The air was heavy with the heat, coming moist through the air vents and carrying the obnoxious odour of the swamp with it. John Donovan puffed fast at his cigarette in an attempt to block the stench of mud with the familiar scent of smoke. He loathed New Bordeaux, the entire city was sticky and sullied like an overripe plum. If it wasn't for loyalty he wouldn't bother suffering it but he liked Lincoln Clay and he loved his country besides, it wasn't quite as bad as the humidity of Vietnam.

The CIA agent looked at the seemingly eternal dirt road ahead wearily. New Bordeaux was a shit hole but the Bayou was definitely where the worst of the shit piled up. It was a mass of territory that was actually more liquid than land, made of steaming swamp, dying trees, bushes and broken down huts. The only gangsters who attempted to make use of it were the inbred idiots hopped up on drugs and moonshine and even they did little with it. Trying to find a purpose in the swamp was futile which was exactly why it made it a good place to setup a C.I.A safe house, in this case Pedro Pan. A former distillery it now served as a facility for traffic decoding and data sorting between the USA and the Caribbean a.k.a Cuba. John was just returning from there, he didn't like to frequent it too often given he was acting off the books now but it was a handy place for information and he had needed to get some on Frank Pagani's dealings in Cuba.

A hand appeared out of the shadows from the right, in the form of a thumbs up it flashed white with a sheen of red in the headlights.

"Shit!" John's foot slammed hard on the brakes and the car's tyres screeched threateningly on the dirt road. John spun the wheel hard and fast trying to keep control and simultaneously avoid the pedestrian who had appeared from nowhere. The car halted at an angle mere inches from the would be hitch-hiker.

John glanced out his windshield at the figure illuminated before him, it was hard to see much when insects and mud had coated his headlights. He sucked on his cigarette as he gazed out at what appeared to be a young, bloody, dishevelled woman and mulled over his next decision. Curiosity won out and he rolled down his window.

John seized up his pistol just in case, leaned out into the disgusting night air with the gun aimed and called rudely, "who the fuck are you?"

The woman squinted as she leaned to the side to peer past the lights at John. "Can you please help me?" she called back anxiously. "Please, they're coming."

John rolled his blue eyes wearily as he contemplated driving on. He doubted this was a robbery attempt, her accomplices would have jumped out by now and he could hear the blood dripping from her proving her wounds were real enough. In fact the dripping seemed quite fast prompting him to wonder just how bad the wounds were, he didn't want to end up with a dead girl in his car.

BANG! A shotgun sounded from somewhere in the darkness.

"Please mister," the woman begged. Her voice was quiet as if she feared betraying her presence to someone nearby. John didn't see the point in that, his car engine was still running, hell he hadn't even turned off the radio and the music of The Animals was heading off in the night air to entertain the alligators and the hicks.

"Shit, fine," John grumbled. He unlocked the passenger door.

The woman hastened round, not as fast as John would like as she was laboured by a limp. Another shot echoed through the skies followed by the low baying of a hound. "Is this the fucking moors?" John quipped sardonically as he flicked his spent cigarette out the window and wound it up. "Where's Sherlock when you need him?"

The passenger door opened and the young woman climbed in before closing the door as quietly as she could manage.

John glanced at her with a measure of disgust as she smeared blood onto the creamy leather interior. "I hope you don't die on me," he muttered, "that would be a pain to clean up."

She sagged into the seat and looked ahead calmly. "Mister you got something to help with the pain? Maybe I'll not die if you do."

John sighed.

There was a loud bang and a crack as the head of a woodcutter's axe became embedded in the orange bonnet of the car. John followed the handle of the axe up to its owner and his eyes widened with a measure of alarm. "Holy fuck," he mouthed out. There was a man before him wearing a wooden, horned mask and for all the world appeared like a deranged killer.

John hit reverse and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car squealed into life as the wheels spun up dirt before the car sped away from them psycho. John pushed the car into forward and spun the wheel again, gritting his teeth as he tried to manoeuvre the car hard and fast away from the madman.

BANG!

Glass shattered through the air and a loud ringing filled John's ears as the pellets of a shotgun created a hole in the windshield before embedding themselves in the metal bodywork of the back of the car. John didn't look, he just hit the accelerator hard and aimed the car straight.

BANG!

The next shot went wild as the Potomac Independent hurried along the path leaving the masked assailants in the shadows where they belonged. John was quiet and edgy for a few minutes as he followed the road, keeping his eyes peeled for anymore crazies. "Knew I shouldn't have stopped," he muttered to himself as he followed a bend to the left and headed onto what passed as a main road out here.

"Well I'm glad you did," the woman piped up. "Now, you got something for the pain?"

John glanced her way, her pallor was grey but she smiled, a bloody teethed ugly smile. "Best I've got is cigarettes and bourbon," he retorted in annoyance. "In the glove compartment, try not to get blood on it. Get me a cigarette too and a God damn explanation."

The woman nodded as she leaned forward to reach for the glove compartment. She tugged it open, pulled out the dented pack of cigarettes and the tin hip flask and closed it again.

John wrinkled his nose in revulsion as the scents of swampland seeping in through his mostly missing windshield. "That smell is rancid," he complained.

The woman opened up the flask and took a deep gulp before let out a relieved sigh. "That's good," she murmured before waving it in John's direction. "You want some?"

John snatched it off her with a scowl. "Do I want some? After that shit, yeah I want some." He took a deep gulp before thrusting it back to her. The bourbon was weak and it did nothing to numb the shock.

The woman closed it up and placed the flask back in the compartment before plucking out the cigarettes at last.

"Hurry up with that," John ordered, "the smell is killing me, I can taste the mud out there." He snatched the cigarette she offered quickly and then waited impatiently for her to light it. The lighter clicked twice prompting John to glance her way again. Her hands were cut, one finger was purple with bruising suggesting a breakage, and red ligature marks at her wrists hinted at her being tied up. John released the wheel to snap up the lighter and light his cigarette briskly before he took the wheel up with one hand again. He looked to the woman pointedly and clicked the lighter. She leaned forward with the cigarette waiting in her mouth. Her bottom lip was cut and old brown blood stained her philtrum.

For a brief moment the pair just smoked as the car conquered a rickety wooden bridge and several more twists and turns. A battered metal sign promised an end to the Bayou soon and a main road to River Row.

The woman leaned back in her seat and blew smoke up to the roof. "I'm Theresa," she introduced at last. Her voice was taut with pain yet she remained calm. "Last night I was out with my friend Anna at a nightclub." She took a deep draw on the cigarette before breathing the smoke up to the roof again. "They took her but I'm going to get her back," she said confidently.

"Right, well that explains nothing," John grumbled. "How about you tell me who put a dent in my car and how you went from a nightclub to hailing down a car in the fucking swamps?"

Theresa shrugged. "Shit happens. I think my leg's bleeding pretty badly, you think you could get me to River Row?"

John glanced at her with surprise before gesturing ahead with one hand. "Isn't it your lucky day, we're heading to River Row," he remarked sardonically. "Course I could just stop the car right now and let you walk it, I mean I don't owe you a road trip."

Theresa nodded back tiredly. "Yeah, true. I'm grateful but I don't know what to say. Truth is mister I don't know, my ears keep ringing, my head's fuzzy and I can't remember a whole lot."

"Right," John muttered sullenly even as he hit the highway to River Row. "Should I head for a hospital?"

"No mister, River Row," she retorted sleepily. She groaned as John leaned over to give her a rough shake with his hand.

"No sleeping and no more mister," the agent snapped at her. "You pass out there you might not wake up and I am not trying to dispose of a corpse at this hour."

"It wouldn't be hard," she retorted carelessly as she leaned against the door, "lots of water in River Row, just toss me off the docks."

"You got a death wish?" he quipped dryly.

"Just trying to be practical for you mister, oops, no more mister."

"John, call me John." He figured his first name was okay, she was a nobody and John was all too common, it wasn't like she'd suddenly figure out he was an AWOL C.I.A agent working with criminals.

"Mmm."

He gave her another rough shake before turning the radio up. "Where are we going to in River Row?" he demanded.

"Drop me anywhere, just need a phone," she muttered. "Hmm could you maybe lend me ten cents too now that we're friends John?" She grinned, careful not to show her bloody teeth this time.

"I really wish I hadn't stopped," John retorted flatly.

"I wish I hadn't gotten abducted from a nightclub, this outfit really wasn't practical for fleeing through a swamp in."

John glanced her way again. All he'd bothered to take in was that she was stained in muck and blood, bleeding heavily from her right leg which had a sloppy tourniquet around it and barefoot. She had a pleated mini skirt on, its colours lost beneath stains and a tight fitted, long sleeved top, the right sleeve was torn and hanging off exposing scratches and bruises.

John resumed looking at the road and smoking. He figured it was his own fault, no sane person was going to be flagging down a car in the bayou at night, logic dictated she had to be crazy but he'd stopped anyway.

The smell of simmering gumbo intertwined with the odour of fresh fish filled the kitchen. The chef, Vito Scaletta, stepped up to the pot to add the final ingredient- filé powder. He stirred it in and took a sip before muttering a curse and lifting the pot to serve. Vito carried the pot in two hands through the push door and out to the impatiently waiting guests in the dining area of the closed restaurant, stepping into the last remnants of sunlight as he did. The day had been hot and sticky like many before it, a heat he still wasn't accustomed to and rarely enjoyed, and the heat of the kitchen had ensured he was soaked with sweat.

Vito's second in command Alma Diaz glanced at the pot apprehensively but she wisely didn't say a word.

Vito's other guest Lincoln Clay eyed it eagerly. The young would be avenger hadn't tasted much of Vito's cooking and still couldn't accept Vito the gangster as Vito the chef. Rarely pausing for a decent meal, Lincoln took food out of need not pleasure.

Vito placed the pot in the centre of the table and dished out generous portions of the gumbo over the plates of waiting hot rice. The rice was clumped together, neither rinsed nor cooked enough but no one was daring to comment on it. Alma had long given up asking Vito why the fuck he kept trying to make gumbo when he was terrible at it.

Vito sat down after he served up his own portion, feeling just a hint of relief to finally get his ass to a seat. Alright it was a hard backed one in need of reupholstering but it beat standing. He wondered dryly if he would ever bother fixing up the restaurant again. Truth was now that Lincoln had given him a new purpose he didn't want to build up his life in River Row again and risk becoming stagnant in the poor part of the city. The worst thing Vito could do was become settled in this shit hole. Better to aim for something better and bigger than to just accept his lot and try to improve it.

The Italian-American scooped up a generous helping of gumbo with his spoon and prepared to take his first bite when he heard the screech of wheels and caught the flash of headlights. He, Alma and Lincoln were already on their feet with their guns out when the door of the restaurant burst open and the bell chimed with it.

"Jesus Bobby you want to try knocking for a change?" Vito scorned as he frowned at the arrival and lowered his gun.

Bobby 'Ducks' Navarro was a gangster best described as fearless with a side of insane. At six feet two he was an intimating presence, loud mouthed, cocky and brash, those who weren't scared off by his height or wild yelling usually realised how dangerous the man was when they caught a glimpse of his eyes. When Ducks got you in his sight for death his eyes seemed to empty of emotion, turning into two perfect pools of nothing before he shot you down, often in a spray of bullets with a shriek to accompany it. He headed the Navarro hit squad, New Bordeaux's answer to Murder Inq, it was supported by Bobby's brothers, each of whom seemed crazier than the last brother.

Bobby looked from his boss to Lincoln before turning a wary stare back on Vito. Bobby didn't really get Lincoln's place in their world, few in the city did, but as long as Vito told Bobby to help Lincoln he would without question. "Vito I'm sorry," he said quickly in an accent that was a hybrid of Southern and Italian, "but I've got trouble."

Vito folded his arms and sighed as he sat down and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, what trouble can't wait until after dinner?" he quipped sardonically.

Bobby read on Vito's face that he was pissed but he couldn't feel apologetic, his need was too great. "My sister Tess has gone missing," Bobby explained hastily.

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder at the assassin with surprise. "You guys have a sister?" he marvelled. "What's she like?"

The last time Bobby's squad had joined Lincoln one of the brothers had opted for using grenades in a warehouse full of TNT, whooping and hollering with glee at each explosion, even the one that singed off his eyebrows. Sometimes Lincoln wondered if they were a hindrance more than a help. He had to admit though the Navarro siblings were fearless.

"Fucking crazy," Alma snapped with a look of derision. She was torn between being annoyed by the disturbance or pleased by it as it was the perfect excuse to avoid eating Vito's idea of gumbo.

"Good," Lincoln retorted brightly as he gave her a pleased smirk from across the table, "in that family I'd be more worried if she wasn't."

"What do you mean missing?" Vito queried calmly. He glanced at Alma curiously as he wondered about this female Navarro sibling. He was vaguely aware of her existence but right now he couldn't even recall her name. She was a lot younger than him and Bobby, somewhat of a surprise to their mother who'd died shortly after giving birth to her. Vito had some misty flashback of a sly eyed girl with brunette waves, running around with the Irish boys exchanging kisses for whiskey and always giving her family grief.

"No one has seen her since yesterday," Bobby explained, "she was meant to meet Tommy for breakfast today but she never showed. She can be unreliable but not with Tommy."

Lincoln pondered quietly which brother Tommy was and recalled Bobby swearing at a light brown haired youth he'd called Tommaso who'd gotten trigger happy and clipped the ear of a cop during one of their gun fights resulting in an unpleasant road chase from the law.

"Alright," Vito reassured, "I'll put out the word around River Row." Seeing Bobby's worried stare he sighed and added, "and I'll help with the search." He looked at the uneaten dishes accusingly. "Apparently no one's hungry anyway."

As Vito stood the restaurant's main phone let out an unpleasant rattling chime. "Who the fuck is calling here?" Vito pondered aloud with a mystified look at the phone. Anyone who wanted him dialled his office not the business. He headed over to it, answering after the fourth ring.

"Is Lincoln there?" a brash male's voice demanded.

"Hello to you," Vito retorted sarcastically. His dark gaze looked to Lincoln meaningfully. These days someone looking for the youth usually meant trouble.

"Yeah I don't have time for small talk," the voice retorted hotly. "Is he there?"

"You'd better make time if you want him," Vito snapped back.

"Tell him it's an old army friend with an emergency."

Vito covered the mouth piece with his hand and held the phone to one side. "An old army buddy wants you kid," he said to Lincoln.

Lincoln looked surprised as he stood. He stepped up to the phone, mindful as to how Vito lingered close when he took it. "Who's this?"

"Lincoln thank God," John's voice exclaimed, "I thought that wop bastard was going to keep yanking my chain. Listen I'm in River Row and I've got a little problem."

"Yeah I'm listening," Lincoln retorted bluntly. He was conscious of the volume of John's voice, judging by Vito's scowl he'd definitely heard 'wop bastard'. Hell, knowing John he'd probably meant Vito to hear him.

"I picked up a hitch-hiker in the Bayou, big mistake, now she's passed out in my car bleeding all over the seats. Hospital is two districts over and I think they'd be asking questions anyway. Some freak show with a mask was chasing her. I'm fifty-fifty over ditching in her alleyway, might've done it too if I didn't remember you were the area and how you like to be chivalrous."

Lincoln could hear John taking rapid puffs on his cigarette, it was a common betrayal of his nerves and Lincoln knew that high-strung nerves usually led to bad decisions, it was true for everyone but for John it meant murder brought about with his quick temper. "Where are you at?" he queried carefully.

"Gas station, five blocks north of Vito's fish kingdom," he sneered. "Shouldn't have stopped for her, she wanted to come to River Row, probably got friends here but not like I can find them, sure in a couple of days time but not right now. I don't know a damn thing about her except her name. Theresa, you know any Theresas Lincoln?"

Lincoln saw the surprise that filled Vito's eyes before he masked it. "No but maybe someone else does. Sit tight, I'm on my way." Lincoln hung up the phone.

"Hell of a coincidence," Vito murmured darkly.

Lincoln shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not, better seeing her first to confirm, right?"

Vito nodded as he turned his attention to the anxious looking Bobby. "Well Ducks your sister might have just turned up," he explained, "time to go find out."

Bobby gawked at Vito in disbelief before his dark grey eyes filled with suspicion as he looked to Lincoln. "Who was on the phone?" he demanded.

"A friend," Lincoln answered quickly, "not a captor, he found a woman out in the Bayou, could be your sister but I'm not promising anything. He's the gas station five blocks from here, let's go, I'll drive."

"Yeah I'm coming too," Vito said sternly, "Alma close up."

Alma tossed her hands up in the air and murmured sardonically, "sure leave the woman to clean."

Lincoln led the way out first, hastening out to the sedan he'd picked purposely to be low key. He didn't really want to speed in it and risk the police taking a note of it, better to do that in a flashy car he didn't mind them getting the details of but he wasn't going to suggest Vito or Bobby drive instead. He unlocked the car, got in and started up the engine as Vito took the seat beside him and Bobby occupied the back reluctantly.

It didn't take long for Lincoln to reach the gas station, maybe ten minutes tops but it felt like longer with Bobby complaining about his lack of speed and his cowardice when it came to jumping lights beside police cars. There were a couple of cars sitting at the station but none Lincoln recognised as John's. Spying the man in the shadows of the station by the phone he filled with a slight unease as he turned off the engine.

"Give me a minute," Lincoln ordered the Italians sternly. He got out of the car and hurried over to John.

John was leaning against the wall puffing away at a cigarette looking fed up. His white shirt bore a couple of bloodstains but they were exterior and he had no visible wounds.

"John where's the girl?" Lincoln queried with a look of confusion.

"Hey Lincoln, glad you could come," John greeted sarcastically. "You don't think someone would call the cops if I pulled up here with my windshield shot out and a bloody girl in the front seat?" he sneered. He took a deep final puff of smoke before tossing the remains of the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his foot. "Lincoln what's with those guys?" he quipped calmly as he gestured one hand forward, pointing at the two men behind Lincoln.

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder at Vito and Bobby, of course they hadn't stayed in the car.

"What, you don't need the help of the wop bastard king of the fishes?" Vito snarled back bitingly.

"Aha ha," John let out a slightly nervous laugh. His baby blues darted up to Lincoln accusingly. "Say Lincoln why have you brought your friends to play? We're not making pizza here."

"Stop yanking chains," Lincoln scolded him half-heartedly in a deep, quiet voice. "They think they know the girl you've found, where is she?"

John stepped away from the wall and let out a heavy sigh. "Of course they do, damn it I knew I should have just kept driving. This way gentlemen." He waved them on with his left hand before walking away from the gas station.

They crossed the road and headed to an unlit alleyway where John's damaged car was abandoned to the shadows. A glow of orange hinted at life in the passenger seat. John hurried up to the passenger door and looked in with surprise before yanking the door open. "You're awake!" he exclaimed. "And stealing my cigarettes."

Theresa took a draw before letting it out too soon with a few sudden coughs. "Shit, sorry, couldn't help it. Didn't think you were coming back."

"I thought you'd passed out," John admitted.

"Yeah when you hit that speed bump rather hard it jostled one of wounds, saw stars for a few minutes that's all," she explained.

"Tessie!" Bobby shouted out in both disbelief and relief before he shoved John out of the way ungracefully.

John staggered back on the stone road with a curse before he righted himself against the wall. "There's gratitude," he grumbled as he smoothed down the sleeves of his tan blazer.

Bobby crouched down beside the open door and leaned into his sister anxiously. "Shit look at you, what happened? Who did this?" he demanded angrily.

Lincoln winced a little to hear the violent madness Bobby was infamous for slipping into his voice.

Bobby gripped the woman's right shoulder and pulled her up slightly. "You've got a powder burn on your shoulder! Were you shot at?"

"A few times," she admitted casually. "Bit too before you ask, gator, fucking hurt."

"Did she just say a gator bit her?" Lincoln repeated as he looked at Vito in surprise.

"Sounded like it," Vito retorted coolly. He was wearing an expression of indifference, unsure what to think about what was going on.

"Yeah she's real calm about it all," John informed them as he stepped over to Lincoln. "Don't know if it's blood loss or craziness."

"Craziness," Vito and Lincoln answered together.

John raised his eyebrows slightly as he looked at the pair. "How do you know her?"

"I don't," Lincoln retorted.

"You need a hospital," Bobby said sternly.

"Nope," Theresa dismissed quickly, "not going there. They'll look there, cops will only ask questions too. Nope."

"You are bleeding from a gator bite for fuck's sake, don't argue about it. Damn you're pale, how much blood have you lost?" Bobby looked at the blood pooling on the seat below her with worry.

"A good bit but I tied it up well, gotta thank Ren for the first aid training," she retorted tiredly. "Really need this thing stitched up. No hospital Roberto please."

Bobby gritted his teeth and scowled. "Using full titles eh? That's my thing you know."

She gave a bloodstained smile at this. "I know. Now, pay my new friend John for the taxi service and get me somewhere safe and dry."

Bobby stood upright and looked Vito's way. "Vito?"

Vito nodded. "You can bring her to mine."

"What about my car?" John quipped with an angry stare at Bobby.

Bobby reached for his wallet and plucked out a wad of cash. "Here, this should cover it," he said as he offered it out.

John snatched the money off the man with a frown. "Yeah, sure but right now what do I do?"

"I'll call up Connor," Lincoln offered, "get him and some of the boys to come down and sort it. You can wait for them or you can come with us but you'll have to squeeze in the back."

John glanced over at Theresa as Bobby lifted her out of the car. She gave some colourful curses as she attempted to stand, leaning against her brother for support.

"You're too tall Bobby," she chided.

Bobby was leaning down as much as he could to hold up Theresa. "It has its advantages," he retorted.

"I'm going to tag along and see how this plays out," John decided. "I'd still like to know why a man with an axe took a grievance to my car."

"That is a good question," Lincoln agreed. "Maybe he was a Commie," he joked. The jest was worth the glower he got in response. He moved over to Theresa, offering a hand out to help.

The young woman looked up at him with wide eyes and let out a soft gasp. "Damn is it really you?" she marvelled. "Or is my blood loss worse than I think."

Lincoln blinked down at her in puzzlement, unsure what to say. "Lincoln Clay," he introduced, "can I help you?"

She nodded. "I know your name. You don't recognise me, do you?"

Lincoln shook his head and glanced up at Bobby, he appeared just as confused. "I didn't even know the Navarros had a sister."

Theresa let out a laugh, doubling over with a wince as it turned to coughs of pain.

Lincoln bent down and wrapped an arm about her waist in support. "Come on now, let's get you to the car," he suggested.

Theresa shook her head as she limped forward. "Danny said you didn't remember, I just figured you didn't want to."

Lincoln winced to hear Danny's name mentioned, it was hard to think on him or Ellis or Sammy without feeling a blazing rush of anger coupled with a heated desire for revenge. When Marcano was dead then he would try to remember them fondly but right now all each name conjured was a violent flashback of their deaths. Lincoln couldn't understand what Theresa meant or why she sounded so sad. It filled him with unease, there was a conviction in her voice too but he was certain he didn't know her. Theresa Navarro, the name didn't ring any bells. Sure she seemed around his age, maybe a little older, but that didn't mean much. She was a white Italian-American, not the type to be running in his circles.

"So who knows her again?" John demanded sarcastically.

I hope I'm being faithful enough with these characters, I just love this game. Bobby 'Ducks' Navarro is the head of the Hit Squad Vito offers a perk. I love those guys when you call them, their crazy dialogue is hilarious and they just charge in with no fear and have saved Lincoln's butt many times in my playthroughs.