THE DOGs/THE SENTENCER

PART ONE: THE LULL BEFORE...

Fort Lauderdale, Florida
12:23 pm
Cemetery

Winston and Tiffany Mitchell were standing at the grave of Jeanette Mitchell. A casualty in the never-ending war between good and evil, whose exemplary life, dedicated to do good, to give hope to a lost, oft orphaned youth was lost because of hate and senseless savagery.

"I still miss her,dad." Said Tiffany, her voice carrying sadness but also strength. And Winston Mitchell, the man, the father, not the fearsome warrior and slayer of evil men, The Wolf, felt another surge of pride when looking at his daughter.

"Yes" ,he said, "So do I. I am sure she is proud of you wherever she is."

She leaned her head on her father's shoulder, and put her hand in his. For the millionth time, she was surprised at how even now, that she was a fully grown woman, he held her delicately, as if she were as breakable as her namesake.

Winston himself could not think of Jeanette without thinking of all the good people he had seen die over the years. The most recent being Jillian Magnusson. A woman who fought hard for her own redemption
and that of others woman reduced to be nothing more than sex toys for morally challenged, horny beast-men.

But he soon chased the grim thoughts away. The next few days would be for him and Tiffany. Good times, carefree days...The things that kept Winston Mitchell from becoming completely insane.

Him and the other DOGs.

Lisa and Kyle were on a "honeymoon" trip, in the Bahamas, and then there were Peter and Roland, who called themselves "the Azrael and Nightwing to your Batman". Of course, Kyle was Robin, Lisa was the new Batgirl and Karin Davilla was Oracle. Whatever that meant. Rock and Rolls were in New York enjoying a Richard Roundtree/Ron O'Neal/Pam Grier film festival.

Yes, the DOGs were enjoying just being normal human beings.

"Let's go," Tiffany said," I feel like a banana split with GALLONS of chocolate fudge."

Winston smiled. It was good to be normal.

"Sure, Pumpkin," he said.

" 'Pumpkin'? You haven't called me that since-"

"Don't say it. Your old man feels old enough as it is."

"Daddy, you will never be old to me."

Winston just smiled and kissed Tiffany on her soft forehead.

They went to the car and drove off.

Minutes later, as they were on their way to a Ben and Gerry's, they both turned towards screams.

Three punks, on rollerblades had snatched three purses, an elderly lady was pushed down as they sped away. They were bowling down several pedestrians down and were heading towards Mitchell
and daughter. Winner sighed and shook his head.

"Daddy..."Tiffany said, reading her father's mind.

"This will only be a minute, cupcake."

"Be careful, daddy."

"As always." And he kissed her on the cheek.

Tiffany went to look after the fallen lady, as the three thugs were laughing like jackals.

Mitchell knew he had to do something. Using a .357 mag on a crowded street was out of the question.

Think, old man, what?

Someone was sweeping their storefront with a broom. An old man gaping at the three upcoming punks.

Mitchell snatched the broom from his hands.

"Sorry, sir. I will return this to you promptly." He offered.

He quickly separated the brush from the stick.

There were two coming his way.

He somersaulted, rolled on the ground and held his stick parallel to the ground, his two fists close to the middle as he leapt forward, using his roll as momentum, each side of his stick at their chest level.

Two pairs of "bladed" feet went upwards and The Wolf landed on his feet in a crouch, as the two thieves fell hard on their backs.

No time to gloat, Winner told himself as he ran straight for number three, planted his broom stick in a crack in the sidewalk.

Pedestrians and spectators watched in awe as the blonde wraith was propelled in the air, like an Olympic high jumper.

"Holy fuck!" the kid swore before 200 pounds of Winston Mitchell crashed in his chest, feet first. The impact propelled him backwards, helmet protected head first into a fire hydrant. The impact still sounded ugly.

"That is what you get for snatching purses..."Mitchell told the moaning thug. He then planted a foot in the exposed groin. "That was for cursing in front of my daughter."

Mitchell handed the broomstick back to its owner.

"Thank you, sir. They don't make broomstick like these anymore."

The man just nodded, seemingly about to trip in his lower jaw.

The crowd gave Mitchell a nice round of applause. Including his daughter.

"Wow." she said.

"The broom is mightier than the sword." Mitchell said solemnly. "I think I will go for a milkshake. I am thirsty. I actually broke a sweat. Must be getting old."

"It's just the heat. The milkshake is on me, dark knight."

"Much obliged, sweet child of mine."

AFTER "SPECIAL AGENT MICHAEL WOLFE, of the Justice department" explained the situation to the police, he and Tiffany resumed spending an ideal Sunday afternoon filled with millions of calories and good memories. The stuff that made life worth living.

Finally, they made it back home, exhausted, but happy, truly a rare feeling for Winston Mitchell, who spent most of his time knee-deep in blood.

At nightfall, as they were watching movies back home, she fell asleep against his shoulder. He gently picked her up and put her in her bed and tucked her in. Her face was childlike and angelic, sending Winston back to the day she was born. He felt his eyes filling up. He kissed her on the forehead.

"Sweet dreams, Tiffany."

Winston went to her guest room. And before his head even hit the pillow, he already knew his dreams would not be sweet, but salty and bitter.

Like blood.

Monday
8:00 pm
The streets

In a deserted playground, Tiffany Mitchell was trying to save a life.

"Listen, Maurice," Tiffany was telling a chubby, 14-year old Black boy, "Believe me, I know what it feels like to lose things and people you care about. But I am telling you, joining the Crips won't give you back what you have lost."

"Well, Miss Mitchell, isslikedis...When someone messwityou, and you got no one to watch yo' back, you do whatchoogottado to survive out here, you know? I mean as long as I roll with my set, nobody will mess with me, stealing my lunch money, messin' with my gear, calling me names, y'understand?"

"Maurice. I won't bullshit you. Life is hard, nothing like those stupid afterschool specials. I know that. And when you are being pushed around, it's natural to look for someone big and tough to protect you, but the Crips do bad things. And you could end up being killed. That is no joke."

"Yeah, Mo" a new voice said, "lissen to nice White lady, she definitely knows what she talkin' about."

Tiffany turned to see about half a dozen men, young men, barely voting age, wearing nice gang colors.

"Hi there, Miss Tiffany," the leader of this pack said "You come to save us po' dum' people o' color?"

Tiffany knew this routine by heart. She had heard it often enough that it no longer offended her. But she found it annoying.

"I wouldn't waste my time with you, 2-Loc,"Tiff spat back with defiance, "You are beyond hope. But I want you to leave Maurice alone."

2-Loc, Loc short for Loco, as in "crazy". He was not much older than Maurice when he started "rolling" with the Crips. Drugs, assault, probably murder, if Tiffany read him right. He was about 5'10, 170, short dreads, light brown complexion. A good looking kid considering he was a monster.

"Sheeee-it", 2-Loc said, "If the white lady say it, I guess I oughta do it."

"Cut the bullshit" Tiffany said, for a split second wondering what her father would think of her using such language, "He is just a kid. I just want what's best-"

"What's best? What's best!?! "2-Loc shouted in disbelief." How the fuck would you know what is best for him, or any of us here!? Who the fuck do you think you are, you snotty white bitch! What the fuck would be best, huh! Make him believe that life is like the motherfuckin' Cosby Show?! Or maybe, like
Different Strokes!? "

"Anything is better than dying in a fucking alley shot down like a dog for no GODDAMN good reason!" Tiffany screamed back, furious, that infamous Mitchell temper kicking in. "I offer him hope, you offer him death!"

"Yeah, well, better a short life in reality than a long life in illusion,"2-Loc said. "So, you get the fuck outta here, bitch. And leave Mo with his people."

Maurice himself was living a terrible inner tug of wars. He liked Tiffany a lot, and believed her to be sincere, but the Crips gave him safety, and a kind of family he really did not have. And the Crips were from around here, they knew what was up.

Tiffany saw the dilemma. She was not about to give up.

"Maurice," she said," please, think about this. Think hard. Think of your mother."

Maurice's mother was nice, but too busy with his younger brothers to take care of him. And besides, with the Crips, he could make the money to help her out. At the same time, be his own man.

That was what it was about. Being a man.

Like 2-Loc.

Maurice walked towards the pack of Crips.

"Sorry Miss Mitchell" he said "I ain't got no choice."

Heartbroken, her eyes about to burst with tears, Tiffany tried again.

"Maurice...Don't..."

"Thassenuff of you fuckin' wit' our business." 2-Loc said. "Teach her to butt out, brothers."

Maurice was about to protest, but was smacked hard behind the head.

Four of the Crips approached Tiffany...their eyes filled with evil intentions.

"Yo," one of them said, "I think I got Jungle Fever."

All of them laughed. Except Tiffany who pulled a nickel plated .380 Sig Saur.

"Yo, looks like the little kitty got claws. She know how to use them?"2-Loc taunted.

"This little kitty was taught how by a Wolf." Tiffany said. "Stand back."

She was walking backwards as she held the pistol rock steady. Until she tripped and fell backwards. And lost the pistol during her fall. And the four gangabgers were on her like Vultures. She was fighting
and cursing them vilely, but, the numbers were against her. They had her pinned down. And started tugging at her clothes.

Then, suddenly, and inexplicably, the two that were holding her legs were pulled away with incredible force. Then she saw a huge combat boot hit one of the last two under the chin with the impact of a football
field goal. An ugly cracking sound filled the air as the foot connected and the young 'banger flew back.

Tiffany was dazed and confused but saw a large silhouette, briefly, from her prone position. She thought it was Dad. But quickly revised her opinion. Dad was a big guy, but this one was... From where she was, the man looked as big as Epcot center.

The last one, who was about the same size as 2-Loc, was picked up in the air like a rag doll and tossed, upside down, against the back of a bench. Something snapped upon contact. It was not the back of the
bench.

Tiffany regained her senses enough to sit up and see that 2-Loc and his buddy were lying on the ground motionless. Maurice was gone.

The big, dark man was facing the two gangbangers he had pulled off Tiffany. His long Black coat was flapping in the breeze.

He must have disarmed them at one point, otherwise, they would have pulled out on him.

They both jumped him at the same time. He grabbed the one on the left by the neck, while punching the other one flush on the nose. He reeled his fist back and punched him again in the solar plexus, still holding the other thug by the neck, and, judging by the expression on that one's face, squeezing tightly. The Dark Goliath then grabbed the one he was pummelling, one handed, by the shirt, yanked him up straight and thrusted him, head first into a lamppost.

Then, the giant pushed the "choke victim" against the lamppost, and lifted him off the ground.

And he spoke. His voice was deep, somewhere between James Earl Jones and Keith David. With the combined menace of Spawn AND Darth Vader.

"Listen to me closely, punk, I will only say it once. Your days of bullying women and children are over. Judgement is coming, and Hell is coming with it. Make sure you pass it along to anyone that will listen. You got that?"

The gang kid only nodded as much as the vise-like grip could allow him to. Then his eyes widened as circulation and air were being cut off. He struggled for a while and then passed out. The big man finally let go and let the boy drop, limply, on the ground. He pulled the unconscious kid's jacket off.

Tiffany had stood up and got her pistol back. And watched as her "saviour" calmly walked towards her. She felt her heart race slightly as the large, graceful, obsidian colossus seemed to glide across
the ground that separated them, his dark brown eyes boring into hers. He seemed to be moving with the quiet strength and confidence of a jungle cat, his muscular bulk not in the way at all. Being Winston Mitchell's daughter, she was not easily impressed. This man succeeded. She caught herself dusting
her clothes and wondering if her long red hair was a mess...

"All you OK, Miss?" he asked. The menace in his voice was gone. There was concern, almost warmth now.

"Yes, "she said, looking up at the human tower before her. At 5'10, she felt dwarfed by this..mountain..

He put the "borrowed" jacket across her shoulders.

"Thank you" she said. She did not recognize her voice. It seemed smallish, awe struck.

"You showed courage" he said, respectfully, with a pinch of admiration.

"Oh...It's more genetics, than anything else, you know..."

"I am sorry?"

"Never mind, Mister Jones."

"Ah. You know who I am."

"Yes, Luther Jones, The Sentencer, outlaw vigilante...and rescuer of maidens. "

"Lovely maidens" he said.

Tiffany blushed. And he said:

"And you are Tiffany Mitchell, dedicated, pistol packing social worker."

She smiled. "So we are not strangers."

"No."

"I don't know about you, but I could use some hot cocoa. Would you care to join me?"

Then sirens filled the air. Possible the screaming and shouting alerted someone.

"Not tonight I am afraid" Jones said with genuine sorrow.

"Oh, well, another time, maybe?"

"Maybe."

His lips curved into something that could have been a smile, and he turned around and disappeared in the darkness.

She pulled the jacket on tighter. She sat down on the bench, as the patrol cars closed in. She thought about the big man for a moment, and the undeniable effect he had on her. And then her heart got heavy as she thought of Maurice. She had tried. And failed. And it could cost the boy his life. She shut her eyes as one single tear rolled down her cheek, feeling pain and guilt fall hard on her.

A VERY CONCERNED AND GUILT-RIDDEN Winston Mitchell came to pick up his daughter at the station house. He had done nothing all day. He trained at the gym, did some target shooting...
nothing that could not have waited. If only-

"I am OK, daddy. Really, I am." She told him once in the car.

"Are you sure?" He asked. He caught a glimpse at her missing pinkie, and guilt and rage washed over him like a tidal wave. He remembered what she had been through with Honeywell, The Cadre, the Shakas. Neo-fascists (led by a man named Honeywell) using Black gangs (the Shakas, once a huge crime syndicate) to stir up a nationwide race war. ..If anything like that ever happened again...

"Daddy, I am fine. I promise."

"Tell me about...him."

"Daddy, it was incredible to watch him kick a-uh, fight. "She caught herself. "He was quick and strong, but also..., it seemed so easy to take out six guys like that. No effort. It was amazing..."

"So you were impressed by his skill ?"

She could not really say that. She had seen plenty of violence, and was in the presence of the ultimate warrior. But, it was the afterwards...his demeanour, the total absence of swagger and macho posturing, his eyes, calm but piercing, his voice, deep and penetrating...and something less tangible...She could not
say what...

When Tiffany did not answer, Winston called her: "Pumpkin ?..."

"Oh, sorry, dad."

"I am not leaving your side from now on. I will shadow you and-"

"No, you won't." Tiffany said, and Winston recognized Jeanette's genes in action in her determination.

"Tiffany..."

"Daddy, what almost happened tonight would have been awful, but I have accepted that as an...occupational hazard. I work on the streets, and bad things happen on the streets."

"Maybe you could work in a more controlled-"

"Daddy, what if I asked you to work your job out of an office? Sending others on the field, while your were safe and comfy...a bureaucrat?"

Winston was silent for a while. She knew the answer.

"That's what I thought." she said. "Deep down, part of me would just wish you did that, sending others to kill and die. I would see you more, worry less about you...But that is not who you are. You need to be out there, you need to do your part, because you care enough and you are good enough to do it. And you accept the risks and face them. Now, you understand why I have to be out there, on the field?"

Though he was concerned about his daughter's well being, he felt, again, a surge of pride at her courage and dedication. He smiled warmly at his child and she smiled back.

"I understand, sweetheart" he said.

"Thanks, dad".

"Now, what more can you tell me about this boy, Luther. Does he have a steady job ?Is he going to school? What kind of car does he drive? When do I get to meet him?"

"Oh, dad!" Tiffany said laughing. No, she definitely did not have a prime time sitcom dad. Nor would she want one.

And as for Luther...Time would tell.

STANDING ON THE ROOFTOP opposite the station house, Luther Jones watched Tiffany Mitchell walk out with the tall Blonde, steely-eyed man, looking through binoculars, his long black coat flapping
in the wind.

The Sentencer realized who it was. The Wolf. Winston Mitchell. Tiffany Mitchell was his only living relative since Rome in 1978. Of course, after setting Italy on fire, he "died". But there had been
rumours in the Specops that he was working in a spook unit, doing what he did best, and better than anyone Jones could think of.

All of those rumours had been true.

There were many similarities between The Wolf and The Sentencer, between Mitchell and Jones.

But Mitchell had his daughter. Tiffany. He was probably the proudest man on earth, being father to such a passionate, brave and beautiful young woman.

Very beautiful. He remembered her long red hair, flying in the breeze, her eyes...He could read kindness and selflessness...and caring...He genuinely wanted to go have cocoa with her. Whatever humanity was left in Jones was not indifferent to her. But, he knew it could not be.

Wherever The Sentencer went, death followed. He was a fugitive and has made a lot of enemies. If he let anyone get close, friend...or otherwise, they could get in harm's way. As gutsy as she was, as handy as she was with an automatic, Jones could never risk that. And there was her father...

If Jones was religious man, he would have considered thinking that his punishment for choosing his war was this forced solitude. That meaning giving up what most people spent their life looking for.

Happiness.

But, though it was heavy, Jones was willing to pay that price if it meant hunting predators and sometimes...helping people.

Like Tiffany Mitchell.

He shut his eyes, sighed, and walked way from the ledge.

He let his mind go back to business.

He had arrived in Ft Lauderdale a few days ago, to snuff out the gang problem before it became an epidemic like in L.A. or Chicago.

After the...unpleasantness here, months ago, with The Shakas, many have tried to fill the void left by that carnage-now that he thought about it, he remembered hearing that Jeanette Mitchell had died during that time. The Wolf probably had something to do with the elimination of many of The Shakas afterwards-the Crips, who were becoming a nationwide organization, were slowly taking over. Though not nearly as organized as the Shakas, they were many and ruthless. And they had to be stopped.

The Wolf could enjoy his vacation. The Sentencer was on the job.

MEANWHILE, AT AN abandoned factory in the inner city, several dozen Crips were hanging out, listening to Rap music. Some smoking "blunts", other drinking "forties", other just lounging around
trading stories, real or not with their "homies"...For many of these young men, this was home. Complete with a "big brother".

"What the fuck did you just motherfuckin' say, motherfucker!!??" screamed Nitro, the leader of the Fort Lauderdale Crips to one of his cronies.

"2-Loc and his crew got jacked up while they was roustin' that Mitchell bitch", said Fly-Boy, on of his "lieutenants", "She was trying to 'save' that little fat-ass Maurice kid. Now, I heard that he and Shaggs got
they necks snapped, T-Bone got his back broke, and the other three-"

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Nitro screamed. "We gotta teach that bitch to stay the fuck outta our business! And I know how..."

The next day
Noon

TIFFANY WAS WORKING at her mother's old desk, in the same window front office Jeanette Mitchell had dedicated her life to helping people that many considered hopeless...or not worth the effort. The
pile of folders on the desk seemed to grow higher by the minute. Gang kids, abused kids, abused spouses. And the threatening letters from gangbangers, or parents asking her to butt out, claiming that she had no idea how how hard it was to raise a family in the 'hood...

No argument there.

But Tiffany's life, which was one ordeal after another had taught her never to give up on yourself and those you work for. She was not Black, she grew with both parents, but still...Between her father's near disappearance from civilization, her mother's murder, her being kidnapped and abused by Honeywell and his savages, not to mention a brother, an uncle and an aunt taken from her by violence, though she was too young to remember, she had not had it easy exactly.

At the same time, she could empathize with some of the gang kids she encountered. For many, it offered a structure, a family that they could not find elsewhere, especially for the boys with missing fathers. For others, it was just a way to make easy money, to go for their own version of the American Dream, maybe to feed their loved ones...

Children having children. For most, a life of hardship and disappointments made them hard and bitter...and in some cases, ruthless. Darwinism in action.

That is why she, and her colleagues, worked hard to get to them before it was too late.

Like Maurice. He is still young and innocent...He can still be pulled out.

Her colleagues looked at her with new found respect. They already knew she was gutsy and determined. With her coming back so soon after having been attacked...That made her a survivor.

Her phone rang. She picked it up.

"Hello, Tiffany Mitchell."

"Hello."

Her heart stopped as soon as she heard the voice. She had only heard the voice once, but could not mistake it.

"It's...you?...Luther?" She asked tentatively.

"Yes..." The depth in his bass filled voice was warm and almost sensual, going inside her like a cup of hot cocoa. "Am I interrupting?"

"No…no..."Why was she so...flustered, like a teenage girl talking to her big crush. What was it about him?

"I just wanted to know if you were all right." He asked.

"I am fine, thank you. Thanks to you, actually."

"It was just...good timing."

"How did you find me so quickly? Did you swoop down from the skyscrapers, using your grappling hook?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind," she said with a smile. Why was she smiling? "You know, my invitation still stands."

Then she looked over and saw her father come in the office. Tiffany grinned some more as she observed how her female colleagues, and a male one, looked at the tall, ruggedly handsome, blonde, bullet grey-eyed man, who walked with lupine grace and strength. Winston Mitchell smiled and waved at her daughter and seeing the state she was in, mouthed the words: "Who are you talking to?"

Tiffany held an index finger up at her Dad as Luther Jones answered: "I am still considering it, though I am not sure it would be wise."

With some disappointment, Tiffany said, "Oh...I understand...Well... I hope we will meet again."

"Maybe we will," Luther said, with some sadness in his voice, and she realized that this is a man who cannot afford to get close to anyone, because they might get hurt. Much like her father had to do for a
long while. "Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye, be careful." She heard herself saying.

"As always." He said and hung up.

"Hey, Daddy." She told her father.

"Hello, pumpkin. Who was that?"

"Oh, I will tell you after while you are buying me lunch. I think you will find it interesting-"

At that exact moment something heavy crashed through the window. Winston Mitchell's combat instincts took over immediately and he gently, but quickly held her and pushed her down, shouting "Everybody, get down!" on the way to the floor. And he covered her body with his as he heard screeching titres and smelled burning rubber. The .357 Colt Python appeared in his hand and he pointed it at the shattered window, steady as a rock.

"Are you OK, Tiffany", he asked.

"Yeah...Yeah...I am fine," She answered.

"Stay down." He ordered, iron in his voice.

He slowly got up holding his revolver in a Weaver's grip. His acute senses alert, as focused and sharp as a katana. He approached the object carefully. It was a rolled up carpet. About six feet long. The veteran battle wolf had a decent idea of what it could contain.

Minutes later, police arrived, along with detectives, and forensic teams and they unrolled the carpet.

"Oh, my God." Tiffany screamed and she turned around and buried her face in her father's shoulder.

"There is a note attached." A detective said. And he read it." 'Hey, bitch, you could not save him, try saving yourself, now. Back the fuck off.' It is not signed. Do you know who the victim is? Miss Mitchell?"

"Yes..."She said, shaken," Yes, it is Maurice Beaumont. He was 14 years old..."

Winston Mitchell's blood ran boiling hot, carrying controlled fury. The vicious murder of a child, and the letter attached to his body were threats to his daughter. His daughter. It took every once of the hard
learned discipline he has acquired in his lifetime on the field to keep his face stoic.

Tiffany answered the questions. Then, her father escorted her to his car.

Suddenly, he felt...watched. And looked across the street.

And he saw him. The large framed Black man standing on the sidewalk across the street. And he saw his eyes. And for no more than a split second, their eyes met, and in that meeting, there was total, complete,
absolute understanding between the two warriors. There was not even a nod. Just a look. Mitchell went to his car, made a U-turn, and collected the man he knew to be Luther Jones. The bigger man went into the back. And Winston drove away.

Again, Winston Mitchell looked into Luther Jones' eyes by way of the rear view mirror. And The Sentencer's eyes met The Wolf's.

Neither man had ever felt such a communion with a kindred spirit before.

The weight of guilt and pain finally was too much to bear for Tiffany Mitchell. Then, unexpectedly, Luther Jones put a huge mitt on her shoulder, as softly as if she were made of porcelain. She turned
back at him, and smiled, despite the tears, and put her small, delicate ivory hand on his ebony paw. Then she leaned on her father and he put his arm around her as he drove.

WINSTON AND TIFFANY Mitchell, along with Luther Jones sat down in the living room of the house.

Soon Tiffany stood up. She had regained composure during the car ride.

She paced for a second.

"They can't get away with this. "She said. "They can't. He was a kid. A good kid. Sweet. Smart. All he needed was a chance to...to...live. Dammit! Dammit! "

Winston ,the father, got up to try and console his daughter.

"No, Dad, no. The time for tears has passed. They have to pay, you understand? They have to pay! I knew him, Daddy, I knew him... They used like a goddamn messenger pigeon. Sons of bitches! And he had decided to join them, and they killed him. They have to die, Daddy. They. .Die."

Tiffany was radiating with rage. Both Jones and Mitchell felt it. And she was not going to change her mind. But first thing's first. Mitchell took out his cellular phone.

"Walker Legal Services", Karin Davilla answered.

"Karin, it's me."

"Oh, Winner. I heard. Is Tiffany OK?"

"She will be fine. Ask Rock and Rolls to come down here to her house. Urgently."

"Winner, I understand how you feel, but I don't think Seymour-"

"Fuh-forget Seymour and have Rock and Rolls come down here, please, Karin. If you can get to Lisa and Kyle, that would be great too. Fully outfitted."

Karin was quiet. When Winston was like that, there was no stopping him. She remembered Osaka...

"Yes, Winner."

"Thank you, Karin."

He cut the line. And looked over at the Sentencer. Somehow, he fit into all of this. Like a nomex hood. He looked at Jones and his long Black overcoat.

Jones then stood up and took it off. He had his two pistols, the HK .45 ACP SOCOM pistol and the .50AE Desert Eagle. He also had a MP-10 HK sub gun, in 10 mm slung over his right shoulder, and couple of flash bang grenades and frags, as well as a Ka-Bar knife.

Mitchell smiled. The man was prepared. Except for the Desert Eagle, his choice in weaponry was impeccable. And if what he heard about the man was right, that was just the stuff he could carry around
concealed.

"I will go make coffee". Mitchell said simply before going to the kitchen.

Jones put his HK sub gun on the coffee table. Next to the copy of People Magazine.

She came to sit down next to the big man.

"Looks we get to have that drink after all, huh?" She said, attempting to lighten her mood. And failing.

"Tiffany," Jones said quietly "You did all you could for that boy. It isn't your fault. Those animals killed him, not you."

She looked at him. As he saw her eyes, one by one, the walls around his heart were crumbling down. He rose a hand to her face and wiped a tear off her cheek. She took his large, black hand in both of hers. That hand, that she had seen break flesh and bone, was the most reassuring thing in the world at that moment. She went close to him, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you", she said.

Her father came back with two cups of coffee, and a cup of hot cocoa. He looked at his daughter, at Jones, then put the trey on the table.

She got up, and said. "I will get my files." She hugged her father on the way and went to her bedroom.

Once again, The Sentencer and The Wolf locked stares. No tension. No hostility. On the contrary, an almost subconscious level of understanding that did not need words. They did not need to trade stories,
nor dissertate on what had to be done. These two men came from the same place, suffered many of the same losses and had the same destiny. Mitchell even knew Jones army nickname, "Lone Wolf." And though Mitchell trusted his beloved DOGs with his life, and his child's, he now knew that this man, who cared for his daughter, this fearsome 6'5", 260 pound warrior, was all the army he needed for the war to come.

Both these soldiers, both these angry wolves were motivated by their feelings for Tiffany, and were feeding off her rage.

LATER THAT SAME EVENING, THE most dynamic of all duos came to Tiffany's house.

Roland "Rolls" Walker, ex-air force, ex-FBI, current leader of the Dangerous Operations Group and his brother from another mother, Peter "Rock" Leskow, ex-jarhead, ex-us Marshall, current DOGs sniper.
Though the former was a 6'3", lanky, black man, and the latter a 5'11", 225 pound, stocky, barrel chested Polish-American, the two Chicago natives were brothers, in every way that mattered.

It took a lot to startle these two veteran soldiers, and the presence of America's most wanted man did the job.

"Fancy meeting you here." Walker said extending his hand to Jones "Rolls Walker and this fat-ass Caucasian male is Peter Leskow."

"Pleased to meet you. "Leskow said. "Heard you were a baaaad mother-"

"Shut yo' mouth." Walker said.

"I am talkin' about Jones." Leskow said.

"Then, we can dig it." Walker said.

Jones shook both their hands. And nodded respectfully. They were the real deal, he could tell. And their levity helped lighten the mood. Though not as muscular as he, Walker had a strong grip. And by the way he carried himself, he knew then that the man was a martial artist. He seemed to possess that Samurai-like quiet strength. Leskow on the other hand had a boyish demeanour, but Jones knew better. Men like that often had hair-trigger tempers and once unleashed it was wise to just stay out of their way.

"Ok" Leskow said, rubbing his hand together, "Where are the bad guys who committed the capital offense of attacking our leader's daughter so we can kill 'em?".

"Not this time, Peter." Mitchell said. "I need for you and Rolls to watch after Tiffany. Those punks threatened her."

"Dad-"Tiffany protested.

"There will be no debate about this, Tiffany." Mitchell said, his voice steely and authorities. "Peter and Roland will stay with you. They will shadow you until we are done. That is that."

"'We'?" Walker said, and they realized Winner was talking about himself and The Sentencer.

"That's Kool and the Gang with me" Walker said.

"I am not so sure I share that opinion..."Leskow said.

"Are you implying that my daughter's safety is not important enough?" Mitchell asked.

"Jesus, no, Winner, that's not what I meant..."Leskow replied embarrassed and somewhat outraged. "But I wanted a crack at the assh-, uh, guys who tried to hurt Tiff, you know."

"I know, Peter." Winner said, "But I assure, I am not short handed" he said pointing a thumb at the Sentencer, who stood silently, calmly, like a Sphinx. "And I need for you to be a Rock for me...and my daughter. Please, Peter."

Peter looked over at Tiffany, who smiled at him . The smile had the warmth and shine of a Summer sunrise, and melted Peter's heart. He flushed.

"Okay. I guess I can sit this one out." He said.

"Thank you." Winston said, putting a fatherly hand on one of Leskow's big shoulders and said." They also serve, those who sit and wait."

"I know." Leskow agreed.

Mitchell took Tiffany's folder. She hugged her father closely. Her eyes were welling up. It could be their last embrace.

"Come back to me" She asked.

"I promise to try, Pumpkin. "He said. And he kissed her forehead.

As Mitchell and Jones were leaving, she called:

"Luther?"

"Yes?"

She walked to him, stood on tip toe and kissed him gently on the lips.

"Good luck," she said, stroking his hard face

He smiled at her. And he heard from Walker:

"Kick they ass, brother."

Jones nodded as he walked out.

And he walked out to join Mitchell in the car.

"Damn. He big." Walker observed.

"Yeah." Peter said softly.

"What's up, man, you seem down." Walker asked concerned.

"I...I am fine. Just tired." Rock said.

Rolls knew Rock well enough to know that was bullshit. But he new him well enough not to push too hard.

"Well" Rolls said "Besides the usual sub guns, pistols, grenades, hatchets and swords, I also brought the home version of 'Who wants to be A Millionaire?' Whaddayasay, guys?"

"What did you say, Rolls," Leskow asked.

"I said-"

"It doesn't matter what you said" Rock shouted. "Because The Rock will layeth the smackethdown on both your roody-poo candyasses, if you smellelelelellellll... what the Rock...is cookin'"

"Really, "Tiffany said. "Well, I will open a fresh can o' whoopass on you two, and that's all I got to say about that!"

"Really?" Walker said moving his head side to side, frantically enough that Tiff and Rock were concerned about him dislocating a vertebrae. "I think you better recognize..."

And the mood was instantly lighter. Though all of them knew that the two men who walked out minutes ago, could very well meet their doom.