Blackstone presents

THE SENTENCER: CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

ACT ONE

Washington, D.C.

1:32 am

It was just another day at the office for the Sentencer.

The steel reinforced door was knocked out of its hinges by a single, powerful kick. The dozen or so gangbangers/drug cooks manufacturing death on the other side were more than a little startled by the sight of a 6'5", 260 pound black clad black man, armed with what seemed to be twin oversized revolvers, a long black trench coat swirling around him like a cape. The guns were in fact twins, but sawed-off Striker-12 automatic shotguns, also referred to as Street sweepers. Considering Jones' use for them, he had absolutely no objection to that name.

The vigilante didn't wait for the big metal door to connect against the aging wooden floor, and got to work. The one nearest him, to his left was the first one to go as a shredder round blew his chest open and the gangbanger was blasted back like a broken, bloody rag doll. Another gangbanger's head vanished as he took a headshot from

the fearsome handheld cannon Jones had in his right hand.

The surviving ten were shaken out of their stupor, and decided to reach for their own guns. The lab was in an abandoned tenement building. No possibility for collateral damage. He had scoped the place out before hand as he always did. So, the hell with finesse. He fired both his automatic shotguns from the hip. The twin roars were deafening despite the fact the Jones was wearing ear plugs. Chests exploded, brains were splattered, intestines revealed. Blood was being splattered all over the walls, floor, ceiling, as if a garden hose shooting ketchup had spun out of some fireman's hands, or as if some LSD popping impressionist was emptying entire cans of red paint, randomly, in all directions at once. And soon there was nothing. Nothing but chunks of hacked up, burned meat.

He dropped his empty shotguns, pulled out a satchel charge, set the timer for 90 seconds. More than enough time for him to book.

Well, that was the plan. Apparently, Mr Murphy had decided to stick his nose in his Jones' business, once again. Footstep were rushing up the stairs. Curses. Gun safeties being released. The last time Jones had checked out this place it was an abandoned building. Since then, it would seem it had become a fortress. He heard doors open and slam. This had become a stronghold. And Jones had 1:24 seconds to get out of it.

Jones was one of the those people who didn't mind working under pressure. He pulled two frags from his harness, held them both in one hand, pulled the pins with other and tossed them in the staircase before the small army of thugs could appear. The two detonations were close together, and later those unlucky enough to have survived were screaming in agony as they were crippled for life by the small bombs.

1 minute 15 seconds.

The Sentencer went back inside the lab he'd just smashed look for the fire exit. He found it, and was almost ripped to shred by a volley of rounds from various Tecs, Macs and Glocks. Jones lept back inside the apartment, just as more gangbangers were rushing it from the inside. Okay. Time get some offense back. Jones pulled out twin Glocks of his own. The 21 model. The 45 acp model. He ducked and rolled, at the new arrivals fired from their own Macs and Tecs. While rolling on his sides, firing away from both his Glocks, like a human two barrelled Gatling gun. His shots were fired so rapidly, they seemed to come from a subgun, which he wished he'd brought with him. Live and learn. Hopefully. Four men went down from that initial onslaught, the surviving two, cursing a blue streak as they were firing wildly at the ever moving vigilante. He stopped his roll on one knee, aimed a Glock at each of their chests and gave them each a double-tap. The Sentencer rose to his feet, just at the ones who'd almost perforated him on the fire exit rushed the apartment. He had half his mags on both pistols. He seemingly danced away from their barrage of fire, his move not so much fast, as much as perfectly timed. There were four them. He leapt sideways and fired both his guns in rapid fire. He landed on his muscular shoulders, his Glocks dry, his adversaries dead. He tossed the Glocks, and sprang to his feet and snap drew his hand cannon of choice, the big ,bad, black, 50 Action Express Desert Eagle, as he heard more opposition coming from the fire exit. He didn't stick around to greet them, as he went out the front door, stepping over bodies on the way.

55 seconds.

The vigilante flew down the stairs, leaping over the corpses he'd made earlier with he frags. He had four floors to go.

He had 32 seconds to spare when he reached the front door. And had to leap out of the doorway because there were another half a dozen more "gangstas", taking cover behind parked cars, firing away from fully automatic subguns.

22 seconds. Between the satchel charge itself and the flammables inside the apartment, the Sentencer wanted to put some distance between himself and the building when the bomb went off.

He leapt in the door way, rolling on the ground, blasting away with the big 50, each gunshot sounding like apocalyptic thunder, seemingly randomly, actually aiming for an exposed gas tank.

Pay dirt.

One of the cars exploded, the fireball sending the gangbangers up, up, and away, in one or more pieces. Jones quickly got up and ran towards his own vehicle, a big van parked further down the street.

0 seconds.

Huge flames were shot out of the windows of the top floor apartment that Jones had previously invaded. That explosion drowned out the second car that exploded next to the first one.

The quiet inner city street had become a real warzone.

The Jones effect was on in the nation's capital.

3:00 am

FBI AGENTS SAM KEATON, DIANA SULLIVAN AND US MARSHAL MIGUEL QUINTANEZ arrived on the newest scene of carnage and bloodshed orchestrated by the «Maestro Of Murder», like Quintanez had nicknamed Jones.

"Hey, Sammy." Quintanez said. "Looks like we don't get to use our frequent flyer miles on this one. He came to take the fight to us."

Keaton looked at his partner and friend. Quintanez was in his 30s, handsome, tall and leanly muscled, wearing a goatee, always with his 3/4s length black leather jacket, his blue jeans. He looked like everything but one of the country's top manhunters. Which was probably the idea behind the wardrobe. Beside the fact that Quintanez always liked to his thing his way. Keaton, on the other hand dressed the part, wearing a drab business suit. The plain suit screamed "look at me, I am a federal employee!" and the bulges beneath it added "and I am involved in law enforcement also!". Though, after looking at the towering 6'4", muscular, black haired, blue-eyed man, nobody would probably have the guts to critique his fashion sense to his face.

A read-haired, emerald eyed woman, almost dwarfed by Keaton came to him.

"What is it, Sullivan?" Keaton asked.

"I spoke to the cops" she said. "We are possibly looking at 30 dead, so far."

"I never thought I would see the day where those kinds of numbers would be considered normal." Keaton observed. "Any witnesses?"

"Nobody who can talk." Sullivan said.

"We have survivors?" Quintanez asked "Miracles never cease."

"If you can people who had their faces blown off by a grenade survivors." Sullivan said.

"Fuck." Quintanez said simply. "What was here?"

"Cops think it was some kind of drug lab. Place was trashed pretty badly. Jones used some kind of plastique explosive to blow it."

"And labs are always full of flammables." Quintanez said, having busted his share of labs. "Those places, man, like fucking bee-hives. Trash one. Ten take its place. No wonder narcs can't find them all."

Two homicide detectives showed up to meet up with the federal agents. Keaton had worked them in he past. Harry Kersey was a tall, broad-shouldered white man in his mid-late 40s, with greying hair. His partner, younger, black, no hair, except his eye-brows, Eugene Harris, was almost as tall, but bulkier, though somewhat chubby.

"Christ." Kersey said." Is it always this bad?"

"This is only the beginning. "Keaton said.

"Read so much shit about this guy" Harris said" Can't make up my mind on him. Is he nuts or what?"

"We honestly believe he's responsible for his actions. Which isn't to say he isn't a little disturbed. "Sullivan said. "One thing is for sure: he won't stop until either he dies or everyone he's gunning for dies."

"Or we bust his ass." Harris said.

"Or that." Sullivan said.

Keaton exhaled loudly. " Well, people. This is it. Looks like Mr Jones came to Washington."

MELDRICK MAHONEY WOKE UP IN A FOUL MOOD. A very foul motherfucking mood. He's been involved in the drug business a good long while, ever since being a street pusher in the projects as a teen, until he grew up to become a local kingpin. In this business, there were always risks involved. Arrests, gunfights, it all came with the territory. That was why a nigga always had to keep his eyes and ears open, listened to all the rumours about any new players coming to town, like they say in the movies, had to get the low-down, the 4-1-1.

And in the last couple of days, the street shouted back one name.

Luther Jones. The Sentencer.

The crazy motherfucker that took on killing drug dealers as a hobby. A lotta dumb-ass motherfuckers underestimated the nigga. And they usually ended up with more holes than a golf course. As soon as he heard the maniac was in town, he reinforced security on his operations, like that drug lab he just lost. About 40 niggas in all were in that place. All of them dead. All of them. Lots of manpower down. Mahoney had prepared for that motherfucker and still it ain't mounted to shit.

A lotta reps weren't nothing but hype and bullshit. But this Jones motherfucker was the real deal, apparently. A bad motherfucker.

And Mahoney knew he had to take care of that problem quick otherwise-

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing. He picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Meldrick."

Oh shit. It was his supplier. Actually, his supplier's middleman. He knew this call was coming.

"You seem to be having some problems, Meldrick."

"Yeah...yeah...but..."

"I sincerely hope you can handle it, Meldrick. You know me and my people cannot risk exposure."

"I know."

"We protect you from the law. He provide top product very cheap."

"I know."

"All we ask is that you run things smoothly. That's all. Think you can do that, Meldrick?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We'll give you one more chance, Meldrick to get rid of that problem. If not, we'll send in some people of our own. And fire you."

Mahoney didn't like the threat, and didn't like being considered somebody's employee. But he couldn't fuck with these people, not if he wanted to stay alive and keep his business. They were right, the law barely hassled him. As a matter of fact, they got rid of most his competition, and looked the other way when ever Mahoney's crew hit rivals. The motherfuckers Mahoney was dealing with had clout. Crazy clout.

"I hear ya, man, loud and clear."

"Good. Thanks for listening. Have a nice day."

"Yeah, have a nice day too."

Not many people scared Mahoney. These motherfuckers scared Mahoney. And he didn't like it. He needed to get himself some heavy hitters. And quick.

And end that Jones motherfucker, once and for all.

THE MAN WHO HAD JUST SPOKEN TO MAHONEY HAD killed the line. He lit himself a cigarette.

"Well?" a man sitting opposite him said.

"I think Mahoney deserves a couple more cracks at Jones. He's got connections. He can get hitters. We needn't interfere for now."

"Besides, we have Keaton and his merry task force on top of things."

"Keaton is quite good at what he does. So are Sullivan and Quintanez. And the two dicks, Kersey and Harris are two of the best in the force. Close most of their cases. Between the lawmen and the outlaws, Jones has his work cut out for him."

"Indeed. But he has this annoying habit of defeating all odds."

"He does."

"He is the biggest threat to our current projects if only because he cannot be controlled. He is an absolute wild card. Never mind his skill. And luck. But it was a question of time before he got on to us."

"Worse comes to worse, we have some heavy hitters at our disposition. But for now, I say we give the task force and Mahoney a chance to handle things."

"All right. If they fail, I will send in the big guns. And we get rid of Mahnoey. Can't risk him being traced back to us."

"No problem."

"Another thing."

"Yes?"

"Quit smoking, it's a filthy habit. Try the patch or the gum."

"I did. Both. At once. Ain't nothing like the real thing."

"Addict."

"Sue me."

"If I get cancer from second hand smoking, I just might."

7:30 am

Jones had been awake a while. He had done his work, his katas .His mind was clear. Focused on the task at had. As it was mostly the case in his war, he'd picked a dive of a motel as a headquarters. People seldom asked questions.

His target this time: Meldrick Mahoney, big time local drug dealer for over ten years. Ten years. He's never been arrested. Never charged. From what Jones has gathered, except for his juvie hall days, there was no sign of the law ever bothering him. He seemed to be the only drug dealer in the greater DC area. He dealt designer drugs, but also smack and coke. Which meant he had a pipeline. A supplier. Either he was dealing with the overseas people himself, or someone here was fronting for them. Killing Mahoney was on the agenda, of course, but not until Jones was told who his contacts were. Despite his "investigations", nobody on the street seemed to know.

Mahoney knew. So he would ask Mahoney. He had a few addresses where this guy liked to hang out. The man was a night owl, liked clubbing and women. So, snatching him would have to be a night-time operation.

The Sentencer had no intentions of twirling his thumbs during the day. He's spent the last week in DC, inquiring and watching, he's gathered quite a lot of Intel. Several drug distribution centers and smaller labs were all over the inner city, death and misery being sold in the shadow of the Lincoln memorial, in the capital of democracy, also the capital of crime.

Jones was going to try to change that.

Though he had no illusions about his work. There was only so much one man, even without the many boundaries imposed by the law, even as ruthless and relentless as Jones, could do. These punks seemed to grow like fungus. Removing them seemed exhausting and repetitive and ultimately pointless. That was not a reason to quit. He had to try. He had started this war, he had to see it through. He had to go all the way. Men like Mahoney roll over those unfortunate enough to be on his way to wealth and power. They rolled over anyone who stood up to them, murdering whoever couldn't be bought.

Like Luther's love, Jamie and his uncle Marcus. Killed by gangsters, long ago, in Harlem. There started his long bloody trail towards Hell, with stops at Delta Force and then, this war. Men like Mahoney had robbed Jones of his world. That was what they did. Yakuza, Cosa Nostra, Mafiya, Crips, Bloods, drug lords, white supremacists, terrorists...Whether motivated by hate or greed, they built their filthy foundations of power over mountains of the dead. And as long as Jones could, he was going to stomp them into oblivion, like the leeches that they were.

Before he could get a clear run at Mahoney, Jones was going to crumble his network, his empire, put some sand in his machine.

He drove to one of his targets. What used to be a typical convenience store, now a drug store for crack, ice, meth, smack...Choose your poison. The bottom floor was where the stuff was sold, the floor above was where it was made or cut, depending. The problem was, whether it was day or night, this street corner was always busy. No way could he nuke this place like he had last time without innocent bystanders catching a chunk of debris or a stray bullet. This called for a change in strategy.

As Jones had expected, the place was reinforced. As he approached from the alley, he noticed a sedan, parked in the alley, with four men inside, two goons on the emergency steps, two in front of the backdoor heading into the alley. Plus the dozen or so inside. Six on the ground floor, six above. At the very least.

All right. Time to go to work.

First: get rid of those pesky sentinels. He went to his van, pulled a M-16/M-203, loaded the 40 mil with a tear gas grenade. Using his corner as cover, he fired the smoker through the car's rear window. He reloaded and hit them again. He put the rifle away, slipped on a gas mask, and sprinted as the other two came down from the stairs, while running he pulled strange-looking twin pistols. They weren't looking at him, since the idiots were busy trying to help their buddies, therefore exposing themselves to the gas. He fired both his pistols. A tranquiliser filled dart hit each "gangsta" in the back of the neck. He reholstered his pistols as they both dropped. That tranquilizer was powerful enough to put an elephant down. Literally. The other four were gagging and choking, still struggling to get out of the car. The Sentencer tossed two stun grenades through the back window, and they both went off, as Jones sent a spinning kick in the solid back door. It yielded. He immediately tossed two flash bangs inside. Steered clear of the blasts while curses and yells came from the stunned drug dealers. He rushed inside, pulling out two Cold Steel Mini Flight Throwers. 10 inch, black, steel tipped throwing knives in each hand. There was one standing behind the counter desperately trying to blink away the blindness. He took a mini-thrower in the throat. There was a man in front of the counter. Might just be a junkie trying to score some dope. Jones let him go. He was incapacitated at the moment.

There were four more in the middle playing cards. There were no more shelves. Plenty of space for a table and card players.

He tossed the three knives he had.

One went in the back of the neck of the guy had his back to Jones, the other two took theirs in the heart. One more card player, plus there were three standing to his left. Thack. Thack. Thack. Thack. Adam's apple shots for all four.

Footsteps from above rushing downstairs. Jones stayed clear of the doorway. Two men rushed down the stairs, both armed with Macs. The each took a in the back of the skull. The Sentencer, palming his last two flash bang. and tossed them upstairs. True to their nicknames, they flashed and went "bang", and Jones took advantage of the momentary confusion.

While running upstairs, he pulled out twin Tanto short swords, also from Cold Steel. With 13" 1/4 long blades. As he made it up, and to the door, he ducked and rolled, as to not be greeted with a barrage of fire. It never came. They were still stunned and blind. Easy pickings for Jones. He really didn't want to smile. He tried not to.

He failed.

He went at one man with both knives, one entering the guy's groin, the other went into his chest. Then, lifted the man in the air above his head, using a lot hip and the massive power in his arms and legs and threw him, back first,on a table where the stuff was being packaged and it crumpled to the ground.

He leapt at two others, knives first. Both his blades sliced into their chest and cut their hearts in two.

Two more were recovering, behind him pulling out their Glocks. He reached them first before they could fire, rose his knives up and slashed downwards. Their hands were cut off, still holding the Glocks, he then pivoted, holding one Tanto at neck level, performing a reversed round house slash and both their heads flew, sliced clean off.

He wiped his blades clean.

Over 20 dead or neutralized tangos. No firearms. Not bad.

He went to his van. And drove away.

He'd brought knives to a gunfight. And won.

As he was driving, he noticed kids playing around on the sidewalk, maybe waiting for the school bus. Actually, a few of the older kids, 14, 15, were playing keep-away with a smaller kid's bag. The smaller kid, no more than eleven, was crying, the bigger ones were having a blast.

Bullies. Jones' eyes narrowed.

The Sentencer was about to intervene.

ALL WEBSTER SMITH WANTED WAS HIS STUFF BACK and to be left alone by the big ninth graders. Why him? What had ever done to them? He just minded his business, why wouldn't they just leave them alone? Why? WHY?

"Gimme my stuff back!" He said.

"Oh, gimme my stuff back, you cryin' like a little bitch, Web!" André Lawson said.

"Yeah, we don't lissen to little bitches!" Raheem Waters said.

"C'mon, just gimme my bag back."

"What if we don't, what is your fat ass gonna do? Huh? Who is gonna make us?"

Then the scariest voice Web had ever heard said.: "Me."

All three turned and saw the biggest, scariest lookin' guy they had ever seen. He was huge, with a long black coat.

"Give him his things, now." the big, scary dude said.

"Yes, sir." Raheem said. And Web got his stuff back.

"Apologize to him. Both of you. "The big man said.

"We're sorry, Web. We jus' playin'."

"It-It's okay."

Then the big guy scary dude walked over to Web, bent down, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his tears.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Y-Yeah. Thanks." Web answered.

Then the big guy winked, then turned towards Raheem and André. He was...BIG!

"You two. You enjoy picking on smaller kids. Fine. Just remember, no matter how big and bad you think you are, there is always somebody bigger. And badder. Someone you really don't wanna make angry." He got closer." Dont. Make. Me. Angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Raheem and Andrew said at the same time.

"Good. I'll be watching you." And he turned back at Web. And winked. Web smiled. And then the big dude walked away.

Looked like Web was gonna enjoy his first quiet bus ride in a long while.

WASHINGTON PD HQ

CONFERENCE ROOM

7:42 am

Keaton was having his third cup of coffee of the morning. He'd slept less than two hours since last night's crime scene. Quintanez seemed to have slept even less, if that was possible, so much so, that he kept his shades on in the office. Sullivan is the only one that looked human, good, even.

«Concealer» she had told Keaton. «Works wonders.»

Also present were the two detectives, Kersey and Harris. And a couple of narcs, Frost and Dillon. They had brought files on the poor bastard Jones was hunting this time around.

"Meldrick Mahoney." Dillon started. "Mid thirties, born and raised right here. If it can be smoked, injected, snorted, popped as a pill, this is the guy. Allegedly."

"Allegedly?" Quintanez asked.

"Yeah." Frost answered. "Not one arrest. Not since he was caught, age 14, pushing Angel Dust in a school yard."

"How is that possible?" Sullivan asked.

"That, and the reason why David Hasselhoff still has a career, are the two biggest mysteries in the free world. This Mahoney is almost another fucking Keizer Soze." Frost said. He looked to make sure everybody caught the reference. They did. "If we didn't have pictures of this bastard, we'd think he's as real as Stephanie McMahon's titties. "There, Keaton noticed, Frost lost a couple of people, but that didn't stop him. "Every single time we, or the DEA, put an undercover in his crew, the guy or girl gets whacked within 24 hours. And it's not like we broadcast who's getting in. I mean, we've thought about leaks, and there have been internal investigations, transfers, and still, within 24 hours, boom."

"You gotta be kidding me." Keaton said."24 hours?"

"I shit you not. "Frost said. "Motherfucker's got some voodoo on him or something."

"Well, we're not attached to the X-Files", Keaton said, "What else can you tell us?"

"Whatever voodoo he got with undercovers" Dillon said "He got with witnesses. They tend to just vanish. And, so has his competition. Aren't that many drug dealers in the city anymore but him. If Jones is hunting anyone, like we say in ebonics:'it be him.'"

"Which means 'it is him', for you Caucasians." Frost said.

"Didn't think we had Martin Lawrence and Chris Tucker on the payroll." Kersey, the middle-aged white cop said ."You some funny motherfuckers. Though, Richard Pryor you are not."

"Nobody could be." Keaton said. "That it?"

"That's it so far. "Dillon said.

"Agent Sullivan." Eugene Harris, the big, bald, slightly chubby black cop said." What is your take on Jones?"

"Like I've stated before." She said. "He's not insane. Not the point of irresponsibility. Driven, relentless, merciless, maybe obsessed, but not insane."

"Didn't he lose somebody close, when he was young?"

"Yes, he did..."

While Sullivan was talking, Keaton noticed something in Harris' eyes. Of course, he was interested in what Sullivan was saying...but also in Sullivan. Harris seemed almost mesmerized. Maybe he had a thing for smart woman. Or red-heads. Keaton tried to hide his smile as best he could. He waited until Sullivan finished her mini-lecture. Harris smiled warmly at her.

"Our best bet is to sit on this Mahoney asshole." Keaton said.

"You mean we have to baby-sit this motherfucker?" Dillon said.

"Yeah." Quintanez said." I like that idea as much as I would like sitting through a Pauly Shore film festival, but Sammy's right. The guy is predictable. Like a shark. Put a nice, bloody, chunk of meat in the water, he won't resist, no matter what the risk."

"Well, it could be worse, Q." Keaton said.

"How?" Quintanez said.

"Could be a Joel Schumacher film fest." Keaton said.

"You're a sick fuck, Sammy."

Keaton chuckled. "Ok. You guys got some addresses on this guy?"

"Personal, and where he likes to hang at night. Guy parties harder than Charlie Sheen." Dillon said.

"Ok. Before we go any further, let's get a few things straight: we are working together on this. Feds and dicks. I'm not the kinda guy with the 'I'm the federal agent, so I'm gonna piss everybody off, and further feed the all-feds-are-pricks stereotype' attitude. I don't give a shit who gets credit for the bust. As long as the guy is put away. The way to do that: lots and lots of cops. Choppers, SWAT, the whole nine. Approach with caution. He won't shoot at you, but watch it, son of a bitch got moves. He'll tap dance on your head, apologize and leave you seeing constellations. Any questions?"

There was only one, from Harry Kersey:

"Who the fuck is Stephanie McMahon?"

JERRY "CURLS" THOMAS WAS USED TO DANGER. Being one of Mahoney's dealers was not the safest job in the world. Though, five-oh never seemed to be a problem, and there wasn't much competition.

Ok. So it was pretty motherfuckin' safe.

But reckless motherfuckers never lasted very long. And with this Jones nigga on the loose one had to be extra careful. But, besides, Jerry Curls had a great cover. An ice cream truck. Mobile. Innocent looking. Friendly. And he actually sold real ice cream. The only real problem came from Jones. So he had an escort. Two carloads of hardcore motherfuckers ready and willing to fuck that nigga up. One in front one in the back.

They were ready. Besides, it was still early morning, barely past 8:00am, so a big nigga with a lotta guns was gonna be easy to spot.

He saw a spot and parked. His escorts double parked.

He got a couple of legit customers. A few junkies. Business as usual.

Soon, an old man, with a heavy white beard and a cane approached. Thomas was almost feeling sorry for the brother, had to be eighty years old, with raggedy ass clothes, a crust old hat, and old glasses. Probably got his clothes from the Salvation Army.

"Hey, Gramps." Jerry Curls said, smiling widely." What kind I do for you?"

"Hey, sonny. I would like... a...uh...I think...uh...a...yeah...a chocolate milkshake."

He sounded even older than he looked, Jerry Curls thought to himself. "Coming right up."

Soon:

"Here it is, gramps."

"Oh..thank you so much...How much..."

"For you, it's on the house this time."

"Oh..thank you." The old man said extending his hand. Jerry Curls took it. "God bless you...young man. God bless you."

During the handshake, Jerry Curls felt a slight sting in his wrist. He made nothing of it.

"Be seeing you, Gramps."

"I'd be surprised." The old man said. "Goodbye."

And the old dude walked away. Suddenly, he was feeling dizzy, he had trouble breathing, and he felt as if he were having a heart attack...he couldn't...he...

Then he felt nothing. He died.

THE SENTENCER WENT BACK TO HIS VAN. He took of his hat and removed his fake beard. And looked at the ring with the little needle underneath.

Cyanide.

Jerry "Curls" Thomas never had a chance. The disguise had been perfect. He saw genuine warmth in the punk's eyes. Jones had learned Disguise and Impersonation in Japan, years before, while following ninja training. And since it was still daytime and in a crowded street, the use of LAW rockets was out of the question. So he had to be sneaky.

That was fine. Jones could be either a snake or a bull, depending on the situation.

Next.

RONALD DAVIS WAS NOT REALLY A JUNKIE. He just liked the weed. The Chronic. The Herb. That was it, he wasn't dumb enough to fuck himself up using crack, smack or any of that shit. He had a job, a girl, and everything. Just some an occasional blunt now and again. And he always had mixed feelings about buying the shit. One hand, he was afraid of some narc jumping him, but at the same time, he kinda liked the danger. He got a little bit of a rush out of it. His life could be boring as hell sometimes.

He went in to the alley. He usually bought his stuff from the same guy, who hung around this part of the 'hood. In his car. He spotted two cars. He was gonna-

Suddenly, some weird shit was happening. It seemed to be raining, but only on both cars. But the raindrops seemed to be going THROUGH the car roofs. And the brothers inside were being ripped apart.

That was when it him.

They were being SHOT!

Ho, shit, he had to get the fuck outta-

"Hey, kid!" A voice called him. He turned around and put his hands in the air. He saw on a balcony a couple of floors above a big brother, holding what looked like two..Mac-10s, with silencers. He seen those in a few movies once. They looked cool in the movies, now, they just looked scary.

"Yo..I ain't seen nothing, man, don't kill me, I won't tell nobody nothin', man! I-"

"Calm down. I'm not gonna kill you."

"N-no?"

"No. What's your name?"

"Ronald...Davis."

"Ronald Davis. My name is Luther Jones."

Holy shit! That was the guy! Ronald thought. Damn! He looked as bad as they said.

"Ronald. You were just here to score some weed?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry you had to see all this."

"O-Okay."

"I want you do two things for me. One: be a responsible citizen, call 9-11 and tell them that you saw me kill these men."

"Aiight..."

"Two: Just say no."

"I'll try."

"Good. Now go."

Ronald turned around and ran like hell to find a phone booth. And suddenly, a boring life didn't seem that bad.

THE SENTENCER HAD BEEN SPOTTED. He just hoped that young man wouldn't be traumatised for life by what he saw. Since this target was deep in the alley, away from any risk of collateral, he'd cut loose on them with .45acp Mac-11 submachine guns.

It was almost 9am. The neighbourhood would soon be overrun with cops. He should stay low until the night-time. He'd done a lot of damage so far.

He should. That would the wise thing to do.

Then again, of all the things Jones was known for, wisdom was not one of them. So many objectives. So many bullets.

He was only human.

WASHINGTON PD HQ

10:02 AM

Keaton was amusing himself by watching Harris admiring Sullivan. The guy was discreet. And shy. He honestly looked like a teenaged boy with a crush.

"Hey, Sammy." Quintanez said. "Is it me or does Harris have Jungle Fever?"

Despite himself, Keaton was slightly stung by the remark.

"Oh, shit, man." Quintanez said. "I'm sorry. I-"

"It's okay, Q."

Keaton's wife, Marissa Blake-Keaton, dead some years back, was black. And Keaton had to put up with remarks about it. From him supposedly having a "fetish", to being called "nigger lover". That made him extra-sensitive on that subject matter.

"It's all right, Q." Keaton said. "You noticed that too?"

"Took a while. He's not exactly the leering type. He's classy about it. But I saw it."

Sullivan went to talk to Harris for some brief seconds, and then came over to her partners. She looked at them both.

"Yes." She said. "I saw it."

"What are you gonna do about it?" Quintanez said.

"As long as we are working together, nothing at all." Sullivan said.

"And after this case is over?" Quintanez said.

She smiled silently. And something gleamed in her eyes...something neither Keaton nor Quintanez had ever seen before.

"Why...agent Sullivan!" Quintanez said.

"Look alive people!" Kersey said. "Reports of incidents are coming down like there's no tomorrow!"

"And away we go." Keaton said.

THE PRECINCT HAD USED NEARLY ALL OF ITS HOMICIDE SQUAD. Keaton, Sullivan, Quintanez, Harris and Kearsey had reached one of the fresher scenes. A garage. Kearsey approached a uniform.

"Kearsey." The cop told him." I wish I could say I was happy to see you. But that would be lying."

"I love you too, Foley." Kearsey said.

"Hey, Harris. You, I'm glad to see. Gee, you brought friends. Are they tourists?"

"No, they are the Sentencer Task Force." Harris said.

"Holy..."Foley dropped the wise-ass act. "Sam Keaton...the guy from the..."

"Yeah. That's me." Keaton said, knowing Foley meant that infamous raid on a militia compound where Keaton had taken out a dozen men single handedly.

"Agent Sullivan. You brought down a few sickos. I heard about you." Foley said. "And Marshal Quintanez. I heard some crazy stories about. You shot a guy in the nuts, didn't you?"

"I'm a lousy shot." Quintanez said.

"Good, now that we are all friends, tell what you got here, Foley." Kearsey said.

"What was probably another dope lab. Shot to hell. Two dozen DOAs. The calls were coming in like crazy. This was the nearest one. Looks pretty straight forward. The shooter walked in, shot everybody dead and walked out. We might need a dump truck to put the shell casings in. Nobody heard anything. Fucking place looks like something out of Peckinpah. We found a guy. He survived, but his legs were shot off below the knees. He told us, under heavy pain-killers, about a big, black, dude, dressed all in black. Who moved 'like a fucking ghost'. He would appear, disappear. He was also bulletproof. Like the Terminator."

"He was wearing body armor." Quintanez said.

"That's what I think." Foley said.

Keaton exhaled loudly. Before saying:

"I think we need to have a talk with Mr Mahoney."

MELDRICK MAHONEY WAS IN HIS PENTHOUSE APPARTMENT, ON THE PHONE with some of his least favorite people in the world.

"Meldrick."the cold voice said on the other end. "I thought we could trust you to contain this."

"Hey, man, I doubled, TRIPLED security on my operations! He wasted them all! Some of my best guys! I'm doing the best I can, goddamnit! That motherfucker ain't human!"

"Don't be so melodramatic, Meldrick, though we know people who are used to dealing with extra-ordinary threats, and Jones certainly qualifies as that.. And since we can't trust you with our business..."

"No! Wait! We-"Meldrick started.

Someone knocked on his door.

"Mr Mahoney, this is the police!" He heard.

"The cops are at my door." He said, happy to have been saved by the bell.

"We'll talk later, Meldrick."

Mahoney sighed with relief, while he went to his door and opened.

A big white dude, a short red-head chick, a middle aged white guy and a big bald brother were at his door.

"Mr Mahoney. I'm agent Sam Keaton, FBI. This is Agent Diana Sullivan. And detectives Kearsey and Harris, Washington PD. We'd like to have a word with you."

THE MAN WHO HAD JUST SPOKEN TO MAHONEY looked somewhat concerned. The other man looked at him and said.

"Meldrick said the cops were at his home?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm."

"Think we are compromised?"

"I don't think Meldrick will talk to the cops. As a matter of fact, it's quite possible that all our problems will go away soon."

"How do you figure?"

And the other man explained it to him.

"Yeah. That makes sense."

"Worst case scenario. Meldrick wants to turn on us. We can reach him and eliminate him at anytime. The Justice Department's pathetic Witness Security Program won't stop us."

"True enough."

"Don't worry so much. It's bad for your health."

"It's my job to worry."

"But don't over do it. It's the nicotine and caffeine. Makes you jumpy. Ever try Yoga?"

"Do I look like I would enjoy making a fucking Pretzel outta myself?"

"It's quite soothing for the soul."

"Don't have much of a soul to soothe at this point in my life."

"It saddens me to hear that."

"Yeah. I'm sure it does."

"Is that scepticism in your voice?"

"No, that was sarcasm."

"How about herbal tea?"

"I don't drink grass. I cut it in my yard and I used to smoke it as a teenager."

"My God, is there no end to your corruption?"

"Considering who we're working for, corruption is an asset, isn't it?"

"Touché."

IT WAS PAST 2PM. THE SENTENCER WAS BACK IN HIS MOTEL ROOM. All in all, a pretty productive day. A total of six hits, with over 40 dead. He was thinning out Mahoney's workforce and rocked his structure for a while.

And, preparing tonight's plan for Mahoney.

Everything was in place. It would be very tricky, but Jones would be able to pull it off. Snatching Mahoney would be the beginning of the end for this op. It had gone smoothly so far.

Though Jones could not afford to get sloppy now. And he knew that Mahoney's thugs were not the only threat.

The cops. And Keaton. The relentless federal agent in charge of bringing Jones down. One of his greatest adversaries. Former marine. Willing to go all the way to get the job done. Tough. And smart. He had come very close several times to stopping Jones. Being able to predict his moves. Jones would have to find a way to avoid the big fed. If Keaton was as smart Jones gave him credit for, he probably had an army of cops sitting on Mahoney. Plus, whatever security Mahoney would have with him.

And they would be there at the club where Jones had planned to pull the kidnapping. Going there would be almost suicidal. But, walking away was out of the question.

So it had to be.

"Ready or not, here I come."

THE UNDERGROUND NIGHT CLUB

11:30 pm

Meldrick Mahoney felt very exposed. He was scared. But kept his cool as ice exterior. He had a rep to maintain. He could not show fear. And he could especially not show cooperation with cops. Not like he was planning to snitch on anyone anyway, but still.

He should have known. Shit was going too good for two long. He'd been unopposed for years, had friends in very high places... Something had to fuck up.

Luther motherfuckin' Jones. There was the motherfucker responsible. That crazy ass motherfucker was the nigga that was fuck everything up. Motherfucker! What the fuck was his fucking problem! What the fuck was the deal with him? What, he didn't get enough pussy, so he took it out on people who could? Nigga was nuts!ike that Charles Manson motherfucker, one of those guys! Fuckin' mass murderer! Motherfuckin' lunatic!

Mahoney's anger was getting the better of him. Be cool. He was out clubbing after all, he had to find a way to relax. Dance a little. Chill with a nice lady.

That was what the cops were doing.

EUGENE HARRIS WAS SIMPLY HYPNOTISED BY AGENT SULLIVAN'S BEAUTY. They had both come in as a couple. It was a Latin club, clientele was a melting pot. He was dressed in a suit, black with a white Chinese collared shirt.

Agent Sullivan was wearing a long spaghetti strapped red gown, with two high slits, and her hair was pit up in a twist. Her face was subtly made up. And she has red gloves up to her elbows. Her red stiletto heels gave a couple of extra inches. His heart had stopped when he had seen her the first time like that.

Harris did not know what it was about her. He'd always had a thing for smart women. He was never intimidated by women smarter than he was. And, she was simply beautiful.

They were dancing closely. Quintanez was further, with a female detective.

"You dance quite well, Detective." she said.

"Thanks. I had to learn. Was as long as high school. I guess I wasn't born with 'all brothers can dance' gene."

She smiled. And giggled.

"Didn't know you could giggle." Harris said.

"Very few people do. Very few people can make me. You have a gift, Detective."

Harris smiled and bowed his head respectfully. Then the moment was interrupted by Keaton's voice in his headset: "Sitrep, people."

Harris looked around. There was an obese man, at least 400 pounds, dressed in an unspeakably flashy red suit, dancing with two gorgeous young women. he guy seemed to dehydrate with every move.

"Mahoney's jumpy as an epileptic flea" Harris said. "Otherwise, nothing."

"Q? Anything?" Keaton asked.

"You're missing out some great music, Sammy." the US Marshal said.

"I don't dance. So I would have gone there to drink. I don't drink. Keep an eye out people. Stay sharp."

OUTSIDE, IN A NERABY VAN, Keaton and Kearsey were listening, keeping contact with several units all over the perimeter.

"Irish?" Kearsey asked Keaton.

"From Hell's Kitchen." Keaton answered.

"An Irish cop from New York. And you don't drink."

"No. Not in seven years."

"A fed who's not a platinum-plated cocksucker and you're Irish and you don't drink. You're at war against stereotypes?"

"Seems that way, doesn't it?"

"What happened seven years ago, that make you go against your cultural heritage?"

"I used to drink like a normal person, not a binge drinker. Then my wife died."

"Oh, geez, sorry."

"It's okay. The drinking got out of control. Almost got kicked out of the bureau. Then she appeared to me in a dream."

"Your wife?"

"Yeah. She said 'Sam stop destroying yourself'. I said 'It hurts too much. Drinking numbs the pain.'. She said 'It hurts me even more to see you do this to yourself. I love you. I know you're hurting, but people depend on you. Don't let them down. Don't let me down. Remember what you told me your uncle always used to say: the measure of a man is not how he falls, but how he rises afterwards. Rise, my love.' And I woke up. Haven't had a drop of booze since."

"Jesus."

"Don't know if that was a dream, or a hallucination, or something else. But from beyond the grave, my wife saved me from myself."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

There was a silence. Awkward. Keaton checked in again. :"Keaton to all units. Anything?"

"Negative."

"Negatory."

"Nada."

"Nothing out here."

"Keep an eye out, for anything. Anything, no matter how insignificant." Keaton said. "This son of a bitch is tricky. Over."

Kearsey cleared his throat.

"Uh...Jones has to know we're babysitting this prick. And that the aforementioned prick has a small army of goons watching his back."

"He's coming, Kearsey."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just know it. I would stake my life on it. That bastard is coming for Mahoney."

"I dunno, the guy would have to be the craziest son of a bitch on the planet to just-what the hell is happening to the clubs lights?" Kersey said.

The neon sign was flickering, and then it shorted out, the neons exploding like fireworks.

"Keaton!" Harris excited voice said on the air." The lights went out and-what the hell-smoke, everywhere- emergency lights are on, but smoke everywhere" He was coughing.

"Sammy! Fucking chaos in here! People running all over the place!"

"Mahoney? Where is Mahoney?" Keaton said.

"Fuck-I can't see shit." Quintanez said." It's dark and the smoke."

"Well, Kersey." Keaton said." Meet the world's craziest son of a bitch." Then on the radio. "Attention all units, attention all units, keep an eye out for the subject and our bait!"

"Keaton!" Sullivan called.

"What is it, Sullivan."

"Just spotted Mahoney's bodyguards. Dead. All four of them. Slit throats."

"How the fuck-"Kersey said.

"Any sign of Mahoney!" Keaton asked.

"No! Just his men!" Sullivan said.

"Damn it!" Keaton said, rushing out of the van, then climbing on top of it, watching the sea of panicking clubbers rush out the front door. There was also a lot of smoke with them. He could barely see the crowd.

"All units! Block all streets! Nobody is going home tonight! That fuck is in there with our bait!" Keaton shouted angrily in the radio.

But he had to be honest. His anger was aimed at himself. How the hell could Jones have slipped through the cracks? How? The guy was David Fucking Copperfield!

"The fucking balls on this guy!" Kersey said. "A fucking crowded club, with hundreds of cops sitting on it!"

"He's not going any-fucking-where." Keaton said.

THE COPS AND THE FBI HAD SPENT HOURS CHECKING ALL THE VEHICLES leaving the club area. Hours. Until dawn.

Nothing.

Keaton was exhausted, and leaning against a van.

"He went by us." Quintanez said. "I have to give that motherfucker his due, man."

"Yeah. I guess we go to plan B. Didn't think we'd need to. Damn it."

"Good thing you planned it. He screwed us big time. "Quintanez said.

"Almost." Keaton said.

THE BLINDFOLD WAS REMOVED FROM MAHONEY'S EYES. He was tied to a chair, in what seeemed to be an abandoned warehouse. And then he saw him.

"Good morning, Mister Mahoney." The man known as Luther Jones said to him.

"How the fuck did you slip by my crew and the cops?"

THE SENTENCER SMILED SILENTLY. HIS DIGUISE HAD BEEN PERFECT. He had hired two escorts to accompany him, because what was expected was a man alone. And he purchased himself a fat-suit in a theatrical supply store, and the loudest, flashiest red suit he could find. Also, earlier during the day, impersonating a member of the club's maintenance crew. He had set up several smoke bombs all over the club and small explosive charges in the power box. Once the confusion started, he eliminated Mahoney's security and took him away straight out the front door, dropping a few smoke pellets on the way, and put him in the trunk of a recently purchased Cadillac. Then, he found his "ladies" and they sat in the car with him. He was friendly with the officer while being asked a few quick questions, then dismissed as a non-threat. He dropped by a van, left the brand new Car to the ladies as a bonus and took Mahoney to this place.

Perfect. But Mahoney didn't need to know all that.

"I think you should concern yourself with why you're still alive, Mr Mahoney."

"Yeah..."

THE MOTHERFUCKER WAS BIG AND CREEPY AND SEEMED TO ENJOY THIS SHIT. And Mahoney was scared, no use lying to himself. And those eyes...those eyes...

"Cocaine and Heroin don't grow here." Jones said. "Who supplies you with it?"

"Huh?"

He never saw the two slaps that would have knocked him out of the chair if he hadn't been tied down to it.

"Who is your supplier?" The voice was still calm. Almost friendly.

"I don't know what-"

He felt his nose explode. He heard the bone break, then the sharp and sudden awful pain took over everything. He let out a small scream. And started tasting blood, and his eyes were filling with tears.

"Who is your supplier?"

"Look, man. If I tell you, I'm fucking dead. And you’re gonna kill me anyway. So fuck you, Iain't sayin' shit!"

"You're right. I will kill you anyway. However..."

Mahoney saw Jones bend down to a bag. He was pulling shit out of it. Some knives. A hammer and some nails. Needles. And a power drill.

"You get to choose how you die." Jones said. "Quick. Or Slow."

"You're fucking crazy, man..."

"I could kill you. One bullet. I could have done it in the club, actually. But guys like you are a penny for two dozen. I want to cut the pipeline. I want your supplier. And one way or the other, you will tell me."

"You're bluffin', man..."

"You know what's in those needles?"

"Truth serum?"

"Not a bad guess, but no. Adrenaline."

"What?"

"Adrenaline. See, while I'm torturing, there is always the chance that you will die on me in mid-sentence. That would be annoying. So I inject you with these, and you remain alive for as long as I need you."

"You...you..."

"Yes?"

"You run around, like some kind of goddamn Eastwood cowboy, blowing away bad guys...You're not a hero...You're just another fucking maniac, like Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer...A fuckin' mass murderer...a fuckin' lunatic...you just a psychotic motherfucker...you think you better than me, motherfucker? Huh? You ain't shit! You just another serial killer who's pissed at the world because what...your momma wouldn't give you head? Can't get a hard-on? Or what, maybe you a fag and can't deal with it? What the fuck is your motherfuckin' problem!"

The guy stood there. No reaction.

"What the fuck is your fucking problem you musclebound gun-crazy BITCH!"

Jones just stared coldly. And smiled.

"Trying to make me angry so I kill you quickly in a moment of rage. Nice try. But nothing you can say can make me angry. Because you don't matter. You're a parasite. You wanna know what my problem is? People like you, that kill and corrupt with impunity. You think you're big, with your money and your power. You think you're beyond the law. You're not beyond my reach. None of you are. For as long as I live, I will hunt and kill men like you. I never said I was a hero, and I don't know if I'm insane or not, but I am determined to rid the world of as many of you as I can. That means you and your suppliers and their associates. If I have to spend a week here breaking every bone in your body, skinning you and gutting you, I will. I am a monster. No longer human, because men like you stole my humanity. So I won't even enjoy torturing you. I'll do it because I do whatever it takes to win my war."

The voice had remained low and cold. Like the voice of death itself. Something had glared in Jones eyes. Something that told Mahoney that he was fucked. That this motherfucker was gonna cut him to ribbons if he didn't talk. He saw Jones grab a power drill.

"Shall we begin?" Jones said.

"Ok! Stop! Stop! I'll talk!"

"Good. So who supplies you?"

"I always talked to this one guy. Called himself 'John Smith'. White dude."

"A white man called John Smith. You're wasting my time."

"His fucking name don't matter, man!"

"Why?"

"Because that motherfucker was CIA!"

The big maniac looked at Mahoney. And blinked.

"What?" Jones said.

"That motherfucker is in the fuckin' CIA! How the fuck you think I made it this long in the business, never got a fuckin' parking ticket, huh? Never been busted or even charged. A lot of niggas like me get out on bail, our on technicalities. You know that. I ain't never been busted! Undercovers never lasted more than a day! How you think this is possible? The fuckin' CIA supplied me with the dope! And they protected me. Shit, nigga, I am THE MAN in DC! CIA made me the man! How much you wanna bet that there ain't as much as surveillance photos of me in any five-oh database? CIA are the biggest drug dealers in the country, man!"

IF THE SENTENCER HAD BEEN THE KIND OF MAN TO BE STAGGERED BY NEWS, this would have done it. He'd heard rumors of the Company being in bed with dope dealers in West Coast, but it would seem that it extended further than Jones would have imagined. And possibly that the millions made from this went to finance "coups"-the kind of coups that often ended in bloodshed and often put in place tyrants worse than whoever was overthrown. When would the Powers That Be learn that they are helping the wrong people? That those tyrants would not hesitate to bite the hand that fed them as soon as they got the chance? That those "puppets" were not beyond breaking their strings? Maybe if one of those maniacs, one of those CIA trained despots, detonated a nuke in a crowded American city, the Powers That Be might stop and maybe-maybe-actually re-think things.

But Jones was nothing if not a realist. As long as the people who suffered were far away from the Powers That Be and their interests, re-thinking things would not be on the agenda. And though Jones knew that as a member of Delta he's killed a lot of scum, it was always the "right" scum. He had no illusions about that either.

"What else can you tell me?" Jones asked Mahoney.

"I know what this Smith dude looks like."

"Go, and spare no detail."

Mahoney did. White man in his early 40s, dirty blonde hair, heavy smoker, no wedding ring.

"That's it, man, I swear to god, I don't know no more about that. I bought dope from the CIA."

"Thanks for you cooperation. You've earned yourself a quick death."

The Sentencer pulled his silenced HK 45 acp SOCOM pistol and shot Mahoney once in the head.

Fine, then.

It would seem that Luther Jones was going to war against the CIA.

Then the Sentencer heard helicopters. Was it a Company death squad? They somehow found-

Armoured vehicles crashed through the warehouse walls. Men were crashing through the skylights. Men in full body armour. And Jones knew. It was not a CIA death squad. It was worse.

Because Jones could never fire at these men.

A dozen men surrounded him, subguns aimed at him. Dozens mere were positioned around him, further away. On many vests he read "HRT"-Hostage Rescue Team.

Then a single silhouette walked towards him.

Keaton.

He walked. Casually towards the Sentencer. Looked at the dead Mahoney. Didn't seem to have much sympathy for the victim. And took off Mahoney's watch.

"You're a hard son of a bitch to track down." Keaton said.

"Not hard enough, it would seem."

"Hard enough. I don't know what Houdini shit you pulled there in the club, but I somehow felt that you'd pull something. This watch is actually a transmitter. A beacon. When we realized you were gone, we activated it."

"Smart."

"I think so too. A damn shame about this poor bastard. Oh, well."

Then Keaton's cold eyes bore into Jones'. There was no anger or even hostility, just cold, hard resolve.

"Luther Jones. You're under arrest."

It looked like The Sentencer's plans for the CIA would have to be postponed.