Chapter Twenty-Two

The meet with Russel was back on for midnight, which gave Eric a couple of hours to see if he could hack the stolen laptop. It had been a while since he had tried to illegally gain access to anyone's files -- it was one of the few crimes he rarely committed while he was in Julian's employ. In fact, Eric couldn't remember a time since college that he'd maliciously hacked a machine.

He found, though, that it wasn't a skill that necessarily dulled over time. Eric had kept up with the various OS improvements since college, and still read enough hacker literature and visited enough dodgy Web sites to know where he could find weak points to exploit.

Whoever had coded the laptop was good, but they were only Army-good. Eric was "I-get-paid-for-this-shit" good, so he was into the base level of the OS in less than an hour. Thirty minutes after that, he had some very useful information. He knew exactly what they were up against.

The team was called Special Unit Omega, and each of its six members were active-duty military or government employees. They all drew paychecks from a dummy account that Eric eventually traced back to the Department of Homeland Security.

Eric managed to pull up bios on each of the six men -- there was Captain Henry Graham, of course, who Eric and Yang Shao had duct-taped to a chair. The man in charge was named Major Frank Ericsson -- he was the one who had duct-taped Eric to a chair.

Eric put together a quick metafile with all of the information he'd found, then zipped it up and emailed it to Nathaniel, Johnny, and Valder. He looked at the clock on his wall as the last email went through -- it was 11:15. Time to get moving.

Eric had one Raven left, which he strapped to his lower leg under the black cargo pants he was wearing. He switched out his long-sleeved T-shirt for a gray wifebeater -- it was hot out, and the last thing Eric needed was to overheat while he and Russel were beating the crap out of each other. He grabbed his cell phone, wallet, keys, and iPod and headed for the door.

"You look like you're headed out for a fight. Weren't planning to tell me about it?" Yang Shao asked, appearing behind Eric at the front door.

"Figured you'd follow me anyway."

"OK. So what's our plan?"

"Plan?"

"Yeah. You're setting Russel up, right? You distract him, I shoot him in that freaky head of his?"

Eric shook his head. He really wasn't going to tell Yang Shao about the meeting with Russel, but he supposed there was no way to avoid it now. The best he could hope for was to keep the thin Chinese out of his way.

"Nope. My plan's a lot simpler. Russel and I fight. I kill him, or he kills me. Then you can kill whoever's left."

"Well, at least maybe you'll soften him up a bit," Yang Shao shrugged, following Eric out the door.

Eric made it to the car, but he hadn't driven more than a block and a half before he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. He pulled the Thunderbird off to the side of the road and killed the engine -- no sense in letting it idle and heat up. A few seconds later, Johnny walked up to the driver's side door.

"Hey, bud," Johnny grinned.

"You could have just called, you know."

"I was actually about to pop by when I saw you on the move. Where you off to so late?"

"Um. . . nowhere special. Off to grab some coffee and breakfast."

"Cool. I'll join you."

As Johnny walked around to the passenger side of the Thunderbird, Eric quickly texted Yang Shao: Keep the cop busy for a few minutes.

Johnny opened the passenger door and started to get in when Yang Shao appeared out of seeming thin air and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, cop. Looking for me?" Yang Shao smiled at Johnny.

"Fuck!" Johnny yelled, taking off after Yang Shao, who was running like a mad fury down the street. As the two of them vanished around a corner, Eric reached over and closed the passenger door. He had an appointment to keep, and he didn't intend to miss it this time.

The drive to the Stockyards didn't take long -- about fifteen minutes with the minimal traffic on the side roads. Eric tried as best he could to empty his mind on the drive, to think of absolutely nothing. This was a lot harder than it seemed even under the best of circumstances, as it was almost impossible to think of nothing -- Eric usually ended up thinking about the color black, which wasn't nothing, but it was close enough.

Now, though, he couldn't stop his brain from running through the extreme foolishness of what he was about to do. In all of the times he and Russel had trained together, Eric had never been able to beat the thin man. In fact, he'd rarely even been able to hit him, and when he had the retaliatory strikes by Russel had hurt enough to make him wish he'd missed.

Eric had spent the time since his departure from Julian's organization working out, training. He knew that the day would probably come when he'd have to answer for what he'd done to Julian, and he'd wanted to be ready. He'd studied various forms of combat -- boxing, Krav Maga, RAF knife-fighting -- but he had no illusions that he was going to win this fight against Russel.

He was heading off to die, and he knew it. The thought of dying, though -- of no longer existing on the mortal plane -- wasn't what bothered him. The thought that no one would really miss him, or really even know that he'd been alive at all -- that was what depressed Eric as he pulled his car into the long-empty parking lot of the Omaha Stock Exchange.

Eric didn't see another car at the Stockyards, and realized just then that he had never actually seen Russel drive a vehicle. He didn't even know if the guy could drive. He thought it was strange that he'd worked side-by-side with Russel for just north of eight years and had never noticed such a simple fact.

Russel was there, of course, dressed in his usual khakis, desert combat boots, and sleeveless black athletic shirt. He was sitting crosslegged on the remains of one of the cattle chutes, flipping one of his trademark Hissatsus between his fingers.

"Russel," Eric nodded.

Russel nodded back.

"Here's what I'm thinking. Knives, one each. Other than that, rules are for the weak."

Russel nodded again, stabbing his Hissatsu into the wood next to him. He produced five more knives from his pockets -- Corsicans, a switchblade, a recon tanto -- and stabbed them all into the wood next to the Hissatsu. The thin man hopped down from his perch and swept his arm expansively over the cutlery stuck in the wood.

"Brought my own. Thanks, though."

Russel shrugged and plucked his Hissatsu from the wood. He used the point of the blade to gesture to a large, open area -- Eric guessed it had been a place for the cattle to roam around prior to their slaughter. It was fitting, he supposed -- since he was pretty sure he was just going to work up a sweat before he bled to death.

Eric followed Russel into the circular dirt patch, which he guessed had a radius of roughly fifty feet. Plenty of room to move, and nothing to hide behind. As the two of them walked to the center of the circle, Eric slipped his iPod's earbuds into his ear canals and clicked the play button. The songs were set to shuffle, but Eric couldn't have picked a better one if he'd thought about it.

As Russel turned to face him, the MC5's "Kick Out The Jams" started up. Eric counted beats with the song as Russel flipped his knife around backwards.

Right now, it's time to. . .

Russel charged at him, swinging his blade backhanded in a wide, sweeping arc. Eric had expected the creepy grin to make an appearance sooner rather than later, but strangely, Russel's face was completely blank -- as if some other tattooed thin man was simply wearing a Russel-themed mask.

Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!

As Dennis Thompson's insane drumming started to pound through his head, ratcheting up the adrenaline centers of his brain and kicking his muscles into critical overdrive, Eric ducked low under the speeding blade. He quickly spun his Raven upwards, aiming for Russel's ribcage. The thin man floated back at the last second, and the Raven slashed harmlessly through the air.

The battle was on now, Eric realized, with no chance of stopping until one of them was simply another blood-drained corpse taking up space in the Midwestern version of a real city. These were pretty sure to be the last moments of his life. Still, though, at least he had good music playing him on to Hell.

Eric hadn't yet brought his blade down from the failed strike when he felt the Hissatsu rake along his left arm, slashing diagonally across the top of his wrist halfway to his elbow. It wasn't a terribly deep cut, but it certainly bled impressively -- his blood mixed with the dirt under his boot as he stepped in, stabbing quickly at Russel's gut.

Russel slapped the flat of Eric's blade with his palm, screwing up the course of the knife just enough to miss his midsection. He frowned and shook his head at Eric -- before Eric even saw Russel's hand move, he felt his right cheek open up and start dribbling blood down his neck. Again, the cut wasn't deep enough to do a whole lot of damage, but the amount of warm, thick blood running down Eric's neck and chest certainly worried him.

Eric backed off a bit, spinning his knife around to a backhanded position. Russel didn't move at all, and started tossing his knife back and forth between his left and right hands. The creepy grin still hadn't made its appearance -- in fact, Russel was still frowning at him. Eric guessed he was giving Russel even less of a challenge than the thin man had expected.

Well, let's just see what we can do about that, Eric thought, swinging the Raven backhanded in an almost exact imitation of Russel's opening attack. Russel leaned back and watched the blade sail by his face, missing by inches -- but he didn't expect Eric's real attack. Eric let his body turn with the blade, which normally would have been a very bad idea in a knife fight as it would expose his side and back to his opponent, but he used the momentum from the spin to drive his right shin into the hollow behind Russel's left knee. Russel started to fall backwards, but he caught himself on his left hand and turned his stumble into a one-handed back handspring. He flipped through the air and landed on his feet, Hissatsu ready in his right hand.

As Eric spun the rest of the way through the low kick, he felt steel bite deep into his right shoulder. This cut was significantly deeper than the first two Russel had given him, and Eric immediately felt his right arm slacken. He managed to hold onto his Raven, though, and bring it up in a defensive position for Russel's next strike, which was a quick slash at the left side of his face.

Eric stepped into the slash, knocking Russel's blade aside with his own, quickly flipping the Raven around in his fingers and driving the butt of the knife's hilt into the hollow just below Russel's left eye. Russel froze for just a moment as pain exploded through his entire nervous system, but that moment was all Eric needed. He quickly brought the Raven back around the way it had come, slashing the blade across Russel's throat.

Russel regained control of his hands just in time to put his left hand to his profusely bleeding throat as he dropped to the ground.

And now the creepy grin finally made its appearance as Russel tried in vain to hold his sliced throat together and coughed up a thick mouthful of blood. The thin man started convulsing on the ground, which Eric had expected, but it seemed to happen awfully quick.

Eric then realized that Russel wasn't convulsing at all -- he was laughing.

Russel stabbed his Hissatsu into the ground next to him, then reached into his right cargo pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he flicked at Eric's feet. Then, still laughing, Russel removed his left hand from his throat and quickly bled out on the dry dirt of the Omaha Stock Exchange, laughing soundlessly until he stopped moving completely.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Eric was feeling woozy from blood loss as he started up the Thunderbird. He wished he'd thought to toss a medical kit into the car before he'd headed out to the Stockyards, but he honestly hadn't planned on needing it. Eric fully expected to go into the battle, but not to come back out again. For now, the sliced-up remains of a polo shirt he'd happened to have in the trunk would have to hold in enough blood to keep him alive until he could get back to his wrecked apartment.

His vision was already starting to go black around the edges, and Eric knew that was a pretty bad sign. In an attempt to keep himself awake and alert, Eric cranked the volume on the T-bird's stereo as loud as it would go -- The Misfits' "Death Comes Ripping" blasted out of the speakers at an uncomfortable level, threatening to overload the cheap amp Eric had put in under the driver's seat.

Eric took L Street up to 42nd without seeing another car, then headed north on 42nd. He was only about five minutes from home now, but he seriously wondered if he was going to make it -- he was beginning to taste metal in the back of his throat, and in addition to the black spots, his vision was blurry now.

Eric stopped at the light at 42nd and Center Streets, then put the car in park to tighten the makeshift bandage around his shoulder, by far the worst of the cuts. He looked up into the rearview mirror and saw a pair of headlights come up behind him.

Yang Shao, he thought. Didn't take him long to lose Johnny.

The headlights, however, weren't slowing down. By the time Eric's blood-drained brain realized that fact and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, though, it was too late. The other vehicle slammed into the back of the Thunderbird, pushing the car out into the intersection. A black Hummer H2 immediately squealed to a stop inches from the T-bird's front bumper -- between the two vehicles, Eric was locked in.

He grabbed the still-bloody Raven off the passenger seat and reached for his door handle, but someone else yanked the door open before he could. Two pairs of strong, black-gloved hands yanked him out of the car and threw him onto the street. Eric heard the Raven clatter to the ground somewhere away from him, and he tried to lift his head to see if he could locate it, but he just didn't have anything left in him.

A pair of black combat boots walked up to Eric, and someone leaned down to look into his face. Even with his vision going on him, Eric could recognize the smirking face of Major Frank Ericcson, formerly of the U.S. Army Special Forces.

"We still have a little conversation to finish, now, don't we, Eric?" Major Ericcson asked.

Eric hadn't understood why Russel was laughing earlier as he bled out on the dirt, but now, he got it. Eric started laughing himself as he raised his right arm and gave the Major a weak salute.

Ericsson gestured slightly with his right hand, and a younger, Asian man dressed in matching battle fatigues appeared next to him. The Asian man leaned down and looked over Eric's makeshift bandages.

"What's his condition?" Ericsson asked.

"Frankly, I'm shocked he's still conscious. And he should be in so much pain his screams could wake the dead."

"I want him stable for transport. Sixty seconds. Read me?"

"Roger that, sir," the Asian man nodded as Ericsson floated out of Eric's field of vision.

"You just hang right there, buddy," the Asian smiled at Eric, "We'll have you fixed up in a second."

Eric felt the needle go into his arm, and soon his body was flooded with warmth. He found it tough to stop giggling as the Asian quickly field-dressed his wounds. Morphine, he thought.

Eric saw Captain Graham out of the corner of his eye. Graham had his hand to the radio in his left ear -- he turned to Ericsson after a moment.

"Brandt's dead, sir. Confirmed."

"Looks like we'll need a new consultant, then. Kim? We about ready to move?"

The Asian man finished dressing the cut on Eric's arm and nodded.

"We'll need to get blood in him sooner rather than later, but he's go for transport."

"Graham, Kim, load him up. Rodriguez, I want that car burnt to the frame before we leave."

"Sir!" Eric heard from somewhere behind him as Kim and Graham lifted him up gently by the arms and walked him carefully to the waiting Hummer.

"Shit," Eric heard Graham mutter as the Captain dropped Eric's arm. Eric could see lights and hear sirens -- at least four police cars were just seconds away. Kim lowered Eric quickly but gently to the pavement, and he and Graham both raised their weapons.

"Sheriff's Department! Put your weapons down and put your hands on your heads right now!" Eric heard Nathaniel yell. From his position with his back against the rear tire of the Hummer, Eric could see Johnny and Nathaniel, weapons drawn, flanked by several more cops from the other cars.

He could also see the five ex-military men, their automatic weapons trained on the cops. Were he a betting man, he wouldn't be betting on the task force -- from the files he'd seen, the men in this squad had seen much worse odds in Iraq. Eric wanted to yell to his police friends to stand down, but he found he was unable to do much more than giggle.

"I have no desire to fire on law enforcement officers, gentlemen, but I warn you that I will if I have to," Ericsson called back. His voice was flat and even.

"This is your final warning!" Nathaniel yelled.

"No, sir. It's yours. Have your men stand down, Sheriff."

Eric just chuckled, though he really didn't find the situation funny at all. He saw Graham's finger twitch toward the trigger, but he wasn't the only one who saw it. Graham's head exploded to the side, raining blood and brain all over the Hummer and Eric below it.

That was when the shouting started. Even with his brain swimming in morphine and goofy from blood loss, Eric knew what was coming next. Still unable to stop giggling, he rolled himself off the tire and dragged himself under the Humvee just as the air ripped in half with gunfire.

When Eric was first introduced to gunfights years ago, he was surprised by the amount of smoke they generated. It was old hat to him now, and he couldn't see it from his position under the Hummer -- in fact, his view was limited to the rear axle of the stupidly large vehicle. Still, though, the smell permeated the windless Omaha summer night, filling his nostrils completely -- it was more intense on smell alone than any other gunfight he'd ever witnessed. Eric knew that meant there was an awful lot of shooting going on.

Of course, the thunderous sound alerted him to this fact, too. Enough bullets were flying around that Eric couldn't pick out, on sound alone, who was doing most of the firing -- all of the gunshots were stacked on top of each other, creating a sustained, deafening roar like that of a shitty death-metal band. One sound, though, quickly eclipsed the rest.

The sound came with its own light show, free of charge. A brilliant fireball lit up even the area under the Hummer, accompanied by a quick, loud explosion that took all the oxygen out of the air for a split second. A flaming hubcap with the Ford Thunderbird logo on it rolled by Eric's limited field of vision.

"Heh. Nice job, Rodriguez," Eric chuckled weakly.

A half-second later, Rodriguez's corpse hit the ground next to the Hummer, his still-open eyes staring at Eric.

"Oh, there you are. Like I said, nice job," Eric giggled.

Above the gunfire, Eric thought he heard shouting. Someone was calling a cease-fire. Just as quickly as the night had gone insane with gunfire, it was quiet again -- though the air still smelled overwhelmingly of smoke.

"Put your weapons on the ground, now!"

Eric saw a pair M4A1 rifles and two Baretta M9's clatter to the pavement in front of the Hummer.

"We could have avoided all of this if your sniper hadn't jumped the gun and opened fire first," Ericssson spat. He sounded angry. Eric wanted to crawl out from under the truck to see what was going on, but he found he didn't even have the energy to roll himself over.

"We don't have a sniper on our squad," Eric heard Nathaniel shoot back.

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed Eric's shirt and dragged him out from the Humvee, propping him up against the vehicle's rear tailgate. Eric was staring into the face of Yang Shao, who had a QBU-88 sniper rifle slung across his back. Neither the cops nor the ex-military men, who Eric could now hear were being handcuffed, could see Yang Shao or Eric for the moment.

"It's true, you know. They don't," Yang Shao whispered to Eric, grinning widely.

Eric heard squad-car doors opening and closing, ambulances being called on police radios. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before Johnny or Nathaniel came looking for him -- they knew he was there, obviously, but they had a lot to deal with. Eric blinked and expected Yang Shao to be gone when his eyes opened again.

Surprisingly, the thin Chinese assassin was still right there in front of him. Yang Shao reached into his front pocket and pulled out a set of keys attached to a keyless-entry fob. He pressed the keys into Eric's left hand.

"BMW's in your name. It's parked in the garage across the street, top floor. Go ahead and ignore the shell casings around it, yeah?" Yang Shao smiled.

Reaching down, Yang Shao popped both holsters on his legs open and started drawing his Desert Eagles.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Eric coughed.

"Going out the only way a guy like me can expect to. The best way a guy in my situation can hope to, really," Yang Shao shrugged.

"Don't --"

"Don't worry. I'll miss your cop pals. Hell, I did it once before. You take care of yourself, Eric."

"Yang Shao --"

"Look. Russel's dead. Saw the body myself. I have nothing left to do, and I'm damn sure not dying of cancer," Yang Shao looked up. "Oops. Out of time to discuss. Have a good life, pal."

Yang Shao stood up and walked out of Eric's field of vision.

"Hey, Hillbilly! Round three, motherfucker!" Eric heard Yang Shao yell.

"Put the weapons down!" Johnny yelled.

Eric heard the twin sonic booms of the Desert Eagles exploding, firing round after round. Seconds later, he heard the comparatively quiet crack-crack-crack of the police officers' .40-caliber sidearms.

Yang Shao reentered Eric's field of vision, this time falling hard to the ground, bleeding from the head and chest. His Desert Eagles clattered to the street next to him, and Eric could have sworn he saw the thin Chinese wink before he died.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Eric felt sadness rising up in his chest. Instead of choking out a sob, as he fully expected to do, only a thin, weak chuckle came out as he opened his mouth.

Fucking morphine.

Eric managed to roll his back off of the tailgate of the Hummer, flopping in the street like a sack of rotten potatoes. He saw booted feet running over to him, and Johnny quickly rolled him onto his back.

"Shit, Eric. Hang on, buddy. Ambulance is on the way."

"Oh. Well, that's nice," Eric said, shakily drawing in a breath. His vision, which had been blurry and spotty for the past several minutes, started to swim in front of him.

"Hey! Eric! Stay with me! Stay with --"

The words didn't fade out, nor did Eric's vision. Both just stopped, as if someone had taken the remote control and simply turned everything off.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Eric woke on the couch in his loft in downtown Tampa. He couldn't have been out long -- there was still a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the iron-and-glass coffee table in front of him. As he reached out to snuff out the burning cigarette, he noticed that Russel was sitting in the leather chair across from the couch, idly flipping a butter knife from Eric's kitchen around in his thin fingers.

"Oh. Hey, Russel. What brings you by? We have a job to do?"

Russel shook his head.

"We don't work together anymore, remember?"

The voice that came out of Russel's mouth was much deeper than his physical appearance would lead anyone to believe.

"Wait. You don't talk."

"I don't do anything," Russel shrugged. "I'm dead."

Eric furrowed his brow -- this was damned confusing. He'd just gotten back from a job for Julian. Russel was supposed to be in Ocala. Amanda was supposed to come over later that night. Eric wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he decided to go with it anyway. He reached for the pack of Kamel Red Lights on the coffee table and took one out.

"You quit smoking, remember?"

"No I didn't. I've been smoking since I was 17."

"Think hard."

"I. . . dreamt that I quit smoking."

"You dream that you killed me, too, Chief?"

Eric shook his head, but now that Russel mentioned it. . .

"Now get ready for the truth, kiddo. That wasn't the dream. This --" Russel spread his tattooed arms wide "-- is the dream."

"No. This is my apartment. I've lived here for two years. My Land Rover is parked outside."

"Bitch, you drive a 1994 Thunderbird. Or you did, until some ex-soldier bombed the hell out of it."

"You know what I find interesting?" Russel asked, leaning across the table and taking the cigarette out of Eric's hand. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.

"You don't smoke."

"See earlier 'I'm dead' comment," Russel smirked. "I find it just goddamned fascinating that, in a drug-addled dream state, you come back here. You know what that means?"

Eric shrugged.

"It means you haven't changed at all. Sure, you can quit smoking, quit drinking, quit doing drugs. You can pretend to be one of the normal, upstanding citizens, even help out the cops. But deep down, at the core of your being. . . you're still the same shitty thug you were when you lived here."

Eric reached for the cigarette pack and found it empty. He crumpled the box in his hand and tossed it back on the table.

"I think I preferred you when you didn't talk."

"Well, obviously not. As, you know, I'm a figment of your imagination, and you're the one talking, really. Could be that you've always wondered what I would sound like -- more likely, it's guilt that you, well, kinda brutally slashed my throat and left me to bleed to death in the dirt. Just sayin'."

Eric shook his head.

"It couldn't be that. You were a horrible person, and you would have killed me if I hadn't killed you first."

"Hey. Watch the 'horrible person' remarks, kiddo. You're no saint, yourself. And you're confident that I would have killed you? Really? Or did I let you win?"

Eric knew he had another pack of cigarettes in the top drawer of his kitchen, so he got up to get them. When he opened the drawer, however, he didn't see the various junk that usually lived there -- he didn't even see the fresh pack of Lucky Strikes that Alexy had left behind the last time he was over. Instead, he saw a bland drop-ceiling and part of an overhead halogen light.

Eric looked up at Russel in confusion.

"What did you do to my kitchen?" Eric demanded.

"Wow. You really don't want to accept that you're not really here, do you? Wonder what that says about you. Anyway, it's about to become academic in three. . . two. . . one. . ."

* * *

Eric's eyes fluttered open. He was staring up at a bland drop-ceiling and part of an overhead light. A soft beeping noise off to his left pounded slowly, regularly.

"Eric? How you feeling, son?"

The voice came from Nathaniel, who was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed.

"Which hospital am I in this time?"

"UNMC. Quickest one, since we were right down the street from it. You were pretty touch and go there for a while. You lost a lot of blood."

"Special Unit Omega?"

"Johnny got your email shortly before we got a call that you were in trouble. The last two guys -- Major Ericsson and Lieutenant Kim -- are in the holding cell over at our office."

"And the other guy? The one who wasn't with the rest? Captain Jason Black, I think it was?"

"Gone. We have his face plastered on every law-enforcement wall from here to Los Angeles, but I doubt we'll ever see him again."

"Johnny?"

"Home getting some sleep. It's four in the morning. Valder's here, though -- just went out to get some coffee."

Eric nodded. He debated on whether to mention Russel, but decided against it -- if Nathaniel didn't already know about the dead man, better not to have to explain.

"Uh, I don't know if you know, but your car blew up," Nathaniel mentioned.

"Damn. My iPod was in there."

"We traced the call that told us you were in trouble. Actually, there wasn't so much tracing involved -- we just found the cell phone that called Johnny's -- it was that Chinese Mafia hitman, Yang Shao. The one who started the firefight."

"That's. . . odd. I had the suspicion he'd been following me."

"Any idea why he'd try to save you?"

"None," Eric lied. He knew the real reason, though -- that he and Yang Shao had, after a fashion, become friends. And that friendship may have been part of the reason the Chinese hitman had decided on suicide by cop.

"Well, in any event, I think that wraps it up, then," Nathaniel said.

"Not quite. We've gone this far -- let's finish the case. I'm going to need access to your photos from the crime scene. Let Johnny know I'm going to need his acting talents this evening."

Nathaniel just nodded. He stood from his chair and stretched out his arms and legs -- Eric guessed he had been sitting there since the moment Eric was brought in.

"I'm going to let you get some rest. Valder's going to want to talk to you soon, though -- he tells me the paperwork to move you is going through. Doesn't look like you'll be hanging around much longer."

"All the more reason to make the best use of the time, then."

"Agreed. Get a few hours of sleep -- we'll start prepping at nine."

Nathaniel left the room, and Eric tried to sit up. It was tough -- he was still dizzy and still had God-knows how many drugs floating around in his bloodstream -- but he managed to struggle into a sitting position without too much vertigo. He looked around the room, and found that his clothes were sitting on a chair next to the bed. Eric pulled the envelope Russel had thrown at him out of his cargo pocket, opened it, and pulled out sixteen neatly-folded pages in Russel's obsessive, blocky script.

Eric leaned back in the bed and began to read:

Austen --

In 1914, soldiers of the Allied forces would sometimes write a letter to their families or friends before going into battle. I have no family, and, as I'm sure you'll agree, I'm not great at making friends. So I'm writing to you -- apart from Julian, you're the only friend I have.

The irony, of course, is that I'm going into battle against the same person to whom I'm writing this letter -- my enemy and my friend are the same person. The only way this letter will see the light of day is if you kill me, and if you do, then it was all as it was supposed to be.

You're wondering, of course, why I took the time to write this letter. There are a few reasons, as there always are.

First, I want someone to know who I was. You probably already think you know this, but you don't. I want someone in the world to know I was a person, a human being -- not just a robot with knives for hands, which I know is the way I often appear.

Eric looked up from the letter. He knew that reading the rest of it was going to make him feel horrible about killing Russel, and he hadn't even felt great about it when he'd done it. Still, though, he owed it to the departed, this man he'd worked with side by side for eight years. He sighed, took a sip from the water sitting on his bedside table, and kept reading.

* * *

Eric knew how Yang Shao felt -- he was juiced to the gills on Dexadrine just so he could move around. He was wearing a longsleeved shirt to hide as many of the knife wounds from the night before as possible, but there was no way to hide the two deep slashes on his face. The stitches in his arm, shoulder, and face itched a little, but even after the morphine had worn off, there wasn't much pain.

"You sure you're up to this? We can just take them down the old-fashioned way," Johnny commented as he pulled up to Alexander's.

"We've put in most of the work already. Might as well get the payoff. You in contact with your people?" Eric asked, trying not to scratch at the stitches on his arm.

"Yep. Either one of us says the word, and they'll be on that place in four seconds flat."

"Right on. Um, what's the word?"

"It's two words, actually. 'Bad news.'"

"Nice."

"All right, let's do this. I need a nap."

Eric and Johnny got out of Johnny's new truck, a 2007 Range Rover. Pyotr was waiting for them at the door to the club -- he didn't look happy, which Eric took to mean that Volkov had taken their deal. It was early yet, and the club was only minorly busy -- Pyotr walked them back to the same room as before, where Andrey Volkov was sitting at the end of the table, flanked by huge guards on either side.

"You look horrible, my friend," Volkov frowned at Eric.

"Cut myself shaving. You've had time to consider our offer. What's it to be?"

Volkov had a file folder in front of him. He picked it up, but didn't immediately hand it over to Eric or Johnny.

"First, you will tell me who they are."

"Sure. Like I told you earlier, they're a government unit. Department of Homeland Security pays them to take out people like you, since arresting you guys wasn't doing much good. Every one of them's a combat veteran, and honestly, your guys couldn't take down one of them, much less all six."

It was entirely the truth Eric told -- he'd pieced it together from the files he'd hacked, and confirmed most of it with Russel's letter.

"Then how do you propose to take them out? And you have no problems with killing Federal Agents?"

"It just raises the price. Hand the folder to my man, there."

Volkov frowned again, but did as he was told. Johnny flipped open the folder and looked through the pages -- Eric saw that, in obsessive detail, the entire operations of the Russian Mob in Omaha were laid out neatly.

"You want to say it?" Johnny smirked.

"No, please, sir. You go right ahead," Eric smiled back.

"Say what? You people are not making sense!" Volkov slammed his fist down on the table. Despite the old man's frail appearance, the table shook.

"Well, Andrey, we have some bad news for you," Johnny grinned.

"What? What bad news?"

The doors to the room burst open, and two dozen riot-suited cops stormed in.

"You're under arrest," Johnny replied.

* * *

"So, you're going to be getting a new name soon, looks like," Nathaniel said. He, Johnny, and Eric were sitting on the back deck of Nathaniel's house. Nathaniel and Eric had @Newcastle Ales in their hands -- Eric had a @Rockstar_Energy.

"Yep. Looks like," Eric shrugged.

"Should give you this now, then."

Nathaniel handed Eric a legal-sized envelope with his name and address typed on the front. Eric opened it -- inside was a check for $1748.65, made out to Eric Hawkins.

"Two weeks as a consultant. Wish it was more, but county's in a bit of a budget crunch at the moment."

"You really didn't have to do this at all -- though I suppose I have to repair the apartment Omega dismantled with bullets."

"County's taking care of that, too. They'll reimburse you for your car, so long as you send them an invoice," Johnny smirked.

"Shit, Johnny. You know and I know that heap wasn't worth $50. My insurance'll give me more than that."

"Out of curiosity, how long did it take you to hack that computer?" Nathaniel asked.

"I dunno. Hour, hour and a half. Why? How long did it take your guy?"

"He's still working on it."

"You were right, Johnny. He kind of sucks."

"Too bad you can't stick around. We could use you in the office, both for the computer stuff and your knowledge of organized crime," Nathaniel sighed.

"Yeah, you'd have to fight the Marshal's service on that one."

"Oh! Heard my name, there," Valder smirked, walking around the side of the house with a six-pack of @samueladams in his right hand.

"Hey, Brian," Nathaniel nodded.

"You got a fridge for these? They're piss-poor warm," Valder said, holding up the beer.

"Yeah. Follow me."

Nathaniel stood up, stretched, and led Valder into the house. Johnny took a long sip from his beer and leaned over to Johnny.

"So, how'd you piece it all together?"

"The computer records, mostly. But Russel helped flesh out the picture a bit. Turns out he got picked up several months after Julian. Feds swooped in and gave him a deal -- he works for them as a gang consultant, they make his charges go away."

"Russel told you that?"

"Sort of."

"And he's in the wind now. Great."

"Nope. Russel's dead."

"That freak Yang Shao, huh?"

Eric just nodded. He looked at Johnny for a moment -- the cop absolutely did not think for a second that Eric would have killed anyone, when just two weeks ago he'd referred to Eric as "Killer" rather than use his actual name.

As Johnny sat back in his chair and finished off his beer, Eric remembered a part of Russel's letter.

You probably haven't figured out yet that you are, in large part, responsible for the creation of Special Unit Omega. The information from various statements you made scared the hell out of some people in the DHS -- they had no idea Julian was even operating in Tampa, much less the extent of his operations. Your boy Enano is clean, though -- he knew nothing about it.

You should be aware that Special Unit Omega is only one very, very small part of a larger organization. I don't know where the other teams are, but I do know that there are a lot of them. A lot.

Eric still wasn't sure if he was going to tell Johnny and Nathaniel about the other units. He just hoped there wasn't one in his new town, wherever it was he was headed.

Valder and Nathaniel joined Johnny and Eric on the deck.

"Hey, Valder. When's the name change go through?" Eric asked.

"Judge should sign off on it sometime tomorrow morning. Should give you plenty of time to deposit the check and clear out your account," Valder told him.

"You picked out a new name yet?" Nathaniel asked.

Eric nodded.

"Well, let's just hope it's not something horrible," Johnny grinned.

The four of them hung out for several more hours, and Eric became genuinely sad that he was leaving Omaha in the next couple of days. All said, it wasn't such a bad town -- and he'd made friends with people he'd never expected to like.

I envy you, you know, Russel had written. You get the chance to start over, to invent yourself as whoever you'd like to be. I've been in Omaha a while, and I've been watching you (insert ominous music here -- I wasn't planning on going after you unless I got the word, which I realize isn't comforting, but still -- full disclosure). You seem to have invented a better person than the one who worked beside me for eight years, but this person is not as much of a creation as you think he is.

He's who you really are, deep down. I envy you. I never had that good a person inside, nor did I have the chance to reinvent myself. I know, I know, poor Russel. My life would have made a good country song -- and, you know, I would have liked to have sung it.

Epilogue

Two Months Later

Eric Drake rolled out of bed before dawn and quickly dressed in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless athletic T-shirt. He kicked his feet into the @saucony running shoes by his bed, grabbed his keys and iPod, and headed out the door of his apartment and down the five flights of stairs to the street.

He started off slowly, waiting for the sleep cobwebs to shake themseleves loose from his brain -- however, five minutes into his run, The Exploited's "Police Informer" came up in the playlist rotation, and Eric hit full speed.

Eric logged slightly more than eight miles in just under an hour. The temptation to smoke first thing in the morning had thankfully left about a month ago -- it probably helped that his new apartment didn't reek of nicotine. He ran back up the stairs to his apartment, quickly chugged down a bottle of water, and hopped into the shower.

His commute to work was much longer than it used to be, but the BMW 5-series made the long drive much more enjoyable than the rattletrap T-bird had. He turned the stereo down a bit as he pulled into his parking space outside the office -- he'd gotten a few dirty looks from his co-workers the last time he'd blared Iggy and The Stooges in the parking lot -- and hopped out of the car. The air outside was warming up quickly -- Eric guessed the temperature would hit the mid-90s that day, and was thankful that he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt to work.

His current job didn't fill him with the need to cover up his tattoos, which was nice. Eric grabbed his ID badge and access card from the BMW's glove box -- they hung from a dark blue lanyard that he threw around his neck as he approached the front door of the office.

Eric passed several dark-brown-and-khaki uniformed cops on the stairway up to his office -- he nodded and smiled at the ones he knew, and, by and large, they nodded and waved back. Eric made it to his office -- his floor was pretty much empty, as he was still about a half hour early. He booted up his computer and checked his email -- first on his list was seeing what data he could pull from a laptop seized from a meth lab the night before.

Whoever had deleted the files on the laptop in question really hadn't known what he was doing -- Eric had the folder the computer's owner was trying so hard to delete restored in a matter of minutes. He was browsing through the file structure in the folder when he heard a knock at his door.

"Jesus. Did you even go home last night?" Johnny Teal asked, handing Eric a cup of @Starbucks.

"Sure. Just got in a few minutes ago."

"That my meth-head laptop?"

"Yep. Already got the data back. Do not, repeat, do not click on the folder named 'Cherice.' She's really, really fat. And there's no way she should be trying to fit into lingerie that skimpy."

"Anything besides fatty porn?" Johnny chuckled.

"Oh, you mean like spreadsheets detailing the entire operation?" Eric grinned, double-clicking his mouse. An Excel spreadsheet popped up on the screen, full of numbers, client names, and street names.

"Oooh. Nice job, sir. Nathaniel's going to dig this."

"This part of something larger?"

"Yep. Chinese, we think. 'Course, we're going out tomorrow night to confirm."

"And by we?"

"Usual suspects. You, me, Nathaniel."

"Sounds like fun."

"Yep. Jet out at noon today -- we'll make up the other four hours tomorrow night."

"No argument here, pal."

"You see these?" Johnny asked, holding up a box sitting on Eric's desk.

"Not yet."

"Here you go," Johnny smiled, opening the box and handing Eric a small stack of business cards. "Came yesterday after you knocked off."

Eric took a look at the cards. They had the Douglas County Sheriff's logo in the top left corner. The cards read "Eric Drake, Nonsworn. Technology Consultant, Organized Crime Specialist. Criminal Investigations Division," followed by the office address and Eric's office and cell numbers.

"Awesome. Haven't had business cards in almost a decade."

"How's the new townhome in Lincoln?"

"Much nicer than the shithole I had here in Omaha. Finally got some decent furniture in, so you and Nathaniel will have to make the drive up and see the place."

Eric had been rather impressed when Valder had laid the relocation plan on Eric a few months back -- all of the paperwork would say Los Angeles, but in reality, Eric would move an hour down the road to Lincoln, Nebraska. Valder lived in an apartment five blocks away from Eric's, so he had someone looking out for him at home and *plenty* of cops looking out for him at work.

"Might do it tomorrow night after the whole surveillance thing. Cool?"

"Cool."

"I'll let you get back to it. Lunch today?"

"Sure thing."

Johnny punched Eric playfully in the shoulder and left the office. Eric jumped back into the laptop for another couple hours. Valder called at about 10, and he and Eric made plans for dinner later that week. At noon, Eric stopped by Nathaniel's office, bullshitted with Nathaniel and Johnny for a few minutes, then joined them for lunch. After that, he piloted the BMW down Highway 6, passing the hour drive listening to the Stiff Little Fingers "Inflammable Material" and "Now Then. . ." albums.

It was about 2:30 in the afternoon when Eric unlocked the door to his spacious apartment -- the money Douglas County paid him went pretty far in Lincoln -- and tossed his keys, cell phone, and wallet on the table. He was kicking off his shoes when he noticed someone sitting on the couch, dressed in black fatigues and a black T-shirt, a Beretta M9 sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

"Eric. Let's chat, shall we?" Captain Jason Black smiled expansively.

THE END

Dead Reckoning

So a few weeks ago, I was interviewed by Adam over at The Army of the Dead Regime. I should have been packing for a trip to Omaha at the time, but instead, I decided to chat with Adam about the Twitter Novel Project. Sure, I may have worn the same shirt for five days on vacation, but it was worth it. (Note: Of course I didn't. I'm a guy. I pack directly from the dryer.)

In Part One of the interview, Adam and I discuss important topics such as the post-MacGyver career of Richard Dean Anderson, Jason Mewes, and once in a while, we even mention the book.

In Part Two, I call myself an asshole.

It was hellaciously fun to do this interview, and I thank Adam immensely for the time he put into it. Stick around and check out his blog -- man has some funny, funny stuff going on there.

In other news, the blog reorganization grinds on. It should be done by Saturday or so, about the same time I should finish off Chapter 1 revisions. Keep the suggestions rolling in.

Epilogue

Two Months Later

Eric Drake rolled out of bed before dawn and quickly dressed in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless athletic T-shirt. He kicked his feet into the @saucony running shoes by his bed, grabbed his keys and iPod, and headed out the door of his apartment and down the five flights of stairs to the street.

He started off slowly, waiting for the sleep cobwebs to shake themseleves loose from his brain -- however, five minutes into his run, The Exploited's "Police Informer" came up in the playlist rotation, and Eric hit full speed.

Eric logged slightly more than eight miles in just under an hour. The temptation to smoke first thing in the morning had thankfully left about a month ago -- it probably helped that his new apartment didn't reek of nicotine. He ran back up the stairs to his apartment, quickly chugged down a bottle of water, and hopped into the shower.

His commute to work was much longer than it used to be, but the BMW 5-series made the long drive much more enjoyable than the rattletrap T-bird had. He turned the stereo down a bit as he pulled into his parking space outside the office -- he'd gotten a few dirty looks from his co-workers the last time he'd blared Iggy and The Stooges in the parking lot -- and hopped out of the car. The air outside was warming up quickly -- Eric guessed the temperature would hit the mid-90s that day, and was thankful that he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt to work.

His current job didn't fill him with the need to cover up his tattoos, which was nice. Eric grabbed his ID badge and access card from the BMW's glove box -- they hung from a dark blue lanyard that he threw around his neck as he approached the front door of the office.

Eric passed several dark-brown-and-khaki uniformed cops on the stairway up to his office -- he nodded and smiled at the ones he knew, and, by and large, they nodded and waved back. Eric made it to his office -- his floor was pretty much empty, as he was still about a half hour early. He booted up his computer and checked his email -- first on his list was seeing what data he could pull from a laptop seized from a meth lab the night before.

Whoever had deleted the files on the laptop in question really hadn't known what he was doing -- Eric had the folder the computer's owner was trying so hard to delete restored in a matter of minutes. He was browsing through the file structure in the folder when he heard a knock at his door.

"Jesus. Did you even go home last night?" Johnny Teal asked, handing Eric a cup of @Starbucks.

"Sure. Just got in a few minutes ago."

"That my meth-head laptop?"

"Yep. Already got the data back. Do not, repeat, do not click on the folder named 'Cherice.' She's really, really fat. And there's no way she should be trying to fit into lingerie that skimpy."

"Anything besides fatty porn?" Johnny chuckled.

"Oh, you mean like spreadsheets detailing the entire operation?" Eric grinned, double-clicking his mouse. An Excel spreadsheet popped up on the screen, full of numbers, client names, and street names.

"Oooh. Nice job, sir. Nathaniel's going to dig this."

"This part of something larger?"

"Yep. Chinese, we think. 'Course, we're going out tomorrow night to confirm."

"And by we?"

"Usual suspects. You, me, Nathaniel."

"Sounds like fun."

"Yep. Jet out at noon today -- we'll make up the other four hours tomorrow night."

"No argument here, pal."

"You see these?" Johnny asked, holding up a box sitting on Eric's desk.

"Not yet."

"Here you go," Johnny smiled, opening the box and handing Eric a small stack of business cards. "Came yesterday after you knocked off."

Eric took a look at the cards. They had the Douglas County Sheriff's logo in the top left corner. The cards read "Eric Drake, Nonsworn. Technology Consultant, Organized Crime Specialist. Criminal Investigations Division," followed by the office address and Eric's office and cell numbers.

"Awesome. Haven't had business cards in almost a decade."

"How's the new townhome in Lincoln?"

"Much nicer than the shithole I had here in Omaha. Finally got some decent furniture in, so you and Nathaniel will have to make the drive up and see the place."

Eric had been rather impressed when Valder had laid the relocation plan on Eric a few months back -- all of the paperwork would say Los Angeles, but in reality, Eric would move an hour down the road to Lincoln, Nebraska. Valder lived in an apartment five blocks away from Eric's, so he had someone looking out for him at home and *plenty* of cops looking out for him at work.

"Might do it tomorrow night after the whole surveillance thing. Cool?"

"Cool."

"I'll let you get back to it. Lunch today?"

"Sure thing."

Johnny punched Eric playfully in the shoulder and left the office. Eric jumped back into the laptop for another couple hours. Valder called at about 10, and he and Eric made plans for dinner later that week. At noon, Eric stopped by Nathaniel's office, bullshitted with Nathaniel and Johnny for a few minutes, then joined them for lunch. After that, he piloted the BMW down Highway 6, passing the hour drive listening to the Stiff Little Fingers "Inflammable Material" and "Now Then. . ." albums.

It was about 2:30 in the afternoon when Eric unlocked the door to his spacious apartment -- the money Douglas County paid him went pretty far in Lincoln -- and tossed his keys, cell phone, and wallet on the table. He was kicking off his shoes when he noticed someone sitting on the couch, dressed in black fatigues and a black T-shirt, a Beretta M9 sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

"Eric. Let's chat, shall we?" Captain Jason Black smiled expansively.

THE END

Chapter Twenty-Four

Eric woke on the couch in his loft in downtown Tampa. He couldn't have been out long -- there was still a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the iron-and-glass coffee table in front of him. As he reached out to snuff out the burning cigarette, he noticed that Russel was sitting in the leather chair across from the couch, idly flipping a butter knife from Eric's kitchen around in his thin fingers.

"Oh. Hey, Russel. What brings you by? We have a job to do?"

Russel shook his head.

"We don't work together anymore, remember?"

The voice that came out of Russel's mouth was much deeper than his physical appearance would lead anyone to believe.

"Wait. You don't talk."

"I don't do anything," Russel shrugged. "I'm dead."

Eric furrowed his brow -- this was damned confusing. He'd just gotten back from a job for Julian. Russel was supposed to be in Ocala. Amanda was supposed to come over later that night. Eric wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he decided to go with it anyway. He reached for the pack of Kamel Red Lights on the coffee table and took one out.

"You quit smoking, remember?"

"No I didn't. I've been smoking since I was 17."

"Think hard."

"I. . . dreamt that I quit smoking."

"You dream that you killed me, too, Chief?"

Eric shook his head, but now that Russel mentioned it. . .

"Now get ready for the truth, kiddo. That wasn't the dream. This --" Russel spread his tattooed arms wide "-- is the dream."

"No. This is my apartment. I've lived here for two years. My Land Rover is parked outside."

"Bitch, you drive a 1994 Thunderbird. Or you did, until some ex-soldier bombed the hell out of it."

"You know what I find interesting?" Russel asked, leaning across the table and taking the cigarette out of Eric's hand. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.

"You don't smoke."

"See earlier 'I'm dead' comment," Russel smirked. "I find it just goddamned fascinating that, in a drug-addled dream state, you come back here. You know what that means?"

Eric shrugged.

"It means you haven't changed at all. Sure, you can quit smoking, quit drinking, quit doing drugs. You can pretend to be one of the normal, upstanding citizens, even help out the cops. But deep down, at the core of your being. . . you're still the same shitty thug you were when you lived here."

Eric reached for the cigarette pack and found it empty. He crumpled the box in his hand and tossed it back on the table.

"I think I preferred you when you didn't talk."

"Well, obviously not. As, you know, I'm a figment of your imagination, and you're the one talking, really. Could be that you've always wondered what I would sound like -- more likely, it's guilt that you, well, kinda brutally slashed my throat and left me to bleed to death in the dirt. Just sayin'."

Eric shook his head.

"It couldn't be that. You were a horrible person, and you would have killed me if I hadn't killed you first."

"Hey. Watch the 'horrible person' remarks, kiddo. You're no saint, yourself. And you're confident that I would have killed you? Really? Or did I let you win?"

Eric knew he had another pack of cigarettes in the top drawer of his kitchen, so he got up to get them. When he opened the drawer, however, he didn't see the various junk that usually lived there -- he didn't even see the fresh pack of Lucky Strikes that Alexy had left behind the last time he was over. Instead, he saw a bland drop-ceiling and part of an overhead halogen light.

Eric looked up at Russel in confusion.

"What did you do to my kitchen?" Eric demanded.

"Wow. You really don't want to accept that you're not really here, do you? Wonder what that says about you. Anyway, it's about to become academic in three. . . two. . . one. . ."

* * *

Eric's eyes fluttered open. He was staring up at a bland drop-ceiling and part of an overhead light. A soft beeping noise off to his left pounded slowly, regularly.

"Eric? How you feeling, son?"

The voice came from Nathaniel, who was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed.

"Which hospital am I in this time?"

"UNMC. Quickest one, since we were right down the street from it. You were pretty touch and go there for a while. You lost a lot of blood."

"Special Unit Omega?"

"Johnny got your email shortly before we got a call that you were in trouble. The last two guys -- Major Ericsson and Lieutenant Kim -- are in the holding cell over at our office."

"And the other guy? The one who wasn't with the rest? Captain Jason Black, I think it was?"

"Gone. We have his face plastered on every law-enforcement wall from here to Los Angeles, but I doubt we'll ever see him again."

"Johnny?"

"Home getting some sleep. It's four in the morning. Valder's here, though -- just went out to get some coffee."

Eric nodded. He debated on whether to mention Russel, but decided against it -- if Nathaniel didn't already know about the dead man, better not to have to explain.

"Uh, I don't know if you know, but your car blew up," Nathaniel mentioned.

"Damn. My iPod was in there."

"We traced the call that told us you were in trouble. Actually, there wasn't so much tracing involved -- we just found the cell phone that called Johnny's -- it was that Chinese Mafia hitman, Yang Shao. The one who started the firefight."

"That's. . . odd. I had the suspicion he'd been following me."

"Any idea why he'd try to save you?"

"None," Eric lied. He knew the real reason, though -- that he and Yang Shao had, after a fashion, become friends. And that friendship may have been part of the reason the Chinese hitman had decided on suicide by cop.

"Well, in any event, I think that wraps it up, then," Nathaniel said.

"Not quite. We've gone this far -- let's finish the case. I'm going to need access to your photos from the crime scene. Let Johnny know I'm going to need his acting talents this evening."

Nathaniel just nodded. He stood from his chair and stretched out his arms and legs -- Eric guessed he had been sitting there since the moment Eric was brought in.

"I'm going to let you get some rest. Valder's going to want to talk to you soon, though -- he tells me the paperwork to move you is going through. Doesn't look like you'll be hanging around much longer."

"All the more reason to make the best use of the time, then."

"Agreed. Get a few hours of sleep -- we'll start prepping at nine."

Nathaniel left the room, and Eric tried to sit up. It was tough -- he was still dizzy and still had God-knows how many drugs floating around in his bloodstream -- but he managed to struggle into a sitting position without too much vertigo. He looked around the room, and found that his clothes were sitting on a chair next to the bed. Eric pulled the envelope Russel had thrown at him out of his cargo pocket, opened it, and pulled out sixteen neatly-folded pages in Russel's obsessive, blocky script.

Eric leaned back in the bed and began to read:

Austen --

In 1914, soldiers of the Allied forces would sometimes write a letter to their families or friends before going into battle. I have no family, and, as I'm sure you'll agree, I'm not great at making friends. So I'm writing to you -- apart from Julian, you're the only friend I have.

The irony, of course, is that I'm going into battle against the same person to whom I'm writing this letter -- my enemy and my friend are the same person. The only way this letter will see the light of day is if you kill me, and if you do, then it was all as it was supposed to be.

You're wondering, of course, why I took the time to write this letter. There are a few reasons, as there always are.

First, I want someone to know who I was. You probably already think you know this, but you don't. I want someone in the world to know I was a person, a human being -- not just a robot with knives for hands, which I know is the way I often appear.

Eric looked up from the letter. He knew that reading the rest of it was going to make him feel horrible about killing Russel, and he hadn't even felt great about it when he'd done it. Still, though, he owed it to the departed, this man he'd worked with side by side for eight years. He sighed, took a sip from the water sitting on his bedside table, and kept reading.

* * *

Eric knew how Yang Shao felt -- he was juiced to the gills on Dexadrine just so he could move around. He was wearing a longsleeved shirt to hide as many of the knife wounds from the night before as possible, but there was no way to hide the two deep slashes on his face. The stitches in his arm, shoulder, and face itched a little, but even after the morphine had worn off, there wasn't much pain.

"You sure you're up to this? We can just take them down the old-fashioned way," Johnny commented as he pulled up to Alexander's.

"We've put in most of the work already. Might as well get the payoff. You in contact with your people?" Eric asked, trying not to scratch at the stitches on his arm.

"Yep. Either one of us says the word, and they'll be on that place in four seconds flat."

"Right on. Um, what's the word?"

"It's two words, actually. 'Bad news.'"

"Nice."

"All right, let's do this. I need a nap."

Eric and Johnny got out of Johnny's new truck, a 2007 Range Rover. Pyotr was waiting for them at the door to the club -- he didn't look happy, which Eric took to mean that Volkov had taken their deal. It was early yet, and the club was only minorly busy -- Pyotr walked them back to the same room as before, where Andrey Volkov was sitting at the end of the table, flanked by huge guards on either side.

"You look horrible, my friend," Volkov frowned at Eric.

"Cut myself shaving. You've had time to consider our offer. What's it to be?"

Volkov had a file folder in front of him. He picked it up, but didn't immediately hand it over to Eric or Johnny.

"First, you will tell me who they are."

"Sure. Like I told you earlier, they're a government unit. Department of Homeland Security pays them to take out people like you, since arresting you guys wasn't doing much good. Every one of them's a combat veteran, and honestly, your guys couldn't take down one of them, much less all six."

It was entirely the truth Eric told -- he'd pieced it together from the files he'd hacked, and confirmed most of it with Russel's letter.

"Then how do you propose to take them out? And you have no problems with killing Federal Agents?"

"It just raises the price. Hand the folder to my man, there."

Volkov frowned again, but did as he was told. Johnny flipped open the folder and looked through the pages -- Eric saw that, in obsessive detail, the entire operations of the Russian Mob in Omaha were laid out neatly.

"You want to say it?" Johnny smirked.

"No, please, sir. You go right ahead," Eric smiled back.

"Say what? You people are not making sense!" Volkov slammed his fist down on the table. Despite the old man's frail appearance, the table shook.

"Well, Andrey, we have some bad news for you," Johnny grinned.

"What? What bad news?"

The doors to the room burst open, and two dozen riot-suited cops stormed in.

"You're under arrest," Johnny replied.

* * *

"So, you're going to be getting a new name soon, looks like," Nathaniel said. He, Johnny, and Eric were sitting on the back deck of Nathaniel's house. Nathaniel and Eric had @Newcastle Ales in their hands -- Eric had a @Rockstar_Energy.

"Yep. Looks like," Eric shrugged.

"Should give you this now, then."

Nathaniel handed Eric a legal-sized envelope with his name and address typed on the front. Eric opened it -- inside was a check for $1748.65, made out to Eric Hawkins.

"Two weeks as a consultant. Wish it was more, but county's in a bit of a budget crunch at the moment."

"You really didn't have to do this at all -- though I suppose I have to repair the apartment Omega dismantled with bullets."

"County's taking care of that, too. They'll reimburse you for your car, so long as you send them an invoice," Johnny smirked.

"Shit, Johnny. You know and I know that heap wasn't worth $50. My insurance'll give me more than that."

"Out of curiosity, how long did it take you to hack that computer?" Nathaniel asked.

"I dunno. Hour, hour and a half. Why? How long did it take your guy?"

"He's still working on it."

"You were right, Johnny. He kind of sucks."

"Too bad you can't stick around. We could use you in the office, both for the computer stuff and your knowledge of organized crime," Nathaniel sighed.

"Yeah, you'd have to fight the Marshal's service on that one."

"Oh! Heard my name, there," Valder smirked, walking around the side of the house with a six-pack of @samueladams in his right hand.

"Hey, Brian," Nathaniel nodded.

"You got a fridge for these? They're piss-poor warm," Valder said, holding up the beer.

"Yeah. Follow me."

Nathaniel stood up, stretched, and led Valder into the house. Johnny took a long sip from his beer and leaned over to Johnny.

"So, how'd you piece it all together?"

"The computer records, mostly. But Russel helped flesh out the picture a bit. Turns out he got picked up several months after Julian. Feds swooped in and gave him a deal -- he works for them as a gang consultant, they make his charges go away."

"Russel told you that?"

"Sort of."

"And he's in the wind now. Great."

"Nope. Russel's dead."

"That freak Yang Shao, huh?"

Eric just nodded. He looked at Johnny for a moment -- the cop absolutely did not think for a second that Eric would have killed anyone, when just two weeks ago he'd referred to Eric as "Killer" rather than use his actual name.

As Johnny sat back in his chair and finished off his beer, Eric remembered a part of Russel's letter.

You probably haven't figured out yet that you are, in large part, responsible for the creation of Special Unit Omega. The information from various statements you made scared the hell out of some people in the DHS -- they had no idea Julian was even operating in Tampa, much less the extent of his operations. Your boy Enano is clean, though -- he knew nothing about it.

You should be aware that Special Unit Omega is only one very, very small part of a larger organization. I don't know where the other teams are, but I do know that there are a lot of them. A lot.

Eric still wasn't sure if he was going to tell Johnny and Nathaniel about the other units. He just hoped there wasn't one in his new town, wherever it was he was headed.

Valder and Nathaniel joined Johnny and Eric on the deck.

"Hey, Valder. When's the name change go through?" Eric asked.

"Judge should sign off on it sometime tomorrow morning. Should give you plenty of time to deposit the check and clear out your account," Valder told him.

"You picked out a new name yet?" Nathaniel asked.

Eric nodded.

"Well, let's just hope it's not something horrible," Johnny grinned.

The four of them hung out for several more hours, and Eric became genuinely sad that he was leaving Omaha in the next couple of days. All said, it wasn't such a bad town -- and he'd made friends with people he'd never expected to like.

I envy you, you know, Russel had written. You get the chance to start over, to invent yourself as whoever you'd like to be. I've been in Omaha a while, and I've been watching you (insert ominous music here -- I wasn't planning on going after you unless I got the word, which I realize isn't comforting, but still -- full disclosure). You seem to have invented a better person than the one who worked beside me for eight years, but this person is not as much of a creation as you think he is.

He's who you really are, deep down. I envy you. I never had that good a person inside, nor did I have the chance to reinvent myself. I know, I know, poor Russel. My life would have made a good country song -- and, you know, I would have liked to have sung it.