Dorian Gray. John Garavaglia

his submachine gun loosely in both hands, safety off, and his finger was on the trigger.

      “Why are you always out front?” Said a voice in his com-link.

      Dorian recognized the voice, which belonged to his stepbrother Henry Lord—his best friend and second in command.

      Dorian held onto his earpiece. “We’re supposed to be deadly, invisible, and soundless,” he said in a low growl. “Emphasis on the soundless.”

       “What, you think a brother can’t walk point?” Asked Henry, his voice was raised above a strained whisper.

      Sliding his night-vision goggles up to his forehead, Dorian replied, “Give it a rest, Henry…”

      DORIAN GRAY

      • 54 •

      Though Henry’s kidding riffs could bring a welcome tension break, but now was not the time.

      “You don’t have to do this lone gunslinger act, Dorian.” Henry said, with concern. “You should have brought backup.”

      “And let them have all the fun? I think not.”

      Henry remembered the last mission he went on with Dorian. Their team was a good ten klicks away from their objective until machine-gun fire erupted all around them.

      Two of Dorian’s men went down, and the rest dove, finding cover wherever they could. Pinned by two machine-gun nests, the team seemed powerless to fight back. The two nests were fifty yards ahead, one to the left and one to the right, catching the insertion team in a lethal crossfire.

      Dorian rose and took off to his right, sprinting serpentine through the woods, screaming as he went, drawing the fire of both enemy positions.

      Still, lungs burning, Dorian kept moving.

      Behind him, his team was able to start returning fire, and the withering fusillade aimed at Dorian somewhat abated.

      Circling around, Dorian came up behind the five men in the machine-gun nest on the right, and emptied the clip of his M-16 their way. The primary weapon and every other gun in the nest turned in Dorian’s direction, and started blasting with no regard for any of their comrades who might still be drawing breath.

      Hightailing it out, Dorian used the cover fire from his team to circle back into the woods. Two bad guys from the surviving

      JOHN GRAVAGLIA

      • 55 •

      machine-gun nest took after him—both of them were wearing green camouflage, one tall, and the other short.

      Dorian easily picked them off like they were ducks at the shooting gallery in Coney Island. Doubling back to the machine-gun nest, Dorian found the other three shooters had retained their attention to his team, trying to mow them down. But Dorian took care of them before they could even pull the trigger.

      Henry knew Dorian was the best soldier, but also the most dangerous. Not just to the enemy but also to his teammates…and himself.

      Dorian could hear Henry scoff at the other end. “I know what you are capable of, man. But you need a babysitter.”

      Dorian smiled. “Why, Henry, I didn’t know you cared.”

      “Dorian.”

      “Fine, if it makes you feel better send over a squad to my position.”

      The first bullet whistled past Dorian’s ear.

      “HOLY SHIT!!” Dorian screamed, nearly toppling off his perch.

      “Dorian? DORIAN!” Henry was going ballistic over the com-link system. “Report. What’s your status?”

      Dorian looked down to see several snipers taking aim. He couldn’t help to smile.

      “Now this party has officially started.” He said to Henry, cocking his gun.

      “Don’t worry, buddy. Help is on the way.” Henry replied. “Bravo Team, calling Bravo Team. Pretty Boy needs assistance.”

      DORIAN GRAY

      • 56 •

      I hate being called “Pretty Boy.” Dorian snarled. But not as much as being called “Dorie.”

      “Let’s go, people! Assholes and elbows!” Henry exclaimed through the private radio channel.

      Dorian stood on the ledge, at the brink of precipice as he gracefully dodged the snipers’ bullets.

      The hostiles opened up at once, shooting up at Dorian. So much for his team being soundless and invisible—if they were going to get out of this scrape, they’d better get damned deadly damned fast.

      He reached out and felt the empty air in front of him. No guardrail protected him from the perilous drop. Dorian heard the bustle of the traffic several stories below, and a flicker of doubt undercut his resolve.

      It was a loooong way down.

      For a second he imagined himself splattered all over the ground.

      Dorian took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and then cartwheeled along the edge of the roof, his heart pounding in exhilaration. The toe of his combat boot probed the corner, finding the top end of a broken rain gutter that plummeted several feet down to the rooftop next door.

      “Hmm,” Dorian murmured.

      A crazy idea occurred to him. It was insane, but almost too daring to resist. He crouched beside the top of the gutter and tapped it with his finger to make sure it was sound and steady.

      Probably.

      JOHN GRAVAGLIA

      • 57 •

      He stepped forward, placing one foot upon the top of the gutter. He licked his lips nervously, took another deep breath, and pushed off from the ledge.

      Whooooosh!

      Dorian slid down the gutter like an extreme snowboarder. His blood was singing in his ears, and a hot wind blew against his face as he zoomed down the rickety slide. Gulls and pigeons bolted from their perches in alarm, startled by the young man’s unprecedented descent. It rushed through him like an oncoming elevator as he tried to bail out as he reached the bottom, but he was going way too fast.

      He jumped at the last second and with agility that would have sickened an Olympic gymnast, Dorian dodged the bullets and swooped low, hitting the ground in a crouch position like he was his childhood hero Spider-Man. He was smiling and threw up a victorious fist pump.

      During times like these, Dorian followed three key elements:

      Acceleration, speed, and of course, emotional self-packing.

      Unpredictability and adrenaline are the byproducts, but he remembered to drive is to feel and to love is to live.

      After sprinting across the rooftop, he launched his body and caught the gutter of the next one, shimmying down the drainpipe till he hung just above the roof level of the next building over. Bracing his feet against the wall, Dorian pushed himself backward, until the drainpipe gave way, jogging from its

      DORIAN GRAY

      • 58 •

      building over toward its next-door neighbor, Dorian dropping onto that roof.

      “There he is,” said one of the gunmen, trying to get a bead on the intruder. “SHOOT HIM!”

      Dorian stood his ground as gunfire erupted around him.

      Not a single bullet connected.

      Dorian wasn’t even backing away. He simply twisted this way, that way, pivoted, and then leaned back as if he were a limbo dancer. With each movement, his confidence swelled all the more.

      Two men emerged from an alley, and Dorian cut them down on the spot. Another peered out from behind an old train car, but Dorian blew the man away without blinking an eye.