This story is a continuation of the story, A Strange and Dangerous Game by Michael Randall. The story is continued with his permission, using characters who were about to meet an unknown yet likely otherwise dismal end.
There are elements and nods to prolific authoritarian author Pete Brown (petebrownuk), and a healthy dose of science fiction lined up in this work, and the author is grateful to Michael for his blessing.
A Better Place
Ryan Masdorf stepped onto the tarmac and up the stairs leading into his private jet. He issued orders to have the new “acquisitions” brought in and prepped in seven tubes laid out like beds, with a pillow inside and a firm yet comfortable mattress.
These men, Ryan thought, had just been put through horrible pain—and he would use his influence and money to help them.
One by one, his trusted henchmen brought up the crates the looked much like coffins, extracting the body within and placing them carefully into the tubes. Ryan tended to each one before he closed the glass top of the tube for the safety of the cargo within. He put a mask over their noses and mouths to supply fresh air and a hint of an airborne drug that help cut through the fog of their previous torments. An intravenous needle was also administered to each of the men which was attached to saline for rehydration and an additional medication which would help counteract the poisons in the men’s systems.
A seventh crate came up. Ryan indicated a sofa along side the cabin wall. Janos, the unfortunate delivery man, was unpacked and spread out over the comfortable chair. The gray haired man pulled out a mobile phone and made a call.
Midnight team, you’re a go. I’ve set up a call to buy her latest batch of men. She’ll be flying to San Diego. Trail her. Send the slaver gang to our contacts in Japan, Turkey, and Brazil. I want the ones named Gregor, Gunter, and Viktor to go to an organ harvester in Rio. Tell Paolo and Cristian to ‘draw it out’. They’ll know what it means. Pick up Hans and prep him for shipping—he’ll go to Incirlik with the hired hands. Stick balloons full of heroin in their rectums and drop them off at the Turkish police station outside of the Air Force Base. They’ll disappear into the Turkish prison system without hope for parole or escape. And for Maxim—he’ll go to Osaka.”
Roger Wilco, sir.”
Before you send Maxim off, make sure he is thoroughly implicated in the General’s death. He killed the man, he should get credit in the papers back home. Tap into the CID’s database and add him to the list of known terrorists. Make sure to implicate him in our new finds’ disappearances and murders. Maybe we can salvage their reputations, if not restore them to the US. Leave our monitoring devices. Whoever gets that place next may be of interest to us. Text me when you’re leaving Germany.”
Of course, sir. We’ll take care of all of it.”
Thank you.” Ryan disconnected the call and replaced his phone. He turned to the well-muscled, deeply defined young man with long blond hair draped across the soda.
Jack,” Ryan whispered, pulling the unconscious man’s hair aside from his face. He applied smelling salts to the man’s nose, and instantly he shot up, wincing at pain that he surely was forced to feel before he was put under.
Am I… Are they…?”
You did good, Jack. They’re safe,” Ryan said, sitting on the sofa next to him. Jack panted, holding his hand to his chest as if to try and steady his breathing.
I wasn’t sure if I planted enough cams and mics,” Jack said after a few calming breaths. “This operation had some deep connections. Thugs, heavies, drugs, a hypnotist…”
Ryan nodded. “We might have one more of these to go through before we can get to the heart of the real operatives. Rumor has it there’s a set of nine sailors and marines gone missing.”
Jack sighed deeply. He tried to stand, but felt an awful heated pain, like bruising, between his legs. “They had their own kind of healing salve that fixed the skin, but I think the last guy to fuck me bruised me deep.”
Ryan shook his head. “Rest. The guys aren’t going anywhere. I’ve already started the reversal process. They’ll have their memories back—but some things, the response to male stimuli—the re-agent won’t fix.”
How long will that take?”
For the average sized male, a week. For those guys,” Ryan pointed at the tubes, “Likely a month. Maybe more.”
Jack nodded. “I never can get used to that,” he said. “The other guys—the ones who were too far gone…”
Ryan crossed to Colonel Haverhill’s tube, lifting the glass. “We didn’t get to them in time. Some of them were reprogrammed by strict psychological and physical torture. This racket seems to be heavy on psychotropics.” He stroked the unconscious man’s cheek and let his fingers drift down the well-carved centerline of his sculpted torso.
Let’s hope this isn’t more for the harem,” Jack said.
Can’t lie, these guys are incredible specimens.” Ryan rested his hand just above the Colonel’s low-lying jock strap. He ran his fingers over the stubble of pubic hair that had been shaved off very recently. The prone man’s cock reacted to his touch—it bloomed out the top of the jock and came to rest on Ryan’s hand, hard, hot, and dripping with precum. “They’re really young for their ranks, which leads me to believe these guys were the best of the best. Remember, we don’t want to shock them. They must believe we are their masters until they start to come around,” Ryan sighed. “Remember the first four we rescued.” Ryan withdrew his hand and gently replaced the Colonel’s hot red meat beneath the jock as best he could. He licked the back of his hand, savoring the taste of Gabriel Haverhill’s pre-fuck juice.
Jack looked at the imposing men who served as Ryan’s bodyguards and “hired” hands. Their gazes were steely, ever watchful over their “master”, his wish their every desire.
We went about it the wrong way. The last four batches were far more successful,” Ryan nodded.
Mister Masdorf, your limo has been loaded and secured, and we’re ready for departure,” said the captain from the cockpit over the PA.
Let’s go home,” Ryan called out. The doors pulled shut. He turned to the henchmen. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta,” Ryan said, “You may resume wearing your home uniform, if you wish.”
The four men quickly went to their knees, holding their hands out touching the floor in front of them while their foreheads touched the carpet. “By your command, master Ryan,” they said in unison. Each man wore a subtle grin that Ryan laughed at inwardly.
Ryan sighed and snapped his fingers. The men stood up and began uniformly removing their clothes, first black jacket, then black tie, then black shirt, black pants, black shoes, black socks. They all wore matching black briefs—a more modest “uniform” than their previous lifetime would have allowed them. They stood at a military parade rest, eyes trained on the man they deemed their master. Ryan waved them away with a gesture and a kind smile. Clothes in hand, the four filed through a doorless archway into their room for the ascent. The last guard in line, a strawberry blond with ridiculously defined muscles and a boyish, handsome face dropped his underwear down just beneath his taut, fuzzy butt cheeks. He looked back, gave Ryan a wink and a grin, and followed the others into the room. Ryan smirked at the man, and sighed.
They are …Unbroken, right?” Jack asked jokingly as he and Ryan buckled themselves into the sofa. The whole act was just that—an act. To the outside world, they were soulless bodyguards. At home, on the island, they were his Primes—his devout bodyguards, his skilled assassins, and with Jack, now back from his undercover assignment, his closest and dearest lovers.
They are. We tend to forget that, don’t we? These four were really watched, really studied. They had no homes or family to speak of to go back to, and me serve me completely because I rescued them and freed them. I even offered them money to start a new life.” Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. “But outside of serving someone, they don’t know how to live.”
Jack nodded. These were the four Marine Raiders who supposedly died in a helicopter crash a few years ago. Ryan rescued them all, himself included. While it took the Primes months to regain the brunt of their memories, Jack took days.
They’re just playing along. Now that we’re out of public view, they’ll revert back to their usual goofiness. Bravo started right away.” Ryan grinned at the memory of Bravo’s ass as the man disappeared from view earlier. As the plane leveled out, Ryan undid his seat belt. Jack did the same. “Do you want to keep the long hair or cut it?” Ryan asked.
Jack had been letting his hair grow for some time. He figured it would give him a more exotic look—and from this last operation, it was enough for the captors. But the pains he remembered from having his head yanked about made him rethink keeping it. “Let’s cut it down to a nice respectable length,” he said with a grin.
Ryan leaned in and kissed the man on the lips. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he said. Jack looked into Ryan’s eyes—the color of the clear green sea, full of wisdom and sadness.
I’d be a mindless fuck slave if it wasn’t for you, Ry. I owe you everything.”
Ryan looked into Jack’s steel grey eyes. “If you wanna take off that silly jock strap, you can. Get some rest. We’ve got some unboxing to do on the island.”
Jack smiled. He rolled onto his back, stripped off the revealing piece of men’s underwear. As he sat back up, he sniffed the athletic support. “Ooh. Nice. Wanna sniff?”
Ryan smirked and held out his hand. Jack handed it over. Ryan held the cloth pouch over his nose and breathed in deeply. “Fuck, Jack, I’ve missed you.”
Then don’t send me out on year long undercover missions again,” Jack said knowingly and playfully as Ryan came to his knees in front of the younger man.
Never again,” Ryan agreed. He kissed Jack deeply and stroked his warm meat to its full length and thickness. For the rest of the ride home, the two forgot everything else but each other while the Primes watched from the open doorway.
In the underground world, Ryan “Masdorf” was a respected collector of military men who had been reprogrammed from trained and formidable servicemen to servile, submissive sex servants. But the surname of Masdorf was an invention—a name to him by his late predecessor and financer, Jackson Dorfmann. It was an alias that gave him freedom of anonymity with the might and connections of the Dorfmann fortune behind him.
Jackson’s own son had been lost to the underworld sex trafficking business. At the time, he was an eager young intelligence officer—a Captain in the Marines, enjoying some R&R in Italy when he simply disappeared.
All signs pointed to kidnapping. Jackson was devastated. He used his resources to hire trackers, investigators, anyone who could locate his son. Ryan was one of those investigators. His connection to the world of sex-trafficking was one of grief: Ryan’s own older brother, Ronan, was taken by slavers who offered to sell him back to his family or else he’d be sold elsewhere and likely never be heard from again. They couldn’t afford to pay—and Ronan was lost. Ryan dedicated his life to help others avoid the same fate.
Jackson knew his health was failing. His fifty-billion dollar fortune had no heirs without his son, so he pulled Ryan up from a lowly investigator to a man with near infinite resources to find and help him, signing over his estate to him upon his passing.
Let my company do the work for you, Ryan… Find my boy. Set him free,” Jackson begged.
Ryan pursued a major lead that lead to a slave auction in Vienna. Five marines were being sold off, along with dozens of various other men for whichever nefarious purposes the bidders desired to use them for. Cementing the lead was a series of phone calls from a hacked mobile phone off of one of the captors to transmit their exact coordinates.
Using money he’d funneled through several channels, obfuscating any connection with the Dorfmann business, Ryan successfully bought the men. They went for top dollar—seven million apiece, a strapping, handsome, young Marine officer, and the Marine Raiders due to their lethal training, perfect forms, giant status, and intriguing shades of red hair that grew on their heads and on their bodies. Ryan bought other American soldiers who were in various states of dishevelment, recent “acquisitions” who were primed for a live of sexual enslavement but who had been bought as pure laborers—beasts of burden, dray “ponies”, and so on.
A team of investigators Ryan pulled together was able to place all but the four Marine Raiders and return them to their lives. Some twenty families had been reunited with their stolen loved ones.
The one Marine they’d wanted was finally reunited with his father:
United States Marine Corps Captain Jack Dorfmann.
As not to tip his former captors off that he was “back on the market”, as it were, Jack remained hidden from public view. His father passed happy and content with the knowledge his son had been returned to him. While the estate could not go to him, Ryan gave Jack a one-billion dollar account with a under the name, “Jack Masdorf” and vowed to care for Jack and look after him until the day he died.
Jackson Dorfmann passed away peacefully with his son at his side. Jack grieved the months stolen from him that brought his father pain, but he vowed to avenge that loss in any way he could. He pleaded with Ryan to let him go or let him help.
Ryan couldn’t let him go, so he opted to have him trained to fight in any way he could, armed or unarmed.
During that time, after being mentored by one vetted specialist and instructor after another, Jack studied and trained, and Ryan set about rehabilitating the four marines who he rescued along with his benefactor’s son. The men responded to him immediately as their training had them do—they were mentally conditioned to serve their master completely, as his word was the command of God. They followed him from room to room at a respectful distance, never looking him in the eye. When he slept, they removed the clothes Ryan commanded them to wear earlier and snuggled their master between them, often pleasuring him to sleep or upon waking.
He had come to love the men he’d rescued. Even Jack. He hoped they would help him find his own big brother someday—though that mission had faded, when he considered the shelf life of the average slave. Ronan had been gone twenty years.
When he considered his newfound purpose, Ryan put his holdings and inheritance to expedient use. He purchased a small island off the coast of Norway. He paid for the airspace over it, as well, as to prevent unauthorized vehicles from detouring to or over it for any reason. Hiring services here, construction companies there, he quickly pieced together the framework for a series of underground chambers and hallways that would eventually become home to his rescued men. Dorfmann Enterprises paid for a number of high tech advisors and programmers to create what Ryan needed to run his complex with unerring efficiency.
He paid exorbitant sums to thirty individual young, gay men who were experts in their fields to live on the island while they built it. The stipulation being that they could have no living relatives to speak of, so any underground attempts to trace them would come to a halt. While they signed non-disclosure forms, the men had become absorbed into the fold of Ryan’s private, well-funded militia of just over a hundred men, trained and cross-trained by the servicemembers who were ripped from their lives and made into slaves.
It was something out of a comic book, and Ryan was the mastermind to put it all together, in honor of his friend, in memory of his brother, in service to his men.
From the air, the only discernable manmade feature would be the airstrip runway door built deep in the ground. The private jet they flew was one of three large private jets and one small cargo/passenger plane, housed in separate hangar bays beneath the surface. The actual safehouse compound went deeper into the earth, beyond the range of heat vision, safe from cameras on drones and satellites. Also hidden from spying heat, satellite, and earthbound flying camera view was a massive grotto that housed four stealth submarines, created by a military subset of Dorfmann Enterprises and quietly sold to the Masdorf Collective, meant to transport troops and supplies in large quantities.
Security was easy enough for Ryan. Of the hundred twenty soldiers, airmen, sailors, and marines he’d rescued, ninety volunteered to stay on as troops in his immediate service. Thirty became operatives of his around the world, scouting possible locations where sex trafficking was highly suspected. His first five rescues kept everyone trained and ready, and with their help, they kept the compound very well maintained.
Ryan had taken a page from history, using the model from the Band of Thebes to keep morale up with his personal army. Leaders and troops alike were housed in the same barracks, with rooms that accommodated four guards, with one central bed for all the guards to sleep in. At this point, he found the sexual reprogramming of his troops a mixed blessing, as his guards took care of each other’s pleasure—moving between rooms every now and then to experience new delights with different men.
They could be clothed as much or as little as they liked. While Ryan preferred a little modesty, his men were less prudes and more prideful of the condition they stayed in.
For the most part, they wore black briefs, or nothing. The compliment of clothes Ryan provided remained vacuum sealed in storage bins beneath their beds. Upon listening in on some cafeteria chatter, Ryan heard the sentiment, “We’ve got everything we need, and we’re not going anywhere. Why bother with clothes?”
He snickered.
The rules, such as they were in his complex, were few. No infighting. No lies. No inhibitions on sex. They could all fornicate freely, openly, and were encouraged to do so. It would satiate the programming in their heads to pleasure men and only men, as well as keep the men together as a unit that loved and cared for each other unto the point of death.
As the slaves-turned-soldiers came around from their de-programming, Ryan and Jack emphasized the importance of their freedom.
They were free to go anytime they wanted. Ryan handed each individual man two open-ended tickets and a debit card with $1,000,000USD within. Enough money to start anew.
No one had left. In fact, all the men took their tickets and cards and placed them in a clear plastic box that sat on a shelf in one of their entertainment rooms. The reasons to leave didn’t outweigh the reasons to stay.
As most of the men captured had a great deal of experience with combative training and survival training, Ryan asked those men to teach each other, never placing one man over the other to show favoritism outside of Jack and the Primes. A small handful of the men had been medical doctors, surgeons, and scientists, even a pair of dentists, and they were invaluable in maintaining the health of the men. They rotated duties, from running the cafeteria to janitorial work to maintaining the living areas. It wasn’t a platoon. It was a community.
When he’d had everyone in working order, Ryan told them all that he loved them, each and every one. Jack had come to feel the same way, and he said so.
The first day they’d said it, the men pulled them in, undressed them quickly and reverently, and then made them the central figures of an hours long, hundred-plus man orgy that left everyone slick, sweaty, and spent. When everyone came to, Ryan and Jack even helped them clean up the mess in the meeting arena, mopping the floor and scrubbing the walls. Many of the troops grinned and winked at their keepers as they returned the room to its former pristine state.
After the plane touched down, the shield doors overhead closed shut. The plane halted near the personnel reception area in front of the central lift. Men dressed in form fitting tee shirts, black pants and boots helped to unload cargo and belongings.
Ryan and Jack oversaw their new quarry being moved into the central lift as the private jet behind them was taxied away and the great door at the end of the runway shut and sealed against the elements. They delivered the men to what Ryan referred to grimly as “The Debriefing Room”. Jack would snicker at the name every now and then, but Ryan remained stiff-lipped.
Before they disembarked the lift, Ryan tapped a touchscreen panel in the lift wall. “Hey, Marty? I need you to bring an extended sedative to the isolated guest room. We need to keep Captain Hanson under for a few days. Make sure it’s one we can wake him from with a stimulant or something. Look up the records we have, including the video footage from after we left. Confer with the other doctors on how to bring Hanson out without breaking his mind.”
A disembodied voice called out, “Yes sir! You got it!”
Ryan turned to the pair of men wheeling Captain Hanson’s unconscious body. They were a pair of young twins, in their early twenties. “Matt, Riley, take this gentleman to the isolation guest room in the secured bay. If he should wake, he is to know nothing of what’s going on or what happened to him.”
The twins, with their jet black hair, pale skin, and clear blue eyes, nodded. “Will do, sir. Should we leave a guard?” asked Matt.
Ryan considered. “Call on Fox and Foster. They were trained by the Primes.”
Both Matt and Riley dipped their heads deeply. “Yes, sir!” Riley pulled out a mini-tablet and began rapid fire tapping it. The message would be sent.
The lift came to a halt. Ryan, Jack, the Primes, and the men moving the six other tubes vacated the transport. Matt and Riley smiled as the doors closed up on them, sending the lift further and deeper into the complex.
Ryan’s men prepared six beds. They weren’t made for comfort—they were made for waking up in their new “realities”. Soft restraints for wrists and ankles with titanium chains bolted to the floor would keep the new “recruits” from thrashing about in case the anti-psychotropics he administered didn’t do their job.
Ryan was glad Gregor, his “dealer”, had let the men keep their names. He certainly wasn’t going to take them. In fact, their names could help the process of deprogramming their slave natures. As each man was laid out, their degrading “uniforms” were removed and replaced with black briefs. A hydraulic press lifted the men into a reclined, seated position, with their heads tipped back slightly to allow for air to be breathed in freely.
Ryan stood over the young Colonel with a bottle of smelling salts. Jack stood over the Captain. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta. At Ryan’s nod, everyone brought the soldier in front of them to the conscious world. Everyone but Ryan cleared the room, per their discussion earlier.
Slaves, look on me,” he said, “I am your keeper.”
All six men turned their eyes on Ryan, their faces full of adoration.
Master,” all six men said. The colonel’s eyes shown with reverent tears. Ryan closed the distance between himself and the blond muscle-bound hero-turned-plaything.
Do you remember your name?” Ryan asked softly, thumbing the tears away from his new guest’s eyes.
My name is Gabriel, Master,” Gabriel sighed, clearly relishing Ryan’s touch. He wanted more of the man, as much as he would give, such was his overriding thought. He felt his cock harden, lengthen, the prince Albert scraping against the fabric of the black briefs he now wore.
Gabriel”, Ryan said. “You will remember that, and you will keep it for always.”
Gabriel nodded. “I will remember my name and keep it, Master.”
I know, Gabriel, you had friends once. They called you Gabe. May I call you Gabe?”
The slave nodded. His master could call him Lovely Lilly-pad Licker for all he cared.
Gabe, you will thank me,” Ryan said softly, closing in on the Colonel’s mouth and stealing a deep, probing kiss. The man moaned softly at the invasion. When Ryan pulled away, Gabe repeated, in hushed tones, “Thank you, Master… Thank you, Master…”
Ryan undid his bindings and held out his hand. “Sit there,” Ryan said, indicating a chair. Gabe slid out of the bed, head down, and sat in the chair like a scolded child.
Ryan’s de-programming process had begun. He showed the slave kindness. It wouldn’t register straightaway, but he had to establish trust. He had to do that with all the men.
After unbinding each of the men and sitting them down, they all trained their eyes down, waiting in rapt attention. Ryan gestured, and a herd of naked, well-muscled men came and cleared the beds and chains, tucking the posts where the chains attached flat back into the floor.
Everyone knew the game. The slaves had to come around in a very specific way. In the meantime, everyone had to play along.
Gabe, Geoff, Owen, Oliver, Emilio, and Clay,” Ryan said. As each man’s name was spoken, they focused on him. Ryan gestured again, and Jack came into the room, naked. “You will all obey Jack like you obey me. Say you understand.”
An unnerving chorus of deep voices spoke at once. “I understand. We are yours to command, Master Jack.”
Ryan turned to Jack. “Are you ready for what comes next?” The older man spoke in hushed tones.
Jack smirked. “Do you mean am I ready to be fucked sixty ways to Sunday? I’m sure. Don’t you want in?”
Ryan sighed wistfully. “I can’t. I have an aura to project.” He knew the young man was extremely skilled at using sex as a tool, be it a weapon, a means to get information, or in rare cases, administer drugs. Here, his abilities would be for driving each man to impossible climaxes before their brains and bodies gave out.
Jack grinned as he stood in the middle of the six, with Gabe, Geoff, and Owen seated on the left, and Oliver, Emilio, and Clay on the right. Ryan gestured, and his four personal guards came in holding a comfortable chair between them. They, too, were naked. On the chair was a tablet wired into the complex’s ultra-secured Wi-Fi.
Ryan couldn’t believe all the flesh around him. There was going to be more. But whereas the six new finds were enslaved by programming, the other five men in the room genuinely wanted to serve. He wanted the new men to have the freedom back that had been forcefully stripped from their minds and hearts.
Ryan’s guards placed the chair down and knelt down with two on either side. Ryan sat down. He called to his new men. “I am your keeper,” Ryan said, running his hand through Alpha’s thick maroon hair. “My desires are your desires.”
The men repeated mechanically.
If I desire you to pleasure me, you will do so without fail,” Ryan said, caressing Charlie’s thick neck idly.
The six men all repeated their acceptance of his commands. “Without fail” set up a binary that Ryan would trigger later.
If I want you to enter me and pleasure me, you will do so. And if I wish to enter you to bring me pleasure, you will stop what you are doing and give yourself to me willingly, without fail.”
More repeats. Ryan probed Delta’s mouth with his fingers, fascinated by the feel of his tongue.
If I desire men to use you for my pleasure, you will offer yourselves willingly, and you will take pleasure in the men using you,” Ryan said. While he waited for their response, he silently commanded Bravo to rise. The strawberry-blond, boyish titan did so, giving Ryan a clear view and open access to his ample cock and swinging goose eggs. Ryan lightly tugged and played with the man’s balls, causing him to moan. His eleven inch manhood stiffened, with a beautiful, fat red bulb at the tip of a creamy pink shaft the diameter of a beer bottle.
The men submitted their agreement without hesitation.
If you think you are unable to please me, you must stop and say, Ryan, I cannot.”
This was crucial. The word “think” tapped into the part of their brain that had been damaged by their programming. “Think” muddied the binary. It gave them a subtle option—an option they would not have had before. The phrase, “Ryan, I cannot” would be their out—their defiance, and from there, he could work further. It just took getting the men to that part.
They repeated, though their responses began anemically, rearing to full strength obeisance. Ryan eyed them carefully before he continued.
If you are unable to reach climax, you must stop and say, Ryan, I cannot.”
Repeats. Ryan took Bravo’s shiny, pre-cum dripping head into his mouth for a taste. As usual, Bravo didn’t disappoint. Silky sweet and electric.
If you are able to reach climax but cannot give me your seed, you must stop and say, Ryan, I cannot.”
Repeats. Groans of sexual frustration. The men were responding to Ryan’s show. He stood and beckoned Bravo to sit in his seat, taking the Prime into his warm hole, adding to his pleasure. Bravo moaned, but remained still, waiting for Ryan’s command.
Looking over the Colonel’s programming notes, they had pumped him with the most drugs, since they had him the longest. They tried a sensory deprivation chamber—but the Colonel was too strong. They tried to coerce him in exchange for Jack’s life—but while he let men penetrate him, he still retained his strength. His programming was deeply set, particularly due to the Pavlovian response treatment they brutally forced on him, and when he saw his captured friends’ lives in peril while he was helpless to stop it, they finally broke him. The handlers cemented their victory with brutal, repeated rapes, ensuring the newly programmed Colonel not only took what was forced on him—he craved it.
Ryan watched the men make the hurtles in their mind. When the six spoke their acknowledgement, Ryan watched a twinge shoot between all six men.
Bingo. The reprogramming has begun.
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