightened.
  Hank's shocked expression seemed to satisfy the young woman, and her smile warmed as she uncrossed her legs and slid smoothly from the desk. Her bare, white breasts swayed gently as she got to her feet. Hank froze, staring at her from across the room. The butterflies in his stomach morphed into a new sensation.
  She stepped forward, her hands caressing the smooth lines of her belly. Her lips parted as if about to speak. Just then, a slight shift in her gaze and an almost imperceptible change in the air current behind him sent Hank's heart crashing into his bowels.
  Before he could think to react, someone struck him from behind, crashing into his lower back with the force of an NFL linebacker. Two heavily tattooed arms locked together around his waist. Hank's feet were unable to check the speed of the tackle, and both men came crashing down at the feet of the now shrieking girl.
  Hank grabbed at the man's hands as they fell. He managed to grip his assailant's pinky finger the instant the floor came up to greet him. The full weight of his attacker slammed down on him, and Hank fought to suppress the panic that follows having the wind knocked out of you. As both men bounced up, fighting to recover from the impact, Hank twisted his hips and ripped away at the man's pinky finger. The man yelped with pain and released his hold around Hank's waist.
  With quickness and skill he'd not used in some time, Hank thrust his hips to one side and worked his body free. As soon as he had maneuvered to one side, Hank jerked his head backward and sent the back of his skull crashing into his opponent's face. A loud crack was followed by a high-pitched howl, and the man loosened his grip just long enough for Hank to escape. Hank spun violently, turning to face his assailant. He still clutched the intruder's angulated pinky finger in his fist and was leveraging it against the now-groaning man.
  "Oooouuuwww!! Let go, man! Let Go! Come on, Tank!"
  The two men now knelt on the floor facing each other. The would-be attacker's face was contorted with pain. Blood trickled from his nose, dripping over his bushy moustache and beard. A menacing smile gradually overcame the ferocious scowl on Hank's face as he continued to tweak the man's finger. The man's free hand moved to strike out, but Hank surged forward, ramming into his opponent's flank, rolling the captured arm behind his back.
  "You wanna play with me, dumb-ass?" Hank growled in the man's ear, briefly tempted by the urge to bite it.
  "Okay! Okay! I give! Get the fuck off me, man!" The defeated man cried out with an odd, laughing yelp.
  "What in the hell are you thinking?" Hank bent forward, adding pressure to the arm-lock. "You want more, you overgrown sissy?"
  "Way to go, Curt. Let me know when you're done teaching him a lesson," the young girl teased, trying to cover her breasts with her crossed arms.
  Prompted by her teasing, the massive man bucked his hips in an attempt to throw Hank off his back. His face pushed against the floor, and he strained the muscles of his free arm in an effort to get to his knees. Hank clung to his back, momentarily riding him like a pony. Then, as soon as there was enough room, Hank sank his heels between the man's legs, pushing forward with all his weight, driving his heels backward down his thighs. The man collapsed with a groan. The straps holding Hank's prosthetic popped, and his right leg slackened, but he continued to press the attack.
  "I give! I give!" Curt shouted.
  "Why in the hell are you jumping out of my closet, dumb-ass?" Hank gave the pinned wrist another twist.
  "I'm sorry. Okay?" Curt's voice was laden with humiliation. "Let me go, dammit!"
  "And what's this?" Hank's eyes fixed on the girl. Still topless, she was busy squeezing into an undersized leather miniskirt. "You thought you could distract me and kick my ass, right?" Hank pressed against the arm again. "What do you think I woulda done to you if you did get one over on me? Huh? Did you think about that?"
  "Ooouuwww! Come on, get off of me! You're gonna break my fucking arm!"
  "I'm so sorry! Curt made me do it! I swear!" The girl seemed genuinely shaken by the sudden violence. Hank looked up and stared pointedly into her eyes. She quickly averted her face and began collecting her clothes.
  "Dude! Get off of me! I mean it!" Curt lowered his voice in an attempt to convey his seriousness.
  Hank slapped him hard across the back of his neck, forehand then backhand, clipping his ears with each stroke. "Or what, tough guy?"
  Curt writhed spasmodically, renewed physical pain compounding his humiliation. "Oh, you're dead now!" The big man growled, but he was still helplessly pinned.
  "No way. You're gonna learn a lesson. How many times am I gonna have to whip your ass? We're supposed to be buddies." Again he slapped Curt hard across the neck. Hank didn't feel enraged by Curt's semiplayful attack, but he knew that if the tables were turned, mercy would be out of the question. Curt was a dangerous man who wasn't accustomed to getting beat. He still ached to repay Hank for the all-too-public beating he'd received when they had first met.
  For Hank, any fighting challenge was to be met with unequaled savagery. He knew no other way. At times, it seemed as if that quality was all he had left. "You've got to learn that I can't be fucked with!" Hank raised his hand to strike again. Curt's free hand reached back to cover his neck.
  Hank froze and was suddenly struck by the thought of what he must look like in the eyes of the young girl. With a final grunt of triumph, he pushed the man's folded arm away and righted himself on Curt's back. "What are you doin' here Curt?" Hank began to untangle his legs from his victim, but his prosthetic snagged on something. "How did you get in here?"
  "Your hide-a-key," Curt groaned in defeat.
  "Key? What key?"
  "I know about the dog shit."
  "Hmm?" Hank's attention drifted back to the girl as he continued tugging on his leg.
  "The fake dog shit in the bushes." Curt wiped the smeared blood from his face with the back of his hand. "You showed it to me, remember?"
  "So you decided you'd let yourself in?"
  "I thought I had you this time, man!" Curt rubbed the pain from his wrists. "I still owe you one!"
  "Only one? How many times am I gonna to have to kick your ass?" Content in victory, Hank changed his tone and patted Curt's head good-naturedly. "Who's this? For a second there, I thought it was my lucky day."
  "Hi. I'm Jenna. I'm so sorry. I didn't know what he was doing. He said he wanted to scare you … that's all." A reluctant smile animated her face for a moment but quickly melted under the intensity of Hank's eyes.
Hank attempted a tentative smile, but it was wasted as she turned away and looked everywhere but at him. Her face made it clear that she, like most people, was uncomfortable with the way he looked at them. Eye contact never held long. It was something he was getting used to, and now it allowed him to appraise her without challenge. Dark motives quickly formed in his imagination as he asked himself why a girl like her was with a monster like Curt.
  "You still haven't said what you're doing here." Confident that his leg was disengaged, Hank tried to spring to his feet, but his right leg spun around and came to rest with its foot facing the opposite direction.
  Jenna's eyes went wide with horror, and both men burst into laughter.
  "Oh shit, call a doctor!" Hank laughed sarcastically, gesturing at the cartoonish disposition of his leg. "What's wrong? Never seen a one-legged man win an ass-kicking contest before?"
  Curt rolled onto his side in childlike hysterics, relishing the baffled look on Jenna's face and coughing blood onto the floor.
  After settling down and composing their respective body parts, all three moved to the kitchen. Hank passed the coffee pot and opened the refrigerator to retrieve two beers. "You want something to drink Jenna?"
  "No thanks." He noticed that her hands still trembled as she fidgeted with her clothes.
  "This is the girl I told you about the other night." Curt strode over and wrapped his arm around her. He looked rather like an Ogre standing next to her, dwarfing her in every way as he pulled her close. Curt was a huge man, towering over Hank's six feet. His features were rough and ugly. Coarse stubble covered his pockmarked face. Multiple scars accented his thick brow, and long greasy hair hung over his ears from under a dirty red bandana. He looked like the poster boy for biker-scum USA, and Hank felt odd to think that Curt was one of his only associates.
  "The girl from the Internet?" Hank opened the bottles and passed one to Curt, keeping his eye on Jenna. She seemed oblivious to Curt's repulsiveness. She caressed his beer belly and gazed affectionately into his face as she wiped the bloody mucus from his lip with her thumb. Bewildered, Hank shook his head and turned away from the odd coupling.
  "That's why we came over here. You're the only guy I know that knows computer stuff." Hank caught Curt rolling his eyes beyond Jenna's view.
  "I just wanted to show him my portfolio on the Internet." Jenna pushed the hair from her face, showing off her perfect, youthful features.
"Oh yeah? You're a model, huh?" Hank said in between gulps of beer. "That makes sense."
  "She's a stunner, ain't she Henry?" Curt was clearly gloating over his prize. "I told you, but you thought I was full of shit. Didn't ya?"
  "I just thought you were trying to get me to join your nutty biker gang." Hank's lips curled into a mock-smile, and he flashed Curt a knowing wink before draining his beer.
  "You don't need to join any gang … shit, I was just saying we need to get you a bike, that's all. I got a buddy who can modify one for your peg leg." Curt pushed away from Jenna and once again appealed to Hank with the same expression he had worn only a few nights before.
  "I don't ride motorcycles. Too many idiots out there." Hank raised an eyebrow from over his beer.
  "I'll take you for a spin-you'll change your mind." Curt pumped his fist with emotion, spilling beer across the floor and not giving it a second thought. "But seriously, Henry, we could use a smart guy like you. Lots of money to be made out there."
  "I don't need the money. I'm not interested."
  "Whatever, man. I don't get it." Curt downed the rest of his beer wearing a childish scowl.
  "Can I use your computer? I'm gonna get one, but I don't know which one I want yet." Jenna slid past, soothing Curt with a gentle caress and a turn of her hips.
  "Sure. Help yourself." Hank watched her cross the room for a moment and then returned to the fridge to retrieve two more beers.
  "Do you have AOL?" Jenna bent over the chair looking for the computer's power button, but Hank's attention was caught by Curt's not-so-subtle hand waves and head jerks.
  "Huh? Oh, the Internet." Hank caught sight of a small bundle of white powder coming from Curt's pocket, and he immediately turned to face Jenna. "Yeah, I've got the Internet."
  "Hmmm. How do you make it work?"
  "Here, let me get it going for you."
  Jenna stood to let Hank sit, and after a few moments of obligatory hums and clicks the computer glowed to life and filled the dark corner with sky blue light. Hank's fingers flew over the keys, but his eyes were focused on Curt's reflection on the screen. Hank didn't even want to think about cocaine. All he wanted was sleep. Temptation had transformed into torture. His frustrations boiled beneath the surface as he found himself taking deep whiffs of Jenna's scent. The overpowering effect of her perfume had worn off, and she now smelled of sweet vanilla body lotion and sticky girlish lip gloss. Her breast brushed against him as she leaned in to point at the screen.
  "Is this some kind of army thing?" Jenna spoke just above a whisper.
  "Didn't I tell you?" Curt's voice boomed from the kitchen, where he was indulging in the fruits of his trade. "Yeah, I told you on the way over here, Tank was a Navy SEAL."
  Hank wasn't navy, but he didn't bother to make the correction.
  "Like Charlie Sheen, in that movie, what was it called?" Jenna tapped on Hank's shoulder, trying to jog her memory.
  "Um … Navy SEALs?" Curt groaned sarcastically, then inhaled a line of cocaine.
  "Oh shut up, Curt!" Hank could see her pouting at Curt in the screen's reflection, but then her eyes met his on the screen and he felt her attention on him. "But that was you? You did that?"
  "Yeah, that was me, just like Charlie Sheen."
  "Is that how you lost your …?"
  "Yep." Hank cut her short. Heaviness gripped his chest, and his stomach began to flutter. His eyes locked onto a message along the bottom of the screen. The system was saying he had received e-mail, and that was a serious problem. His computer operated as part of a classified system, and he was no longer classified.
  "So, do you work on computers or something? You can type pretty fast."
  "No, not anymore." Hank stared at the blinking script. The U.S. Army was listed as the sender, and it was dated two days ago. With the stroke of a key, Hank switched screens to the system's search engine and pushed himself away from the desk to make room for Jenna.
  Slowly, key by key, Jenna tapped in the Internet address of a San Francisco-based porn site. "My girlfriend started her own, um, Web site. She makes mad cash off it. See, that's her. The screen flashed with the stop motion action of an enormously large-breasted blonde, winking and squeezing her over-inflated tits. "They're not real."
  "No kidding." Hank feigned interest in the poorly produced porn, and began to stare at Jenna's reflection on the monitor instead.
  Curt passed by, completely uninterested in the computer. He gestured to the kitchen counter, where several thick lines of cocaine were drawn out. Hank tried to dismiss him with a hard stare and a quick wave of his hand, but he couldn't turn his attention back to the screen. He had seen it.
  Curt's stupid grin and casual recklessness were once again boring a hole in Hank's guts. Hank's fists clenched as he thought once again that he didn't want any of this, hadn't asked for any of this. He wanted to be done with the drugs and the pills. He wanted to sleep again, but he felt unable to step off the path; each attempt felt futile. Tremendous self-loathing washed over him as he viewed himself through Curt's eyes. He knew Curt was thinking it was only a matter of time before Hank joined his underworld business. Hank hated the strange allure those temptations brought with them. They felt like whispers of a new life, base but at least interesting.
  Hank tried to occupy himself with the vapid babble streaming from Jenna as they browsed through naked poses, but felt physical relief when she broke away to indulge in the cocaine. Hank followed, passing her to pull a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard. He poured two glasses, unceremoniously draining his in a single, sour gulp.
  The next few hours were spent locked in meaningless conversation. The Scotch didn't last, but Curt's supply of cocaine seemed endless. Curt eventually suggested going to the strip club where Jenna worked, and Hank couldn't think of a better idea.
  Once they arrived at the Lap Jockey Lounge, they were given the VIP treatment. Everyone knew Curt, and soon Jenna's girlfriends crowded their private booth. Hank was drunk with the idea that they actually thought his roughneck Brooklyn accent was cute. None of them seemed to notice his leg. The hours flew by in an alcoholic haze, and all too soon he found himself alone on his doorstep.
  He bounced off the walls as he staggered into his bedroom. He found a bottle of Valium in his dresser and gulped them down. He collapsed onto his bed and watched the blank ceiling spin above him. Inwardly, saturated with toxins and on fire from lack of sleep, his mind began screaming for it all to stop. But nothing stopped-the room still spun, and after many heavy breaths dull sleep arrived at last.