I'm back...  It's been too long.  Too long indeed.  Anyway, for all those looking expectantly forward to Chapter 4, here it is.  You know what I noticed a long time ago when writing short fiction stories?  It's very hard to keep one idea, one thought, one concept as the driving force behind each chapter, because each chapter is in itself a tiny story.  What I do is envision what would happen if this were a movie or a book and write what I see.  I think it works pretty well, as I'm sure you can see.  By the way, I've been getting some excellent feedback from my readers (i.e. you), and I'd like to see that continue.  Feedback is how I know how well I'm pleasing my readers and what I can do better.  Send it here.  I won't hurt you...  Welcome once again, boys and girls, to -

"Get down, you bloody idiot!"

John Murphy was pulled roughly to the ground.  "Ow!"

"Get ready to fight," said the muscled Englishman.  He was wearing the dark blue of UNATCO and had black paint smeared across his cheeks.  Murphy swung his weapon around, clicked the magazine in position, pulled the cocking handle, and crouched down low behind the metal barricade.  He could hear the bullets whistling as they sped only inches above his head.  Sniper bullets, he thought.  That explained the lack of gunshots - the snipers were probably hundreds of meters away, scoping their position.

The English soldier half-stood and squeezed off a burst from his gun.  The next moment, he stiffened and spun to the ground, his blood seeping onto the pavement.  His face was still locked in a squinting expression of concentration, but he was very much dead.

John's heart beat fast.  He had never been in a one-sided firefight like this before.  Looking to his left, he could make out Coalition snipers setting up behind a small mountain of sandbags.  The flying dust obstructed much of his view, and the dead man only feet from him was having a distracting effect on any kind of clear thought.  There came a volley of shots from the snipers - then an eerie silence.  The battle was over.

Then came a shout, that all was clear.  Men were standing up and brushing themselves off.  A rookie agent was shaking, huddled in a corner of the barricade, staring fixedly at another dead man on the ground.

Murphy averted his eyes with some difficulty and stood himself.  He took a few aimless steps to his left, then wandered back toward the barrier.  He heard a sound... a whistling... a click?

The world exploded and ignited in hellish flame.

*            *            *

The splint was giving him gyp again.  He tried to adjust it and stopped when it hurt too much.  Contrary to what he had expected, the Majestic 12 guards had set and splinted his left elbow after the incident with Walton Simons, and had even looked apologetic.  This had certainly come as a surprise.

Steve had passed out when Simons had broken his arm and thus had managed not to pass any information.  He knew he would be back, though.  He could feel it in his bones.  He tried to get comfortable but the fact that his bed was a slab of concrete didn't help matters.  He rested his head on the bundle of faded clothes that served as his pillow, and tried gamely to sleep.

Hours later, he slept.  But he did not dream; since his encounter with Simons he had never dreamed again.  He woke in a sweat and a tangle of limbs.  I'm still here, he thought.  Every time he awoke he expected to find himself at home in bed, the cell merely a figment of fevered thoughts.  But still I rot here... stuck in this godforsaken cell. 

*            *            *

The world spun about him as Murphy tried to stand.  Or perhaps Murphy was turning, spinning, with arms outstretched, running through a field with long grass and flowers in interesting shades of blue.  He ran and ran toward a patch of orange fog.  He leapt into it, and found himself carried upwards.  As he emerged from the cloud, he saw blue-helmeted men pulling him to his feet.

"Wha... hey?" Murphy asked intelligently.  The men, he saw, were Coalition soldiers sifting through rubble.  Rubble... from what?  Then the memory hit him like a half-brick - the explosion.  One minute they were picking up after a won battle, next moment flying through the air at the heels of a vast expanse of fire, a conflagration like none other.

"Oh yeah, he's alive.  Not looking too good, but he's definitely alive," said one of the guards.  At first Murphy thought he was being spoken to, but then realized the soldier was using his communicator.  "Yes.  Yessir.  Agreed, sir.  Right away - Masterson out."

"I'm alive, but I wish I wasn't," Murphy muttered.  Just then two pairs of strong arms took his own upper extremities and marched him straight into a Coalition prisoner transport van.  The doors shut, and Murphy was once again alone with his thoughts.  The sudden jerk of the van almost threw Murphy to the ground, while the instant acceleration tried to grind his vertebrae into the sheer metal of the wall.  Where were they going at such a speed?  Maybe they thought he was hurt and needed medical attention.  He assured himself this was the answer, but he knew in his heart that there was a far more sinister purpose.  He wedged himself in the corner, closed his eyes and thought.

It had been almost a week since Steve's abduction and the subsequent transfer to Headquarters.  He'd been coping as well as he could with his disgust for the whole corrupt, rotten organization - but it hadn't been easy.  Twice now he'd nearly lost his control, nearly hauled off and hit someone until he felt better.  That wouldn't do it though; he needed more.  He needed reassurance that Steve was alright, that his daughter had died for a cause, and not at a whim.  His daughter... Elly.

Murphy closed his eyes and cried.  The large tears welled out from under his eyelids, forming small rivulets down his face.