“Too much?” Sara asked anxiously as she turned around for him. Mr. Peppermint smiled, taking in her outfit with a gleam in his eye.



“Perfect. Utilitarian, flattering and comfortable—“ He told her quietly. “Just the sort of thing for the Gauntlet.”



Sara wore a pale cranberry tank top with black hip hugger jeans and a matching short jacket. Around her neck she had a pendant made of a chunk of turquoise; on the jeans was a matching turquoise belt buckle. She nodded and looked at Mr. Peppermint, eyeing him critically.



He’d opted for belted khakis, and a button down white shirt open at the throat, no tie. His sleeves were rolled up on his forearms and he wore a watch on a thick leather band.



Both of them wore boots.



Mr. Peppermint checked the time and nodded. Wordlessly they left his apartment, riding down in the elevator and walking through the empty bookstore hand in hand. From the register counter, Porthos and Aramis looked sleepily up at them; Sara petted them both in passing, making them purr. Mr. Peppermint locked the door behind them, the ‘closed’ sign prominent.



In the predawn light, they drove out of Henderson and went west, following roads that became increasingly less maintained and populated. Behind them the sun began to rise, and by the time they reached the gates of Eternity, day had come.



Mr. Peppermint had Sara pull over and climbed out of the car, taking his wallet out. He lifted the hood over the card reader and slid his card along the slot, flipping it over and repeating the action. Watching from the car, Sara noted a green glow reflecting off her partner’s face before the gates began rolling open. She let herself shiver a bit, and waited until he was back in the passenger seat before she spoke. “Retina scan?”



“Not until we get to the Gauntlet itself. Mike’s already here.”



Sara put the car in gear and they drove slowly through the gates. She stared at the town, taking in the dusty dry buildings with a careful eye, noting the layout and matching it mentally to Mr. Peppermint’s description. So far, everything seemed just as he’d described it: General Store, Livery Stable and Bank on the left side of the street, and Saloon, Hardware store and Church on the right hand side. Both sides had covered sidewalks and horse rails in front of them.



A genuine Western town.



“Pull up in the back of the Saloon—“ Mr. Peppermint directed, motioning with his chin. Sara did, bringing the Miata alongside a rusted pickup truck, and a Rolls Royce Corniche. As they climbed out, Sara noticed the faint whistle of the wind, but other than that, a full and overwhelming quiet through the vast space of sky and desert around them.



She looked out, seeing endless hills of scrub desert, ringed distantly by fence, and felt slightly lost; out of place in the natural setting. A hand touched her shoulder and startled, she flinched. Mr. Peppermint spoke.



“Don’t be spooked, honey. We need to keep our focus here, in Eternity.”



“Right. Just . . . getting my bearings,” she mumbled back, following him around the side of the saloon. They stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and kept moving, reaching the doors of the Desert Rose. Sara noted that cunningly hidden in the frame was a thermal sensor. Catching her glance, Mr. Peppermint nodded. He wrapped his hand around the ornate knocker, but instead of making it rap against the wood, he merely held it.



The knocker glowed briefly, scanning his print, and the door opened wide.



“Welcome, Mr. Peppermint,” the voice purred out. He and Sara gave a startled look at each other, both recognizing it from their very first mission together. They stepped across the threshold of the saloon and looked around.



A long cherry wood bar stood against the far wall, complete with ornately framed painting above it of a reclining, nude Miss Lollipop, her more intimate physical features discreetly draped in a lace fringe shawl. Sara smirked; Mr. Peppermint gave an amused sigh and began to survey the rest of the room.



There were a few tables here and there with chairs; a few potted ferns, and several craps tables, along with a roulette wheel and a cashier’s cage at along one wall. The wagon wheel chandeliers overhead weren’t lit, but still gave the room ambience, as did the gleaming brass spittoons and Persian rugs scattered about on the polished wooden floor.



“Vegas, old-style,” Sara murmured.



Grissom cocked his head, nodding but wary. “Styles change, but content remains the same. Duck—“



Instinctively Sara did, dropping down as a swift ‘zing’ passed through the space she’d been standing in. The heavy clatter of the wooden missile rattled out against the far wall, and she glared at the Cigar Store Indian statue that had fired it in her direction.



A chuckle filled the room, and it wasn’t Mr. Peppermint’s. As he helped her up, another man came down the staircase near the bar, his hands in his pockets. He sauntered over to them, smiling. “It wouldn’t have hurt, you know. I made the cigars out of pine, and set it at a pretty slow speed—still, good reflexes, Miss Chocolate is it?”



Politely he held out his hand; Sara took it, her annoyance fading in the calm admiration in the man’s eyes. He gave her a firm shake. “I’m Nonpareil, sometimes known as Mike TeeVee.” He reached out and shook Mr. Peppermint’s hand firmly, “—Grissom.”



“Mike.”



“So what gave it away?” Mike asked with interest.



Grissom cocked his head. “Faint tick of the gearworks. I’d been listening for it since we walked in, and since the Grandfather clock isn’t here, nor is the cuckoo, I figured it had to be the Indian.”



“Memory like a damned bear trap,” Mike muttered admiringly. “Always did have the chops. We’ll see if we can’t put you through some serious paces this time, Sport.”



“I have no doubt you will. But it’s ‘us’ this time,” Mr. Peppermint corrected softly.



Mike nodded. “Yes, so I’ve been informed. The VIPs are upstairs, ready to monitor the Run, by the way—no pressure.”



“Bread and circuses,” Sara muttered sweetly. “Always a thrill to be a dancing monkey.”



“Nah, it’s not like that,” Mike assured her. “They’re here to make sure it’s a fair test—that I haven’t set any trap that wasn’t listed on my manifest—and to make sure the quality and safety controls are in place. Sure the Run’s going to be hard on you two, but it’s also going to be safe and fully orchestrated.”



“Mmm hmmm, “ Sara murmured back, not fully convinced. She looked over at Mr. Peppermint, who was staring at the bar painting, his expression amused.



“Has our fearless leader seen this . . . new addition to the decor?”



Mike’s grin broadened. “Not yet—she’ll be getting the delayed feed later today . . . ought to be a nice little surprise for her.”



“You live dangerously,” Mr. Peppermint muttered under his breath. Sara smirked again.

He opened his eyes, in the darkness, feeling excessively warm.



And achy.



Achy in his man places, to be exact. Normally this was a good sign, indicating excellent sex earlier; a badge of honor to be tolerated with a satisfied grin and a few wonderful memories.



Given the degree of ache through his loins, he was going to have some pretty incredible memories then—



Gingerly he shifted, trying to ease the pressure. Full bladder along with muscle strain . . . time to hit the john . . . He rolled over and was about to sit up when the arm around his waist tightened.



He grinned a little. “Hey babe . . . gotta let me use the bathroom . . .”



A little snuffly growl, and the arm withdrew, reluctantly. He rose up, scratching his head, feeling absurdly proud of himself for the moment, then shuffled off towards the dark doorway and found the facilities in the dark.



Once done, he flushed and turned to the sink to wash his hands, fumbling for the light switch. The bathroom flooded with brilliance, and he blinked, staring at the reflection in the mirror in front of him.



Lanky torso welted with pink scratches, disheveled sandy blonde hair, big brown eyes—



Completely . . . unfamiliar.



He leaned forward, examining the face that did the same in the glass. He spoke. “My name is . . . “



Nothing came to mind. He blinked. After a second, he tried again. “I know who I am. I’m . . . “



Frowning, he rinsed his hands and dried them, then went back out to the bedroom, searching for his pants. His attention was immediately distracted from his quest by the sight of not one body, but two clearly distinct forms huddled under the covers, and he grinned at his own prowess.



“--That explains the ache,” he mumbled to himself, unable to hold back a smirk. Carefully he began searching the bedroom floor, trying not to make too much noise.



A jeweled thong . . . An acrylic five inch platform high heel . . . a ball gag . . . pair of jeans. Grabbing them, he fished in the pockets, turning up a wallet and flipping to the driver’s license quickly, eyeing it in the semi-darkness.



“David Phillips . . . “ He read aloud, a sickening sense of dread hitting his stomach as he realized the photo didn’t look at all like the man he’d seen in the mirror.

Sugar Daddy set his book down with a sigh; this always happened right when he was getting to the exciting parts. Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot would have to wait while he answered his phone. Flipping it open, he sighed. “Hello?”



“Yo, It’s me. Just wondering if you can come and relieve us until Jelly Bean gets here, man. I wouldn’t ask, but he’s two hours overdue.”



“You tried all his numbers?” Sugar Daddy asked automatically, looking for a bookmark. He absently stuck a receipt for Waffle World to mark his place as the reply came back.



“Cell and home both, and paged him every half hour for the last two, yeah. Despite his personality, he’s not the kind to flake out; not from work,” Licorice murmured. “Since Miss L’s out of town, I’m just going down the chain of command here.”



“No, no, you did right, ‘Rick, letting me know. I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Let me cover a few bases first,” Sugar Daddy murmured softly. “I’m sure he’s fine, and we’ll all take turns yelling at him once he shows up, okay? How’s the Senator at the moment?”



“Watching some cooking show . . . we got a chance to tap into his last few calls and he’s planning on making some news conference tomorrow, so if Miss L’s got something up her sleeve she ought to spring it soon,” Licorice snorted.



“I hear you. Be there in ten. Let me know if Greg contacts you.”



After hanging up, Brass took a moment to contact Henry and pass on a quick order. “Pull up Jelly Bean’s chip code and plug it in. Hook it to my GPS.”



“Yes sir—authorization code?”



“A2, Brass. Classified. Thanks, Henry.”



After that, he hit a speed dial button and smiled into the receiver at the sound of a melodious voice at the other end. “Hey, Doll.”



“Jim. What news?”



“Good and bad . . . looks like the senator is about to go public with his missing daughter, so you might want to cut him off at the pass sometime today.”



“Good to know, thank you. And the bad news?” Lady Heather murmured sweetly, tingeing even the most mundane of conversation with a hint of smut. Sugar Daddy sighed.



“Jelly Bean’s gone missing. He was supposed to relieve the watch on the senator and didn’t show. I took it on myself to activate his chip, so we’ll find our boy pretty quick, though.”



“That’s very unlike him—at least when he’s not on vacation.”



“Agreed. You don’t think Eiger made him, do you?” Sugar Daddy asked softly. “Recognized him somehow?”



Before Miss Lollipop could reply, the beep of another call coming in sounded. Murmuring a quick, “Hang on—“ Sugar Daddy switched over.



Henry spoke up in a slightly worried tone. “There’s no record of a chip implantation for Jelly Bean, sir, and no code on file. I’ve looked twice now, and nothing’s there.”



“Ohh boyyy—“ With a sigh, Sugar Daddy switched back to Miss Lollipop and relayed the news. She made a concerned little sound.



“I can’t think of how that got overlooked . . . unless he hacked in and took the number out.”



“That sounds like him, unfortunately,” Sugar Daddy grunted. “But he’d need help, and if that’s the case, then it’s time for Gum Drop to answer a few questions. I’ll take care of it on this end. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and that thing I’m not supposed to say to you while we’re on duty? Consider it said.”



“And back at you, doubled,” Miss Lollipop murmured shyly.

The three of them sat at one of the tables in the Desert Rose.



“So, you’ll start in the middle of Main street. You’ll have two minutes to open the envelope and make for the building listed in it. Each building has one to three traps in it, and you’re on a timer in each one—“



“—Is there any area where we aren’t timed?” Miss Chocolate asked in annoyance. Grissom smirked as Mike Teevee shrugged.



“Main Street. That doesn’t have any timers.”



“No, it’s got an ADS system, or sticky foam or a water cannon trained on it,” Grissom replied slowly. “An agent’s got to deal with a constant barrage of distractions, right Mike?”



“Don’t spoil all the surprises—“ the other man protested through a small grin.



Grissom shot him a knowing look and then turned to Miss Chocolate, moving his chair closer to her. “Are you prepared?”



“As I’ll ever be,” she responded gently, smiling at him. “Time to start.”



The three of them rose up; Mike pulled a remote from his pocket and pressed a button. Immediately, part of the counter of the bar slid back, revealing a large display of devices under it. Intrigued, Miss Chocolate and Grissom came forward to examine them.



“Generally an agent is permitted one weapon while running the Gauntlet. These are modified to work with the sensor system used here, so they don’t fire real bullets or projectiles, only light rays,” Mike explained.



“So it’s all a gigantic laser tag game?” Miss Chocolate murmured cheekily. Grissom winced, but Mike took no offense, and nodded.



“In a way—although this is designed as a test, there’s no point in maiming or killing agents in order to evaluate them. Don’t think that means it’s easy, or that you won’t need a weapon though—“ came the warning. “Pick any one here you like.”



Miss Chocolate took her time, picking a few weapons up and setting them down again, considering carefully. Finally she settled on a small, sleek handheld device housed in a Beretta casing.



She held it up and looked at Mike, who nodded. “Excellent choice. And you, Mr. Peppermint?”



Without hesitation, Grissom reached for the Luger and shoulder holster; Mike Teevee cocked an eyebrow at him, not saying a word. He pressed a button on the remote and the bar slid closed again with a small hum.



The three of them walked out of the Desert Rose and into the middle of Main Street, where the bright sunlight made all three of them blink. Miss Chocolate tucked her Beretta inside her jacket; Grissom slipped the shoulder holster on, Luger in place.



Mike Teevee cleared his throat. “All right. I have your envelope which I’ll hand to you at eight o’clock on the dot. However, first I need to make a quick security check . . . “ So saying, he pulled long rectangular bar from his pocket and flipped a switch on it. It beeped, and settled into a hum. Mike waved it over Grissom, up and down his arms, along his ribs and over his legs with no notable result.



Then he waved it over Miss Chocolate. As the scanner swung over her turquoise necklace, it bleeped alarmingly. Mike stopped it and looked at her patiently. With a little smirk, she reached up and undid the necklace, handing it over to him. Mike turned the pendant over, revealing the hidden compartment with the small Swiss Army knife in it. He sighed.



“Nice try—you do get points for trying to beat the system before the Run starts, Miss Chocolate . . .”



“Thanks. I don’t suppose it’s possible for me to, say, get that back?”



Mike shook his head even as he grinned. “Not until after the Run, I’m afraid. All right, here’s your envelope with your route. Time to beat is fifty seven minutes. Once you enter a building, you’ll be watched, heard and recorded, so don’t do anything you wouldn’t want recorded for posterity, okay? I’ll be with our VIPS, watching, so when you hear the bell, you can open the envelope.” He paused. “Good luck.”



Mike walked towards the Desert Rose, and Grissom shifted closer to Miss Chocolate, his whisper low. “Nice try with the knife—sorry it got confiscated.”



“That’s okay . . . there’s another one in my belt buckle,” she replied very softly.



Grissom smiled. “I do so love you and your devious ways, Miss Chocolate.”

He didn’t speak Italian—at least, he thought it was Italian that the two girls were murmuring at him. Both of them had long curly hair and figures that made his mouth go dry, but despite the distraction of those charms, communication seemed to be a no-go.



The blonde had thrown off the covers and was beckoning him with one crooked finger; parts of him were sitting up and begging at the sight of her.



But now wasn’t the time. Aside from the matter of aching, this loss of identity was unnerving. There were no other men in the bedroom, so clearly the pants and ID had to be his, but the inability to reconcile the face on the license and the one in the mirror bothered him.



He tried again, planting a hand on his chest. “Who . . . am I?”



“WhoamI?” the blonde echoed while the other one giggled. She added, “Venuto qui—“



“No, no, not right now . . . I’ve already lost enough skin to you two . . . I think,” he replied uncertainly. Both women giggled, and the brunette slid out of the bed, sauntering over to him, her hands held out to take his.



“Come bahk to bed, Caro . . . it’s earh-ly yet, and you neeeeed your rest . . . “ she murmured sweetly, stepping closer and nuzzling him. He gulped a little, not nearly as focused as before.



“Oooohhh, tempting as that offer is, and believe me it’s . . . tempting—I can’t help but think that I’ve got a few places to go . . “



The brunette pouted; the blonde’s lower lip quivered in disappointment.



He hesitated.



What the heck . . . a few more hours . . . a little rest, and his memory was sure to come back. And in the meantime . . .



“. . . but I don’t want to be rude . . . just rushing off . . .”



“Bravo . . .” the brunette giggled, and licked his ear before leading him back to the bed.

“It was just . . . one of those things! Greg never liked the whole chip idea, and he didn’t think it was going to matter—“ Gum Drop blurted, running a hand through his dark, spiky hair. “He offered to do me a few favors, and I told him I’d take his chip number out of the system in return. It didn’t seem like a big deal—“



Sugar Daddy sat patiently next to Gum Drop, the two of them in a small van advertising “Perfect Puppy Pet Groomers” in large pink letters. In smaller ones underneath it added, “we make house calls.’



“See, that was your first mistake—listening to Greg. Your second one was in assuming it didn’t matter. Now, you and I are sitting in a cooped up van having a discussion I’m sure you really, really regret.”



“Y-yes sir.”



“And the way you’re going to make amends is to find that chip number and give it to Henry. We have an agent out there who’s missing, and while I’m going to give him twenty four hours to show up, any advantage in locating him—such as reading his chip—is going to go a long way in making me happy. And you do remember why you want to make me happy, right Gum Drop?”



“Be-cause you kill people for a living,” came the choked reply.



“That’s right. So I want you to take Grenadine back to the shop and get working on that purged number right away.”



With that, he handed Gum Drop a leash and pulled the van door open. Miserably the younger man stepped out, clutching the silky, pink ribboned dog. Gum Drop set Grenadine down and quickly walked him to the waiting car, panic quickening his steps.



From inside the van, Sugar Daddy watched impassively, then slid the door shut.