Blackstone presents

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT featuring THE SENTENCER

ACT FOUR

CIA HEADQUARTERS

Langley, Virginia

a month later

After the first couple of weeks of Jones showing not up on the radar, business went on as usual for Exodus Group. Satanic cults, modern-day mad scientists, ghouls and freaks of all kinds were part of the team's routine.

John Watkins once again had his crew in the conference room.

"Still no news about Jones, John?" Gellar asked.

"Nothing." Watkins said.

"We did hurt him bad last time, maybe he didn't make it." Perry said.

"He made it." Moreno said.

"You sound pretty sure of that", Walker said. "Almost like you know him."

"You saw the prison footage. You heard about how he broke out of Bastilles. You tangled with him twice. First time, he had us beat, second time he walked away from wounds that should have killed him. What's that say about him?" Moreno asked. "The guy is his war. The only way I'll ever be convinced he's dead is if I slice his head off and use 20 pounds of C-4 to blow his dead body up."

"Aren't you pushing it, just a little?" Robbins said.

"Yeah, man." Gibb said." Brother's bad, but he ain't the Terminator. He can die. He just a dude, man."

"Just a dude, Vinny?" Moreno said. "Just a dude that's wiped out entire crime syndicates, that's eradicated street gangs and militias, on his own. 'Just a dude'. It's been said about other guys. Guys we've worked with. Remember Winston Mitchell? He's just a guy. Mention his name to any street punk anywhere on this planet, just say 'The Wolf is coming for you', guaranteed he'll crap his pants. He's been on his own a long time before forming the DOGs, taking care of business and working overtime. Guys like that are flesh and blood, sure, but they're a bit more than 'just dudes'. And the sooner we realize that, the sooner we stop underestimating Jones, the sooner we realize he's the most dangerous earthly threat we've ever faced, the closer we'll get to nailing him."

There was a short silence. This wasn't the Moreno they were used to, the one that always had an x-rated wisecrack for each circumstance. There was a determination and a certainty in his voice as cold and hard as the steel from his sword. Gellar decided not to take it lightly and nodded respectfully.

"Any ideas what his next move might be?" Watkins asked.

"Something crazy and unexpected." Moreno said.

"Okay. "Watkins said. "Moreno sounds reasonable for once, I think we should take it seriously. Now, we do have a lot on our plates, so let's get to it. Werewolves."

"Werewolves? Goody" Perry said, and then turned to Robbins. "I'll skin one for ya and make you a nice coat."

"Thank you so much, Pumpkin." Robbins said, batting her eye-lashes.

"Nothing's too good for you, honey-bunny." Perry said.

"Lord, give me the strength to survive this cuteness." Gibb said, with mock-despair.

Moreno stuck a finger in his throat, faking the sound of gagging and vomiting.

Gellar had a fleeting thought for Christine. And John smiled.

"Ok, guys, let's get down to business. We have reason to-"

Suddenly, an air duct grille was knocked off and two can-sized metallic objects landed on the conference table. And two more followed. And two more after that. And then two more.

"Flash-bangs!" Gellar shouted.

Exodus ducked and all had the reflexes to cover their eyes and ears and keep their mouths open and teeth apart. The first four canisters were indeed flash bangs, and it felt like nuclear attack had taken place in the conference room. The world became loud and white for all those present. The last four were CS canisters. Clouds of tear gas smoke engulfed the entire room.

MAKING SURE HIS GAS MASK WAS ON TIGHT, THE SENTENCER JUMPED from the air duct and landed on the table, his powerful legs absorbing the impact. He still felt the sting from last month's wounds, but had to lock away the pain.

Breaking into CIA headquarters had been relatively easy. Thanks to the computer wizardry of his ex-MI-6, now NYC P.I ally, William Leopold Collins, he managed to get fake credentials as a member of the maintenance crew. Will had done and outstanding job making 'Lester Johnson' part of the company that cleaned up Langley. Smuggling in what he needed to smuggle in had not been that difficult after that.

Luther Jones had to work quickly. He could hear the members of Exodus Team coughing and gagging and vomiting. That was after having been hit with the stun grenades. It was unpleasant, but non-lethal. Jones was not sure if these soldiers were merely a death-squad, or the "law", the same way the DOGs were. So he would have to settle for non-lethal neutralization for now. Time will tell him if it was a mistake or not.

The conference room looked like a disaster area. This being CIA HQ, such a security would get noticed sooner or later.

Ok, Jones told himself, walking on the table, grab Watkins and get out of here. Watkins would lead Jones to whoever in the CIA was pushing drugs on the streets.

He felt a hand grab his ankle. It was the big sniper, Luis Walker. Blind, deaf and choking, he still wanted to put up a fight. The tip of Jones steel toe boot connected with Walker's chin and sent him against a wall. The back of his skull hit hard and he slumped to the ground.

Jones sensed movement behind him, something slashed the air, something sharp. Jones moved and and felt the graze from a blade weapon. A sword.

Moreno.

The ninja-trained Green Beret was standing, barely phazed by the attack.

No, not ninja, Jones corrected himself, watching the stance and the chinese style sword. Worse, far worse.

Lin Kuei. An ancient and deadly cult of Chinese assassins. Like most martial artists, they had a very high threshold for pain and abuse, but also an unique skill. Immunity to toxins. It's been said that they had their resistance built up early in their training by being regurlay bittien by poisonous snakes, spiders, by eating poisonous plants. Small doses at a time. Fighting off tear gas was not much of a big deal for someone who was immuned to the world's deadliest poisons.

"Ok, big guy."Moreno said. "Alone at last."

Jones pulled out his twin 13 1/4 Tanto short swords. Moreno coughed a bit and smiled, his eyes gleaming dangeously through the smoke.

"Let's dance." Moreno said.

Moreno lept and attacked. Steel met steel, Jones blocking Moreno's strikes. Moreno was fast, faster than the eye could see, but Jones trained body was moving on it's own accord, barely needing his senses, blocking, parrying, striking, up, down, sideways and around. Jones was a better knife fighter than swordsman. He was doing better with two short blades that he would be doing with a katana.

The two modern day gladiators were in a duel to the death in the smoke filled coneference room. There was much at stake for both men.

At one point, Jones had Moreno's sword caught between his twin Tantos and the tip of his right foot connected with Moreno's temple. Moreno absorbed the hit, freed his sword, went for a wide slash that would have cut Jones's legs in half at the knees had Jones not lept over the swing, but left Jones open for a second for him to strike with a leaping side-kick while Jones was still in the air. The unexpected blow knocked the wind out of Jones and put him on his back, on the table. Moreno jumped, reading to drive his sword through Jones' chest, like a man drving a stake through a vampire's heart. Jones rolled backwards, and the tip of Moreno's sword went into the table's hard wood. He stepped back as Jones flipped back to his feet. Each was in an almost photogenic stance, pausing silently, as if to ackowledge the other man's skill, and sending him silent respect.

But this wasn't an exhibition, this was combat.

This was war.

Jones had to win. Period.

And again, both men lept at each other, blades slashing through the air, steel met steel again, sometimes catching cloth, sometimes flesh, but never deeply enough for the duel to stop.

Then Moreno went inside of Jones defenses, and cut one of the Sentencer's wrists making him drop his right blade. The hit was designed to slice Jones' hand off, but reflexes saved him from amputation. Then Moreno knocked the other blade out of Jones hands, and a split second later connected with a spinning heel kick to Jones' temple, followed by a roundhouse on the same spot, then planted the sword in the table, using it as a crutch and both his boot soles connected with Jones face, then, still holding his sword perpendicular to the ground, spread his legs open and both his feet clapsed on Jones' ears, then, still holding sword and using as a crutch, he folded his legs and both his boot soles connected with Jones' face once more, knocking him down on top of the table, on his back. Jones was shaking his head. On all fours.

"I'll give you all the credit in the world, Jones. You put up a hell of a fight. Very few people can survive a blade fight with me."Moreno said. "And you gave us a run for our money. You are the toughest fucker I know. Believe me when I say I will hate doing this. But I have a job to do." Moreno said, raising his sword for a decapitation.

"So do I." Jones said.

And he drew the silenced 45 acp HK SOCOM and emptied the big autoloader's mag into Moreno's center of mass. Moreno's body armor absorbed the rounds, and though hurt, his ribs possibly shattered, he still didn't go down. Jones didn't waste time gaping slack-jawed, and drew the massive 50 AE Desert Eagle and pistol whipped Moreno on the temple, putting everything he had in the blow, and finally after six flash bangs, a lungful of tear gas, a chest full of 45. acp hollowpoints and a vicious pistol whipping stroke, Moreno went down.

Holding both his pistols, satnding over the fallen warrior, Jones exhaled under his gas mask. Breaking into Langley CIA had been the EASY part. Now, to have a private talk with Watkins.

JOHN WATKINS WOKE UP WITH A START, COUGHING AND GAGGING AS A bucket of ice could water snatched him out of unconsciousness. He was tied to a chair.

"Wake up, mister Watkins." A voice even colder that bucket ful of ice water said. "Before you ask, you are currently in an abandonned warehouse. There's an amazing number of those in this country. I find them quite useful."

"Stop fucking around, Jones."Watkins said. "Anything happens to me, you're dead."

"I've been dead a long time, Mr. Watkins". Jones answered. "As for you, it all depends on what you have to tell me."

"About what?"

"About who sent Exodus after me."

"I did."

"I know, but the orders came from higher up. Who was it?"

Watkins let out a short, bitter laugh. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

"Funny."

"Wasn't a joke, tough guy. I don't have to tell you shit. I work for the government. You're a criminal. I was asked to shut you down. End of story. You're not getting anything more outta me, so might as well break out the torture kit. But I"m telling right off the bat. That would be a mistake. You do that, Exodus will come after you and will hunt you down and kill you like a fuckin' animal. And killing me would almost be like killing that cop Keaton."

"Except for one thing, Keaton doesn't work from drug dealing scum like you do."

Watkins blinked. "What?"

"This whole thing started with me going after drug dealers in DC. Before I killed him, Meldrick Mahoney told me that the Company was supplying him with drugs. Considering the circumstances in which he told me, and the fact that it was to big a statement to have been a lie, I believed him. I was arrested and jailed, and after I break out, I face Exodus, a company operated black-ops team. What were you ordered to do, termination with extreme prejudice?"

"Yeah. Oh, shit."

Something had been nagging at Watkins from the beginning. Jones was a criminal and a fugitive, but what could have done to set the Company off? All he did was rid the world of a few drug dealers. Watkins had dismissed that question, figuring it was Jones was a particularly elusive target and needed extra-muscle. But it was more...

"Usually, the Company doesn't deal with fugitives like me. FBI, US Marshals take care of that. Unless someone told you I was a threat to American interests or something along those lines."

"Something like that." Watkins said. He should have figured something was wrong when it wasn't the Justice Department that asked for his help, but someone high-up in the Company. That fucking Anderson bastard. Watkins never should have trusted him.

Watkins had sent Exodus to protect drug dealers from this man.

"I'm a killer and a fugitive Watkins, so I'm possibly not the most credible person around. If someone told you to take me out because I'm a killer and fugitive, fine. As far as anything else goes, I give you my word: the only people threatened by my actions were drug dealers and anyone who had something to gain from dealing drugs. I never set out to attack any of this country's interests or institutions. I give you my word. I followed a lead. It led to me to the Company."

Watkins' heat sank. The CIA had always been into dirty tricks, but flooding the streets of America with drugs, feeding murder and despair in the country's inner cities...Watkins had heard rumours about that, but never had any evidence, otherwise he would have eliminated the bastards himself. Watkins felt ill. That drug money was probably to set up coups against regimes that didn't serve the Company's interest. A private war chest, a fortune built on slaughter to fund slaughter.

"Untie me, Jones. I won't give you any trouble." Watkins said, his voice dead. He was depressed.

Jones hesitated, and untied his prisoner. His eyes weren't as cold anymore. There almost seemed to be sympathy in those eyes.

"Guys like you usually hate guys like me." Watkins said. "I can't say I blame you. We lie and cheat and deny. We manipulate. But I always did what I did for my country, to make the world a better place for decent people anywhere. I want all of America and all Americans to be safe, no matter who they are and where they live. Sounds cheesy, sounds like bullshit, I know, but decades of dirty spook tricks haven't changed that in me. I really never gave a shit about politics. I just wanted to help. I set up Exodus for that. To make the world a safer place. They are some of the best people I've ever met. Not just soldiers, people. And every time I see them, I feel like there's hope for good in this goddamn world. I swear to Christ, Jones. If I had any idea the people who called on me had anything to do with drug dealing, I would have told them to go fuck themselves."

"I believe you."

"Neal Anderson is the guy you're looking for. The guy's been in the Company forever, in black-ops. His specialty seemed to be destabilizing foreign countries' governments. He's been doing that for the past quarter century. Sometimes he was backed by Congress, sometimes not, according to rumours. Where he got the funding for those kinds of ops was a mystery. Not anymore, I guess. He came to me. He told me you were a terrorist and all that crap. I bought it. This is the truth."

"I believe you." Jones said again.

Watkins nodded. "I give you my word, I'm calling off Exodus. And I'll tell you all you need to know about Anderson." Watkins said with grim determination.

TWO DAYS LATER

WASHINGTON, D.C.

BUSINESS SKYSCARPER,DOWNTOWN

Martin Hampton was in the conference room, having a smoke, and looking at the other members of this coalition. Five of them in all. Hampton felt like a member of La Commissione. Or a villain in a super-spy movie. The dark smoke filled room, filled with grim faced men with nefarious purposes.

Good and evil were abstractions. There was no good or bad. There was weak and strong. Rich and poor. Alive and dead. Powerful and helpless. Those were rock hard, concrete dichotomies. Very little room in Hampton's world for ethics. Results spoke louder than morality. Utilitarianism was Hampton's religion: the ends justified the means when it came to fighting for the greater good, and, besides his own personal greed, Hampton was fighting for the greater good. To keep America on top of the food chain on the planet. There was always gonna be despots and tyrants around the world, might as well have despots and tyrants that shared some of the country's views. And when they did, and maintained those views, this little coalition was all too happy to help eradicate so-called "freedom fighters" or "revolutionaries" that annoyed them. If not, if the regimes started going stray, this Coalition would fund the other side.

Chile in 1970s. Nicaragua after that. And countless other regimes have been made thanks that little doctrine. Some of those guys may have been bastards and lunatics, but like the saying went, "they may be crooks, but they are OUR crooks."

For that, lots of money was needed.

Enter the drug dealers, mobsters, gangbangers, and the like. By supplying the pushers with product, the money was really flowing in.

Free enterprise, serving America's interests.

Where was Neal? He'd called this meeting and it wasn't like him to be late. Unless he was choking on some natural food, or od-ing on Ginseng, or some shit.

Soon, Anderson walked in.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen." He said.

"Stretched a muscle doing Yoga?" Hampton cracked wise.

"I don't find that amusing." Anderson said dryly.

"I do. And it doesn't seem to be working. you look kinda stressed. Any bad news."

"No, no, nothing at all." Anderson said.

"So what's this meeting about?" Hampton said.

"All of you have brought reports of your progress with our partners?" Anderson asked.

"In DC, cash is coming in steadily and abundantly." Hampton said.

"New York is the same." Another man said. "Triads and Russian mafia are happy and making us happy. And so are the inner city people."

"Ironic that we would get help from Chinamen and Russians in this venture." Anderson said. "Anything else?"

"Coast is clear on the West Coast. Smooth sailing." Another one said.

"Only heat down south comes from the sun." Another said.

"How poetic. "Anderson said." And Florida?"

"Ditto." Another man said.

"You could have tried a metaphor or something." Anderson said.

"I didn't think this was a poetry reading." T he man replied.

"It isn't but even in business meetings such as these, a little style in your speech helps make it less tedious." Anderson said.

"I'll come up with some material for next time." The man said.

"Good." Anderson said. "Now, next order of business."

That was when the office doors was blown to pieces. Hampton saw Neal duck under the table, as the blast shook the whole room, sending splinters and smoke inside. What the fuck-

"Oh, shit..."Hampton whispered.

Through the dust and smoke, Hampton recognized the tall, muscular man in black. His silhouette almost seemed to fill out the entire doorway. The man's skin color was barely half a shade lighter than his fatigues and trench coat, and he was holding a very serious looking M-16/M-203 combo in his hands, with a 90 round drum mag. He moved effortlessly, almost gracefully. His eyes were as cold as death itself. No, his eyes were death.

"Meeting adjourned." said a bass-filled, ice-cold voice.

It was him. The Sentencer. Here. How-

Anderson.

"Anderson, you fuck! You sold us out!" Hampton said.

"He promised not to kill me if I cooperated with him! I had no choice!" Anderson almost looked like he was going to cry.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" Hampton bellowed. "He's gonna fuckin' kill you anyway! He's not the FBI! He doesn't cut deals! You dumb fuckin' new age freak! You fucked everything up!"

"He already knew it all, you arrogant bastard! "Anderson shouted. "How the hell would he have know I was involved?"

"I'll tell you this much," Jones said. "You guys won't have any answers in your lifetime. Goodbye."

"Wait!" Hampton said. "Do you even know what we're doing here?"

"Yes, you're dealing drugs." Jones said.

"You goddamn simpleton! It's so much more than that! If you had brain, you'd figure out that we're fighting for what's best for this country! Fuck the war on drugs, that was a bullshit cause for feds to get funding and for politicians to stay in power with bullshit promises! The cold war is still alive, and we gotta make sure we still run the show! We can't let those bastards build back the wall and the curtain. The world is a goddamn chess board, Jones, and we have to keep winning and keeping our enemies down." Hampton said.

"For that, you're selling drugs, to fund what, coups, so you can have puppet-tyrants that do your bidding? You're spreading murder and misery here so you can plant it elsewhere." Jones said.

"Oh, please, Jones, grow the fuck up! The war on drugs, human rights, it sounds good in a sound bite, but the real world is more complex than that. America needs-"

IT TOOK EVERY BIT OF DISCIPLINE JONES COULD MUSTER TO CONTROL his rage. His hands were tightening on his weapon. So much that he was actually under the delusion that he might break it.

"Shut up." Jones said." Shut. Up. I'm sick and tired of hearing SCUM like you use perverted versions of patriotism when all they give a DAMN about is their power and money. All of you hear are leeches. Parasites. Greedy bastards. I've had it with men like you. You are worse than any street dealer, because you hide behind ideals. Ideals that you soil every time you use those words. I'm sick of people who are willing to sacrifice hundreds, thousands, millions of people to drugs and violence because of what you believe to be the greater good. I heard this crap from Neo-nazis, you are no better. So I will kill you , and anyone who takes your place, and everyone who takes their place, until you and your kind are wiped from the face of this planet."

"Jones, wait-"The man said.

"Shut up and die." Jones spat.

His teeth grit behind his closed mouth, Jones swept the entire conference room, except for Anderson. and he watched insides explode, heads burst, limbs being torn off, and did not stop until the 90 round drum and the cold rage in his soul, were spent. Afterwards there was not a sound, except the whimpering, cowardly, sickening sounds of Neal Anderson. And Jones' rage was replaced by a cold emptiness. As it was often the case. Anderson stood up.

"I wore your bug...I set up the meeting...I did everything you told me." Anderson said. "Can I go, now?"

"No." Jones said.

"But you promised-"Anderson said.

"I said I wouldn't kill you, Anderson. But you're not going anywhere."

"What? But-but-"Anderson said.

Then a second man entered the room. Armed. But he wasn't a threat to Jones.

"Oh, God..."Anderson said.

"Hello, Neal." John Watkins said, holding a SPAS-12 automatic shotgun.

"John...I..."

A shotgun blast resounded, destroying both of Anderson's legs, he screamed in pain.

"You perverted everything I believed in. You had me risk the lives of my people-Exodus-just so this guy could stop you from spreading poison in our streets."

"Aaaaaaaaah-God-aaaaaaaaah!"

"Yeah, you can pray to God, you bastard, pray that he forgives you, 'cause I sure as shit won't."

"Noo...John... please..."

"I'll see you in Hell, you sorry motherfucker."

"Nooo-"

The shredder round disintegrated Anderson's head, but Watkins kept his finger on the trigger wanting to completely destroy Anderson. And soon, there was barely anything left of him.

There was a heavy silence, as deafening as the sound of chaos and carnage a moment before. The only survivors still standing said nothing for several long seconds. Watkins went over to one of the blood soaked dossiers and flipped through it.

"I have friends in the DEA who would love this." Watkins said.

Jones nodded.

"We're done here." Jones said.

"Yeah. We're even."

"Good."

Jones was walking away.

"But Jones..."Watkins said.

Jones stopped.

"I find out you really turn terrorist, that you go against people you're not supposed to. I'm coming after you. And what we did today won't change a goddamn thing."

"Fair enough." Jones said. And he left.

This may have been one of the Sentencer's more hellish campaigns, but it did nothing but confirm his cold resolve to fight the War, wherever it took him, and kill whoever had to be killed. And bring judgement to the scum. Until one day Keaton, or Watkins, or anybody brought him Judgement.

Until, that day, the war would be on.

And The Guilty Will Be Sentenced.

the end