This happens before Trev stumbles into Brennan's hospital room. So there won't be much Bones characters for the next few chapters.

Trev

First time they came after me, I was in an elevator in Shanghai going to meet my handler to say, and I had this all planned out, Mission complete, bastard's dead. I'm going home, screw you. That was my plan, anyway.

The guy who threw some white powder in my face had a different idea. Fortunately, the air in the elevator was dusty and I sneezed at the exact moment he threw the stuff. A minute-and-a-half and a bruised knuckle later, he was dead in the elevator. I honestly didn't mean to kill him, honest. I wouldn't have ended it that quickly on purpose. I would have squeezed some Intel from him, then broke the bub's neck.

I found my handler in his hotel room with his throat slashed, blood pooling from it. Aw man, he owed me money. Worse, they would think I did this. I may not have the best record when it comes to dealing with my handlers, but the worst that happened was Larry waking up very confused in Paraguay. It didn't help that he was stuffed inside a luggage trunk. I laughed, but he didn't.

So I got the best way I knew: drug dealers. You'd be surprised what those guys can smuggle in and out of any given country. Not only drugs, but people, guns, untaxed booze(moonshine from Louisiana is very popular in Asia), information, passports, biological weapons, all those nice things. So, smuggling a guy just under 200 pounds was not a problem.

But staying in the cramped and cold cargo area of a commercial flight that eventually was hangered in Chicago was not fun. At least they gave me a Gameboy. And, I managed to play non stop due to me packing a lot of batteries. By the time we landed, I beat the Elite Four. Classic Red version of course. All about the original 151 Pokemon.

Chicago, home of the dirtiest, filthiest, most vile scum till you hit DC. And that's just the politicians. My kind of place. Lot's of people to torment to get away from boredom, a gun-runner centric place, just about everything a criminal would need, you can find it in Chicago.

I called the White House, told them where I was. They acted as if they didn't know me. Of course they would say that. They don't call the COVENANT Project the "White House's dirty little secret" for nothing. They'd send a retrieval team. I would sit tight at the rendezvous until then.

The bitch came after while I was listening to Green Day. Low blow.

Say, hey!
Hear the sound of the falling rain
Coming down like an Armageddon flame (Hey!)
The shame
The ones who died without a name

I was air guitaring it when my instincts kicked in. Instincts are your first impression and they can become startling accurate. Those who don't have the right combination of initiative and instinct quickly die in my work.

I launched myself off the easy chair in the apartment that served as the rendezvous point. I hid next to the door. It burst open and the first thing I saw was the Glock come through.

I speared my left hand forward, knocking the gun hand to the side. I stepped inward, and chopped at the joint connecting the jaw and skull.

She dropped a little bit, and I missed. My hand painfully collided with the frame. Bruised hand, but still fight-ready.

She jabbed forward with her left, aiming for the same junction. I leaned back, and backhanded with my left and followed up with a elbow at my right.

She stepped to the blows and dodged them. She raised her gun toward me...

I grabbed her wrist and twisted. The gun fell, but she reversed my grip, and stepped outward to me. She grabbed my elbow with her other hand and push pulled.

I screamed as my elbow broke, bending a full 195 degrees. Those may seem like a measly 15 degrees, but they hurt.

My face tightened in pain and rage. I side stepped and swung at her face, as fast and hard as I could. She tried to drop, just like she did before. She succeeded in stopping me from hitting the stun-point. My fist collided with her eye. She staggered back, I swung a kick and it hit her in the ribs. I could feel one break.

I stepped forward and swung again, before she could recover. Not so. She grabbed my arm and neck and pivoted, using her weight to throw me. I landed on my back, the breath knocked out me. I reacted on instinct, rolling back at speed, swinging my knee at her face.

She leaped back,avoiding my knee. I landed on my feet.

The key to surviving a fistfight is not to know when to throw a punch or kick. It's knowing when to run. And that is exactly what I did.

I turned and ran toward the window. I barreled through the glass and fell two stories down. I landed on a closed dumpster, my left ankle cracking in pain. I stumbled and fell on the edge of the dumpster, breaking a few ribs.

I fell on my ass as I rolled off the dumpster. My whole body screamed in pain. My face had it the ground as well as my ass, and I could feel the bruises coming. I hastily and painfully force myself up and hobbled as quickly as I could into the crowd.

Subway Station! I hurried as fast as I could to the entrance. I painfully climbed down the steps and into the station. I painfully jumped the turnstile, my ribs and ankle screaming at me. I gasped in pain. I hobbled down the walkway and to a random platform. I jumped in the first subway I saw.

I sat down and panted in exhaustion. Who ever she was, she sure as hell wasn't a member of the retrieval team. Thoughts raced through my head, thoughts about who ordered her. Thoughts about who sent her. I couldn't get off this train at the station. She would be waiting for me there, and I was in no condition for round two.

I got up and hobbled to the back of the car. I went as fact as I could to the back of the train. This would not help my ankle or ribs. I braced myself.

I shoved myself through the door, and skidded down the tracks. I broke another rib. I gasped in pain again and slowly pushed myself up. I hobbled to the side of the tunnel. I looked up. A grill separated the street above from the subway below. Underneath it was the mother of all rats nest. Those little hell-things were very territorial. Those little teeth were sharp and they hurt.

I steeled myself, again. I jumped onto the nest and spring boarded from the nest and grabbed the grill. Thankfully none of the little buggers had managed to bite me. Now comes the hard part. I was hanging with my good arm. I did the one thing I could do.

"Hey!" I bellowed, "A little help here!"

I think my stars aligned that moment. A guy wearing a green KIWANIS polo shirt looked down the grill. Thank you, Christian youth organizations, "Oh God, are you okay?"

"I think my arm is going dead and there is a bunch of angry rats under here. Less talk, more help please," I begged.

"Um okay," he nodded, "Hey guys, come help this guy out!"

Half a dozen KIWANIS guys lifted me and the grill up and deposited me on the curb. One of them asked, "Are you okay, buddy?"

As an answer I grabbed my injured arm's wrist with my uninjured hand and yanked, popping my elbow back in place. I screamed in pain. The KIWANIS guys leaped back in surprise. Cold sweat dotted my brow. I panted from the pain. I grabbed my ankle and yanked it back in place. I screamed louder. One of the KIWANIS guys exclaimed, "Jeez! Are you some sort of robot?"

"If I was I wouldn't be in this situation," I replied through gritted teeth.

"Come on," he helped me up, "We got a place for you to sleep for a few days."

"Confession," I said, "Ya got a Catholic Church around here?"

"Your Catholic?" the teenager asked, "Figures. You're crazy."

"Is there one?"

"Around the corner," he helped me hobble to there. It was a former convenience store, and poor as hell. The confession booth was made out of ply-wood and heavy drapes, but it was manned. KIWANIS Guy set me in the booth and closed the curtain.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned," I repeated the old adage, "And I am in need of help."

"Aren't we all," I heard an elderly voice say.

"Can I see your face?" I asked.

He pulled back the barrier separating us. Yes he was old, his skin like paper. I asked him, "Oath of Confession, you take that seriously?"

He got a confused look on his face, but nodded, "How seriously?"

"Seriously enough to die for," he whispered. I saw the conviction in his face. He wasn't lying. He was old school. Good.

"I am a black ops assassin, so my list of sins is long and varied," I said, "Four days ago, someone attacked me in Shanghai. I sneak back State-side, I contact my superiors. Someone attacks me and I barely escape. There's a friend in DC that can take of me until I get better."

"My my," he mused. He smiled, "Impressive."

"You believe me?"

"They teach you how to lie in MI6," he replied with a smile, "I have been around."

"Nice," I said. Like him, I could spot a lie in a heart-beat. He wasn't lying, "Can you help me?"

"I know a church-goer who's driving to the Potomac for a camping trip," he said, "I can convince him to make a side-trip."

"Thanks," I said, "If you need confirmation, my friend's name is FBI Agent Seeley Booth."

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