"I'm here."

The voice was deep and mellow. It was not the kind of voice Janice expected her savior to have. She felt her gag and blindfold fall away, admitting the dim but painful light of her cell. She tried to thank him, but her voice was gravelly with disuse.

The small, dirty room that she had been kept in these past four days was empty. A door at one end stood open; she tried to ignore the pale, clutching hand resting on the floor beyond it. "Is it...?"

"It's safe." That voice... it suddenly clicked in her mind.

"You're—" Janice felt an irrational stab of fear. Her rescuer was none other than Brandon Heat, the Sweeper! "You're the--!" Brandon waited politely, and when it became clear that she wouldn't finish her sentence, he said, "Come along. Harry is waiting." At the sound of Harry's name, her fear suddenly dissolved. Of course! Of course her Uncle Harry would send someone! And who better to send than the legendary Sweeper?

Brandon Heat was tall and well-built, with longish dark hair, a straight, sharp nose, and a long face. All of this Janice expected. What surprised her were his eyes. They were narrow, brown... and soft. Not in a weak, girlish way, but definitely in a way that spoke of a gentle spirit.

Janice gave her short blonde locks a flip and said, "Okay, let's go!"

Brandon stayed close behind her as she ventured into the hall. Two men were sprawled out on the concrete floor, wreathed in rapidly drying pools of blood. One of them was face down, dead with his hand still reaching into his jacket. His face was turned to the side; her lip curled at the sight of the jagged scar down his cheek. This man had made her stay miserable.

"Um..." Brandon said uncomfortably. "You might want to cover your eyes. I'll guide you."

"I'm not a child," she replied archly.

He didn't reply. They walked together down the corridor, breath misting. She hadn't noticed how cold it was during her captivity. Funny how things like that went. When they reached the heavy door at the end, Brandon put his hand against it and looked back at her.

She nodded impatiently.

The door opened to reveal the interior of a warehouse. Of all the-- They had been keeping her, Janice Langley, a daughter of the Family of Millenion, in a warehouse? She quickly squashed the indignation that rose in her.

They emerged onto a catwalk thirty feet above the vast, mostly empty warehouse floor. The air was colder here, with a dank, metallic smell to it. Bands of fluorescent lights across the distant ceiling flickered weakly. All of this was lost on Janice, though, because she quickly saw why Brandon had suggested she cover her eyes.

There were at least four corpses on the wide catwalk, two with their guns out, but just as dead. She picked her way gingerly around them, keeping her eyes resolutely forward. Janice reached the top of the metal staircase leading down to the warehouse floor. She shouldn't have been surprised that another suited man was crumpled into himself on the bottom stair.

Brandon walked softly up behind her and she started down the stairs, putting her hand against the wall to hop the corpse. The floor was thankfully mostly in shadow, but what she could see followed the grim decorating scheme her rescuer had set. One, two, three... there had been a frickin' army! "Where's... where's the rest of your team?" Janice asked. Brandon held out his hands slightly, seeming to say, I'm it. So the Sweeper had earned his reputation.

As they walked together through the dimness, Janice felt a chill. Seeing the mayhem that the Sweeper had left in his wake, she couldn't help but wonder if her life was worth all of theirs. But, she reasoned, it wasn't just her life. Millenion needed to set an example, after all... these men had died not just for her safety, but for the that of the whole Family.

Her foot brushed one of her former captors. Still...

She saw a row of bullet holes punched into one wall. Her eyes drifted along the wall until they hit a massive splot of blood, then followed the streak down to a man in a white tux jacket, clutching twin handguns in cold, dead fingers. "That one give you trouble, huh?" Janice said, laughing weakly.

Brandon gave her a bland look and her forced mirth faded instantly. As she looked back at him, she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a man emerging from the shadows and taking aim! "Behind--!"

A gun roared, painting the whole building in orange light, and the man lurched back against the wall, clutching his chest. "Sh-shit!" he gritted. "He's... good..." Brandon reholstered. He hadn't even turned his head. The nigh supernatural dread that had filled Janice when she recognized him came back in force.

"There might be more," he said softly.

"Right..." she walked swiftly through the field of dead, keeping her eyes on the distant exit. Brandon followed more slowly, eyes searching every shadow and corner. Fortunately, they didn't come under attack again.

Janice burst out onto the street, a bright, cold, fresh wonderland of whirling snow. After days in the dank warehouse, she almost couldn't believe it was real. And just outside, Uncle Harry and a pair of guards waited next to black sedan. As soon as he saw her, Harry's face lit up and he held out his arms.

The fear and revulsion that had filled Janice vanished instantly and he rushed into his arms, burying her face in his cologne-scented jacket. "I'm so glad you're all right," he said warmly, then called over her head, "Good job, Brandon."

The Sweeper didn't respond. When Janice finally stepped away from Harry and turned, he was gone. "Not very social, is he?"

"He's not. Why don't we go for dinner before I bring you back?"

"Sure!" And so they left.

Janice always hoped to see Brandon again. She had a question for him, one that wouldn't be polite at all, but it bore asking. Remembering the gentle look in his eyes, she wanted to ask, "How could a man like you do things like this?"

Unfortunately, she never saw him before his untimely death. It was just as well; she wouldn't have liked the answer anyway.