Well here it is.  I decided to put it into .txt and put it here or Ill
never get any feedback =P.

Legal stuff:  I don't own the rights to Rally Vincent, May Hopkins,
Roy Coleman, and all other characters from Gunsmith Cats.  I am making
no profit from this and it's for fun, so don't sue me =).

All original characters are owned by me, however.

This is a draft, and nowhere near complete.  I would appreciate ANY C&C
whatsoever, as both my pre-readers are too busy to bother now =P.  Send
C&C to ashaman33@hotmail.com.

Thank you.

As a side note, I will use [] to encase the character's thoughts.  It
is much better in italics and a wordpad version is available.
*********************************************************************
GSC: Redemption

A nice apartment in Downtown Miami...  The moonlight shone through the
balcony doors, illuminating the living room floor with its serene
light.  The bustle of traffic twenty floors below was barely heard as
a whisper in the apartment.  Not colorful by any means, the walls
lacked pictures or paintings of any kind, the pale white paint bland
in its simplicity.  The sofa and chair were plain black leather,
with a green, plastic wastebasket beside it.  The coffee table was
made of meticulously clean glass and black steel and the only things
upon its surface were a remote control and a clean and empty ashtray.
A TV and VCR sat on a small stand in the far corner and a simple,
round analog clock hung on the wall.  The only thing to greet
visitors at the door was a black coat rack.  Not that this apartment
ever had visitors.  The kitchen was connected to the living room
with a bar separating them. The counter tops were neat and orderly,
the shelves organized and stacked.  The sink was clean and the
counters didn't show a spot on them.  Utilitarian at best, the room
lacked life, dreary in its bleak colors.  That may have been the
reason why it suited him so well.

 The door opened to reveal a dark silhouette.  The dark shadow
closed the door and a hand reached out to the light switch.  The
fluorescent light on the ceiling flickered on, revealing a young man
in his early twenties wearing a black trench coat, black dress pants
and sunglasses.  Standing at 6'2", he bent over to unlace his heavy
boots.  His hair was short, almost cut in a military crewcut except
it was combed forward on top.  His face was hard, his jawline almost
all sharp cuts and angles.  He straightened, reached one gloved hand
up, and removed his dark sunglasses.  His eyes were a blue-grey color
but there was nothing lively about them.  The gaze was cold and
piercing, enough to chill your soul at the very thought of what
horrible sights this man had seen. They were alert and searching, the
gaze of a falcon searching vigilantly for its prey.  His searching
gaze scanned the room quickly as he folded his sunglasses and dropped
them into the breast pocket of his shirt. Kicking off his boots, they
landed with twin thuds, the heavy soles weighing down the shin-high
combat boots.  Next, he shrugged off his trench coat, revealing a
white collared shirt and twin brown leather gun holsters holding a
pair of Beretta 92Fs.  The shirt fit loosely around his lean, muscular
frame and the top two buttons were undone with another leather holster
wrapping around to his back.  Attached on his wrists were a pair of
Walther PPKs on spring-loaded slides.  Hanging his trench coat with
care, he tore off the Velcro straps holding the spring-loaded gun
slides on his wrists.  He looked at them for a second, then hung them
beside his trench coat.  He removed the holster from around his waist
and hung his custom Desert Eagle beside the Walthers.  He glanced up
at the clock.  [7:58.  He's going to be late again], he thought,
grimacing, disgusted by the inefficiency.  He walked into the kitchen
and removed a glass from the cabinets.  He frowned, staring at the
glass for a few seconds.  He spun the glass in his hand, turning it
over and over, staring into it as if it contained some infinite volume
of knowledge and wisdom.  [Knowledge and wisdom...Now that's what I
need right now.]  Still frowning, he rinsed it under the tap and
reached under the sink to grab a bottle of Crown Royal.

 He carried himself with a calm ease that was unnerving and it
was evident every time he went somewhere.  People on the street would
move aside for him, not even knowing anything about him.  They could
somehow sense his calm, calculating, and, ultimately, deadly demeanor,
radiating power.  He set down his glass and his bottle of whiskey on
the coffee table, dropping on to his couch with a sigh.  Sitting back,
he took one of his Beretta 92Fs out of its holster and placed it
gently on the coffee table in front of him.  Unscrewing the lid on his
bottle, he glanced up at the clock.  [7:59.]  He poured himself a
glass of whiskey, as he heard footsteps approaching down the hallway.
[Five years and he still insists on the necessity of such caution.]
He smiled at the thought.  [He only does this because it gives him the
thrill of being someone mysterious and he knows that I realize it.
Now that's a sobering thought...If only he knew what it was really
like.  No trust.  No honor.  Just pain.  It's a lucrative business but
hardly worth the price you pay.]  He reached his hand out and placed
it on the Beretta 92F.

 The man stopped in front of his door but didn't knock.  And he
wasn't going to.  He never did.  Not once in five years had he ever
stopped during these deliveries for a drink or anything.  It was pure
business.  And they both liked it that way.  A large brown envelope was
slid under the door and the man continued walking down the hallway,
following his initial course.  The young man smiled.  [Caution indeed.
There would be less suspicion if he had given me the package over a cup
of coffee.]  He stood up and walked over to the package, still carrying
himself with that air of menace, and picked it up.  He didn't check it
for poisons or explosives like he did with his other mail.  Tearing open

the top, he removed two portfolios and an airline ticket.  [My next two
targets and the means to reach them.]  He returned to his couch, sitting

tentatively, his eyes pursing the contents.

 His name was Daniel Harper but almost no one knew that.  In the
upper criminal and corporate circles, he was known only as "Anima
inanis".
Dark soul.  Indifferent, cold and deadly.  He was working as an assassin

for almost six years and he was one of the best alive.  CIA trained and
raised, he had been a top secret government agent, neutralizing
"dangerous" targets, whether political or terrorist.  He had left for
better things.
 He had met the man at the door, Robert Hafner, while Robert was
still a private investigator.  Robert had been tracking Daniel for a
week
and he was good.  Daniel had lured him into an alley and deftly put a
gun
to Robert's head.  He had given Robert the option of working for him or
the alternative.  Robert had been his informant ever since.  Usually
just
supplied with a name for his targets, he relied on Robert for his
biographical information.
 He quickly scanned the papers for pertinent information.  [Eating
habits, background, contacts, previous relationships, social life, media

attention.  Yes.  Daily schedule.]  He quickly scanned the sheet for
times of daily errands as well.  [Strong, consistent schedule.  This may

be easier than I thought.]  He grinned at that.  Planning was key.  He
knew that from the start of his dubious career and it hadn't
disappointed
him yet.
 Looking at the airline ticket, he frowned.  [Chicago.]  He turned
to the last page of both portfolios.  There were multiple surveillance
photos paper-clipped to the right corner, caught with the masterful eye
of Robert Hafner.  He looked over the comments for the coppery skinned,
black-haired, young woman.  At 19, she was stunning.


 Watch out with this one, Dan...  This one'll do more than break
 your heart...she'll probably blow it apart at 200 yards.  She
 has her... 'assets'... and her combat skills are not negligible,
 to say the least.  Her marksmanship is as good as yours although
 you do have the advantage of your stealth tactics and the...
 'darker' side of hunting.  Excellent planner, well organized
 and always alert.  She can improvise under pressure and seems
 to perform better when pressured harshly.  It's a shame she's
 a hit.  Just 'cause it's a broad doesn't mean she's easy, Dan.
 This may be the most challenging target you've had yet.  You're
 gonna earn this million.  Just don't go soft on me.  I know how
 you tend to do that.


 Daniel chuckled at that last statement.  [Soft.]  He had shot his
last female hit two times, one in the heart and one in the head.  She
had
begged for mercy but the hit specifically said "dead".  Unfortunately,
it
was point blank with a .50 cal AE Desert Eagle.  The remaining pieces of

her head were sprayed about the wall behind her dead carcass.  [No.  Not

soft.]

 He turned to the other portfolio.  The pictures were of a cute,
short blonde girl.  But the age said 17.  She looked about 13-14 at
most.
He continued reading to the comments that Rob had prepared after
exhaustive study and tracking.


 Short stuff here is like her counterpart.  Hardly timid, a
 bit rash and emotional at times, but otherwise stable.
 Trained in explosives by Ken Taki, she has amazing skill
 with everything from general explosives, plastic explosives,
 incendiaries, smoke bombs, flashbangs...You name it, she's
 got it.  A bit on the aggressive side, especially with
 grenades.  Loves to blow things up.  Depends a lot on her
 partner.  Still, not one to ignore.  I don't think she's
 worth the million but at least a cool 500k...Oh well,
 they're paying.  Good hunting.


 [Ten Taki.  I met him once, and it had been a real meeting, not
having to do with our mutually inclusive professions.  Chris had
introduced me to him years ago.  It's a shame Chris will never introduce

anyone again.  Ripped apart by multiple full auto AK-47s during a
botched hit on a terrorist leader while I was still a part of the CIA.
Shit happens.]

 He removed the pictures from both portfolios and flipped through
them as he opened the glass sliding door, leading to his balcony.
Leaning on the railing, he flipped through the pictures.  [Driving the
car, shopping, cleaning, the house, the armory, the shooting range,
close up, close up, social picture, taking out the garbage...]  He
squinted at this one to make sure he was seeing things right...[Taking
a shower?!?]  He flipped the pictures over and read the short note
written on both pictures.


 I got these just for you Dan.  Beautiful shape, perfect 10s,
 even if the little one is a bit young.  Have fun.  I know I did.
 P.S. : Don't ask how I got the pictures...secrets of the trade.


 He laughed out loud at that.  Robert Hafner was a mid-thirties,
single white male with no long-term relationship prospects, whatsoever.
[Just a kid in a bigger body.]  He did show incredible maturity at
times, though.  Not very often, however.  Daniel smiled and walked back
into his apartment.  Replacing the pictures, he closed the portfolios.
I'll have to go over the information in more detail later.  He picked
up his glass of whiskey he had poured earlier and lifted it to eye
level.  He stared at the deep yellow liquid with an inquisitive eye.
He sighed once, then took a long sip of the whiskey, leaving the
glass with less that half the whiskey left.  Dan put his drink down
and picked up the portfolios, one in each hand, and read the names
again before dropping them back on the table.

 Vincent, Rally

 Hopkins, May

 Picking up his glass, he quickly downed the rest of his drink.
[Maybe I will be able to retire, after all,] he thought, obviously
amused at such a prospect.  He poured himself another drink.

 * * * * * * * *

 Rally Vincent quickly ducked behind a large wooden crate, her
CZ75 already in her able hands and ready to use at a moment's notice.
Surveying the scene, she saw her bounty talking to a few hired thugs
and pointing out directions.  The warehouse was a decent size, about
a hundred by a hundred and twenty meters square, with catwalks criss-
crossing the air above her.  Most of the lighting was broken or burnt
out and the ones that did work flickered from age.  The loud rumble
from the crane fixtures droned out the conversations of the thugs
loading the crates on to a large freight truck.  She popped her head
up for a few seconds to do a quick target count.  [Eight men armed with
 miscellaneous firearms, some automatic, and four apparently unarmed
men who were busy loading the truck, and another in the control room,
operating the crane.]  She glanced to her right to see May scurrying
along the concrete floor, holding a smoke grenade in her right hand.
May crawled up behind the crate beside her and gave her a mischievous
 grin.  Rally nodded to her and pointed to the crates in front of
them and to their right.  May winked and quickly scurried over to
the crate.  Rally sighed.  She just hoped everything went according
 to plan.

 May pulled a pin on one of her smoke canisters and placed it
 right behind the crate.  She looked over her shoulder to Rally and
nodded before quickly running to the left with her head down behind
 the crates.  Rally followed quickly and soon heard shouts behind
her as the thugs noticed the smoke.  There was a big commotion and
a crate was dropped as the apparent leader shouted to them, trying
to restore order.  Rally heard the distinctive clicks of multiple
weapons being loaded and prayed that everything went according to
plan.

 Now that the thugs were distracted, she could make her move.
Rally bolted out from behind the crate at the leader as she heard
the familiar ring of metal on cement of May's second smoke canister.
The leader turned to Rally and raised his AR15 but he was too late
by far.  Rally fired one round, blowing off the right thumb of her
would be assailant as May's smoke canister went off and filled the
area with smoke.  She was blinded now but she knew where he was.
She could hear him screaming from the pain of the severed thumb.

 The other thugs had realized that they were under attack by
now and started to open fire on May.  This promptly ended as they
saw a grenade with a bow tied around it rolling towards them.  They
all screamed and scatted as the explosive went off.  One of the
thugs wasn't fast enough and was blasted through one of the wooden
crates, sliding to a stop to lie bleeding on the cold cement.

 Rally quickly moved behind the leader and clubbed him hard
on the head with the butt of her CZ75, knocking him out cold.  She
 promptly cuffed his hands behind his back and searched for May in
the dense smoke.  [Damn!  She should be here by now.]

 May was pinned down by gunfire from the six remaining thugs
and didn't dare try to make a break for it.  Even if she did, they
would probably spray the smoke with a hail of lead anyways.  [Time
for plan B.]  She pulled the pin from her last smoke canister and
dropped it at her feet before bolting out of harm's way, using
the smoke as cover.

 By now, smoke filled the whole warehouse and some thugs were
coughing from too much smoke inhalation.  They didn't notice a
figure in a black trench coat slip in through the side door.

 * * * * * * * *

 May ran as fast as she could to her appointed rendezvous
point.  She looked around and saw blood on the floor, but no sign
of Rally or the bounty.  The smoke irritated her eyes and lungs
and she couldn't see anything beyond two feet.  [Where the hell did
she go!?!], she wondered, frantic at losing her partner in the
thick smoke.

 * * * * * * * *

 The bounty was still unconscious from the blow to the head
and blood loss.  Rally was forcefully dragging the bounty around by
his collar, but he was too heavy to drag for long distances.  He
must have outweighed her by about a hundred pounds.  Grunting with
the effort, she leaned his unconscious form against the freight
truck and went searching for May.  She could hear heavy footsteps
and shouts from the remaining thugs.  She grimaced at that.  [This
 bounty went sour, fast.]  Listening, she heard a faint call of
"Rally" from a familiar voice.  Grinning, she started to run towards
 the voice.

 She had barely taken three steps when she came sliding to a
sudden stop, staring into the muzzle of a Desert Eagle in a gloved
hand, just inches from her face.  She reacted instinctively, ducking
down to her left, and using her right hand with her CZ75 to knock
the hand away from her.  She heard the deafening thunder of the
blast and felt the heat of the muzzle flash warm her face.  She
fired two rounds at where her assailant was, but knew the bullets
would miss their target.  The Desert Eagle was nowhere to be seen.
Along with her would-be killer.  [That was too close], she thought,
relieved that the smoke had given her that split second she needed
to live.  She didn't remember any of the thugs carrying a Desert
Eagle.  They may have been concealing it but they had assault
rifles and one had a shotgun.  It may have been a back up gun
but she doubted it.  And none of the thugs were wearing gloves
from what she saw earlier.  It made her feel uneasy.  [Who the
hell was that?]  She couldn't even see if it was a man or a
woman.  She could judge that this person was pretty tall from
the firing height of the gun but that didn't really tell her
anything.  Searching about uneasily, the smoke had started to
clear.  Her ears were still ringing from the point blank shot.

 She barely heard two shots fired from about 30 meters away,
recognizing the Desert Eagle, followed by a grunt and two bodies
collapsing.  [That's four left.]  She knew skilled marksmen when
she saw it and this mystery shooter was definitely good.  It was
too much to hope that he (or is it a she?) was going to be taken
out by a bunch of hired goons.  She heard four consecutive shots
fired from the Desert Eagle, but this time, it was farther away
and to her left.  Dangerously close to where she last heard May.
She heard a man scream and fall.  [That's three left.]

 The smoke was starting to wear out so she crept down low
and used the crates that were scattered about to hide her form.
She looked up to see that the thug in the control room had come
out and had a shotgun in his hands, looking about nervously.
By now, all the smoke had dissipated.  She had an open shot but
she wasn't sure if she should reveal herself.  It was a good
thing she didn't because a split second later, she heard the
Desert Eagle fire once and watched as the thug's head virtually
exploded.  Still three armed thugs left.  She didn't know the
control room thug had a gun.  She guessed that the unknown
person was only about 15 meters away, directly behind the crates
she was hiding behind.  She heard the tell-tale sound of finely
crafted weaponry as the gunman (woman?) changed clips.  Seizing
the opportunity, she popped up from behind her crate and fired
two rounds at him or her.

 He (Rally could see he was male now) moved unbelievably
fast.  He dove sideways and had a Beretta 92F firing at her
before he even hit the ground.  Her bullets hit only his trench
coat.  Rally ducked behind the crate quickly, the bullets
missing her head by inches.  With her back up against the crate,
she thought frantically for what she would do next.  She heard
him finish reloading his Desert Eagle and a second later, the
wood beside her head exploded outwards, the splinters cutting
into her face and neck.  She flattened belly down on the
concrete just in time as the crate was torn apart by the Desert
Eagle.  After what seemed like hours, the firing stopped.  She
heard him quickly reload.  Surprised she wasn't hit by a
ricochet, she glanced over at the concrete wall behind her.
She quickly realized why.  She saw large holes and chunks torn
away from the foot thick concrete walls.  She couldn't believe
it.  [He's using one hell of a modified Desert Eagle.]

 She got up slowly and ever so carefully, peeked over
the crate.  He was nowhere in sight.  There were plenty of
crates around to hide behind, though.  She didn't like it.
Suddenly, she heard a scream of "Rally!" and turned to look.
May was running towards her, in open view.  Before she could
tell her to stay down, out of the corner of her eye, she saw
the gunman pop out from behind a crate with his Desert Eagle
raised and pointed at May.  Rally moved.  She leapt from
behind her crate and tackled May down, as the gunman fired.
She felt pain as the bullet sliced through her leg.  They
were both on the ground and now she was wounded.  She looked
up to see the gunman standing only five meters away, with
his Desert Eagle pointed at them.  And her CZ75 was nowhere
in sight.  It looked bad.

 But he didn't shoot.

 He just stood there.  He didn't say a word.  She
noticed that May held a grenade now but he could have
easily disarmed her before she could use it, and May knew
it too.  The pain was getting to Rally and she gritted her
teeth, trying to concentrate on something else.  Rally
looked in disbelief as she saw his hand quiver, the Desert
Eagle slowly falling from his hand and clattering on the
cement floor.  His left hand went to his head and he
mumbled something she couldn't hear.  He turned around and
started to ru.  Rally brought her Duo out from her wrist
slide and aimed.  She had a clear shot at his head.

 But she couldn't pull the trigger.

 She didn't know why.  She just couldn't.  She knew
why she should.  But her finger wouldn't pull the trigger.
She knew that she wanted to.  [Do I?]  Her finger trembled
on the trigger and she threw the Duo away from her in
disgust.  [I hate having a conscience.]  He was gone now
and no hope of catching him in this condition.  She looked
down at her leg.  The bullet had cut across the outside of
her thigh and had gone clean through a bit of muscle.  It
was painful and it bled a lot but it didn't look too
serious.  [At least nothing life or limb threatening.]
She might have a heavy limp for a week or two.

 "Are you all right, Rally? May asked, her voice
filled with concern.

 "I'll be ok." Rally replied, looking up at May,
who was now cradling her upper body in her arms.  May's
eyes were rimmed with tears and her face was of absolute
horror.

 "Please hold on, Rally.  The police will be here
soon.  Someone must have heard the gunfire and explosions."
With that last sentence, tears started flowing out of her
eyes.  She knew Rally had saved her life.

 "You would have done the same for me and you know
it," Rally assured her, "Besides, it isn't as bad as it
looks." [Or feels for that matter.]

 The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.
[I'm gonna have one hell of a time explaining this one],
thought Rally.

 * * * * * * * *

 Rally slowly opened her eyes, her vision blurring as it
adjusted to the light.  Struggling to focus, slowly, her eyes
adjusted and soon she was staring at the plain white ceiling
that hovered above her for these last few days.  Silence filled
the air, but suddenly, she heard paper rustling to her left,
and turned her head to see Detective Roy Coleman, sitting in a
chair beside her, casually flipping through the latest issue of
 Guns and Ammo.  She still felt woozy and struggled to lean up
 on one elbow.  Roy noticed her and put the magazine down on
the chair beside him, before gently pushing her back down on
the bed.

 "The doctor said you should get some rest.  You'll be
out of here in a couple of days but you'll probably still have
a heavy limp for a short while," Roy told her, his voice
gentle and soft.

 "How long have I been here again?" Rally asked, still
trying to get her bearings.

 "Eight days."

 "And you decide to visit now?" Rally inquired with a
slight smirk on her face and a raised eyebrow.

  "I've been busy.  Do you expect me to be at your beck
and call?  What am I?  Your husband?"  Roy smiled in amusement,
"I never realized you thought of me in that way, Rally."

 "So how did the whole warehouse disaster turn out?"
Rally quickly asked, changing the subject, just relieved that
he was here in the first place. "Fill me in on what I missed."

 "Well, disaster is right," Roy replied, his voice now
changed to a much more professional tone, "The bounty got away
and the only thugs that were left were the bodies.  We got the
crates with the heroin in them but there's no way we can pin
this on the unknown drug lord we've been tracking.  No clues
 that might help us find out who this drug lord is, either."
His expression was sour at that last statement.  "It's a
pretty major shipment, though.  About twenty million, street
value.  He, or she for that matter, - we don't know jack shit
about this guy - is going to notice this one and then, this
drug lord is going to notice you, Rally."  He frowned a bit,
his forehead creasing with worry.

 Rally chuckled a bit at his obvious concern for her.
"Don't worry about me.  I'm a big girl, now."  Rally's face
suddenly hardened.  "Now, who was that guy in the black trench
coat?"

 "We don't have any files on anyone like him, and neither
do the FBI or InterPol.  Deadly and efficient, though.
Definitely a professional and not an average one, at that.  As
for the ballistics reports..."  Roy took a deep breath.  "The
bullets were amazing.  They were .50 caliber AE with a depleted
uranium core, a tungsten jacket and Teflon coating.  Definitely
a custom job and each bullet seems to be meticulously crafted.
Even after punching through the concrete, the bullets were barely
deformed at all.  I would have loved to see the gun he used to
fire such ammo.  The few 9mms we found were Teflon coated as
well but that's it.  Even so, he has some high-class hardware.
This boy is no minor leaguer."

 "That's all you could find on him?"

 "Yeah, except for the description you're going to give
my artist when he comes in to see you later today.  Rally, this
guy is a ghost and he's way out of your league.  Apparently,
his being here just assures me of the fact that the drug lord
has noticed you and wants to put a stop to your actions.  I want
to you to back out of this now, Rally.  Not like you'd ever
listen to me, anyways."

 "Well, I'm not going anywhere in a while," she replied,
a smug grin on her face as she pointed towards her leg, hanging
in a sling.

 Roy just shook his head.  He stood up, snatching up his
jacket from the back of the chair he was sitting on.  "I brought
you a magazine.  I'll talk to you later."  He headed out the
door.

 "Bye," Rally whispered, as the door swung shut behind
Roy.

 Rally glanced around the room, taking in her
surroundings.  Her room was fairly big, considering her
condition.  It was at least six by eight meters.  The
fluorescent lights above her were off at the moment. She saw
grey curtains over to her right, covering a large wall of
windows.  Two red plastic chairs with a metal frame were beside
her to her left, and a small TV was on the wall across from her.
She looked about on the small table beside her for a remote or
anything similar but gave up her fruitless search after a short
while.  [Probably strain my eyes trying to watch it anyways], she
thought, squinting at the small TV.  Looking again in the small
table beside her, she found a small digital clock.  [1:34 PM.]
She glanced over to the Guns and Ammo magazine Roy had left her
and was reaching for it when the door slammed open, letting May
and Becky blunder into the room, stumbling over each other.

 "Rally!" May screamed, rushing to Rally's side, grasping
Rally's hand in both of hers.  "We were in the cafeteria when
Roy told us you woke up!  They wouldn't let us visit before and
you were sleeping when we came here yesterday!  I came here as
fast as I could!  How are you feeling?  Are you all right?"  Her
face was twisted by concern.

 Rally snatched her hand back and snapped back, "I'm
perfectly fine!  It was just a little flesh wound, for god's
sake."

 "What's with the dark room?" May said, looking about the
room.  She ran over to the curtains and threw them open.
Sunlight was shining in through the spotless windows and they
could see the buildings across the street from them.  They could
see the bottom of a window cleaner's scaffold at the top of the
windows.  "There!" May exclaimed.

 "Will you stop it, already?" Rally yelled in annoyance,
"Now sit, calm down, and hand me that magazine!"

 May obediently shut up and handed Rally the magazine
before sitting down in a chair.  Becky had more control over
herself.  "I got that gun analyzed and you won't believe what
I found out!" she said, her voice filled with anticipation, her
hands balled into little fists and waving in the air.  Not much
more control, however.

 "Ok, ok.  Just sit down, will you?"

 "Anyways," Becky said, pulling the 'missing' Desert
Eagle out of her purse, "I got May to pull apart and dissect
the shells.  I sent the bullet to a metallurgist and a chemist
that I know.  She came back with the components and it's
incredible.  The bullet is made of depleted uranium in tungsten
jacketing with a Teflon coating to boot.  After a few ballistics
calculations, my  assumptions about the sheer penetration power
this thing can deliver was right.  Doesn't deform, incredibly
armor piercing but because it doesn't deform, doesn't do too
much to flesh.  But then, with a head shot, it doesn't matter
much."  She pulled out the clip from the Desert Eagle and popped
a bullet out of the clip, holding it up so that Rally could look
at it.  "As for the casing, it's made of a titanium alloy.  It
would need it, too, for what kind of charge this thing packed.
May analyzed it, as she knows more about explosives than anyone
else I know."  Becky looked over at May and motioned for her to
continue.

 May was all business now, her face much more serious
than before.  "The powder was different than what I expected.
It's basically standard gunpowder, high quality of course, but
it has an accelerant or a catalyst added.  I don't know if it's
an oxygen additive or something else," she continued, "But I
think it might be an N2O derivative or a more complicated
molecule.  Either way, it's a much more powerful blast."

 "It would have to be to make the bullets travel at close
to Mach 2."  Becky took over from May as she held up the Desert
Eagle itself.  "The gun is extremely high tech, too.  The design
is exactly the same as the Magnum Research Desert Eagle, alright,
but the gun is made entirely of the same titanium alloy that the
casings are made of."  She held out the gun to Rally.  "No
fingerprints, of course.  You mentioned he was wearing gloves but
I checked anyways.  Oh well.  It's not like our prints can't be
cleaned off it, either."

 Rally took the gun from Becky, feeling the weapon in her
hands.  She slid her hands over the cold metal of the instrument
of death that had almost brought her to an untimely end.  It was
built and balanced perfectly.  She leveled the gun sights and
aimed out the window.  She trained the sights on a bird across
the street, standing prim on a power cable.  [Probably just as
accurate, too], she thought, with a grimace.  The platform with
the window washer was moving down so Rally quickly tossed the
gun back to Becky.

 Becky promptly dropped it into her purse, before standing
up.  "I'm going to grab a cup of coffee.  You coming May?" she
asked.

 "Yeah," May replied, standing up also, "but no coffee for
me."

 Turning to Rally, Becky asked, "Need anything?"

 "Nope."

 "Suit yourself, We'll be back in a bit," Becky said as
she walked out the door, with May on her heels.  Rally just lay
there on her bed, thinking about that Desert Eagle and the gunman
who had almost gotten the better of her.  She turned and gazed
out the windows, watching the window washer diligently doing his
job.  Giving a long sigh, she collapsed back as her gaze drifted
to the ceiling.

 She didn't notice the window washer place a small
transmitter on the glass.

 * * * * * * * *

 In a cheap hotel across the street from the hospital,
Daniel was unpacking.  It seemed odd, as a man in a black trench
coat with a very high-tech metal briefcase usually doesn't stay
in a shoddy little hotel room, with but one bed, a nightstand,
and a desk with two wooden chairs.  The room barely measured
five by ten meters.  Daniel could care less about the cheap and
tacky wallpaper that coated the walls, nor could he care about
the old and peeling paint on all the furniture.  He had learned
very early on, that pride has brought down more than a few 'hunters'
like himself.  His mind didn't think in that way, however.  He was
pure efficiency.  He threw his large metal briefcase on the bed and
placed his thumbs on two small scanners that had replaced the
standard key or number combination locks.  A faint hum could be
heard as the scanners processed his fingerprint image, before the
case opened with a slight hiss and a click.  Throwing the case open,
he studied his equipment.  He looked at the parts laid out before
him and removed each piece from the briefcase with care. He had
done this a million times before, and yet, he still took
precautions.  [There ARE no room for mistakes in this profession.]
He was cautious in the utmost extreme, sliding each piece together
with care, each one locking together with a soft click.  It took him
over ten minutes to fully assemble the piece of hardware he now held
in his hands.

 He looked down at the matte black finish of his CIA prototype
rifle.  It was massive, the barrel alone being over a meter in length,
yet the gun was made of carbon polymers and other light yet strong
materials, reducing the weight of the massive rifle to just twenty
pounds.  Sliding his hands over the textured finish of the large gun,
he slid open the bolt action, taking a look inside the chamber for
any foreign particles.  Satisfied, he unfolded the auto-leveling bipod,
and set up the rifle at the window, grabbing a wooden chair from the
desk.  Removing a small receiver from his trench coat, he put on a set
of earphones and flicked the switch on.  He heard a rustle of paper
and occasional shifting.  Once more holding the rifle, he aimed it at
a hospital window and flicked on the switch for his scope.

The scope came to life, the display showing Rally sitting in her
hospital bed, perusing through a Guns and Ammo magazine.  He adjusted
the zoom to 8x, the display zooming in to show Rally's face, her
forehead creased in worry.  Daniel heard a sigh as he saw Rally close
the magazine and toss it on to one of the chairs beside her.  He
pressed a button on the side of the scope, and waited as the image
shifted and recalculated for pitch and wind.  He centered the
crosshairs on Rally's forehead, watching her as she gazed out the
window at something distant.  He continued to watch her, suddenly
intrigued about her.  [What is troubling her?]  He shook that thought
away, once again concentrating on the task at hand.  Reaching into the
briefcase, he removed a huge sound suppressor the size of a milk
bottle.  Screwing it on to the end of the rifle, Daniel went back to
the scope and manually adjusted it to compensate for the sound
suppressor.  All that would be heard now is a sharp crack, like a
bullwhip, from the bullet breaking the sound barrier.  Once again
centering the crosshairs on Rally's forehead, He took a deep breath,
steadying his aim.  His finger rested on the trigger.  He had started
to pull the trigger when Rally's lips moved.  His finger stopped, still
applying pressure on the trigger.  His ears listened tentatively for
any sound.  [Silence.]  His mind troubled over this turn of events.
[Why had her lips moved?]  He listened once more, waiting for any
sound to escape her lips.

 ...

 ...

 He heard a whisper once more, but too faint to be heard.  The
suspense was pure agony, his mind tortured with silence.  He listened
tentatively once more, his forehead creasing, his eyes strained in
pure concentration.  He licked his dry lips.

 ...

 ...

 "Why?"  Rally whispered, looking across the street now, gazing
at the buildings.  Daniel pulled back, his hand sliding from the
trigger.  He sat down slowly on the small bed, the spring squeaking
under his weight.  [Why...The universal question...But why what?]

 [Why do I kill?]
 [Because I do.]

 [Why do I have to kill you?]
 [Because I do.]

 [Why do I still kill?]
 [Because I do.]

 [Why must I kill?]
 [Because I do.]

 ...

 ...

 [Don't I?]

 ...

 ...

 [Don't I?]

 ...

 ...

 [Why?]

 ...

 ...

 [I don't know...]

 For what seemed like hours, Daniel sat on the bed, unmoving.
[I do what I must], he thought decisively.  He slowly stood up and
approached the deadly rifle.  Slowly seating himself behind the
rifle once more, he reached his hands around it, but this time it
was different.  No longer a stoic embrace, his hands approached
the rifle hesitatingly, forced about the rifle that they so
lovingly embraced only moments ago.  His right hand slid down the
side of the rifle on to the grip or the rifle.  Slowly, agonizingly,
his finger came to rest on the cold and cool metal of the trigger,
yet it burned his finger like hot iron.  He lowered his head and
looked into the scope.

 The first thing Daniel noticed was that Rally had barely
moved.  She was still looking outside the window at the buildings
across the street from her.  [Why does she continue to watch some
buildings?]  He slowly centered the crosshairs on her forehead.
Her deep blue eyes had a glazed look to them and soon he was lost
within them, searching for answers.  [Answers I'll never find.]
He tightened his grip on the rifle and took a steadying breath.
[One pull.  One pull and I'll never have to do this again.]  He
re-adjusted the crosshairs a final time.

 Daniel started to give the trigger a slight tug when
suddenly, Rally turned her head, shifting her view.

 To look straight at him.

 Daniel froze, those deep blue eyes, still glazed, stared
right at him.

 [She sees me.]
 [Why is she still there?]
 [Why hasn't she moved!?!]
 [WHY DOESN'T SHE RUN!?!]

 Or at least looking in his direction.

 [CAN she see me?]
 [No.]
 [I'm at least 300 meters away and in a small window.]
 [She is looking towards the sun.]
 [She couldn't have seen me.]

 But he still couldn't get away from those eyes.  Those
eyes stared right at him, almost knowing.

 Looking right at him.
 Looking into him.

 [Looking into my soul.]

 Daniel tried to readjust the crosshairs but couldn't get
away from those eyes.  His eyes were drawn into hers, even though
the image burned like a thousand flares.

 [Stop it.]
 [Stop it.]
 [Stop looking at me.]
 [Stop it.]
 [STOP IT!]
 [WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?]
 [...]
 [Why?]
 [...]
 [WHY!?!]

 Daniel could barely see Rally now, the image in the scope
shaking violently, the crosshairs unable to stop on a target.
In a rage, he stood and threw the rifle across the small room,
smashing into the opposite wall with a loud thump, tearing a hole
into the cheap plaster and wallpaper.  He collapsed down onto the
chair, his knees giving out under him.  Lifting his hands, he
stared in disbelief.

 They were shaking.

 His hands had never shaken.
 [No.]
 But that wasn't quite true.
 [No.]
 His hands had shaken once.
 [No.]
 The image came back to him, filling his head.
 [No.]
 He remembered the day as if it were yesterday.
 [Not this...]
 He felt the cold and crisp night air as if he was back
there again.  In a way, he was.  He didn't just remember this
night.
 [Anything but this...]
 He lived it.  Reliving every moment.
 [Please...]
 The cold air brushed past his face.  Footsteps.  Yes.
He was running.
 [Please...]
 He looked about.  He saw he was in a dark, unlit
parking garage, the concrete support pillars towering above
him, the cold ceiling hovering over a meter above his head.
There were a few cars scattered about.  Wait.  He heard sounds
other than his own.
 [No...Please...]
 Footsteps.  He looked to his left.  He saw a young man
in a dark trench coat running along side him.  He looked like
he was in his late twenties.  He knew him.  Yes.  His name
was Andrew.
 [Please...]
 Andrew Mitchell.
 [No...Not again...]
 Andrew turned to look at him.  And smiled.  That smile
seemed so natural on his face.  He remembered that Andrew
smiled often.  Then Andrew glanced behind him.
 [Anything but this...]
 Andrew's face changed.  His eyes widened in horror.
His smile turned into a yell.  Suddenly Andrew dove at him,
tackling him sideways.  He heard a sound.  Yes.  He knew that
sound well.
 [I don't want to remember...]
 Gunfire.
 [Please...]
 Lots of gunfire.
 [No...Why do I remember?]
 He remembered the two of them hitting the hard
concrete floor and rolling to a stop behind a large pick up
truck.  They both put their backs on the front tire and stayed
low.  The gunfire had stopped.  He had something in his hand
now.  He remembered the cold feel of the gun, as familiar as
anything else that day.  Andrew had his gun out, also.  The
gunfire had stopped.
 [No...Stop...]
 He said something then.  "I got hit in the leg, but
I'm fine.  I can still move.  Let's go.  Before they find us."
And he remembered Andrew's reply.
 [Please...Those words...]
 "I'm hit...bad.  I-I can't move.  I need you to do
something for me, my friend..."
 [Why, Andrew?  Why?]
 "Here.  Take this key.  Go to the cabin.  The one
in the woods nearby, where we used to go fishing."  He saw
Andrew tear a chain off his neck and press the cold metal
of the key into his palm.
 [I didn't want to go...]
 "Before you go, I need you to do one more thing.  You
can't just leave me here."  He saw Andrew cough up a bit of
blood, before he quickly wiped it away from his mouth.
 [I didn't want to, Andrew...]
 "You know how they can torture me if they find me,
Dan.  I can't keep the location secret from them.  They can
force me to talk."  He saw Andrew pause and take a breath.
 [No more..Stop...Please...]
 He remembered the next words so well, the sound of
Andrew's voice, so calm and assertive.
 [PLEASE...NO!]
 "I need you to kill me, Dan.  They can't question me
then.  Please."
 [No!  Stop!  PLEASE!]
 He remembered looking into Andrew's eyes, their gaze
locked together.  He remembered Andrew's eyes did not betray
a hint of fear, nor regret.  He remembered looking into the
eyes of Agent Andrew Mitchell.  His teacher.  His mentor.
 [No...]
 His friend.
 [No...]
 He remembered the cold feel of metal as he lifted
his gun.
 [PLEASE...]
 He remembered the feel of pressing the muzzle of the
gun against Andrew's forehead.
 [PLEASE!  STOP!]
 He remembered Andrew's calm gaze.
 [ANDREW!  WHY!?!]
 Andrew's slight nod and accepting smile.
 [Why...]
 He remembered closing his eyes.
 [Please...I don't want to remember...]
 He remembered his hand, shaking, moving the gun about
on Andrew's forehead.
 [I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER!]
 He remembered the loud report of the bullet.
 [NO!  PLEASE!]
 He remembered the shell bouncing on the concrete,
each ring of metal stabbing into his soul.
 [No...Please...]
 He remembered the feel of the gun as it slowly slipped
from his shaking hand to clatter to a stop on the cold, blood-
stained concrete.
 [The pain...]
 He remembered the cold feel of a tear, as it slid down
his cheek.
 [Nothing but pain...]
 He remembered everything.

 Daniel slid off the chair, collapsing to his knees, his
head in his hands.  [Pain...I don't want to remember...]  He
pressed his forehead against the carpeted floor of the room,
huddling up into a ball, his hands balling into fists beside
his head.  His hands were shaking beside his head, his arms
trembling.  He was alone again, with nothing for company except
his tears.

 * * * * * * * *

 May saw Rally turn her head away from the window as Becky
and herself both entered the hospital room once again.  They both
walked in, Becky holding a cup of coffee and May with a can of
Diet Pepsi and a bagel.  Becky promptly plopped down into her chair
with a sigh, taking a long sip of her coffee.  She stretched out and
yawned, getting comfortable in her chair.

 May walked up to her chair and sat down, asking Rally,
"Whatcha' lookin' at?" after watching Rally's view drift to the
buildings across the street once more.

 Rally's head turned back to face May, but her gaze still
drifted out the window at those same buildings occasionally.
"Nothing," Rally replied, but her voice was hollow and empty.
It seemed like Rally was somewhere else, or at least her mind was.

 May watched her for a few seconds, then shrugged.  [She
never was any good at lying, anyways.  Or at least to me.  If she
won't tell me, I figure she has a good reason for not doing so.]
She looked out the window at those same buildings but didn't notice
anything but a bunch of run-down old hotels and such.  She took a
sip of her Diet Pepsi and eagerly started on her bagel.  After all,
she hadn't eaten breakfast yet.

 * * * * * * * *

 The sound of glass clinking together was all that could be
heard through the hotel room as Daniel poured himself another glass
of Henessey.  He dropped an ice cube into his drink calmly.  A lit
cigarette burned in an ashtray on the table in front of him.  Taking
a sip of his drink, he looked about at his plush hotel room.  The
room was relatively large for a hotel room, equaling the size of
his apartment in Miami.  The room was dark, as the curtains were
closed, keeping out the moonlight, and only one small lamp beside
the sofa was turned on.  He panned his gaze across the beige-
colored walls, ignoring the tacky, yet colorful painting that
hung on the wall opposite him.  Well-crafted wooden furniture
adorned the room, with two nightstands beside the king size bed
and a very ornate oak desk sat desolately in the corner.

 Daniel dropped his gaze to the small coffee table in front
of him.  It was oak, like the desk, stained a deep brown, but
unlike the desk, this table was beautiful in its simplicity and
character.  The worn surface told the story of its life, the small
scuffs and dents, scars from the careless indifference of other
people who had rented the room before.  Two glasses sat upon the
table, both filled with cognac.  The bottle of Hennesey and a small
tray of ice cubes sat in between the two glasses, separating them.
Daniel turned his gaze to the second glass and stared at it for a
few moments, lost in the deep amber liquid.  He placed another ice
cube into both drinks, before sliding to the far right side of the
sofa to make room for his guest.  Daniel picked up his glass with a
 sigh and leaned back on the sofa before taking a large sip of his
cognac.  He slowly turned the glass in his right hand and picked up
the cigarette with his free hand.  After taking a long drag, Daniel
mashed the cigarette out on the ashtray, making sure that no embers
were still burning.

 "I see you still haven't quit."

 Daniel looked up to see the speaker but there was only one
person who it could have been.  The man standing above him was
slightly shorter than Daniel was, with deep brown hair and piercing
green eyes.  His stance screamed of a cocky, all-knowing attitude
and he had an impish grin on his face.  The figure was wearing a dark
trench coat.  [The same trench coat he wore that fateful day.]
Daniel smiled.

 "Andrew.  I was wondering if you were going to show up
tonight."

 Andrew gave a snort at that and frowned.  "When have I ever
abandoned you?"  The same impish grin returned on his face as he
replied, "It's not like I have anything important to do."

 Andrew walked over to the sofa and sat down beside Daniel.
Daniel finished off his drink and poured himself another.  He
frowned at the bottle of Henessey.  It was almost empty.  Andrew
simply sat there and watched Daniel.  Andrew hadn't touched his drink
yet.  [Not that he ever has.]  Daniel grinned at that.

 "Something amusing you?" Andrew inquired with a single
eyebrow raised.

 Daniel turned to look into his eyes.  "I pour a drink for
you every time, yet you never end up drinking it.  I don't know
why I bother."

 Andrew chuckled at that.  "You never seem to care, since
you always end up finishing it for me, anyways."

 "Always the smart-ass, huh?"

 Andrew just gave a slight nod with his signature grin.

 Daniel sighed and stretched back on the sofa.  He turned
to his friend and observed him carefully.  Andrew just sat there
and returned the gaze.  "Death has been good to you," Daniel
said, "If you were still alive, you'd be going bald and soft by now."

 Andrew just sighed and leaned back as well.  "So I would,
but trust me, my friend, you tend to miss the companionship of a
lady beside you."

 They sat there and stared off into space, Daniel still slowly
turning the glass in his hand.  The silence was piercing and absolute.
Not even the sounds of late night traffic could be heard.  Daniel
placed another ice cube into his drink, the clink of ice on glass
breaking the silence temporarily.  He just sighed and leaned forward.
The silence resumed once again.  Neither of them moved a muscle except
for Daniel.  His hand was still turning the glass in his hand.
Endlessly, he turned it, rotating it about, yet the ice never seemed
to touch the sides of the glass, as the silence was still absolute.

 Suddenly, the silence was broken.

 "Why?" Daniel asked.  His expression was still bland.  He
hadn't moved anything except his lips.  He hadn't even turned to
regard his companion.  He sat there, staring straight ahead into
nothingness, still turning the glass in his hand, over and over again.

 Andrew sighed and leaned forward as well, staring off into
space like Daniel.  They both sat there, staring ahead into space.
After about a minute of silence, Andrew finally spoke.  "It's been
almost six years, and every time, you always ask me this," he
whispered.

 "It's not an easy day to forget."

 "And I'll tell you again.  I needed you to do that.  We both
know that you wouldn't have been safe, otherwise."  A slight frown
was evident on Andrew's face.

 "But why?"

 "I was fatally wounded.  We would have both died otherwise."

 "You still haven't answered my question.  Why me?"  Daniel
took another sip of his drink before returning to spinning the glass
in his hand once more.

 Andrew gave a snort at that.  "And who else was there to ask?
Those men chasing us?"

 "You could have pulled the trigger yourself."

 "..."

 And in six years, you have never given me a straight answer.
Daniel took another sip of his drink.  "Why did you request the
assignment to become my partner in the first place?"

 Andrew turned his head to look at Daniel.  Daniel was still
staring forward, turning the glass in his hand.  "I saw potential
in you.  All you needed was guidance.  I saw something inside you
that was different from the rest of the mindless killers.  I saw honor
and integrity.  I saw a strong mind and a strong heart."  He sighed
and looked up at the ceiling.  "I don't regret any decisions in my
life, especially the ones I made that day."  He paused and turned to
regard Daniel once more.  "Except one.  I regret that I could not do
a better job at protecting you."

 "You saved my life by sacrificing yours.  I think you did a
good job of 'protecting' me."

 Andrew shook his head a bit.  "That's not what I meant.  I
wish I had better prepared you for the consequences of living the
type of life that we lead.  We are dangerous men, Daniel.  Fate
allows us only one life.  That is one filled with pain.  I wish
that I could have been there to support you through everything you
do."

 "But you were.  You are with me all the time."  Daniel tapped
his temple with his left index finger.  "In here."  He brought his
hand down and placed it over his heart.  "And in here as well.  As
long as I remember, you will always be with me, my friend."  He took
another sip of his drink.

 Andrew just nodded.  "And yet you are troubled.  You need my
support now.  Why?"

 Daniel sighed.  "I'm tired of it all, Andrew.  The killing,
the pain, everything.  It doesn't end.  What have I become?"

 "The pain never ends, Dan.  I thought that you of all people
would realize that.  As for the killing, if you are sick of it, why
not stop?"

 "It's not so simple.  They will try to kill me and..."

 Andrew's face snapped to the side to stare at Daniel.  His
face was a cold icy glare.  "It IS that simple!  If you wish to stop
the killing, all you need to do is stop!  The consequences thereafter
are irrelevant.  If you die for it, so be it.  If you wish the
killing to end, you can end it."

 "But I have a duty to someone."

 "Then you are useless to that person, for you are already
dead.  You may be alive, but you will have lost your soul."

 "I don't need a soul for what I must do."

 "Then the obligation will be meaningless, both to you and
the person whom you are obliged to."

 "It doesn't matter.  It is better this way.  Any other way
only brings pain."  Daniel finished off his drink and placed it on
the table.

 Andrew stood up and started to walk away.  He stopped
before the door and said softly, "Do you have a duty to this person
or is the obligation to yourself?" Daniel sat unmoving, now staring
down at the carpet.  "I'll be seeing you again, Daniel."

 Daniel didn't see him leave.  He sat still, unmoving, hands
clasped together in front of his mouth.  [Both, my friend.  Both.  I
owe this to myself as much as I do to her.]  A single tear fell from
his eye, shattering on the carpet.  [It seems that the only way that
men like us can truly live is through death.]  With that last
thought, he stretched out on the sofa and quickly passed out.  His
rest was serene, and for once in his life, no dreams disturbed his
rest.

 * * * * * * * *




Asha`man