Hey there, guys! I hope I have my old readers with me, as well as some new ones. A few notes about this new tale of trial and tribulation:

1. Though I love NUMB3RS to death, I don't own any part of it. Nor do I own any part of the Hitman franchise, though I'm not so enthusiastic about that...

2. Updates will be roughly every 2-3 days.

3. I'm experimenting with a new method of storytelling, so be advised: the chapters are NOT in chronological order. Use the timestamps to organize events.

And, as always, read, smile, and review!

1. Endgame

Monday, November 10th, 2008

8:17 PM Pacific Standard Time

Snooze-EZ Motel, South Central

From somewhere in the dark, cramped room came the quiet sound of running water. The source of the noise was illuminated by no more than a pocket-size MagLite, lying discarded beside the sink; the tiny flashlight did little to beat back the shadows that thrived behind the closed shutters, and for this, the single occupant was grateful. In fact, it was one of the few things he liked about his situation; a light on in the window might tell them he was here, and yet he needed some light for his task.

The tap spurted somewhat shakily, obviously having seen better days, and yet even the involuntary trickle was enough to clean the slew of cuts that interrupted the skin on his arms. They were minor, and stung only a little as he washed them out, but at this point, the only things his shirt was good for were to attract unwanted attention and perhaps entice an angry bull. Had it been his apartment, and any other set of circumstances, he would have taken a shower in order to shed the tang of sweat that hung around him, but if they found him, he had to be able to run. In preparation for this inevitable event, a fully loaded Glock lay, instantly ready for use, on the counter opposite the flashlight.

In an effort to collect hid adrenaline-inebriated nerves, he splashed some tepid water on his face, rubbing at the grime and five o'clock shadow collected there and eyeing his own reflection in the cracked mirror. He absentmindedly tried to fix mussed, dark hair and arrange the handsome, careworn features into some semblance of calm, but despite his best efforts, the fear-driven man that stared back at him was the same inconveniently mortal Don Eppes that he had been three days and a lifetime ago, before all of this had started.

"Get a grip," he ordered himself under his breath.

Avoiding the petrified stare of his reflection, Don let his eyes flick to his watch, as they often did when he was nervous or threatened – unfortunately, at the moment, he was both. It was pushing 8:15, almost thirty-six hours having passed since his desperate attempt to communicate with the team. The way he figured it, he had an hour or so before they showed up, which meant he'd have to move again.

Thirty minutes, he thought to himself. He would wait thirty minutes – pack-up time and a power nap, if he could manage to sleep at a time like this.

Wiping his hands on his pants, he grabbed the gun and exited the bathroom, surveying the room. The bed was unused, serving as little more than a place to store his shirt and looking barely clean enough event o perform that simple task. The carpet was an odd mustard yellow and stained with ashes and other, less savory substances. Briefly, he considered sleeping in the bathroom, then rejected the notion; it wasn't as if he'd be able to sleep anyway. Sighing, he made as if to tuck himself in the gap between the questionable bed and the wall that would render him invisible to passerby when suddenly—

--KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Don froze, gaze shooting to the door. How could they have found him so quickly? He quickly rationalized that they couldn't have, and that therefore his unexpected visitor was not his pursuers. Putting his Glock behind his back just in case, Don stood to the side of the door, discreetly parting the shades to peer inquisitively at the caller. Upon catching sight of them, a wave of relief swept through him; however, in case they were watching, he decided to play it off. Tucking the gun in the back of his belt with the safety on, he casually opened the door.

At first glance, the woman at the door appeared to be a class-B call girl. A tight-fitting leather coat barely concealed the most private parts of her, allowing for a detailed examination of her long, thin legs. High heels and bawdy makeup completed the costume, but one look at her red hair and concerned blue eyes and Don recognized her instantly.

"Hey, honey," Megan drawled unconvincingly. "Somebody told be you were lonely up here. Don't suppose you'd like some company there, would you?"

Don tried to keep the tremor from his voice. "Sure."

Leaning back, he allowed her entrance, topping off the sundae with a quick check of her rear – purely for appearance's sake, of course – before he shut the door behind her. After the telltale snap, all illusions were dropped.

"You scared me for a minute there," he admitted. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Sorry," she apologized hastily, fumbling with the tie to her coat. "Are you okay? You had us worried."

"I'm fine. We can talk about all that later. Right now, we need to get out of here."

"Right." Flinging open her coat, she revealed a pair of cuffs, her own Glock, and a backup, which she handed to Don along with a shoulder holster. "I thought you might need this."

Reluctantly, he took it. "We have to fight our way out of here?"

"If we leave soon, then no. There's a car parked out front to take us to the office."

"Marked?"

"No."

"Running?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let's go." Grabbing his jacket off the back of the bathroom door, he checked his watch once again: 8:28. He had two minutes.

Following Megan out the door, he uneasily ducked out from beneath the overhang. The car was a navy blue sedan, a little beat-up and with civilian plates; Don strode towards it as fast as he could without seeming out of the ordinary. Then he made his cardinal mistake. Tearing his gaze from the car, he glanced back at the motel he'd called home for the last five hours just in time to catch a glint of metal on the roof. The yell was half out of his throat when the sniper fired.

Instantly, the tempo of the world seemed to quicken, or maybe it was he who slowed in his actions. He felt something punch hard into his chest, and the pavement pressed hard against his cheek before he knew he had fallen. There was some commotion at this point; he was vaguely aware of Megan and another looming figure, most likely Colby, dragging him into the car. Past this, however, the world was suddenly a mystery to him, his harsh, labored breath allowing for little comprehension.

"…number 3695 down, send bus and backup to following address…"

"Don? Come on, stay with me—"

One thing comforted him then, at the end of it all, and that was that everything had gone to plan. Squinting to catch the second glint of the gun barrel disappearing from the rooftop, he continued to stare at the empty space.

"Well done, 47," he commended no one in particular. "Well done."

And with that, Don Eppes died.