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  Gated mansions slid by on either side as he crept through, massive homes on postage stamp sized lots all wedged in tight against one another. An involuntary smirk escaped him as he considered the homes back in Montana and how it was not uncommon to live out of sight from a single neighbor.

  He didn’t even want to speculate at the price disparity.

  Working the Caliber in a zig-zag pattern he cut through the tangle of one-way streets in Kahala. Crouching low behind the wheel he peered up at Diamond Head Crater, rising above the neighborhood in silent brooding.

  A minute later he found the front gate and pulled in, paying the nominal fee and easing into the parking lot. Despite the odd hour and the weather, the lot was pushing capacity and steady foot traffic could be seen moving in both directions.

  Standing by the car, Dyson looked up at the top rim of the crater, then back down at the pamphlet given to him at the front gate. It outlined how the crater was formed from a volcanic eruption nearly 150,000 years before and had been dormant ever since.

  Now, the propaganda proclaimed it to be a popular symbol of Oahu and one of the most frequented tourist destinations in the entire state. For a couple of dollars, visitors could hike to the top and enjoy one of the most spectacular views to be found of Honolulu.

  Turning the mint green paper over, Dyson snorted as he read that the hike topped out at 1.8 miles and included roughly two hundred stairs in total.

  For someone that spent his free time playing in the Bridger Mountains of central Montana, those distances were an insult to the word hike.

  Cramming it into his back pocket, Dyson started straight up the trail. He moved fast along the paved portion of the route, continuing his even lope as the ground underfoot changed to dirt and rock.

  Before long he began to overtake groups of tourists, scads of them gasping and pausing for air. Many others stopped to complain in a myriad of languages, looking disdainfully at Dyson as he slid by and ascended in quick fashion.

  The walk to the top took him just shy of a half hour. By the time he arrived a thin layer of sweat coated his face and back and the strong gusts of cool ocean wind were a welcome respite.

  Worming his way through the crowd, he climbed to the very top of the outlook tower above the crater and spun in a full circle. To the south he could see Hanauma Bay and Koko Crater, both unmistakable in their topographical beauty. Directly beneath him he could see the Diamond Head Lighthouse and to the north lay Honolulu.

  Consulting a plaque mounted along the rail, Dyson traced the city as it sprawled out ahead. Stretching over five miles long, it started at the base of the crater and worked its way north along the coast in a serpentine path.

  First came the parks and residential neighborhoods, followed closely by the dense sprawl of Waikiki. Further north lay Ala Moana and Makiki, followed by Kaka'ako and downtown. On around the bend he could just make out the airport through the dense afternoon mist.

  The sign promised him that somewhere just beyond lay Pearl Harbor, though the weather kept him from seeing it for himself.

  Pulling his eyes away from the city, Dyson swung his gaze to the crowd changing places around him. Many were grouped in bunches of three and four, all taking pictures and smiling.

  A small chill ran along the nape of his neck and caused him to visibly quiver, the realization of being alone in a crowd gripping him tight.

  Without pause, he freed himself from the throng of people and descended the trail, climbing into the car and aiming it for the Ala Moana Hotel.

  Chapter Eight

  Against his better judgment, Dyson handed the keys over to the valet outside the hotel and grabbed his bag from the back seat. More than once he had heard horror stories about valets flying recklessly about in somebody else's rental car and try as he might, he couldn't help but remember his decision to turn down full coverage the night before.

  With a sigh he watched as the car disappeared hotel underbelly and stepped inside, a plume of scented air hitting him full in the face. Curiously he stopped and sniffed at it for just a moment, ignoring the passing stares of a pair of old women walking by.

  The heavy toe of his boots sunk into plush carpet as he ambled across the lobby. A large fountain stood spraying water high into the air across from him and wide stairwells swept upward to the second floor on either side. Ukelele music played softly in the background, offset by the sound of water cascading through the fountain.

  A cluster of sofas sat grouped into three sided squares around the center of the lobby, a handful of people scattered amongst them. A few were animatedly talking between themselves, whiles others checked their email or read the newspaper.

  In less than a minute, Dyson noticed he was not only underdressed but the junior man in the room by at least a decade.

  Swinging his gaze to the far side of the room, he settled his focus on the reception desk and slowly walked towards it. Behind it were a pair of women, one heavy-set with graying hair and another not much older than Dyson with dark hair and eyes.

  Halfway across the room a short man dressed entirely in black burst down the stairwell and stormed towards the front desk, waving his arms as he went. The man gave only a passing glance to Dyson approaching before storming ahead and slamming a meaty hand down on the counter.

  "I want the manager right now!" the man demanded.

  The exclamation startled both women, each looking up at the man and then at each other.

  "Now!" the man bellowed, smacking his hand down hard on the counter again.

  Dyson inched his way forward, keeping his bag in hand as he crept past the sign directing guests to wait for the next available attendant and stopping just a few short feet behind the man.

  "Sir, what seems to be the problem?" the young woman asked, doing her best to maintain composure.

  "The problem," the man said, "is I want to see the manager."

  "What's this about?" the older woman asked, drawing herself so close to her co-worker their hips nearly touched.

  "This is about the incompetent staff of this hotel!" the man yelled. As he spoke, he gestured about, each time revealing heavy sweat stains beneath his armpits.

  From where he stood, Dyson could look down on a sizable bald spot forming in the man's curly dark hair.

  "Sir, please," the young woman pushed ahead, "what has occurred to make you so upset?"

  "Upset? Upset?! You haven't begun to see upset," the man spat. "When I contact my attorney, you'll see just how upset I can be!"

  Casting a glance around the lobby, Dyson noticed that the conversations on the sofas had died away and that newspapers were lower. All attention was on the front counter.

  "Sir, can you please tell us what the problem is, and maybe we can be of service?" the older woman asked.

  "No! I have had enough of this hotel and its piss poor employees. I want the manager and I want him here now!"

  The women cast a quick glance between one another, both uncertain how to proceed.

  "Sir, perhaps you could come with me to the back offices and we can discuss your grievances in private," the young woman offered.

  "Oh, you mean somewhere where I can't make a scene," the man said. Throwing his right arm out wildly in a loop, he raised his voice and said, "I'd say we're a little past that point now, wouldn't you?"

  The sound of music seemed to melt away in the background, as did the water pouring out of the fountain. All activity in the lobby ground to a standstill, every eye aimed on the front counter.

  "Sir, what is this all about?" the older woman asked, lowering her voice in hopes of getting him to do the same.

  Aiming a sweaty finger at her, the man waved it about and said, "Don't you try that tactic with me! I am a guest here and I have rights! I will not be talked down to!"

  Holding her hands out in front of her the young woman said, "Sir, nobody is talking down to you. We just ask that you calm down so we can discuss whatever is going on here in a civil manner."

  Keeping hi
s finger poised in front of him, the man swung it over at her. "Who asked you? Why don't you just do what you were hired for and stand there and look pretty you dumb bitch?"

  A small gasp went up from the room as the girl shrank back behind the counter, her body visibly quivering.

  Lifting the duffel bag straight out from his side, Dyson raised it to shoulder height before letting it drop to the floor. Folding his arms across his chest, he hardened his gaze and dared the man to turn around and say something.

  The man didn't disappoint.

  Wheeling in a tight circle, he kept the finger out in front of him and his lips spat "Stay out of this!" before his eyes found who he was talking to.

  Standing a few inches over six feet tall and weighing two-hundred and fifteen pounds, Dyson knew he wasn't the largest man walking the earth. He also knew that he was larger than most and when he wanted to be intimidating, he could be.

  "Just...just wait your turn," the man said, a little of the fire gone from his voice.

  "I have been," Dyson said, his voice empty and cold. "I was standing here when you stormed in to begin with."

  "I'm almost done," the man said, already trying to turn back to the counter.

  "If you're goal was to prove the Napoleon Complex really exists, you've done it," Dyson said. "You can go back upstairs now."

  Behind him he could hear a couple of snorts and chuckles, though both women behind the counter remained unmoving.

  "Why I...I...oughta..." the man stammered, his face growing red as he tried to find the words.

  "You oughta go upstairs now," Dyson said, lifting his bag from the ground and walking up to the counter. Without giving the man another glance he dropped his bag and dug his wallet from his rear pocket. Pulling his credit card and driver's license out, he handed them over and said, "Good afternoon, I made a reservation this morning for Nicks."

  Both women remained motionless as the man stood trembling with rage.

  After a moment the older woman reached across and accepted the cards, sliding sideways to her own computer.

  "I...I..." the man said, again raising his finger to point at Dyson.

  "You better put that finger away before something happens to it," Dyson said conversationally. "You're done here. Come back when you learn how to speak to ladies."

  The young woman behind the counter watched them both with wide eyes while the older woman pretended to pull up his reservation on the computer in front of her. For several long minutes, the entire lobby was silent.

  Unable to find the words and glowing red with indignation, the man turned on his heel and stomped away, muttering gibberish and waving his arms for all to see. When he was gone, guests slowly retreated back to their conversations and newspapers. The sound of music could again be heard in the background.

  Bending at the waist, Dyson lifted his bag from the floor and drug it over in front of the older woman.

  "You didn't have to do that," the young woman snapped, breaking the silence across the counter.

  "What?" Dyson asked, the comment and its tone both surprising him.

  "All that macho crap you just pulled. You didn't have to do that. We could have handled it."

  Dyson opened his mouth several times to speak, but before any words came out the girl stormed away in a huff.

  Mouth still agape, Dyson shifted his face to the older woman before him. "What just happened?"

  She chuckled and shook her head. "I think what she meant to say was thank you, in her own way."

  Dyson smirked. "And what way is that?"

  The woman chuckled again and said, "You just have to know her. Believe me, she didn't mean anything by it."

  "If you say so," Dyson said, shifting his gaze away from the wake of the young woman to the counter in front of him. On it, the older woman had placed several print-outs for him to sign.

  "Seriously, thank you. I upgraded your room for you for free. My name is Connie and if there is anything at all you need while you're here, please don't hesitate to ask."

  Dyson finished signing the forms and slid them across to her. "Thank you very much, though you didn't have to do that."

  "Neither did you, but here we are," Connie said, offering him a smile.

  "But here we are," Dyson said, matching the smile as he hefted his bag from the floor and headed for the opposite stairwell.

  From the lobby, several curious onlookers watched him go.

  Chapter Nine

  Dyson collapsed onto the oversized mattress in his room and began flipping through channels. Kicking his boots to the floor and peeling his dirty t-shirt off over his head, he laid back on the pillow top comforter as the Toledo Rockets and San Diego State Aztecs did battle in some no-name college bowl game.

  Amused by the extremely early start time of games in Hawaii, Dyson looked out at the heavy mist still cloaking the world and decided to remain where he was. He would watch the game and eventually find something for dinner.

  He never made it to dinner. He never even made it to halftime of the game.

  Ten short minutes after laying down, the oversized comforter and pillows of the bed swallowed him up and he drifted off to sleep. Succumbing straight to total darkness, he fell into a cocoon of slumber that lasted almost fourteen hours.

  By the time his eyes opened again it was half past six in the morning. Rolling to his side he stared through the open curtains of his room at the sun streaming in and the waves rolling through the marina in the distance.

  "I'll be damned," Dyson said, swinging his feet to the floor beside the bed and walking over to the windows. Stretching his arms up high overhead he watched as a pair of fishing boats plodded through the harbor towards the open sea.

  Several low pops sounded from his back and neck as he stretched, offset by a thunderous growl from his stomach.

  "Alright, I hear ya," Dyson muttered, hoisting his duffel up onto the bed and dumping the entirety of its contents. Unceremoniously he tossed his clothes into the bedside dresser, grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the shower.

  Just as he had the day before he stayed in the hot shower for nearly half an hour, letting the water roll over and invigorate him. Unlike the day before, he chose from a small mountain of fresh towels, drying himself with one and wrapping another around his waist.

  He dressed quickly in a pair of cargo shorts and t-shirt, pulling running shoes on his feet and grabbing only his wallet as he left. His cell-phone and laptop he both left untouched on the coffee table.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Dyson trotted down to the lobby and again spotted Connie and the young woman behind the counter. A crowd of early-morning guests was already in the lobby, with cups of coffee sitting in front of them and newspapers strewn about.

  Dyson waited until a young couple finished checking out before walking up to the counter and resting his elbows on the counter, his hands poised in front of him.

  "Good morning Mr. Nicks," Connie said as he approached, flashing him an oversized smile, the tell-tale sign of a morning person.

  "Morning Miss Connie," Dyson replied. "But please, just Dyson."

  "Alright," Connie said, nodding.

  "I don't think we actually met yesterday," Dyson said, turning his gaze to the young woman to his left. "I'm Dyson."

  "I heard you," she said, flicking her eyes up at Dyson before returning them to the screen in front of her. She stood just a couple of inches under six feet tall and her long black hair was straight and pulled into a tight ponytail. Large brown eyes peered out from an oval face framed by high cheekbones.

  "And you are?" Dyson asked, twisting his head slightly to the side.

  "Not interested," the young woman deadpanned.

  Dyson stood for a moment, a question poised on his face. Beside him, Connie pursed her lips and shook her head in disapproval.

  "Uh, have I offended you in some way?"

  The young woman made a show of clenching her jaw and raising her eyes to the ceiling before leveling them on Dy
son. "What gave you that impression?"

  Agitation beginning to set in, Dyson pressed on. "You do remember I wasn't the one that had you trembling behind this desk yesterday, right?"

  "Trembling?" she asked, slapping her hands down on the keyboard in front of her. "More like quivering with fury. I'm not sure what you think you did yesterday, but let me lay it out for you.

  "All you did was keep some jerk from getting his ass kicked."

  Exhaling loudly, she shifted her focus back to the screen before her.

  Dyson smirked, but said nothing. Instead he moved his attention back to Connie. "I was wondering-"

  Before he could finish, the young woman clenched her hands by her side. "Seriously?! You're really going to try this right now?"

  The outburst took both Connie and Dyson by surprise. Mouths fell open on either side of the counter, though neither said a word.

  "Unbelievable," the young woman said, again departing in long and even strides.

  "Again I ask, what just happened?"

  "Never mind her," Connie said, continuing to shake her head from side to side. "What were you asking sweetie?"

  Raising his eyebrows, Dyson returned his gaze forward. "I was wondering where I might get some breakfast. My body clock is way off right now and it's having no problem letting me know it's time to eat."

  "Mhmm," Connie said, bobbing her head up and down. "That time difference is brutal. There's an IHOP around the corner and a few places in the mall next door that open before long."

  "Where would you go?" Dyson asked.

  "Me? I'd go right around the corner to our Plantation Café and hit the breakfast buffet. I just don't tell people that because I don't want it to look like I'm playing favorites."

  Dyson pushed himself back a few inches from the counter and looked over his shoulder. "The buffet part sounds good. You say it's the real deal?"

  "And then some," Connie said.

  "Plantation Café it is then," Dyson said, backing away from the counter, giving it a slap for good measure. "Thank you Miss Connie."