You know him or at least think you do.  Devon LaRue has been on television longer than some of his fans have been alive.  LaRue opened his first restaurant in 1992, his second three years later. By the end of the decade, world leaders and celebrities alike were vying for the best seats in his now three restaurants.But Devon LaRue was not what he seemed. It was as a young culinary student in 1982 that LaRue found himself at the scene of a murder. LaRue admitted later he had been high on a few drugs; he just didn’t remember which ones.  The victim was Amie McAvey, a girl that had a history with LaRue. Amie and LaRue had dated and had broken up, dated and broken up, dated and broken up. Each breakup had been precursor by violent breakup arguments.  When he came down, LaRue found himself in a cell, covered with blood. He had gotten sick, the drying puddle of vomit on the floor and on the corner of the long sleeve shirt he had borrowed from his roommate.

LaRue rubbed his eyes as he stepped off the plane. He had landed in Al-Bayda Airport several times. The country of Yemen was a sewer and he hated travelling here.He caught his reflection in the men’s room mirror. His blondish-red hair had been dyed black, his gray eyes now brown. He had grown tired of this play acting. The disguises, the aliases, the different accents. He loved the killing, the shot of adrenaline, the look in the eyes as the life leaves, never got old.            He was here one final time. ‘Tommy’s final assignment,’ he thought. Tommy’s face drifted in front of him. ‘I would kill you slowly if you were here,’ he said softly. ‘You dragged me into this . .this . .” he gestured to the disguise he wore, “this acting shit.”He got into the nondistinctive sand-colored sedan and started pointing angrily at the figure in the mirror

        Emily worked her way through the culvert. She wore only a sports bra and shorts. She had a small drawstring bag on her back that contained a change of clothes and her favorite 9 mm. She had received a call from LaRue just two hours earlier. The conversation was in an agreed upon code.       “Hi Doc.”       “Em. I just got off the phone with Ingrid House Publishing about my life story. God love Cooper, only a crooked old bastard like my agent could make me money from a book with materials that has been published about me a long time ago. I need you to pull all background files. Everything that might be interesting.”       “Even things that not be interesting,” Emily said.       “Right.”       We that, LaRue

      Emily drew in her breath to scream when LaRue came through the door. She had no idea who he was, but she was sure the game was up.      “It’s me Em,” he whispered.      “Doc?” she asked with a relieved laugh. “How is that look believable?”      “Because, Em,” he said, the level of his voice back to normal. “These people live in the world of make-believe. The less believable your cover story or your disguise is, the quicker they believe it.”      Besides the clipboard, she had placed everything she had found, except for one of the pistols and switchblades, into Travers left desk drawer.      LaRue locks the door. “Travers has been killed by his own people. This office won’t be used until a new agent is brought in.

       Before leaving McCoy’s office, LaRue becomes Winston once again.       None of the doors had names on them. That meant that the Chef had to figure out which door was the correct one by process of elimination. There were three doors on either side of the hallway and one at the very end. Dr. M’s office could be in any of them. This was where McCoy’s office was, however, LaRue did not believe the doctor’s office was here. To him, it made more sense that Dr, M’s office was closer to the research he loved.       The chef worked his way back to Travers’ office. He stayed there briefly to ensure that nothing neither he nor Emily needed had been forgotten. LaRue quickly rifled through the weapons drawer. Finding nothing, he quickly closed the drawer and went to find Emily.       Finding his way down the wes