At first they thought the young skinhead was dead. The knife wound should have killed him outright. When the paramedics reached the seemingly lifeless body there was a red stain in the wet sand spreading for meters. Jon Carver, a.k.a. Hando was totally unaware that someone was feverishly trying to save his life. "If I hadn’t promised to save lives, I’d say let this one go. Look at him. We’ll probably save him so’s he can hurt someone else."

The paramedic inserted an IV into the top of Hando’s hand while his partner worked to staunch the flow of blood. On the cliff above, several tourists watched and took pictures as another young man and a shaken young woman were taken to the police car that had arrived only minutes earlier. The sounds of the sea and calls of the seagulls were lost on the two men as they worked. The man probably wouldn’t live past the air rescue flight to hospital but they would make the effort. They saw the tattoos, swastikas, hate messages and wondered how anyone could hate as much as those who joined such a group. They had no idea that Hando was not just a member of the group, he was a leader. Had they known, they might not have tried so hard to save him.

For the next week Hando shifted from Hando to Jon and back again. He relived horrible times in his life like a kaleidoscope of flashes. Not really with the real world and not with the next, he hovered in what must be a Catholic's explanation of purgatory.

When he finally opened his eyes, it was obvious he was in a hospital. He heard, "Jon?"

As he turned his head he saw a man approaching. His first instinct was to move away and gain some distance. The effort to move made his head spin and he lost consciousness.

The next time the real world intruded on his tortured dreams he saw bars on the windows and realized he was in a jail infirmary. A man in his mid-fifties came to see if he needed anything. "How’re you feeling? Need some water?"

He offered Jon a sip from a cup with a straw. The water tasted good. "Where am I?"

"Where do you think? They brought you in last night; said you were doing well enough to be transported here."

So he was in jail, nothing new. His mind began sorting through what had happened. His best friend, Davey, had stabbed him to stop him from killing the girl. She deserved to die. She was weak and stupid. How could Davey have gotten so attached to someone like her? She was kind of pretty and could fuck with the best of ‘em, but she told the police where they had holed up after the riot and little Bubs had been killed. He should have known.

He remembered the time they spent together in bed. She was hot and skilled. She let him do anything he wanted and she matched him in her decadence. But somewhere underneath he felt her need to be loved and he couldn’t do that. Love wasn’t part of his past and would never be in his future. He simply didn’t know how to love, he was never taught.

The following week found Hando able to walk around. He was shaky but Daryl, the infirmary’s nurse helped. They had a loose relationship. Daryl knew what Hando was; he’d lived with several skinheads during his fifteen years behind bars. He helped because it was his job and because he liked the company. His job was usually boring, Hando was anything but.

Near the end of the week, a solicitor came to see Hando. Guards escorted him to a room where they could talk at a table. The solicitor offered his hand as he introduced himself. "I’m Martin Tilley; I’ve been retained by your uncle, Ronald Randa." Hando ignored the gesture. Tilley sat at the table and motioned for Hando to do the same.

Tilley studied the tall man with blue/green eyes. His head was shaven but the stubble told of thick medium brown hair. The eyes were what held him, except for their cold piercing, he would be considered very good looking. The lithe body and firm muscle would be attractive to most women. He reminded Tilley of a cheetah, all muscle and focused attention, ready to spring and bring down his prey.

"My Uncle?" Hando vaguely remembered an uncle his mother told him about who lived in the U.S. His mother died when Hando was six and his father died only two years later, just a year after remarrying. His American uncle was his mother’s brother.

"Yes. He contacted me and asked me to represent you in your coming trial. Now, I want you to tell me everything that happened from the time you met the girl until the time your friend stabbed you."

"What did my ‘friend’ say?" Hando’s cold blue/green eyes and deep sensuous voice projected danger and fearlessness Mr. Tilley had seen before. He took time to look at the tattoos on Hando’s arms and wondered why he was even there. He’d defended many clients he considered guilty and told himself it was for the good of the system they lived under. Perhaps he could convince himself that this handsome, dangerous and by all counts, demented young man had a reason for being the way he was. Maybe they should start there. If he could mix an unhappy childhood into the evidence, at least the women on the jury might be persuaded to give Hando a lesser sentence. He was the kind of man who interested women. Good looks and danger always appealed to those who lived too quiet a life with someone they were too comfortable.

"He said you were hurting her and when he couldn’t stop you he became fearful that you might go too far." Tilley watched as Hando smiled, not a happy smile, more feral.

"So Davey didn’t give me up?" No one knew, but Hando had actually cried the first night he drifted back to real time and realized his best friend had taken sides against him. Davey was the only person in his entire life he’d trusted completely and as much as he could care for anyone, he cared for Davey.

He hadn’t trusted him when he found the girl at Davey’s home after the police stormed their hide out. Hando suspected the girl had something to do with the police finding them. Hando had thrown the girl out and Davey left with her, just before the police came. It hurt and irritated him that Davey left him in favor of her.

Hando had escaped being arrested and went looking for Davey. When he found the girl with him at his home, he told them about the raid and the fact that Little Bubs had been shot dead by a cop. He told Davey she was the traitor but Davey convinced him that she had nothing to do with it and he’d accepted it. He believed Davey, he believed his lie. He would never make that mistake again.

"Actually, he made it seem as though the whole thing was due to the drugs you were all taking." Mr. Tilley brought Hando back from his dark thoughts.

Hando considered that a moment. They had taken pills, drunk some wine and smoked more than a couple of joints. No. He knew what he was doing. When the girl burned the car they stole, and announced that she was the one who told the police, Hando went crazy. She was a traitor and the problem between Davey and him. She had to be eliminated. He didn’t confirm or deny Tilley’s suggestion that the drugs were the reason. He simply allowed Tilley to draw his own conclusions.

He sat with his solicitor and they talked for the next hour about how they would present his case. He was charged with attempted murder, grand theft and kidnapping. His trial and its outcome; would set the mood for Davey’s trial as well. They had robbed a convenience store and Hando strangled the night teller as well as stolen a car while Davey took the money from the till. All in all they had a busy couple of days. They were fortunate in that the teller lived, even though both he and Davey thought the man was dead when they left him. Hando knew they were on a one way flight to nowhere.

Sooner or later they would be caught but Hando hadn’t cared. His life held no real meaning. He had tried to give it meaning by joining the skinheads. He needed to belong to something important. It made no difference whether that importance was for good or bad; he barely knew the difference. With that commitment, he was given carte blanche to do whatever made him feel alive. It was exhilarating to think one flick of the knife or one blow struck too hard, placed him in god-like control over another life. He never felt more alive than when faced with the prospects of death, his or someone else’s.

Hando was sleeping late in the afternoon. He still wasn’t well enough to place in general population and they decided it was best to keep him in the infirmary until he was able to defend himself. It was a forgone conclusion that his life would be at risk once he joined the other prisoners. His gang had harassed and harmed a wide variety of people, not just normal weaker citizens. His reputation was well known and he was hated especially by the gangs of oriental criminals who knew he targeted foreigners, with slanted eyes.

Again the guards came to take Hando. He assumed it was his solicitor, come to ask more questions. He was totally unprepared to find a man he'd never met, sitting at the table as he walked in.

"Jon," the man said as he stood. "I'm your Uncle Ronald, from America." He offered his hand and Hando simply looked at it. Even though he still had the hand cuffs on Hando wouldn’t have shaken the man’s hand. "I realize you may not know me, but I'm your mother's brother. You look like her."

"I wouldn't know. I don't remember her." He watched as the man looked him over. He was a big man with large hands, blue/green eyes, brown hair and handsome face. Hando had lied, something he rarely did. He remembered his mother from two pictures he had rescued from his step-mother. His uncle was her male version. Hando remembered his mother's soft voice and her gentle ways. He could never remember her face, though, until he found the box of pictures in the closet. His step-mother had come into the bedroom and found him looking at them. She hastily grabbed the box and took it to the fire barrel and torched them. Jon had stood there crying and wondering why she'd done that. It wasn't until two days later, he found two pictures that had fallen out of the box and slid under the bed. He hid them under his mattress and only looked at them when he was alone.

"I came to see if there was anything I could do." His uncle was watching him. He could tell Jon was carefully covering something up. He sat back down at the table and gestured to Jon to do the same. He refused and stood looking down at his uncle. It was far more intimidating than sitting.

"Why now? I've been on my own for the last eighteen years. I don't need anyone." Hando stood straight-backed and defiant. His voice hadn't raised and he hadn't moved, but his uncle could tell he was tense as a bow string.

"I didn’t know when your mother died, and it was impossible for me to come for the funeral. Your father told me there was no reason for me to make the journey afterwards. He and I didn't get along. When I called him inquiring about how you were doing a year later, he told me he'd remarried and you were both happy. He also made it clear he wanted no further contact with me. I had no idea he died, and I didn't know you were living on the streets of Melbourne. I would have come and gotten you if I had."

Hando shrugged indifferently, "Makes no difference. What do you want?"

"Once this legal mess is settled, I'd like you to come to the states with me. You have family that wants to meet you."

"I have my own 'family' right here. I don't need yours."

"You mean your skinhead family? They haven't been around to see you, have they?"

"No, and they won't. It's not the way we do things. You wouldn't understand that, would you ‘Uncle’ Ron?" He sneered when he said uncle.

"No, probably not, but I’d still like you to come to the states." Ronald Randa lounged in the chair, seemingly relaxed and comfortable.

"With the time I’ll be spending here, I don’t imagine that will be anytime soon, even if I were to consider it." Hando had no illusions; the fact that he was a skinhead and considering his past record, it would automatically put him at a disadvantage. He would no doubt spend time in prison. He could handle that. There was always an opportunity to gather another gang even in the closed society of prison. He was a natural leader; men followed him because of it. It would be an inconvenience, nothing more. His only concern was not having a woman when he wanted. He was no poofta and would never consider being with a man just to relieve himself.

"If it were possible to move your sentence to America, would you consider it then?" Ronald watched as Hando’s expression wavered very slightly.

"One prison is like another. Why would I want to do time in an American prison instead of here?" What did this man want? Why was he so interested in getting Hando out of this prison and into one in another country?

"First off, you’re going to be with people who would rather see you dead. There’s a very good chance of that."

Hando laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "That’s nothing new. Someone has wanted me dead since the day I was born." His eyes became steel. "I’m not afraid of dying."

"How about living? Are you afraid of living? Seems to me you’ve been tempting the fates for years now. Is it too much for you to live?"

Hando leaned toward Ron and growled, "I’m not afraid of anything. Life holds no surprises for me." When Ron smiled at him Hando was shocked. He covered his surprise but Ron’s reaction shook him. No one, not even the cops were resistant against his physical threat. Yet this man sat in his chair and smiled as if he’d told a joke. Ron was clearly not intimidated.

"Okay, so you’re not afraid. Prove it. If I can work it for you to go to the states, will you do it willingly?"

"Why?  So your family can ogle the freak with tattoos? Fuck your family and fuck you!"

Ron laughed again, "So you are afraid. Thought so." He sobered, "Your grandmother is dying and her one wish is to meet her daughter’s only child. I promised I would find you and bring you to see her. Now will you come or are you afraid of meeting a seventy-five year old dying woman?"

"I’ve never been afraid of anything!" Hando said it quietly and with as much projection as he ever had.

Ron knew he had Jon eating out of his hand. He appealed to his one weakness, show no weakness. He also knew that Jon was going to bear watching. Ron was no bleeding heart. Time spent in Special Forces while serving in the Navy, and ten years on the police force in L.A. taught him that a man like Jon was dangerous. He owed it to his mother and his sister to see if something of Jon Carver was still there. Maybe Hando could be turned. If not, family or no, he would see to it Hando was locked away with the rest of society's rejects.

Chapter Two:

Several months later, Jon Carver, alias Hando, was given a fair trial. He pled not guilty and Mr. Tilley had done his best to muddy the legal waters with peripheral reasons as to why Jon was the way he was. He interjected the story of how Jon had run away from home at the age of eight. His step-mother didn’t take care of him and he was abused physically by her and her late husband. In fact the only reason she kept Jon was for the state support she received. She was an alcohol and drug abuser and Jon had known no mothering from her. The jury had listened and one woman, in her sixties, actually cried.

Jon sat and watched her. He never showed his feelings. Actually, he mused, Tilley never even scratched the surface of what his life was like. He never wanted his life’s history presented in the first place. He’d managed without anyone’s help and he didn’t need anyone’s pity. In fact, pity was wasted on him, and wasn’t welcomed. The woman seemed truly touched by the hardships forced on a child…if she only knew.

He held her feelings in contempt, for to accept them, meant he would have to accept himself as pitiful. He was too strong, too self-assured for that. Words like pity, forgiveness, love, caring, and family were foreign to him. They equaled soft, easily manipulated and foolish. He was none of those.

Just as he had predicted, the jury came back with a guilty verdict on all three counts. The maximum sentence was requested from the prosecution and the judge asked for prayers to the contrary.

Mr. Tilley reiterated Jon’s life story, and asked for mercy. Ronald Randa was there and asked that the court hear him. The judge granted the audience and Jon’s uncle began.

"Your honor, Jon Carver is my nephew. I will allow that he is probably one of the sorriest pieces of humanity that I’ve ever met and I’ve met my share. However, I would ask that the court consider allowing me to take him with me to the United States to serve his sentence at Randa Ranch. I would not only account for his time being served, but I will personally oversee his rehabilitation. The facility I speak of is one of the finest in the states, and we have an excellent rate of returnees to society. I have provided the court with statements from well-respected judges supporting the facility and statistics to support the return rate. I hope your honor will consider allowing me to take my nephew there so he can have a fair chance to become a productive citizen." Ron waited for the judge to ask the inevitable questions he knew were coming.

"Why would the court entertain allowing that, Mr. Randa?"

"Well, first off, your honor, it would lift the burden from your already over-run prison. Second, my nephew will no doubt become an added death statistic once he’s placed in the general population of a prison here, and if he survives the probable death that awaits him, he will no doubt become a leader of yet another dangerous faction in the prison. I offer to relieve you of those burdens and in doing so; I offer him a real chance at becoming what I believe my sister would have wanted."

"Mr. Randa, I doubt seriously that you know fully what kind of man you’d be dealing with. His arrest record is extensive and brutal. I realize you want to help your nephew, but I’m not convinced that sending him to America would be anything more than loosing a dingo in a herd of sheep."

Ron chuckled, "Your honor, all due respect, but none of the prisoners at Randa Ranch are sheep; and the guards we have are rabid sheep dogs. No sir, I wouldn’t worry about Jon on that score. I want to give him a chance, but I absolutely will not think twice about sending him to a maximum security prison and locking the door personally."

They discussed back and forth the probabilities that Jon would end up in an American maximum security prison and the judge was reluctant to foist that burden on a foreign system. "I appreciate your hesitating, your honor, but I will personally report his progress to you and if you would rather, I would be willing to return him here to serve any balance of his sentence left should things go awry. Furthermore, I will pay all expenses involved with his transportation and care."

The judge retired to his chambers to consider this unusual turn of events. He read the reports on Randa Ranch and was impressed. The glowing testimonials from several American judges also weighed heavily on his decision. In the end, it was his own experience that swayed him. His own son had rebelled at sixteen and joined a skinhead group. He hadn’t had the life Jon had and was ill prepared for the consequences. The day the police called to let Judge Haverhill know his son had been killed in a gang fight, was the darkest day of his life. Perhaps if his son had been handled by someone like Ronald Randa, things would have been different.

He sat in his beautiful pine-walled chambers fingering the dossier on Ronald Randa; it was impressive. Twelve years as a Navy SEAL and ten years as a tough Los Angeles policeman had given him special tools to deal with the worst of society’s offenders. He hadn’t exaggerated when he told the court the results the ranch produced. He ran it with efficiency and a no nonsense attitude. One judge quipped in his testimonial, "Ron Randa is a man I would want with me, but never against me. He knows the criminal mind and is weary of its workings. He takes no prisoners and expects high standards to be achieved. If the offender is unwilling or unable to accomplish his considerable heights, he will not hesitate to pack them off to less kindly facilities. His tough mindedness has produced some exceptional results. I highly recommend you honor his request."

In the end Ron Randa was granted his prayer, with stipulations that he would send progress reports directly to Judge Haverhill on a weekly basis. Furthermore, he wanted independent reports from a judge not connected with Randa Ranch on a monthly basis. He felt that Mr. Randa might be tempted to report only positive changes and eliminate the negative ones.

Chapter Three:

Jon had never been on an airplane before, though he’d spent considerable time at the airport. He remembered a particular tourist who arrived looking to take in Australia’s diverse scenery and strange wildlife. He had met her by chance while waiting to steal a lap top computer. One of the many businessmen who were jetting here to there was less than attentive about his overnight bag and the computer. He walked away from it and Hando nearly moved to pick it up, when a beautiful woman asked him a question. Her eyes were deep pools of blue and her smile was like a bare light bulb in a dark room. She only wanted to know which way to luggage recovery. He was dressed in long trousers and long sleeved shirt to cover his tattoos. He wore a boonie hat to cover his shaved head so airport security wouldn’t recognize his relationship with possible trouble.

He helped her find the luggage arrivals area and invited her to lunch. By that evening she was well on her way to the experience of a lifetime. She was a wall flower waiting to be deflowered and he had accommodated. He stayed with her the entire two weeks and she barely saw Melbourne much less the rest of Australia. When he put her on the plane she was a different person. No longer a wall flower, she had found the ability to be a predator. Jon had brought out her fear and fearlessness. He taught her sex and brutality but in the process awakened a need to no longer be on the sidelines.

He remembered how she reacted to his tattoos when they disrobed the first time. She had resisted when the reality of who he was finally hit her. He had taken her roughly and showed no mercy when he finally pierced her maiden head. He was unforgiving in her pain and it drove him into frenzy. Afterward, she wanted him to leave; she was frightened by the brutality and apparent lack of concern for her. He quieted her with, "What did you expect, a loving relationship? I fucked you, that’s what you wanted isn’t it?" He was so honest, and handsome and dangerous, she allowed him to show her more. She fell completely under his spell and when she finally left, she knew her life would never be the same.

"So what are you thinking, Jon?" Ron sat watching his nephew. He hated to keep the hand cuffs on during the trip, but it was necessary.

"Nothing." Hando hadn’t spoken two words to Ron from the time he picked him up from the jail. They were accompanied to the airport by two policemen and they waited until the pair was on the plane, before leaving.

Ron insisted that Jon sit in the window seat. It allowed him to better control Jon if he were to try anything. Hando was amazed by the take-off and watched out the window as the only home he’d ever known disappeared into a speck below. He kept his poker face, but underneath the false impression, he was a little worried. He was going to new turf. That was always a challenge. Hando enjoyed a challenge, but always wanted to be prepared. Once he joined the skinheads, he learned best how to stalk people, shops and new territory. He’d learned several tricks while living on the streets by himself, but the ‘skins’ brought a whole new meaning to finding what one wants.

As he moved up in ranks, he gathered information from those under him, but never took them at their word. He would do his own reconnoitering just to make certain that nothing was overlooked. He always had information that those above him didn’t. It put him in conflict with them several times, but in the end it also secured him a top position in his turf.

What was the ‘ranch’ going to be like? Was the name a euphemism or reality? He’d never been to a ‘station’ before and though his curiosity was piqued, he didn’t need to live where he was at a disadvantage, both in knowledge of the area or how to handle the locals. He began making plans about how he’d assimilate until such time as he could leave. He would ‘allow’ his uncle to believe he was changing, then, when he least expected it Hando would make his break. His smiled to himself thinking how stupid his uncle would look once he was gone. You don’t pull the teeth from a tiger without getting bitten in the process.

The trip seemed endless. At one point, Jon asked to go to the bathroom and Ron accommodated him. He took the cuffs off, knowing Jon could go nowhere. He replaced them once he finished. He wanted Jon to continue to believe he was weary of him. He was. He’d watched Jon during the trial and saw only one flick of emotion. The entire time Jon was cool and aloof until Mr. Tilley questioned him about his childhood. He answered each question with no apparent emotion. "Mr. Carver, why did you run away from home?"

"I didn’t like my step-mum."

"Why? What did she do that was so awful for a boy of eight to leave relative security for a life on the streets?"

"No."

"No, what?" Mr. Tilley didn’t understand.

"No, it’s none of their..." he tossed his head in the direction of the jury, "fuckin’ business." Hando’s eyes were flashing.

Judge Haverhill said sternly, "Mr. Carver! I will not tolerate that language in my courtroom!"

Hando never acknowledged the rebuff and Mr. Tilley continued. "Did she destroy the only pictures you had of your mother?"

Hando sat contemplating whether or not he should leave the witness stand and rip Tilley’s throat out for causing him this embarrassment. He decided silence would be prudent.

"Mr. Carver? Didn’t she destroy the only two pictures you had of your dead mother and laugh at you when you cried?" How had he found out about this? He never told anyone why he left except, the storekeeper who allowed him to sleep in his storage room.

"Answer the question, Mr. Carver." The judge didn’t allow his witnesses to ignore the court or its questions.

Mr. Tilley asked again, "Did you run away from home because she destroyed the pictures of your mother?"

"No," Hando was quiet as he answered and Ron kept watch ready to restrain him if he let loose the anger physically. "I did it because she beat me on a regular basis. She hated me and let me know it. She threatened to kill me on several occasions and when she ripped up the only pictures I had left, it meant I had no one but myself to rely on. So I left." As an after thought, he said in a whisper, "Don’t go there again, Tilley, if you value your life." It was said so low, Mr. Tilley didn’t hear, but he got the message from Hando’s eyes and posture.

Ron was mulling over the testimony while Jon went to the bathroom. He knew from the police reports that Jon had been arrested as young as nine, and was placed in a foster home. He was bounced around from one family to another over the next three years. He was cold and difficult; most families simply couldn’t deal with him. When he finally managed to run away the last time, he was twelve and better skilled to elude the police. They didn’t find him and finally gave up. He’d been more trouble than he was worth on prior occasions and they simply gave in to the inevitability of the situation.

In the beginning the record showed that Jon was arrested for stealing in order to eat. Later, it showed truancy and a need to be free. It wasn’t until after he met the skinheads that Jon became vicious and brutal. There was a marked difference in his attitude before and after. After he joined, there were several arrests for beatings, as well as theft, whereas before, he was content to just steal and be gone.

Ron thought about a dog he once had, a pit bull. He got it when it was just a puppy and that dog and he were inseparable. His mother had thrown a fit when he got it. She knew that breed’s reputation and was fearful that he would eventually hurt someone. The dog had never bitten anyone and was well behaved. One afternoon, a woman and small child were walking down the street just a few doors from the Randa home, when a stray Rottweiler appeared out of nowhere and attacked the child. The woman tried to defend her son but was ineffective. A neighbor saw the attack and tried to discourage the dog with a water hose. None of the people who watched were willing to physically become involved for fear of having an arm torn off.

When Ron saw what was happening he let ‘Buster’ out the front door. The dog headed straight for the Rottweiler and they began fighting, thus allowing the people to help the boy. In the end, Buster had locked onto the Rott's throat, and nothing the big dog could do, would loosen the grip. Buster finally let go when the other dog breathed his last. Buster was a hero for saving the little boy. However, he had killed and the taste of blood was now a part of his life. One of the policemen working on the case mentioned, "It’s a shame, but I recommend you put him to sleep. He has the taste for blood and for fighting now. He may end up hurting someone or another animal." Ron refused. He kept Buster until the day he died a natural death.

Not once had he hurt anyone or tried to hurt another animal, but Ron was never as comfortable with him as he had been before the incident. He nearly gave in when his mother demanded he have Buster destroyed. Her logic was that it would save them all terrible grief if they did it before another incident instead of afterward. To this day, Ron thanked God he hadn’t listened. Buster was the best dog he ever had. No one deserves to be pre-judged.

Of course, the difference between Jon and Buster was considerable. Jon had done things he shouldn’t have, vicious and vile. But like Buster, Ron hoped that with the right setting and encouragement, Jon would give up the blood lust and want more from life.

By the time the plane landed in Los Angeles, both men were extremely tired. The flight was fifteen hours long and the close quarters in tourist seating didn’t allow them to get comfortable enough to sleep. They made their way through customs and out to a taxi. The cab driver looked at the handcuffs on Jon and asked, "Where to, the jail?"

"No." Ron told him the address and they moved into traffic, jockeying for position. Hando didn’t know it, but Ron was breaking one of the rules he had lived by for thirty years; never give a prisoner a break. But his mother was very ill, and waiting for Jon’s trial and the outcome, stole precious time from her. Ron hadn’t even been sure she would last until he could accomplish his mission.

They arrived at a small, comfortable home in one of L.A.’s older sections. The morning sun was just barely topping the horizon. The early breeze felt slightly cool but promised to warm with the coming sun.

Ron paid the cab driver and they stood for a moment in front of the house. "I’m taking the cuffs off you while you’re here. Talk to your grandmother with respect and if I even think you’re going to try anything I’ll haul you off to the hoosegow so fast your tattoos won’t have a chance to come with you." He waited for Jon to say something.

Hando was willing to wait and play the game. He knew nothing about the lay of the land and could ruin his chance to get away clean by rushing things. If he had nothing else, Hando had time. He shrugged and they walked up the walkway to the large porch. They put down their bags and Ron removed the cuffs. He knocked on the door and waited until a pretty young woman answered. Ron grabbed the luggage and moved Jon inside as soon as the door opened.

"Dad!" She embraced her father and stood back looking at Jon. "You must be Jon. I’m Kathleen, your cousin." She smiled at him and gave him a hug.

Jon wasn’t expecting this and stiffened. His cousin was blue-eyed and blonde-haired; tall and well shaped. She looked like her father, except for the hair color. "I’ll go get Grandma. She’s been looking forward to meeting you ever since Dad finally located you."

She went down the hall and Jon wandered over to the fireplace. He stood looking at the pictures on the mantle. Ron came and stood next to him. "Those are your cousins, my daughters. This is Kathleen, the one you just met. This is Colleen and this one is Eileen."

Hando didn’t say anything, but when he saw a picture of his mum and him his stomach knotted. He was six, just before she died. They had gone to the park and a man had taken the picture for his mother. She looked sick, but had a smile and was holding Jon and hugging him. He remembered that day even now. It was the last time he went to the park. His mum died a week later. His father never gave Jon the time of day, let alone spent time with him. To his father, Jon was nothing more than a problem to be dealt with.

Ron said, "She loved you more than anything, you know."

Hando shrugged and walked away. As he moved, he caught a look at himself in a mirror on the wall near the couch. His hair had grown in during his time in jail and he hadn’t been able to get it cut before leaving. He didn’t look like Hando anymore; in fact he didn’t look like anyone he could relate to. Maybe once they got to the ranch he could get it shaved again.

His cousin entered the living room pushing a wheelchair with a small old woman in it. She wheeled it over next to the couch and set the brake. "Grandma, this is Jon, Aunt Katy’s son."

The old woman smiled up at Jon, then, unexpectedly tears began sliding down her face. She held out her hand, "Come sit down on the couch, Jon, so I can get a good look at you."

Hando looked at Ron and he nodded toward the couch. Hando sat down next to the wheel chair and waited. "You look so much like your mother it’s almost like having her here." She had a slight Polish accent. "Ron said you’d be staying with him at the ranch. I want you to remember there are dangerous men living there and you’ll need to listen to Ron and take care not to get hurt." She reached out and put her hand on his. "Now that we have you here, we don’t want to lose you."

Her hand was cold and Hando wanted to pull away, but he fought the urge and said, "Don’t worry, Grandmum, I can take care of myself." He looked up at Ron with cold eyes. The gesture wasn’t lost on Ron or Kathleen.

Mrs. Randa sat for a moment searching his face. "You know, Jon, I didn’t get to be my age by being a fool. I know about your activities in Australia. I understand that you were left to your own devises and you probably did what you had to, to survive. But if you have one lick of sense, you’ll let your uncle help you. Don’t think for one minute that I’m fooled by the fact that you’re my grandson. You have an opportunity to have the things you never had before. We are your family and we want you to be a part of it. I realize it isn’t something you’ve known before but we can’t change the past. The best we can do is try make the future better. We will all be there for you if you’ll let us, but the decision is yours. I would hate to think Ron went to so much trouble to bring you here only to have you ruin your chances by holding on to a life you were never destined for."

"And just what was I destined for?" Hando spoke quietly, but the undercurrent of wills was evident.

"Greatness." She returned his stare.

She caught him off guard with that one word. She thought he could be great? He had been great in his own manner. He had led men and defended his homeland against invading foreigners. Wasn’t that a type of greatness in itself?

"No, it wasn’t." She was reading his mind and it unsettled him.

"What are you talking about?"

"The things you did back home were not great. They were without real content. Their motive was nothing more than an excuse for being hurtful and hateful. Your logic was flawed from the beginning. You did nothing more than lash out at what you perceived as unfair. You never once analyzed the roots of the problem. You took the easy way out and gave into your emotions. I can forgive you that considering your educational level and the circumstances under which you were raised. However, now is the time to see reality and re-evaluate what true greatness is."

"And ‘Uncle Ron’ will no doubt teach me," he sneered.

"If you aren’t too stupid or stubborn to listen." She wasn’t getting through to him. "Make no mistake, Jon, we will not hesitate removing you from society and the threat you pose to it. We simply want to give you a chance to understand that there are far better things to discover than you had a chance to before. Take this opportunity to learn and expand. If you don’t…then go to hell." With that, she reached down and unsnapped the brakes to her wheel chair. "I need to rest." Kathleen came to push her back to her bedroom. Before they reached the doorway to the hall, she stopped Kathleen with a wave of her hand. "If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for the love your mother had for you. Do it for the love we have for you. Greatness doesn’t come easy, but it is worth the struggle."

Hando was lying on the bed thinking about the conversation with his grandmother. She was a tough old bird, he’d give her that. But she didn’t understand anything about him, she only thought she did. She knew about his ‘activities’ but didn’t really understand his motives. She didn’t know how hard it was to be nobody. All those years he spent living in abandoned buildings, sleeping with fleas and lice, never quite starving to death and yet never having enough food to keep from feeling his belly growl with want. He wanted a warm place to live and food to eat; it was as simple as that. When he was sent to live with the foster families, they gave him those things, but they wanted something in return. They tried to make him do things he didn’t want to do, just like his father and step-mum. When he rebelled he was beaten. He learned early on that the strong survive and the weak were only allowed to. The old woman didn’t know how hard it was to be strong when all you really wanted was someone to tell you everything would be all right. His mum had done that. She always made everything all right. Even those nights when his father beat her, she told Jon it would be okay.

He rolled over and watched Ron sleeping in the twin bed next to his. He could so easily slip out of bed and kill him. It would be simple to take what he wanted and leave. The two women would pose no problem. He contemplated doing exactly that.

"I’m a light sleeper, Jon." His uncle’s voice was soft, but Jon wasn’t fool enough to challenge him at this point. He was an odd one. Hando had been around hardened criminals all his adult life and half of his youth. He knew which ones he could press and those he couldn’t. Ron was one he couldn’t. He had underestimated him on their first meeting but wouldn’t do it again. Under the soft voice and easy demeanor, Ron was tough. Hando had no doubt that if he tried to escape, one of them would die. Although Hando wasn’t afraid to die, he would still rather live. He’d wait until such time as he could leave with the least resistance.

"I can’t sleep. Can I go in the sitting room?"

"Go ahead, but understand, if you do anything such as, hurt my family or try to run, I’ll hunt you down and you won’t have to worry about whether or not you want to die."

Hando got up and pulled his trousers on and slipped the suspenders over his shoulders. He quietly walked into the living room and since no one was there, he went to look at the pictures on the mantle. Kathleen walked in from the kitchen and Hando turned away.

"Would you like to see some of our photo albums?" She was smiling at him and something about her reminded him of his mother.

"Why would I care to do that?"

"More to the point, why wouldn’t you?" She was looking at the tattoos that covered his torso. "Whoever did your tattoos was an artist. I can’t say I appreciate the message, but I can appreciate the time and effort."

Hando didn’t say anything. He just stood and waited. "Are you hungry? I could make lunch for you. I didn’t start anything. I thought you and Dad would sleep for a while. The flight is so long the last time he came home he slept for ten hours. Of course he was under a lot of stress by the time he got home."

"Stress?" Hando was looking for information. He knew knowledge was power especially when it was about the enemy.

"Yes, well he had to pull several strings to get authorization to transport you here. Then, there was the stress of not knowing whether his efforts to pull those strings would be rewarded with your being allowed to transfer to the ranch. In addition, Grandma has been so ill he wasn’t certain if she’d die while he was gone. They’re very close and when it happens it’s going to be hard on him; on all of us."

He heard a bell ringing, "That’s Grandma. She can’t yell loud enough to get our attention, so she rings the bell. I’ll be right back."

Hando stood looking out the front window. The houses on the block were neat and clean but not expensive. He recalled the mansion they destroyed when ‘the girl’ took them to her father’s home. He’d never seen a place like that before. The entire house was modern and expensive but the over all theme, was sick decadence. It wasn’t a surprise when she told him her father was sexually abusing her. She hated him and wanted to hurt him. They did. The house was trashed while he was tied to a commode.

Kathleen wheeled her grandmother into the living room and turned back to the bedroom leaving them alone.

"So Hitler was your hero." He heard his Grandmother’s voice. He turned to her and watched as she openly looked at each of his tattoos.

"What he wrote was important."

"About Jews?" She cocked her head to one side as if waiting for an explanation.

"About lots of people. People who held an economy in a strangle hold; people who took and didn’t give back."

"And what did you give back?"

"I never had anything and I didn’t create the system."

Grandmother Randa smiled,  "So you took  no responsibility for making things better?"

Jon turned a cold stare on her. "You know nothing of my life so don’t tell me what I should have done."

"Well, why don’t you tell me?"

"What difference would it make?" He didn’t want to share anything with anyone. Deep inside he knew he wanted to be part of something but he couldn’t allow himself to be seen as needy. He left that behind the night he left his last foster home.

Grandma Randa decided to change tactics. "The tattoos are very well done. They must have taken a long time to do. Was it painful?"

"No."

"I have a tattoo, would you like to see it?" She reached for her sleeve and began rolling it up. Across her wrist was a tattoo with six numbers. "It isn’t as fancy as the ones you sport, but there is a message just as important."

Hando saw the numbers and realized his Grandmother was Jewish. That meant he was mixed with Jewish blood. He couldn’t believe it. "So I’m a mongrel."

"Does that make you angry?"

"No, it disgusts me." He turned to escape back to the bedroom.

"You can’t run away from what you are and you can’t be what you aren’t. Are you afraid to face the truth?"

Hando whirled on her. "I’m not afraid of anything!" He hissed while saying it so quietly it made her shudder.

She quickly regained her composure, "Then, tell me about growing up. That is if you’re not afraid."

Hando stood for a moment considering whether or not he should tell her anything. He didn’t owe her an explanation and never shared his hurt with anyone.

Grandma laughed, "I thought so! You’re so very tough and strong, yet you can’t reveal something as insignificant as your past. You’re afraid to say something that might show some emotion other than hate!"

Hando quickly moved to stand over the frail woman. He spat at her, "I’m not afraid of anything!"

His face was so close to hers she could feel his breath on her face. "Prove it!"

"What do you want to know? How my father beat your daughter on a daily basis? How the day after she died he had another woman in his bed? Do you want to know about how he beat me in her absence and used me for fun when his bitch wasn’t around? Or do you want to know how I killed him while he slept and watched as the police looked for an older person as the suspect? How much do you want to know?"

With tears streaming down her face, she reached up and touched his face. "I want to hear it all."

Kathleen was standing in the hall listening to the conversation when Ron joined her. She had tears on her face and Ron gathered her to him. She whispered, "Dad, how could we have let him down so badly?"

Hando stepped back and turned his back on the old woman. He was near tears remembering the confusion he felt when he watched as his mother slipped away. "I hated my mum for dying and leaving me with him. He hated me from the day I was born. I’m not sorry I killed him, he deserved to die."

"I understand that, Jon."

He whirled to face her. "You understand nothing! I only wanted what everyone else had."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." He had already said far too much. He touched feelings that he’d put under lock and key to keep them from interfering with his plans. If they knew how he really felt they could use it against him. He had to stay in control. This old woman was a master at making him reveal himself. He couldn’t wait to leave her influence.

Ron walked in. "Mom, I think Jon and I need some lunch. How about I make some soup and sandwiches?"

"I’ll get it, Dad." Kathleen appeared looking like nothing had happened. "Jon…how about helping me?"

Hando stood looking at his grandmother and uncle. "What’s the matter, you don’t know how to open a can?" He needed to get away from the pair so he stalked past them and followed his cousin into the kitchen.

ON TO CHAPTER 4

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