Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

"Hey X, I’m gonna try out the hotel gym," Faith announced as she strolled out of the bathroom clad in a black World’s Gym tank-top, matching spandex shorts and sports bra, "wanna come down and look wimpy while I lift the real weights?"

Xander grinned at his girl-friend’s non too subtle taunting, but was saved from having to make an excuse by the sudden ring of his cell. "Ah damn," he drawled as he picked the cell up, "I would, but duty calls."

Amusement gleamed in the sleekly-muscled brunette’s eyes. "Guess I’ll just have to be content with kicking Kennedy’s ass and humiliating any random gym rat whose dumb enough to think he can hang with me. Later hon."

"Later," Xander waited until the door was closed behind Faith before answering the phone, "hey," he glanced at the Caller-ID, "Reno, how are things in Alabama?"

"Not bad," the former cop turned ex-bounty hunter and now joint head of Alabama’s Brotherhood unit replied, "however we’ve run into a little problem."

"Yeah?" Xander rose and began pacing, always there was another obstacle.

"It’s strategic rather than tactical," Reno continued. "Between us and Crow in Tennessee, Hunt in Georgia, Quick in Florida, and Kovak in the Carolinas, we seem to be pushing all the demons outta our states and into Kentucky. We really need to set up a team there."

Xander scratched at his head as he sunk back onto the as yet unmade hotel bed. Reno was stabbing at a sore point. Ideally he’d like for every country to have at least one Brotherhood unit to protect it or several depending on the size, and every state in America to have at least one too. "You have a candidate to run this unit?" he queried as he opened up his laptop.

"Yeah," Reno hesitated, "me."

"Are you and Cam having problems?" Xander queried.

"No," Reno chuckled, "nothing like that, we get on great. It’s just Cam’s got Casey in a good school, Trish has her friends. I don’t have any real ties, it makes sense that I be the one who moves."

"Okay, so what you want from me is the resources to set up a new team?" Xander guessed.

"I figure that’ll it be easier to convince Kentuckian demon hunters to join up if I’ve got a pile of green and a ton of resources behind me," Reno replied.

"Yeah, okay," Xander couldn’t argue with that logic. He pursed his lips as he glanced at the reports for demon hunters in Kentucky. "I’m not seeing a lot of resources in Kentucky, a team of eight in Louisville, a team of eight in Lexington, and a six man team in the Ashland area."

"Cam, Crow, and the others in locality have already agreed to help out by lending me men while I bring the state under control," Reno replied. "When it’s tamed, the small number of people there should be enough."

"Okay," Xander nodded. "Send me the written request and I’ll get started on the paperwork for a fund."

"Thanks boss."

Boss? Xander shook his head in disbelief as the phone line went dead, every time one of these highly-experienced, very-decorated soldiers or cops that worked for the Brotherhood called him ‘boss’, he got this distinct feeling of unreality.

* * *

W&H, LA

"Yes, yes," Holland beckoned the Korean-American sticking his head through the door into his office, "by all means, Gavin. I trust you have those reports I asked you for?"

"Yes sir," the associate hurried in, a sheaf of papers tucked under his left arm, "our offices in Tokyo, Beijing, and Seoul have all reported ninety-three percentage pick up."

"And the other seven percent?" Holland queried, eyes hard.

"Um," Gavin stuttered at his hard stare then grabbed at the papers under his arm. "Four percent weren’t where Intel said they would be, two percent either died in the attempted pick-ups or were dead already, and one percent escaped."

"Um," Holland’s brow creased in thought. One percent of the targets escaping was a worrisome number, but then these were the sort of people that no-one would pay attention to if, as was extremely unlikely, they complained. That was part of the reason they had been chosen. "Have the offices instructed to make repeated attempts to bring in the missing four percent."

"Yes, sir, if I may ask…"

"Project Saint-Slayer?" Holland smiled. "Of course. When the great day comes and our forces take this planet for our own, we’ll need troops to aid in the transition. Our own forces are fine so far as they go, but the Mithras Brotherhood," he grimaced as he said the name, "and the Mass Calling, as necessary as that is to create an opening, have complicated matters. We need more."

"I understand Mr. McDonald is working on a solution with vampires."

"Yes," Holland nodded, "he is. However vampires have certain limitations that will remain in place until it’s eternal night. So we have need for another army. One we can use as unquestioning shock troops against a number of select targets – politicians, power stations, media centres etc."

"And these kidnappings are going to get us this army?" Park glanced at the papers in his hand. "The Kkangpaes, Yakuza, and Triads are all clients. I don’t think they’ll be too happy to discover we’re taking their enforcers away from them.

"They’ll never know and to be honest, our clients’ considerations have never been this firm’s first priority, the end-game is all." Holland shrugged. "If you’ll note, we have planned scoop-ups in North America, South America, Africa, the Middle East, and Europe all scheduled for the next fortnight. I sincerely doubt there’ll be a major criminal organisation that won’t have ‘contributed’ significantly to our army soon."

"And the recruits, how were they chosen?" Park asked.

"Well, here at W&H we have access to the world’s criminal records, and with those records come rafts and rafts of psychological evaluations," Holland smiled. "It was a time consuming but hardly complex task to shift through them and find the criminals who had high IQs, psychotic personalities, and inferiority complexes. Such people are highly unlikely to be missed. Then once we’ve got them, we intend to utilise our chemistry department’s inventiveness to utilise a group of super-steroids they’ve created that heighten the senses, reflexes, co-ordination, and pain resistance. Of course," Holland flashed his shark’s smile, "these drugs are highly, highly addictive, just to keep the reins tight. We’ll then use VR units, electro-stimulation, hypnosis, magic, and tranquilisers to brain-wash them."

"That sounds like a rough schedule," Park commented.

"Yes," Manners nodded and grimaced. "Of the eighteen hundred recruits we’re scooping up, we expect only a third to make it through the brainwashing, the others will either die or be driven completely insane. Unfortunate, but those that remain will be trained by the best we have to be our suicide units. All the jobs the most hardened solider would balk at, they’ll mindlessly do."

"Sir," Park paused, "will these forces be used to confront the Brotherhood?"

"The targets have yet to be assigned, but there’s no thought of using them against the Quartet themselves, their support systems and allies perhaps," Holland replied before staring at his subordinate. "You have a lot of questions, Gavin."

"Yes sir," Gavin replied then paused. "I was wondering if perhaps you needed someone to keep a closer eye on Project Saint-Slayer for you?"

Ah yes, Holland stared sagely at the Korean-American lawyer. Lillah had her Potential-brainwashing project while Lindsey had the vampire-drug scheme, it only made sense that the highly ambitious Gavin would want oversight on his own part of the greater apocalypse. Holland considered it for a moment then nodded. "Of course Gavin. Commendable initiative." He was always a man who believed that if you spread the work, you also spread the blame.

1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Centre, Westchester County, New York

"Harris to see you, Chuck," Logan rapped on the office’s finely-carved oaken door.

"Ah, Xander," the Professor’s cultured tones rang out from within the office, "please come in and take a seat."

"Thank you, Professor." Xander nodded at the Canadian mutant. "Thanks for bringing me, try not to bruise my girl-friend too much when you spar with her."

Logan’s eyes twinkled with dark amusement. "You know me, kid, no guarantees come with the mouthy ones. Later kid."

"Later," Xander agreed with a rueful shake of his head. His always ambitious girl-friend could well have bitten more off than she could chew by challenging Wolverine to spar. Grabbing a hold of the door’s ivory handle, he pulled it open and strode inside.

Professor Xavier’s was just as he remembered it, light blazing in from the twin windows at the back, the wall between the two windows filled with placards and awards from a dozen of the world’s most esteemed universities. Pressed against the left and right walls were bookcases heaving with 1^st editions on a variety of subjects, some Xander couldn’t even pronounce much less understand. And then there was the immaculately ordered antique desk.

Not to mention the hugely intimidating wheelchair-bound man sat behind the desk.

"Ah Xander," despite or perhaps because of such intimidation, the bald-headed mutant’s eyes gleamed with friendliness and his cultured tones were filled with warmth, "please, take a seat."

"Yeah, thank you." Xander ambled over and sat in the leather upholstered seat opposite the professor. He realised it was just the sort of chair one might see in one of those old-fashioned British films set in a man’s drinking club where the great and the good met to discuss weighty matters. "It’s good to see you again, sir."

"And you Xander," Xavier smiled. "Gwen’s progressing well with her training."

"Great," Xander paused, "I don’t suppose she’s chosen a name yet? You know a super-hero name, only I could help, I always wanted to name a super-hero."

"Oh Xander," Xavier chuckled fondly, "Gwen’s name is ‘Strike’. And if you want to name a super-hero, why not pick your own?"

"Um?" Xander stared blankly at Xavier.

"Let’s see, you have an unique heritage not shared by anyone, you have certain gifts beyond the ken of normals, and you use your gifts to help others. Now you might not wear a costume, but it is not a costume that makes a hero, nor is it the abilities in truth, rather it is the deeds."

"Um, right." Xander reddened at the off-handed praise. "Anyway-."

"There is no anyway," Xavier stared sternly at him. "A man is allowed self-doubt, indeed it is healthy. If nothing else it helps prevent the sort of arrogance that creates monsters such as Hitler or even," Xavier sighed, "Doom and Magneto. However you are a leader, and while leaders are only men, they have to learn to control their doubts so it does not cripple their decision-making, worse it does not make those who rely on your leadership doubt you."

"Right," Xander licked his lips. "It’s because of the Brotherhood that I asked for this meeting, sir."

Xavier chuckled. "I told you last time, Professor will do fine."

"Yes Professor," Xander licked his lips again. Damn his nerves was his last thought before plunging on. "I was wondering if you’d recommend some mutants who might be interested in joining the Brotherhood. I mean, I’ve already gotten four running teams for me in India, Germany, Japan, and Russia. They’re all great fighters and real assets."

"Um," a perplexed expression settled on Xavier’s face, the professor steepling his long fingers as he peered across the desk at Xander. "It’s a hard thing you ask, Xander." Xander opened his mouth. "The people who you recruit risk their lives on a daily basis."

"As do your X-Men," Xander pointed out.

"Yes," Xavier conceded the point with a nod. "However, the people I would recommend have for a variety of reasons chosen either not to be X-Men or have retired from that life, and you’re asking me to drag them back into it."

"They could be an important sign," Xander pressed. "Eventually the Brotherhood will have to go public and then there they are, mutants leading and working with humans, for the protection of all."

"A tempting talisman," Xavier allowed. "You argue your corner well."

"All I’ll want is recommendations of names and you to speak for me should any of the candidates ask," Xander pressed.

"I’ll consider it," Xavier forced a smile. "You’ve given me something to think about. And I’ll give you my answer in a few days, I promise."

"Thank you sir," Xander nodded, swallowing his disappointment that he hadn’t managed to get an immediate yes, but hopeful that he hadn’t got an immediate no.

"Now you must all stay for dinner, thankfully it’s Hank rather than Logan’s turn to cook."

* * *

Strobe lighting flashed as Nirvana blared out of the club’s speakers. The girl’s fluorescent mane swung as she ran, breath coming in tortured gasps, as she struggled down the fire escape, eyes fixed on her pursuer as he clambered onto the fire escape, this madman who wore a priest’s collar. "Ahhh!" she screamed as her foot missed a rung.

The wind whistled around her as she fell, back arching as she hit the unyielding ground. Even as she hit the ground, the priest dropped off to land beside her, a sign flashing neon in the background, and then his heel crashed into her neck.

"JESUS!"

Faith sat upright, sweat dripping off her as the bed clothes fell off and the hotel door crashed open, Kennedy stumbling in, an equally bleary-eyed Tara behind her. "Did you dream it! Did you see!"

Xander yawned, the commotion forcing him to reluctant wakefulness. "Hey everyone keep the nois-." His voice trailed off as he belatedly registered the trio of lingerie-clad women in his bedroom. "Right," he gulped as he sat up, "either I’m still asleep or that dream of mine is finally just about to come true-, owww!" He rubbed at the back of his head where Faith had just slapped him and glared at his girl-friend. "What was that for?"

"Whatever the third option was, that’s it," Faith darkly warned. "I had a Slayer Dream, what I don’t get is why," Faith looked towards the baby-doll wearing Kennedy, Tara having disappointedly run out of the room only to return dressed in a night-robe and carrying one for Kennedy, "titch is having a Slayer Dream as well."

"It was the girl," Kennedy replied, "I felt like she was the same as me!"

"Really annoying?" Faith guessed.

"Another red-hot lesbian?" Was Xander’s contribution.

Kennedy glared at both of them in turn. "No, a Potential!"

Faith’s jaw dropped slightly. "Yeah," Faith nodded after a second, "I knew there was something strangely familiar ‘bout her."

"Wait," Xander raised a hand, "how about you let me catch up." Three sets of eyes looked towards him. "Someone explain this dream to me." Xander listened in silence as the two brunettes babbled out a story. "Okay," he raised a hand, "and has this happened yet?"

Slayer and Potential exchanged looks before simultaneously shaking heads. "No but," Faith hesitated.

"But what?" Xander prompted.

"I got the sense it wasn’t the first time the priest had killed," Faith licked her lips, "and he knew what he was killing and really, really enjoyed it."

"Yeah," Kennedy was apparently in rare agreement with Faith, "and it wasn’t the first time he’d killed a Potential."

"Okay," then Xander leaned forward on the bed. "If this murder doesn’t happen until tomorrow night, we have time." The girls all nodded. "Then can I please go back to sleep?" He sighed at the replying glares. "Okay, that’s a no then." Xander rubbed his eyes as he pulled a pair of laptops out of the Always Pocket and ordered his thoughts. "Tara, I want you to look for anything on the FBI records on a serial killing priest," Xander glanced at Faith, "you didn’t happen to get a name did you?"

"Want his social security number too do ya?" Faith shook her head.

"He might not be a priest," Tara softly commented. Everyone looked towards the witch. "What if he just wears the outfit to taunt the church?"

"Yeah," Xander nodded. "Good point. If you do find a possible, see if there is any connection between him and the Council, see if you can find a motive." Xander passed another laptop to Faith. "I want to you two to look at photos of New York nightclubs, see if you can recognise the club."

"What are you gonna do?" Faith queried.

"I’m going to check the missing persons databases and see if there’s any reports of the girl you saw," Xander grimaced. "There can’t be many fifteen year olds with pink hair and a nose ring right?"

"There’s more than you’d think," Faith replied.

Xander shook his head. "Kids today, she sounds like she wants to audition for the part of Miss Piggy in the Muppets’ live action movie."

* * *

"Oh," Xander looked up at Tara’s gasp and watched as the witch scurried over to Kennedy’s side, "is this him?"

"Yeah," the Potential agreed. "Faith?"

Faith glanced over at the screen, nose wrinkling. "That’s the weirdo."

"So you found him?" Xander asked.

"Yeah," Tara nodded. "He’s a Caleb Jones, a former Tennessee preacher, not a real preacher but a travelling con-man doing faith-healing and all that. But that all changed eighteen months ago-."

"Why?" Xander queried.

"It doesn’t say." Tara shot him an irritated look. "But in Jun 2001, he murdered a fourteen year old girl in Kentucky. Then another in Kentucky two months later, and a third in Chicago six weeks after that. Then he was in Mexico in January and killed a thirteen year old. Then it was a sixteen year old in Montreal in April. Then another fourteen year old in France in June. Then a sixteen year old in Kiev in August, a fifteen year old in Manchester in September, a fourteen year old in Bangkok, and a thirteen year old, in Havana in December, and he was in LA last month and killed a sixteen year old."

"Eleven girls in eighteen months and all over the world, guy’s a machine," Faith whistled.

"Look at the ages," Kennedy commented. "It fits with what I felt, he’s slaughtering Potentials."

Potentials that but for his actions might have the Council to if not exactly protect them at least to intimidate any predators. Xander ignored the guilt assailing him to stare at the witch. "Any sign of there being either an occult element to the murders or him having any powers?"

"No," Tara shook her head. "The girls have all died in a variety of manners, battered to death, strangled, drowned, throat cut, but nothing occult, and no mention of him having an unnatural strength or anything."

"Can I have a look?" Xander queried.

"Sure," Tara hurried over and passed him the laptop, the screen filled with a guy in his mid-thirties with a basin-haircut, cold blue eyes, and a square jaw, nothing out-standing about him at all. "Okay," Xander looked towards Faith and Kennedy. "Any joy on the nightclub?"

"Yeah," Faith nodded. "Turns out the neon sign we both saw belongs to an independent cinema across the street from ‘The Two Dragons’, a grunge," Xander groaned, grunge music, he hated grunge, "club in Brooklyn. Found anything about the kid?"

"No," Xander shook his head, "she might just be a kid who was out on a night out without her parents knowing or not listed, whatever."

"What are we going to do?" Faith queried, dark eyes hard as if she already knew the answer.

Xander stared coldly back at his girl-friend, his decision already made. "We’re going to the club and we’re going to rescue Pink-Hair and I’m going to save the courts the cost of a trial."

"Look okay, stud?" Faith grinned at his gulp as she strode out of the bedroom and trailed her fingers down his chest. "That’d be a yes then?"

"Or a hell yeah," Xander nodded dazedly. His girl-friend’s chestnut mane framed her face and hung down onto her naked shoulders, the Slayer having changed into a black PVC bustier that pushed her always very noticeable chest up and out, while still apparently leaving enough room for breathing. The bustier finished just a couple of inches above the brunette’s leather micro, a studded belt around her tiny waist holding the skirt in place. Although quite why Faith had bothered with the micro was a mystery to him, he was intimately familiar with her legs and from what he could see, well he could see every sleekly-muscled inch of them.

"That’s the reaction I was lookin’ for," Faith tilted her head to one side and winked, her dimples deepening as she flashed him a smile. The door to the hotel room opened and Tara and Kennedy hurried in, the latter having pulled on a zebra-striped, lycra mini-dress that left nothing to the imagination while the witch had unsurprisingly gone for a more conservative outfit of a dark blue silk blouse tucked into black leather pants.

Xander glanced at Tara. "Apart from you, I can’t see where any of you are hiding weapons."

"Ha, ha," Faith flipped him a bird. "And yet the drooling doesn’t stop."

"Now ladies," Xander attempted a courtly bow, "I never said you didn’t look nice."

"Nice?" Kennedy sniffed. "I went through all this effort for nice?"

"Gay," Tara tartly reminded her girl-friend.

"Xan," Faith’s grin faded. "Have you thought ‘bout asking Pez for help, New York is her city after all?"

"Yeah," Xander grimaced at Faith’s mention of the wielder of the legendary Witchblade. "Unfortunately tonight there’s a gang of demons smuggling some supernatural drugs in through one of New York’s docks that she and her gang are figuring to stop. Lousy timing."

"So we’re on our own," Kennedy scowled.

"What’s the plan for tonight?" Faith queried.

"We," Xander pulled on his leather jacket and headed for the hotel corridor, the others falling in behind and around him, "have two targets, Caleb and Punk-Girl. As only you and Kennedy have seen the girl, I want you two to concentrate on seeing if you can find her, Tara and I will keep an eye out for Caleb."

"And if we see the girl, we pull her out, right?" Faith commented as they reached the elevator.

Xander sighed before shaking his head, knowing Tara was likely to explode. "No-."

"You’re going to use her as a target!" Tara accused. Xander was able to see from the elevator’s doors the witch’s cheeks were flushed with outrage.

"If we can’t take out Preacher Man beforehand what’s the alternative?" Xander queried as the doors opened on the thankfully empty lift. "The girl’s probably not going to react too well to us trying to grab her and drag her out of the club-."

"Point," Faith concurred as they got into the elevator.

"And even if she does go with us, so what? If this nutjob is specifically targeting Potentials, he’ll more than likely just wait until another night and do her there or move onto another Potential. If we don’t get the Preacher, we’ll end up having to take the girl with us to completely protecting her. Either that or the Preacher will just disappear and start after another Potential, and I want to know who he is and who’s sending him after Potentials."

"Gotta be W&H," Faith said with a sage nod.

"Either way, I really don’t need a fourth woman nagging me!" Xander finished.

"HEY!" Xander winced as three hands slapped the back of his head. He really should have kept that last sentence to himself.

* * *

"I hate Grunge," Xander mournfully muttered as he strode past the entrance-flanking fridge-sized bouncers.

The club was bathed in an inky darkness, its walls shaking to the ‘music’ crashing through the night-spot’s strategically-placed speakers. Flashing lights of red, white, and blue occasionally illuminated the club, spot-lighting the wildly-dancing, long-haired youths of both sexes packing the crammed dance floor. The establishment’s poor ventilation meant the stale air was filled with a sickly mixture of sweat, drugs, and alcohol. In between the dance floor and the entrance stood the grimy wooden bar, staffed by buxom girls dressed in spandex shorts and crop tops straining both to stay contained within their skimpy outfits and to keep pace with the increasingly strident demands for service from the crowd at the other side of the side of the bar. At the opposite side of the foyer there stood a winding stairwell that led up to the 1st floor drinking area.

"Wow, this place is really jumping!"

"Yeah, and so are the fleas," Xander muttered in response to Faith’s enthusiastic cry as he stared disdainfully around the packed club. "Tar, I want you to take up position by the door, I’ve got my pager sent on vibrate, if the priest comes here, page me. Faith, Kennedy mingle through the bar, stick together, if you see the girl, one of you come find me by the bar. Tara page the other two as well. If you have the girl, grab her and head out the back, if you don’t, come join me at the front and help me stop the priest."

Xander shook his head as he made his way through the bar, ducking in and out of the gyrating couples. "I must be getting old because this crap is giving me a headache." He’d never understood the lure of grunge. A bunch of unwashed, greasy scruffs yelling crap lyrics over discordant and frequently jarring music. Where were the melodies and tunes?

"Yeah," Xander chuckled as he ignored the admiring glances he received, "that’s so not gonna happen." He wouldn’t touch any of the women in the club without an up-to-date medical certificate deeming them as hygienic. He had no problems with getting hot and sweaty, in fact he enjoyed it, but he usually showered afterwards. The majority of the club’s clientele on the other hand looked like they hadn’t been introduced to the wonder of running water. "Maybe it’s their kryptonite," he muttered to himself before chuckling dryly.

"Hi honey!" As he reached the bar one of the waitresses showed she had no concept of gravity by bending over the bar despite her massive implants and smiled at him in what she probably thought of was a winning manner. "What do you want to drink?"

Not that he exactly noticed her smile, his gaze was sorta elsewhere. "Um," Xander flushed as he forced his eyes up, "I’ll have a coke, ice, no lemon."

"Sure honey."

After he’d gotten his drink and paid the waitress, Xander turned his back on the bar and began inspecting the dance area, shaking his head as he struggled to focus. He stiffened as his pager began to vibrate. "Damn it," he gulped down his drink before hurrying for the foyer.

It looked like the world’s biggest Robert Mitchum fan was in the house.

Caleb scowled as he shouldered through the degenerates lining up to get into the club, ignoring their plaintive protests. "Sodom and Gomorrah on Earth," he intoned, "if only my lord had given me the power to turn these bastards and whores to pillars of salt."

"Hey man," one of the over-muscled bouncers stepped in front of him, barring his way, "there’s a queue, and this ain’t no church."

"Yeah," the even taller man commented from the other side, "you really need to be some where else padre, tending to your flock or whatever."

"My flock," his hand shot out to grab the man by his throat, twisted at the waist, and casually flung the three-hundred pound bouncer into the road, cars screeching and horns blaring as they swerved to avoid them, "is wherever I seek them."

"Motherfucker!" A look of almost uncontrollable rage on his broad face, the other bouncer stepped forward and flung a haymaker with a fist the size of a baseball mitt on the end.

Caleb didn’t pause or hesitate in his advance, just casually reached out with one hand to grab the bouncer’s fist and squeeze, fingers breaking under his assault and reach across his body with his other hand to slap the man’s head with enough force to knock him out. And then he was in the club, the den of iniquity that his master had sent him to in order to find and eliminate another whore of Babylon.

Speaking of whores, Caleb ignored the general bedlam in the foyer following his entrance to take note of the leather-panted blonde watching him. She had the stench of magus about her, another bitch who thought herself special enough to meddle in forces far beyond a feeble female’s ability to control. If he had time after dealing with his target, he’d end her foolish meddling.

His eyes narrowed as he noted a brown-haired youth hurrying through the gyrating heathens and towards him. There was a stench about him, yet not one he knew, he who knew all of the devil’s children by their unique smells. He was not a vampire, were, mage, ghoul, or none of the other beasts he knew by their foul essence.

He was something older, from the times before.

"A mystery," Caleb smiled coldly. Killing men had never held much interest to him, although he’d killed the occasional blasphemer who’d thought to interfere with his sacred work, but this mystery called enticingly to him, demanding his death.

And he always listened to the voices.

* * *

Xander’s eyes narrowed as he neared the foyer. He’d have expected the formidably-sized bouncers to have stopped the priest, but instead he was striding through it, one of the bouncers lying unconscious on the floor, the other disappeared. Deciding the man must have a set of brass knuckles or something, Xander set himself on an collision path, eyes fixed on the smirking man’s eyes.

"Wherever you think you’re going, you’re-." Xander barely managed to duck under a swinging haymaker, the punch going close enough to part his hair. Deciding the man was unlikely to listen to reason, Xander slammed a right hook into the man’s side.

"Shit!" He grunted as the blow’s impact reverberated back up his arm while having seemingly no effect on his adversary. Stunned, he was helpless to avoid a backhanded slap that had him seeing Tweety-Bird and all his pals. Instinct carried him around the preacher’s follow-up left uppercut, but his retaliatory stamp to the priest’s left shin appeared to have no effect.

Music warred with screams as panic began spreading like wildfire through the club, but Xander ignored the jostling to feint with a right hook then step into his opponent and crash his forehead into the serial killer’s face. "Gugh!" Xander gasped as the priest grabbed him by his throat and, despite his struggles lifted him off the ground, and threw him into a couple rushing for the exit, the back of Xander’s head crashing painfully off the hard floor.

* * *

"Fucking hell!" Faith gasped, grabbing at Kennedy’s arm as they hurried to the entrance, pulling the younger girl to a halt as she saw Xander take flight under the priest’s attack. "Change of plan," she kept her eyes on the padre even as she shouted in the Potential’s ear, "I’ll go and take this asshole on," if he could bounce Xan around, Kennedy had precisely no chance. "You find Weird-Hair Girl, and take her out the back, we don’t want her goin’ any where near the padre, kay?" Kennedy nodded reluctantly. "Wicked," Faith released her grip on the potential’s arm and raced over to the priest, effortlessly swerving in and out of the panicked mob.

"Ha," Caleb greeted her, his cold whisper somehow audible over the music and panic, "a whore who took power, thought she could usurp her betters by doing a male’s job!"

"Kiss your momma with that mouth?" Faith queried as she ducked under a swinging haymaker.

"I would not dirty it with that harridan." Caleb replied as Faith stepped into him and drove a knee up into his stomach with little effect.

"Yeah," Faith sidestepped a straight right, "bet she’s," she winced as she blocked a hook on her forearm, the blow echoing through her entire arm, "real broken up ‘bout it."

"Broken up?" Faith gasped as the priest blocked her side-kick to his gut on his forearm and punched her square in the face, the blow’s impact snapping her head back as blood flew from her mouth. "I was far more inventive than that." Faith gasped as the demon, he freakin’ had to be, grabbed her by her hair. "As you will-, ahhh!"

The padre flew into the far wall, skittling several patrons unfortunate enough to be in his path. "Faith," Tara ran over to her, a dazed looking Xander behind her. "Are you alri-, ahh!" Tara crashed to the floor when a man flew into her, flung by Caleb.

"Harlots! Whores! Unnatural degenerates!" Caleb charged them, the priest literally foaming at the mouth, his eyes bulging as he flung aside anyone dumb enough to get in his way.

"I’m guessing he’s pissed," Faith murmured as she glided into a leg sweep that Caleb leapt over, his knee swinging up and thudding against her forehead. Faith groaned as she hit the floor on her back and backwards rolled up into a crouch in time to see Xander duck a left hook, hit the padre with a right uppercut that would have felled most men, and then catch a straight right that had him staggering.

Faith leapt into a dropkick that easily covered the fourteen feet separating them, hitting Caleb heels-first on the shoulder, knocking the priest sideways a step, but even as he steadied himself, he swung out a backhand that Faith barely managed to duck under before driving a right into the padre’s gut. And then Xander was back, this time with an automatic in hand.

Before Xander had chance to aim and fire, Caleb had her by the throat, steel-cable fingers choking her, and then she was flung into the air and into Xander, the two of them crashing to the ground. "Oh shit," Xander wheezed as she crashed down on top of him, "have you been junk-food snacking again, because that hurt."

"Not funny," Faith kipped up in time to see Caleb striding across the now largely empty dance floor and head towards the first floor stairwell, "he’s after Ken and Weird-Gal, let’s go."

April gasped as she saw the man she’d had nightmares about bursting into the club and attacking people. Shaking aside the fear hollowing her stomach, she joined the maddened throng rushing towards the exit. "Uh, uh, uh!" A strong hand grabbed her arm, she looked down at the tiny brunette who’d grabbed it. "You can’t head out there, who do you think he’s after Pinky?"

April’s mouth opened then closed. How did this mystery girl know her and her nightmares? Before she could ask a question the girl was dragging her past the stairs to the upper level and to the rear doors. "What are you doing!" she squeaked in the woman’s ear.

"Saving our lives!" The brunette’s face greyed as she looked over her shoulder. "How did he get past the others?" The brunette’s face contorted as she raised her foot and slammed her boot heel into the door. "OPEN!"

The doors crashed open with the brunette’s second kick. "Come on!"

Once the pair of them had stumbled out into the alley around the club’s rear, their flesh pimpling in the shocking chill after the club’s sweaty claustrophobia, April pulled loose of the brunette’s grip and spun to face her. "Who are you?"

The brunette rolled her eyes. "Do you really think this is the time for introductions?" The brunette pointed towards the far end of the alley. "Especially with them coming!"

April’s legs almost buckled as she saw the three men rushing towards them. All three wore weird monk-like, full-length robes and carried ornate-handled knives, but the really creepy things were the sewn-shut eyes that didn’t seem to stop them from staring directly at them. "Come on!" The mystery brunette pulled at her wrist, dragging her over to the iron-grey fire escape against the club’s wall. "Three on one aren’t good odds, especially when those three are Stevie Wondering it with knives."

Their feet slapped against the slicked-wet rungs as they made their way up to the fire escape itself. April’s breath pounded in her chest as her head spun, struggling to make sense of what was happening. "I should call the police!" she panted.

"Honey," her companion yelled from under her, "if my friends can’t handle that dog-collar wearing madman, you could call the Marine Corps and they wouldn’t do much. Now move!"

* * *

His temper raging barely under control, Caleb strode through the panicked club, occasionally attempting to salve his anger by reaching out, grabbing, and snapping the neck of a shrieking whore, before contemptuously dropping them to the ground.

The moment he burst out into the street, he looked up, a slow smile pulling at his lips as he peered at the two fleeing him. His Master had been truly gracious tonight, giving him not one but two of the usurping bitches to kill. Forcing his eagerness aside, he glanced at his underlings lurking there. "I’m being followed, deal with them." Orders given, he grabbed a hold of the lowest rung and began climbing, hungry eyes on his soon to be victims.

* * *

Faith instinctively leaned backwards when she raced out of the club, a dagger slashing at her face. "What the fuck?" she rasped as her palm shot out, caught her attacker square in the chest and dropped him on the ass.

Faith ducked under another attack, eyes widening as she registered the man’s sewn-shut eyes. "Xan!" Faith snarled. "The others have gone up the fire escape, you go after them, I’ll deal with these three assholes!"

"I didn’t do that well before!" Xander protested.

"Use the," Faith sidestepped another knife-thrust, reached across herself to grab the man’s wrist and yank him towards her, catching him across the throat with a forearm that knocked him on his butt, "Always Pocket!" Faith squatted under a left to right slash, then straightened into a knee to her rival’s crotch. "Jesus, do I have to do all the thinkin’?" Faith sidestepped another charge, elbowing her would-be assailant in the side of the head, knocking him into the alley’s wet wall. "Tar, go with him, hold his hand for Chrissakes!"

The three knifemen rose, warily encircling her. Faith grinned. "What ya got like bat-sonar?" Suddenly the one to her left lunged at her. Faith stepped back, grabbed her attacker’s wrist and pulled him across her, over her foot, sending him sprawling into the man to the right.

As the two men crashed to the ground, Faith leapt into the air, catching the third knifeman with a jumping thrust kick to the chest. Bone cracked as the man crashed to the ground, Faith spinning to face the two rising knifemen and going into overdrive. Faith darted in and right of the duo’s flashing blades, her own fists and feet thudding out to shatter ribs, face, and limbs until both men sank to the ground, their bodies twitching in silent pain. Faith glanced around, in the distance she could hear police sirens, but they wouldn’t be here in time to help them. Faith hurried over to the ladder and started climbing towards the roof. "Down to me again."

* * *

A foot crashed into Caleb’s head as he pushed his head over the flat-levelled roof. He smiled, taking the kick with ease, grabbing the kicker’s foot and twisting it at the ankle, before contemptuously flinging the brunette away. His smirk widened as the brunette crashed to the ground, the air leaving her with a grunt.

And then he was on the roof, gravel crunching under his feet. "You’ll be desert, my lil sugary treat," he purred at the brunette before glancing and striding towards the shaking pink-haired teen. "After I’ve dealt with this lil whore."

"No!" The girl let out a tremulous cry, their fear was always so delicious, and lunged for the fire escape behind him.

"No, indeed." The other whore let out a shocked gasp when he grabbed the teen around her neck, lifted her off the ground, grabbed her hair and yanked her head, neck snapping like a thin twig as he effortlessly flung her corpse off the roof and down three stories to the unyielding ground beneath. "Now, what am I to do with you?"

"Nothing, what you’re going to do is jump off the roof and save me some time, and yourself a world of pain."

The preacher laughed and turned to face him, amusement flickering in his cold eyes as he stood there, his hands on his hips. "As I recall it was you who suffered the righteous wrath last time, not I."

"This time’s gonna be different," Xander replied evenly, eyes fixed on the serial killer.

"Oh really?" Caleb sneered as he began stalking towards him. "And why is that?"

"Because," Xander reached into the Always Pocket, "inside there were too many people around for me to risk doing this." The moment his automatics were in his hands he aimed and started firing, the guns bucking in his hands as he pumped bullet after bullet into the priest.

And yet Caleb didn’t falter, the wounds beginning to heal even as he lunged at Xander. "Shit!" Xander gasped as he barely managed to duck beneath a right cross. About the only advantage he had was, he parried a knee on his forearm the impact almost deadening his arm, the guy was just brute force, hardly any technique at all.

But then when you punched like a pissed-off bull, Xander’s heel kick bounced uselessly off the human monster’s knee, technique was barely needed.

The priest grunted then stepped into a karate chop to the neck that had precisely no effect, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him off the ground. "Surprise," Xander gurgled as he pulled out a shotgun, stuck it under the man’s chin and pulled the trigger.

His ears pounded to the shell’s explosion even as its cordite filled his nose. The man’s head snapped back as he uttered a wordless scream, flesh tearing and bone breaking as blood from the man’s face splattered.

Xander grunted as the man released his grip, dropping Xander onto the gravel covered roof. Xander rolled up and swung his gun up. "Oh come on!" He gasped as the now faceless man grabbed the muzzle of his shotgun, tore it from his grasp, and flung it away, his now pupil-less eyes staring ominously at Xander. "I really hope he doesn’t hold a-." Xander hit the floor, head ringing from a contemptuous backhand to the face, "grudge. Oh crap."

"Now!" The man’s shattered jaw clunked up and down. "It is your turn!" Xander gasped as a kick to the midsection drove the air from his lungs. "To feel pain."

"Not on my watch."

* * *

Tara fought back the urge to recoil when the priest turned towards her. The front of his face was now almost entirely fractured bone, his flesh, eyebrows, eyelashes, some of his teeth and even his eyes gone, only scorched remains of flesh dangling off the edges like an incredibly bad case of sunburn.

The fact that the monster was conscious much less standing and kicking a field goal with her friend’s ribs demonstrated the involvement of a far fouler and malignant presence far beyond your normal serial killer’s psychosis.

"Oh yes, slattern," the thing seemed to sneer, "and what are you going to do against me? My master was there at the birth of time, serving in hell’s court, leading forces to storm the gates of heaven itself! How can an insignificant whore like you stand against an ageless power?"

"Your master lost that war," Tara centred herself then smiled, "prepare to lose this battle too. Hectare aid me!"

Her legs almost buckled and the world tilted as a gust of wind lifted up the priest and threw him shrieking into an eight storey building three streets away, the man then plummeting to the ground. "Just what I had in mind," Tara smiled then reached up to her face, experimentally daubing at her nose. Was it bleeding?

Suddenly her legs gave way under her. "Ahhh!" She fell to the ground only to be grabbed and righted, strong hands momentarily holding her upright.

"Jesus!" Faith stretched around and peered into her face, her best friend’s eyes luminous with worry. "Are you ‘kay, sis?"

Tara nodded wearily, her ravaged body aching as if she’d run a marathon and her head feeling like she’d been cramming all night for a test. "Yes, the spell I used to get rid of Caleb was a strong one, and because I didn’t have time to prepare for it, I took more power than I should have from myself."

"Well don’t do it again, ‘kay?" Tara nodded. "Can I let you go?" Tara nodded again. "’Kay," Faith released her grip on her and stalked over to Xander, "you know," she commented as she picked up her boyfriend, "for the leader of a global demon-fighting organisation, you sure spend a lot of time gettin’ knocked on your ass don’t you?"

"Thanks, bolster my confidence why don’t you?" Xander grumbled.

"What I’m here for lover," Faith retorted, "what I’m here for."

* * *

It was Kennedy who cut through the banter as they started down the fire escape. "We didn’t save her."

Faith grimaced as she shot the Potential a look. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know we can’t save everyone."

"That was one of us!" Kennedy protested as she started down the ladder, feet rattling on its steps. "And we didn’t even know her name!"

"At least he won’t do it again-," Xander groaned at Tara’s downcast look, "what Tara?"

"What I did to him won’t kill him, just slow him down for a while," the witch replied. "He’s consumed by one of the primordial powers, the sort of power that you don’t control but controls you, uses you, feeds you, and allows you to destroy everything in your path or that gets in the way of its goals."

"So he wasn’t all talk?" Faith scowled as she dropped off the ladder and landed in a pantherish crouch. "That’s a hell of a note, now let’s get outta here ‘fore the cops get here?" Faith shook her head. "I really wish I’d had a deus ex machina, then I’d have scythed him down for sure!"

"Deus ex machina?" Xander stared at his girl-friend, jaw dropping slightly. "Where did you hear that?"

A smile playing on her full lips, Faith winked back at him. "I gots book-smarts!"

"And saying that really helped your intellectual image," Kennedy grunted from behind as they spilled out of the alley and onto the main street, police cars finally arriving, the officers racing into the club, its music still playing to a now dead or vanished audience. "Back to the hotel?"

Faith’s smirk disappeared and was replaced by a brooding scowl. "I certainly don’t feel like gettin’ my rage on."

"I’m still wiped out from the spell," Tara reported.

"I know I’ve got several bruised ribs, an aching throat, and an eye I won’t be seeing out for a few days," Xander added.

"And my left ankle’s at least twisted," Kennedy added as they dipped into the three streets from the alley where they’d left the cars, street lights illuminating the street.

Faith’s eyes narrowed as the hairs on the back of her neck prickled uneasily. "Wait," she uneasily muttered, "there’s someth-." A trio of black vans screeched into the alley from behind them and a trio of black vans racing into the alley from in front, the vans all screeching to a halt just as a garage door to their right flew up and half a dozen ski-masked men with tazers charged out to attack them.

Faith blurred into action, back-fisting the nearest man in the face, blood flying from his mouth as he stumbled backwards. Faith writhed away from another’s crackling baton, her elbow cracking into the man’s chest, folding him in two, his breath coming in tortured gasps. "Shit!" Faith stepped into the still standing man she’d back-fisted and drove the top of her head into his mouth even as she registered the sound of the vans’ rear doors opening and the sound of men jumping out, their boots slapping against the wet tarmac.

Faith snapped out a heel kick to the left, shattering the knee of a thug foolish enough to try and sneak up on a Slayer. "Ahhhh!" She howled as a tazer brushed against her right arm, electricity and pain shooting up her limb. Teeth gritted as she fought away the pain, Faith reached out with her right arm, grabbed her attacker under the jaw, and flung him across her body and into the man on her left.

Then she left her feet, back-flipping over a man charging in from the rear, kicking him in the upper back, knocking him into the mass of bodies sprawled onto the ground. Faith landed in a crouch between a pair of men, before either could react she had them by their wrists and yanked the pair into one another, their heads clunking together, leaving the dazed men easy prey to a leg sweep.

Sensing someone behind her, Faith spun around, her right shooting out in a cross that bounced off her would-attacker’s jaw even as his stun-baton brushed against her left breast. "Shit," Faith stumbled backwards, limbs briefly spasming as her heart skipped a few beats.

Blind instinct took over as the man lunged back in, his baton leading the way. Faith saw his eyes behind the mask widen as she forced her stubborn legs to drag her out of the way of the attack, her arm shooting up to grab her attacker’s wrist, and yank him into her up-swinging knee. The man gurgled as her knee connected with his mid-section, the wind gusting out of him as he doubled up even as the momentum of her throw carried him face first into the garage’s wall, his tazer rattling as it hit the ground.

Faith spun around, ready to face her next attack, then paused, brow creasing in puzzlement when she realised their attackers were retreating, their vans motoring away. A dead weight settled on her chest when she belatedly realised that while Tara and Kennedy appeared battered but still upright, but there was no Harris.

Fear and rage twin-impaled her heart as she grabbed the remaining thug by the scruff of his neck and flung him into the garage, and stepped over the threshold. "Tar, ring Pez, tell her to get her ass here now. Ken, close this door behind me, don’t open it until I tell you. Me and this asshole," she contemptuously threw the tazer into the garage’s darkened recesses, "are gonna talk."

* * *

Pezzini hissed as her cell vibrated on her hip. Her eyes still searching the darkened docks as her and her unit awaited the arrival of the illicit drugs and herbs that were meant to equip the city’s vampire drug dens, she reached up and pulled the phone out. A low gasp escaped her as she read the caller ID, she’d only spoken to them this morning, and they’d known this operation was going down tonight. If they were ringing her now, something bad must have happened or was happening.

Steeling herself for something terrifying, she answered the phone in a taut whisper. "Hello?"

"Xander’s been taken," Tara wasn’t her usual polite self, her voice filled with tension. "Your operation’s cancelled. Faith wants your team here where we are and fast."

"Give me your address and we’re on our way." Sara Pezzini nodded. It irked to have to cancel this operation, but when your paymaster and boss called, you listened.

* * *

The garage was dark and cold, illuminated only by a bulb dangling from its low ceiling. However its chill and darkness didn’t match the cold night that had settled on Faith’s heart. "Pick it up." The tazer rattled on the floor when she rolled it over to the man huddled across the far wall. "The only way you’re gonna get out of here alive is past me." The man stared at her. "Three seconds and then I’m comin’ for you." The moment the man crouched for the taszer, frightened eyes still fixed on her, Faith moved.

Rage fuelled her charge at the man, sleekly sidestepping the man’s attempted tazering, her hand chopping down onto the wrist holding the weapon, the man’s pained shriek drowned out by the crack of his bone. The tazer dropped out of her opponent’s hand, but before it hit the ground, Faith’s heel had smashed into the man’s left shin, shattering another bone.

In the same motion she reached out and behind the man, grabbing his collar, and flinging him face-first into an uppercut that lifted him from his feet and flung him back against the wall. The man threw out a weak left that Faith slid inside, punching him in the throat, the blow’s force knocking the man’s head back against the wall. The man started to slide down the wall, only to jump when she drove a foot between his legs. The operative gurgled and doubled up, falling sideways onto the ground.

Faith grabbed the man by his mask and lifted his head off the ground. "Motherfucker," her voice was pleasant, calm, but belied by the chill in her eyes, "you kidnapped my man. You wanna me to stop, you better answer my questions and fast, otherwise," bones snapped as she stamped on the man’s right hand, "I’ll keep on beatin’ ‘til you look like hamburger meat."

* * *

Colonel Simmons picked up his ringing phone. "Yes?"

"Hello sir, the primary target has been acquired," the reporting man paused. "The secondary target escaped."

Simmons grimaced. He’d hoped to replace Winter Soldier with the Slayer\Harris tag team, but perhaps it would be simpler to break one rather than the duo. "Keep him medicated until my agents pick him up."

"Yes sir."

Pope glared through his infra-red glasses as he watched the ski-masked operatives load a tied to a gurney and apparently drugged man into their building, their door sliding shut behind him. He was right, it was a satellite office of the mysterious agency that had double-crossed his men in Sierra Leone, and left his squad murdered and him for dead.

Another target for him to destroy. He paused in organising his equipment when he noted several cars pulling up outside the darkened factory and a 30-something brunette climbing out of the lead car, speaking into a ear\mouth piece combo, and then walking towards the corrugated-steel door.

Shaking off his curiosity, he continued packing. He saw a side-entrance, he’d enter through there, maybe find and rescue the drugged man, but failing that he’d just blow the place up. Anything to sabotage the agency that had betrayed his team.

* * *

"So you’re saying thirty highly trained operatives jumped you?" Pezzini could hardly believe that this battered trio had managed to fight off better than seven to one odds. All around the witch and the potential, her own heavily armed team were acting as a cordon as they waited for the Slayer-.

"That’s exactly what she’s sayin’." Sara turned to face the afore-mentioned brunette as the busty Bostonian strode out of the garage, dragging a bleeding man behind her, the man moaning incoherently. "This piece of shit’s an independent contractor, so he doesn’t know who he’s working for, but he does know where his cronies were takin’ my boy." Faith glanced towards Tar. "We don’t have a lap-top do we?"

"No," Tara shook her head, "everything’s with-."

"Xander, I know," Faith grated. "In that case, get on the cell to Angela, we need a hack and some blueprints to the place." Faith looked towards her, rocking her with the coldness in her eyes. "You got anywhere we can store this piece of crap, case he’s lying and I need to have another conversation with him?"

Pezzini licked her suddenly dry lips. It was absurd for her, a cop with a decade’s experience on New York’s unyielding streets, not to mention the wielder of the world’s most powerful weapon, the Witchblade, to be wary of a tiny brunette ten years her junior. Except for the promised death in the girl’s dark eyes. "Sure," Pezzini glanced over her shoulder and gestured a pair of her people forward. To hell with Miranda Rights. "Jessie, Andrew, take him to our base-."

"More guards," Faith interrupted, tone like flint.

"There’s five people back at our base," Sara said.

"Cool," the man groaned as Faith grabbed his twisted arms and forced them behind the back, "anyone got a pair of cuffs?"

* * *

Kennedy grimaced as she sloshed through the sewer tunnel, slime sticking to the passageway’s walls and the stench assailing his nose and clegging to the back of her throat. Kennedy kept her eyes determinedly up, desperate not think of the sludge and crap sloshing around her waist as she followed Tara and her girl-friend’s torchlight.

Man, Xander owed her big for this. And as for Faith, she could have sent some of the New Yorkers to do this job, but no it had to be them.

Bitch.

Kennedy stopped when she realised her girl-friend had halted. "Found it?"

Her whisper sliced through the dank darkness, Tara replying with a nod. "Great," Tara shuffled to one side, leaving her clear path to the wall-mounted electronics box. Kennedy pulled out a screwdriver she started unfastening the cover. She had to admit Faith’s plan wasn’t a bad one, turn the building’s power off, and cause confusion within the compound while the others attacked, giving Faith a chance to sneak in and rescue Xander.

Still didn’t make the sludge any easier to take though.

Bitch.

* * *

"Is the prisoner secured?" Frank queried as his two subordinates strode in.

"IV in his arm, strapped down with straps on his chest, waist and his knees, and with a pair of guards on him," Reg, a former British Para, replied. "Although how he’s supposed to do anything I have no idea."

Frank shrugged. "Those were the clients’ specific instructions."

"’Kay, I’m goin’ ask the question everyone’s thinking," Joe, a former SWAT team member, stubbed out a cigarette and sat down. "Who the hell is our guest and his bitches?"

Frank shook his head as he recalled the swathe in particular the biker chick had cut through his people. That bitch had crippled more of his men than an outbreak of polio. He’d laughed when a mystery contractor had ordered him to take such precautions to pick up a trio of chicks and a man, but now was a whole different ballgame.

Yeah, questions abounded. Who was their mystery contractor? And just who in the hell were their targets who’d ripped through them despite the overwhelming odds against them?

Frank sighed. In the thug for hire business, he’d learnt asking too many questions was a good way to end up dead. His firm, Spartan Security, hadn’t risen to the top of the mercenary business by nosing into clients’ business.

Then the lights went out. "What the fuck!"

* * *

Faith peered down from her rooftop vantage point at the oblivious guards stood at the building’s rear, impatience burning through her veins as she waited for Tar and Ken to cut the power-.

Her lips parted in a predatory grin when the factory’s lights went out. Before either guard could react, she stepped off the roof, her dark locks billowing as she fell through the dark night to land in a crouch before the two burly men. "Surprise shit-heads," Faith growled as she lunged forward, catching the one on the right with a kick to the knee and a backfist to the jaw that spun him around and into the wall. Faith spun to face the other, kicking him square in the nuts, and doubling him up into a front facelock that had him choked out in just a few seconds.

Faith contemptuously tossed the unconscious man aside before striding over to the other man who was attempting to pull himself up the wall, grabbed his hair, and drove his face into the wall before flinging him aside. Then she glanced towards the padlocked and chained door, grabbed a hold, and yanked it apart, links shattering before an enraged Slayer’s strength. "I’m comin’ honey."

* * *

Sara nodded as she got the message. "Understood." She looked around her team. "Stay out of the building, but scoop up anyone leaving the factory."

Her orders given, she strode towards the factory, the Witchblade forming a suit of armour around her. Sara raised her arm and pointed it at the corrugated steel entrance. Golden energy arced out of her ancient weapon, hitting the steel and ripping through it like it was paper.

Fighting back the giddy euphoria that always filled her when she used the Witchblade, Sara marched towards the smouldering entrance, her arm moving left and right, light lancing from her weapon to take out the men running towards her, their bodies writhing in agony as they fell to the ground. Bullets rebounded off her armour as she entered the factory’s wide lobby.

Bullets sparked as they bounced off her armour, the men charging into the factory’s lobby pulling back as she mowed through them, confused yells filling the air as their attacks failed to have the expected effect. Sara smiled as she telekinetically picked up a green sofa at the left side of the room that a pair of men was crouched behind and flung it into another pair that had just entered the room.

The guns fell silent, disbelief etched on each face. "Drop your guns and run out of here with your hands over your head," Sara said through her helmet, her voice coldly metallic. "And get a move on, this place won’t be standing for much longer."

* * *

Frank gathered his nerve and looked towards his companions, drawing his silver-finished Glock. "Come on boys," he growled. "Reg, Joe, come with me."

"Where we goin’ boss?" Reg grunted out a question, the Brit’s eyes narrowing.

"To check on the package," Frank grunted. He was getting two and half million for him, no-one was taking him off him, no-one.

* * *

Faith crept through the darkened corridor, perspiration beaded on her forehead as her senses stretched out to warn her of any guards. Sensing a pair of sentries standing outside a door fifteen feet away, their breath heavy and the smell of their sweat thick in the air as they threw glances left and right, their eyes fortunately sliding over her as she crouched in the darkness.

The moment both sets of eyes moved back to the front, she moved, surging through the shadows, the nearest of the men only beginning to move as her heel crashed into his face, fracturing cheek and jaw. She leap-frogged over the other falling man and landed feet-first in the other’s chest, his ribs shattering as the impact threw him into the wall at the corridor’s far end. Faith spun back to the other guard and finished him with a rabbit punch to the back of his neck even as he tried to get to his hands and knees.

And then she was opening the door they’d been guarding, eyes widening and breath catching at the silhouette of her boyfriend lying on a gurney, leather straps across his shins, waist, and shoulders holding him down, and a IV pumping into his right arm keeping him unconscious.

"Xan," Faith’s whisper cut through the darkness as she bounded through the darkness to get to his side and rip through the leather straps holding him. Then she reached for the IV.

"Step away from him right now, honey."

Faith glanced over her shoulder to the three men stood in the doorway, their guns trained on her. Her fingers were just inches from the IV, if she pulled it out, would Xander be awake by the time the three gunmen had dealt with her and able to escape, or was their best chance just waiting for the gunmen to close. Faith clenched her jaw as she tried to work out Xan’s best chance. The clicking of a safety broke the silence. "Move it-."

Three pops sounded, shock filled the trio’s faces as they fell to their knees and toppled to the floor, a tall lean black man clad in night camouflage gear stepping into the doorway with a silenced sub-machine gun in his hand. Faith shook herself before turning back to Xander. "So," Faith tore the IV out of Xander’s arm, ignoring the trickle of blood that flowed from his wound, and flung his limp body over her shoulder before turning back to face the mystery man, "not that I ain’t grateful, but are you gonna come with, or am I gonna have to take that gun off ya and stick it up your ass?"

"You sound grateful." The man smiled thinly. "I’ll come with."

"Wicked," Faith nodded. "Let’s hustle."

"Tar," Faith spoke into her mouthpiece as they hurried out of the factory, "are you clear and the explosives primed?" Faith nodded when the witch replied they were, then pulled out her detonator and pressed down on the button on the top.

The ground underfoot shook as the explosives that Kennedy had set up beneath the building exploded. Faith’s ears pounded with the explosives’ roar, inferno blossoming out of the devastated factory heating her back as she glanced over her shoulder to the black hurrying behind. "Come on, can’t you keep up?"

* * *

"Thanks for the assist Sara," Xander smiled at the NY branch head as they made their way through the busy lounge to sit down at a table, uncomfortably conscious how the rest of the room fell silent and turned to watch their entry. Xander nodded gratefully to Faith as the Slayer stepped away from supporting him, allowing him to carefully lower his still drug-addled frame into an empty chair. "Your team really came through." Faith coughed, then coughed again. Xander glanced at his girl-friend. "I’ll give you your thanks later."

"Ugh, straight sex, gross!" Kennedy shuddered theatrically.

Xander shot the lesbian a grin before looking towards the silently watching Pope and then to Tara. "Have you got Mr. Pope’s records for me?"

"Not going to hide you’re checking me out are you?" challenged the black man.

"I believe in being honest," Xander replied evenly. "If you’re going to have a relationship with someone, start on a honest footing."

"First time we met, you denied watching my ass," Faith commented.

"Cordy was there, I’m honest not suicidal," Xander defended before looking back towards Tara. "Well?"

"Mr., or should I say Captain Pope was an officer in the US. Rangers until he went AWOL after a botched mission in Sierra Leone in ’01-."

"It wasn’t botched, we were betrayed," the man grated, eyes hard. "That’s why I was at the factory, because they were working for the same agency, I was hoping to track them down."

"Okay," Tara glanced up at the former soldier and then back down at the screen, "he has Silver and Bronze stars as well as a Kosovo Campaign medal."

Xander pursed his lips. "Okay," he went into his big sell about the Brotherhood.

Once he’d finished, the black rose, a look of studied interest on his face and shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but I have my own mission to go on with. Good meeting you all." The man turned and headed for the door.

"You know," Faith’s voice cut through the lounge, halting the man in his exit, "how’s that running on hate goin’ for ya? You can only run on anger and hate for so long ‘til it burns you out."

The man began to turn back to them. "I imagine you’ve done this mysterious agency plenty of damage over the last three years, maybe it’s time to forget about them and do some good," Xander spoke before Faith could continue her lecture.

The black strode back to the table and sat in the seat he’d just vacated. "What are you suggesting?"

"You take a Branch of the Mithras Brotherhood," Faith said. "Sis says you’re cool, so you’re cool."

The man sunk back into his seat, a wary look in his eyes. "Where do you already have units?" Tara went through the list. "Okay," Pope looked around the room before slowly nodding, "what resources do you have in Ontario?"

Tara briefly beamed at the man, her sweetness probably got them more recruits than Faith’s caustic comments, before glancing down at the computer. "Toronto has two teams of ten demon hunters and a coven of white witches. Ottawa has two teams of six demon hunters. Mississauga has a team of eight demon hunters. Hamilton and Brampton each have a team of six demon hunters."

Pope stared him in the eyes. "How long will it take to get your resources into place?"

"The money and everything will be sorted in three days," Xander replied.

Pope nodded slowly. "Ontario it is then."

* * *

"Hello," Simmons said as he picked up the encrypted phone.

"Sir," the voice on the other end was also encrypted, but even so he could hear the tension in the man’s voice, "we’ve arrived at the building. There’s nothing there, the men, the prisoner, the building itself, it’s all gone!"

Simmons stared in disbelief at the phone. "You know the email address, send me your report." His hand suddenly shaking, he hung up. That damn Brotherhood, just what did it take to stop them?

"Your appointment’s arrived sir."

Palmer nodded at his Personal Assistant’s respectfully put comment. "Thank you Charlie. Please show him in and then go home." He glanced at his watch and sighed. "It’s ten past eight."

"Yes sir," Charlie nodded, "I’ll see you tomorrow Mr. President."

"Tomorrow Charlie," Palmer agreed.

The man who entered the office was dressed in an immaculately tailored Brooks Brothers pinstriped suit, his hair steel grey and his eyes ice blue. There was an aura around him that said this was a man of power, something in his eyes that hinted at his knife-like mind, and something in the way he moved that said, despite the trappings of his expensive suit, he was more than capable of physically enforcing his will.

All this Palmer saw in an instant, and would have seen even if he hadn’t devoured the man’s file several months ago before deciding to assign him to an investigation that had the potential to shake the nation’s foundations. "Jack," he leaned over the gleaming desk and shook the newcomer’s hand, "please take a seat."

"Thank you Mr. President." The man sat down, but not before placing a thick folder on the desk.

"This is the file?" Palmer queried as he opened the folder. "I assume the only copy?"

"Yes sir, the only copy. I thought that wise." Mr. Bristow nodded. "It appears your suspicions were correct, there is a black ops intelligence agency working independently of the US government."

Palmer grimaced. Then the death of his informant probably hadn’t been the accident it had been ruled either. "What is their purview?"

Bristow hesitated, a rare look of discomfort on the man’s face. "It appears they specialise on the more esoteric elements of warfare and intelligence gathering."

"Esoteric?" Palmer glanced up from scanning the lines and lines of neatly typed text.

"It appears from what I’ve been able to find they specialise in more unconventional aspects of war, a full list of their programs is in my report’s appendices, but they have cells researching and experimenting in the paranormal, magical, extra-terrestrial, psychological, biological, and cybernetic fields. Many if not all of their sub-offices are completely unaware of who is actually funding these operations and research."

The full list of fields that the NID were working in would have been a lot more amusing before certain truths about the world had been revealed to him. "And where is it getting their funding?" Palmer queried, his eyes still fixed on the report.

"One of their main supporters is Senator Kinsey. As you’re aware sir, he’s chairman of The Senate Committee on Appropriations. He funnels several hundred million a year from that to this black op."

Senator Kinsey, he was practically Machiavellian in his behaviour. Certain forces had tried to get him onto his ticket, but he’d firmly told them to go to hell. "And the NID’s other big political backer is Congressman Stillson?" Palmer grimaced as Bristow’s nod. It was his firm opinion that it was scum like Stillson and Kinsey that gave all politicians a bad name. "How as this organisation been able to run secretly for long?"

Bristow scowled as if he’d smelt something nasty. "It appears that the NID are over-seen by a group known as ‘The Cabal’. All the major agencies - the CIA, DIA, DOD, NSA, Secret Service, FBI, Customs, and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, & Explosives have a high-ranking operative who is also a member of the Cabal. None of the agencies appear aware of their operative’s dual interests, and they act as an early warning system as regards investigations." Bristow paused. "The only reason my investigation was successful is because you organised your approach to me outside accepted channels."

Palmer took that in. "And did you manage to find out who the Cabal members are?"

"I’ve listed them in the document, there’s an appendix detailing each Cabal member’s career at the back of the document."

"And this Cabal," Palmer glanced back down at the document, "what exactly is their purpose, do they run the NID?"

"No sir," Bristow shook his head, "they set policy, decide which projects to fund, which to abandon, and which operations to run. The day to day running is left to a Colonel Frank Simmons. His profile and record is in the appendices."

Palmer nodded slowly. "What is this organisation’s current goal or operation?"

"Their current immediate goal as opposed to their on-going experimentation seems to be concentrated around the acquisition of an American citizen," Bristow’s brow furrowed as he attempted to recall the citizen’s name. "An Alexander Harris, I wasn’t able to find out the exact reason however. There’s an as yet unconfirmed rumour that they actually got him to a temporary holding centre but person or persons unknown broke him out."

The cold professional distaste he’d been feeling exploded into a molten-hot rage. "They did what?" the words bubbled out as growl, his eyes narrowing.

Bristow didn’t flinch at his president’s anger. But then the man had faced down gunmen and defused bombs in the past, a temper tantrum by a politician would hardly faze him. "It appears the operation was suggested by a Dennis Ryland of Homeland Sec-."

"I know Ryland," Palmer grated. That decided him. Forget about his own personal debt to Xander and Faith, forget about the pair’s intrinsic courage and selflessness, the nation, the entire world needed them. He couldn’t afford a group of power-hungry fools to doom the world. Normally he’d cripple this group via the usual methods, unrelated political scandal for the elected officials involved, and career stalling for the intelligence officials, while cutting off funding. In fact he’d had the vague outline of a plan already in mind.

That however would have taken months, perhaps as long as a year to execute. Time he could no longer afford to allow the NID to have. Palmer sat back and stared at the impassive man sat opposite before nodding to himself. He needed allies and few were as capable as his companion, or as well-versed in the corridors of power. "Have you heard of The Saviour Act?"

Bristow’s eyes filled with confusion. "That’s above my grade sir, I know the name but nothing else."

Palmer unlocked the drawer of his desk and pulled out a steel-grey security box with a keypad on it. He quickly tapped in the four digit code, the box hissing open to reveal a solitary document. "That changes now."

Jack’s brow furrowed in confusion as the Commander In Chief passed him a six page document. "Sir?" His eyebrow rose in a request for clarification.

"That is The Saviour Act," the President explained. "The signatories have extra-ordinary intelligence clearance in one specific area. So far current signatories involve a number of but not all former living Presidents and Vice-Presidents, the current heads of the intelligence agencies, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Of Staff, the Vice-President, Secretary of State, various random intelligence agents including your daughter, and for reasons beyond my control, my Personal Assistant. You have two choices, you can sign the document and learn why Mr. Harris is so important to this government, country, and to you personally, and in doing so serve your country in a way you’ve never dreamed. Or you can get up and leave. However I must warn you, signing this document not only gives you exclusive access to information, it also comes with extreme penalties to anyone who spills it."

His daughter? Curiosity about Sydney’s involvement and loyalty to his nation compelled Jack to quickly scribble his signature on the proffered document and pass it back over the desk. "Thank you," Palmer’s face relaxed. "You’re aware of your daughter’s involvement in Cuttingswood?"

"I’m aware Sydney was in Cuttingswood when the chemical spill occurred," Jack nodded.

Palmer smiled. "That was no chemical spill. A hole to -, we’ll call it an alternate dimension for now, was opened. Without the assistance of Mr. Harris and his group of ‘experts’, everyone in Cuttingswood and possibly Wyoming would be dead, and the area probably unliveable for the next few centuries."

Bristow stared at the President, his mind reeling. If he was hearing this from anyone else he’d call them a lunatic or a liar, but you didn’t call the President names like that. Or any names except ‘Sir’ and ‘Mr. President’. "This man who saved your daughter’s life is the resurrected avatar of a warrior who apparently led armies that defeated demon rule over the earth at the beginning of time." Palmer raised a hand and smiled. "I know, unlikely isn’t it? I took some convincing the first time I found out, and that was after I’d met his girl-friend and seen the superhuman feats she’s capable of."

"Sir," Bristow swallowed as he struggled to keep his calm. "What are you telling me?"

"I’m sure you’ve heard of the Camp David attempt on my life?" Bristow nodded silently. "What wasn’t released that the Secret Service didn’t foil the attempt on my life, Harris and his group did." Palmer’s face hardened. "So we both owe them, you for your daughter, myself for my own life and the lives of my family. However," Palmer pointed at him, "we owe them far more," the president pushed a thick folder over to him. "The entire world does, read the first few pages of that."

Bristow flipped open the folder and began reading, eyes widening as he did so. "This is impossible!" he shook his head.

"Not impossible, I’ve seen them in action. Just read the first few pages."

"Yes sir," Bristow gathered himself before nodding.

It was about quarter of an hour before Palmer spoke, his voice colder than an artic snowstorm. "You understand why the NID can’t be allowed to blunder their way into possession of Mr. Harris?"

"Yes sir," Bristow nodded.

"Good," the President leaned over the desk, his big hands clasped tightly together as his eyes bored into him. "I’ve read your record too Jack. I know of your loyalty and love for your daughter, and I think quite apart from our duty to protect someone as valuable to the world’s continued well-being, we both have a personal debt to him."

Bristow saw the baited trap, but stepped into it, shoulders stiff and head held high. "What do you want doing sir?"

"I want this cabal, their political masters, Simmons, and Ryland eliminating. Not frozen out, not pushed aside, but eliminated."

Bristow blinked. He’d never have expected a politician, even one of the President’s undoubted calibre, to put such things in such blunt terms. "Sir," he licked his lips, this President wasn’t known for intolerance of dissenting voices, but there was always a first time and this one seemed almost personal, "I appreciate what these youngsters did for my daughter." It all seemed impossible, yet he doubted the President pulled people in his office to ‘prank them’. "But they are building a para-military force throughout America -."

"Yes, they are," the President’s eyes had hardened to stone at his comment but his tone remained measured. "A force that at current reckoning has 22 units comprising over five hundred trained and equipped operatives covering over twenty states in addition to nine units comprising of over three hundred operatives in foreign nations. I could show you myself the projected drop in mysterious deaths in the states that have a Mithras team versus both before they had one and the states that don’t have one. The Mithras Quartet themselves have saved the world on half a dozen occasions and stopped wars breaking out on numerous occasions. In addition, A-Team Industries, a company started by Xander Harris employs over four hundred of the best and brightest in projects that not only help the world become a better place, but also will in the long time generate billions in tax income."

"Then there’s this apocalypse your analysts believe is coming," Bristow said.

"Analysts?" Palmer shook his head. "That’s work done by heads of the NSA, CIA, and FBI at my behest, plus certain writings, prophecies if you like."

"Prophecies?" Bristow almost choked on the word.

"Keep up man." President Palmer smiled thinly before sobering. "Yes, I realise this is a lot to take in, most presidents actually never find out about the occult. I was only encountered because of my close encounter with Faith."

"Have you ever formally met them?" Bristow couldn’t help himself asking.

"No," Palmer looked vaguely wistful, "a few scattered sentences with Faith is all the contact I’ve had. I’m sure Horrigan would never allow Xander and Faith in my presence again, what with his Always Pocket, and her being a living weapon." Palmer paused. "Jack, you’ve signed the paperwork, you know who you can mention this to and who you can’t. If you wish to be involved in this, we’ll discuss the particulars. If not, please leave, and I’ll organise somebody else."

Palmer stared across his desk at the grey-haired secret agent. They were almost like a pair of poker players, seeing which of the pair would blink first. Not many would be able to defeat Bristow in such a confrontation, but he had the advantage of his elevated position. Finally Bristow nodded. "Sir, if I may comment on your plan?"

"You’re the intelligence expert, by all means," Palmer replied.

"Thank you sir," Bristow nodded, forehead furrowing in thought. "Killing everyone is, if you’ll pardon the pun, overkill. All those deaths related to the intelligence community are bound to be noticed as would a lack of response in the intelligence community’s upper reaches."

"Very well," Palmer nodded curtly at Bristow’s assessment, "let’s hear your counter-plan?"

"Yes sir," Bristow paused for a second before continuing. "As I see it, every intelligence agency requires several things to operate – money, resources, and influence. NID’s influence comes in two types – political and from within the intelligence community itself. As the politicians also supply the money, they should both be eliminated. However, any politician shouldn’t be eliminated by a government employee for obvious reasons."

"Freelancers?" There was a world of distaste in Palmer’s utterance.

"Yes sir," Bristow nodded before continuing. "I happen to know a few, very highly-recommended, I’ll use a series of cut-outs to insulate me from the contract. As for the others, I realise Ryland and Simmons have to go, I’ll use operatives from different agencies to simultaneously eliminate them. Simmons was never a field operative and Ryland hasn’t been one in decades, so it shouldn’t provide much of a problem."

"There’s the beginnings of the plan there, but what about the Cabal itself?" Palmer growled. "If we cripple them, they’ll simply find some new backers and operatives."

"Yes sir," Bristow nodded, "however doing so will take time. Time to put alternative lines of action into operation."

"That’s a little vague Jack," Palmer reprimanded.

"I realise that sir, please allow me to clarify." Jack paused then continued after his nod. "The Cabal’s NSA contact has used classified information to guide his stock transactions, I’m sure the SEC would be able to bring some punitive charges against him that would at the least ruin him. The FBI’s agent was involved in several cases of witness intimidation earlier in his career, all charges were brushed under the carpet in the interest of conviction rates but that could be re-investigated. And finally, the CIA agent while working the desk in the Far East was involved in a passport scam that allowed several organised crime figures into this country." Bristow wrinkled his nose. "All three are eminently ruinable."

"And the others?" Palmer queried.

"The others don’t matter, their group will have been splintered. With the deaths of their operatives and the imprisonment of their colleagues, they’ll be beset by paranoia, and too scared to act." Bristow replied. "Then all you have to do is side-line their careers, ensure negative reviews, so they either retire or are mired at their current positions, never climbing the ladder and gaining further influence."

Palmer stared at the genius secret agent. He wanted all of them dead for a myriad of reasons, their lack of patriotism, their empire-building, and their attacks on people who should be lauded. But if Bristow counselled against such an action, he was the man of experience in these matters.

And it sounded like a good plan, ruthless in the extreme and daring to boot. "Very well," Palmer nodded. "I want the four targets we discussed dead within the week and the Cabal members all targeted with a thorough investigation of their pasts with the next annual quarter, use the cloak of an audit. This operation has to have your complete attention."

"And the operation’s name sir?"

Palmer smiled. "Operation Dragon-Slayer."

John Casey watched from the shadows as Simmons strode to his car, briefcase under one arm and folded paper under the other. His teeth parted in a grimace as the target stopped at an anonymous-looking grey sedan, unlocked it, and got in without checking under the car. Not only was the man a traitor, but he was sloppy too.

Of course he shouldn’t complain, that only made his job easier. According to his mission brief this bastard was selling state secrets, weapons specs and the like, to a number of the Middle-Eastern terrorist groups jealously trying to bring down freedom’s bastion. And so he’d been ordered to bring the man’s life to an end in such a way that would point towards those groups, a terrorist outrage to firm the back of dithering politicians.

He’d never been into Tennyson, but it sounded like poetry to him.

The moment the man put his key into the ignition and turned it, Casey pressed down on his remote control.

The ground shuddered and the darkening sky briefly illuminated orange as Casey’s ears pounded to the explosion of several pounds of painstakingly-made homemade bomb, the flames shooting up high into the night and scorched metal flying everywhere. Casey walked calmly away from the inferno, his eyes looking straight ahead even as he stepped towards a drain and dropped the carefully-doctored with a notorious terrorist’s thumbprint remote control into a drain before disappearing into the night.

* * *

Mitch Rapp, agent extraordinaire, watched from the shadows as his target made his way through the hotel car park, oblivious to his watching eyes. The moment the man was level with him, he stepped out of the shadows and drove a rusted but still sharp switchblade into the man’s throat, punching his Adam’s Apple with brutal lethality. Blood burst from Ryland’s mouth, his eyes dulling in shock as Rapp lowered him to the wet car lot floor.

This butchery was a little more public not to mention unprofessional for his tastes, but those above all others had been his orders. ‘Ryland is a traitor, but we don’t want him killing in a manner that looks as if it was done by a trained killer, we don’t need or even want a detailed investigation of his actions, just make it look like a random killing’.

And so here he was, quickly delving through the man’s pockets for his wallet and grabbing the man’s Rolex to make it look like a typical crack-inspired-robbery.

* * *

He watched from the bushes as the oblivious politician drove up to the front of his very nice wooden cabin, although wooden cabin was perhaps a little paltry to describe such a vast building with arched roofs and multi-stories-. "Jeez, get out of my head, ‘Architecture Monthly’ you ain’t," he muttered as he rose and stalked after the unaware Congressman, following him into the house. "Congressman Stillson," he greeted as the politician stopped at the door, sniffing at the gas leak he’d set up as a welcome to your cabin present, "I’m a big fan." His hand slammed in-between the man’s shoulders, knocking him sprawling into the hallway. "I was wondering if we could get to know each other, maybe braid one another’s hair?"

Stillson looked up at him, eyes widening in shock. "Which one of the costumed nut-jobs are you?"

He shook his head. "Words hurt Congressman. I’m Wade Wilson," he informed the stunned politician. "And the question you should be asking yourself is why the dumbass writing this has waited until sixty-four stories to bring yours truly in." The politician’s mouth opened in shock. "The answer is he didn’t want to compete with my dashing good looks. And the other thing you should really be asking yourself is what a lit lighter," he lifted the brass lighter he’d just purloined out of the Congressman’s pocket, "will do with all this gas?"

Stillson’s eyes widened. "Don’t! You’ll blow us both up!"

Deadpool smiled. "How right you are." The lighter ignited and then the gas filled house shook and exploded, the politician’s screams ringing in his ears as he flew through the air to crash onto the path beside the car, his body smouldering

"And do I get a well done?" Deadpool croaked as his burnt flesh began to heal. "Well done?" he laughed hoarsely. "Get it oh dear reader? It’s for cracks like this you come here!"

* * *

Bullseye swam tirelessly through the moonlit waters, his merciless eyes fixed on the quiet yacht bobbing in the distance. Twenty minutes later and he’d reached the yacht and shot a grapple-hook up onto its railing. Seconds later he’d glided out of the water, retrieved and pocketed the grappling hook, before sneaking up behind the unaware Senator sat smoking a cigar on the poop-deck.

He leapt forward before the man had chance to register his presence, one hand clasping to Kinsey’s mouth, after all any one who had ever seen CNN knew the old windbag could make a lot of noise, the other arm looping around the man’s throat as he cut off the man’s air. The politician wriggled like a fish out of water, but a sixty-something struggling against a well-conditioned killer such as himself who also had the advantage of surprise and leverage, wasn’t even remotely a fair fight. And then they were dropping back first into the water.

The politician’s struggles briefly increased as they hit the water, but it availed him nothing, Bullseye grimly holding on for four minutes before resurfacing and letting the now limp corpse go. Then he turned and began swimming back to the beach, another contract successfully completed.

* * *

A Week Later, Lisbon, Portugal

Xander blinked as something clunked against the side of his head. "Phone," came a mumble from a distance, "phone." He tried to close his eyes and get back to sleep, but the mystery object clunked against his forehead. "Answer the damn phone ‘fore I shove it sideways up your ass!"

Okay, now he recognised that irate voice. Opening his eyes, he took the phone off his still half-asleep girl-friend, threw aside the bedclothes, prompting a whole lot of naughty language from the brunette as she scurried sleepily for the sheets, then hurried into the bathroom, scrambling for the light before sitting on the toilet and finally answering the phone. "Hello Professor?"

Xavier chuckled. "Did I wake you?"

"Worse," Xander half-laughed, "you woke Faith."

"My apologies," the professor chuckled before sobering, "I have an answer to that request you made last week."

"Reque-," a light went on in Xander’s head. "Oh right. I’m listening sir."

"I’ve given it a great deal of thought," the Professor paused. "And I’ve decided to give you what you want, a list of names and contact details, and my assurance that should they contact me, I’ll tell them you run a fine operation."

Xander felt his palms moisten with excitement. "Just give me a second to get my laptop sir, and I’ll take down some details."