Jackson rolled over in bed, pain stabbing his side as he did so. He stared up at the ceiling, studying the brown water stain to his left and the small cracks spider-webbing their way out of a corner, the only sound in the room his ragged breathing and the steady beeping of his heart monitor. As soon as he felt the wave of nausea pass, he willed himself to stand. Move. Run. Anything to get out of this room. This suffocating mint-green room, whose only purpose in life was to remind him of his failure. Jackson hated failure. Twelve years with his company and he'd only experienced this feeling once, on a much smaller scale, when he was still a rookie. But that memory was thrown aside and replaced by this new terrible realization: Jackson was no longer a legend. He was still the best, no doubt about that. But not a legend. Employers would still ask for him, his name would stay at the top of every list; his paycheck would still be higher than every other assassin's in the US. But as far as Jackson was concerned, his reputation was destroyed. All because of a woman.

Jackson slowly stood up, gasping as his stitches stretched agonizingly across his gunshot wounds. He looked towards the door to make sure no one was watching, but of course he knew they wouldn't be. His employers had made sure that the police guarding Jackson's room wouldn't be stationed there today. This was his only shot at escaping the hospital without notice and free of complicated police interrogations and court hearings. Despite the pain, this thought spurred Jackson on as he changed into his suit, still ripped in several places and covered in dried blood, and made his way down to the lobby where his boss awaited him, patiently sipping a cup of steaming black coffee.


THREE MONTHS LATER

March 24

4:57 AM

Las Cruces, New Mexico

Jackson ducked, barely avoiding a blow to the left side of his head. He felt the man's fist skim over his sweaty brown hair. Spinning quickly, he regained his balance and found his attacker ready with another punch, this time to the abdomen. Jackson felt all the air leave his lungs as the man's fist collided with his ribs, but it only took him a second to recover; growling, he elbowed the man in the nose and swung his leg underneath his knees, straddling him against the carpeted floor. He gave his target a final smirk before shoving his knife through his chest with a satisfying crunch.

Jackson sat there, still kneeling upon the target's bleeding torso, catching his breath. He wiped away the sweat dripping from his forehead, marveling at how much of a fight the old man had put up before his death. The job was simple: get in, kill the target, get out. No details were given, no names. However, it turned out to be surprisingly difficult, what with the amount of security surrounding the hotel, camera's that needed to be taken out, body guards to be dealt with. A job that should have taken only about an hour took Jackson three and a half to complete. Ever since the attempted assassination on Charles Keefe, security levels all over the country had been raised, even for the most insignificant people. This made Jackson's life so much harder, especially now that he was on probation as an actual assassin for hire. The company had given him a second chance, with the exception that all managing positions be withheld from him for six months following his failed mission. After escaping the hospital, Jackson had worked vigorously on regaining his strength back, and since then he had successfully completed seven assignments. Much more than the other 27 hit men currently with the company had accomplished. His paycheck was decent, and he was in the best shape of his life. The company had cleaned up the mess Jackson had made, and within the following month Charles Keefe was found dead in his private home with no clues as to how it happened; doors were locked from the inside, windows unbroken, security alarms in working order. He died quickly and quietly, and the deed was done. The Russians were reimbursed for their explosives, and life had moved on. There was only one loose end, one that had been nagging Jackson and bothering him everyday since the attack. When he finally got up the courage to ask about Lisa, his employers had shrugged him off.

"She's not a liability; she's got shit for the police. Her death isn't worth my time or money." His boss smiled after he said this and turned to face Jackson. "But if you want to finish what you started back at her father's house, be my guest. I'm sure you could use a good fuck right about now."

His words hit Jackson hard. Is that what he wanted? He didn't know. Rape was not on his list of priorities, but he couldn't deny that he'd enjoy driving Lisa, especially after all the shit he had to go through because of her. Revenge was something to avoid, it always led to messy endings. But this was too personal to ignore. About a week ago, Jackson finally made up his mind; Lisa could use some company. A little visit wouldn't hurt, would it? A smirk played across his lips as he thought of the answer to that question. Yes, it would hurt. He would make sure she hurt.

Jackson stood up, wiping blood off his hands, creating a crimson line that soaked into his black t-shirt. He took one last look at the wreck he had made before turning and walking out of the room.


So........this is my first fanfiction, as some may be able to tell...I really hope it's not a complete disaster. This first chapter is a little short, but I kind of sort of know where I want to go with this, so hopefully you can expect some intense chapters comin' up. Um, so yea. Remember, reviews are love, and we should all be kind because this was my first attempt. OK. So what are we doing? We're not pressing the previous button, that's for sure. We're looking for that little green box just below this wonderful message and we're gonna click it. Think you can find it? I have faith in you. Good luck.