Over the last couple of decades people had learned to utter Bret Stiles' name with fear and respect.
The leader of the Visualize cult had been infiltrating his acolytes in crucial positions for years now; until he was finally in sole control of the law enforcement, the government, the justice system. Even the President was just a puppet in his hands, and it was no secret that he didn't dare to do as much as draw a breath without Stiles' approval.
The Eye that was the logo of his church had become a much ominous token of his power to be aware of virtually everything about everybody; he had a net of informants who spied on people and promptly let him know about any brewing discontent.
People used to say that Bret Stiles could actually read minds, so one had to be very careful not to do anything that might displease him; otherwise his good friend Red John would come and deal with the dissidents in a way that chilled the blood in the veins of the bravest of men.
Red John was Stiles' right hand, and his trademark smiley face brought about even more terror than the Eye itself. His victims were mostly female; they were either women who had dared to turn down Stiles' attentions, or the wives and girlfriends of someone who had been foolish enough to hinder his plans.
There were rumors that Bret Stiles and Red John were actually one and the same, but very few individuals were brave enough to say that aloud. A certain Patrick Jane was one of them; at a very young age he'd witnessed the murder of his mother by the hand of Mr. Stiles, and the killer hadn't been aware of his presence as he painted his signature smiling face on the wall behind his victim.
Jane's sole drive in life was that of bringing down the man that had robbed him of his beloved mother; he'd spent a whole decade crafting an elaborate scheme that would permit him to get close enough to Bret Stiles to cut his throat, and therefore rid the world of such a tyrant.
Only two people knew about his intentions; they were his childhood friends, and he trusted them with his own life.
Angela Ruskin and Teresa Lisbon had lost their respective brothers when the young men had refused to join the Visualize cult, and were subsequently found dead in a ditch. Both girls were more than a little bit in love with Patrick Jane, and they would gladly sacrifice their lives for his sake.
However, while Angela shared Patrick's views on revenge, Teresa had never been pleased with the idea of cutting their enemy open and watch as life drained away from him.
"There has to be another way," she always said, but her friends simply shook their heads. Bret Stiles was too powerful, and no jury would convict him for whatever crime; there was nothing for them to do but to take matters in their own hands.
It was on the eve of the date they had chosen for the assassination that something dramatically changed Teresa's views on the matter. Neither she nor Angela could sleep, and she could hear her companion tossing and turning beside her on the double bed they shared in a shabby motel room.
"I'm pregnant," Angela finally whispered in the darkness, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
Teresa didn't need to ask who the father was; she'd been blissfully unaware of the fact that the relationship between her best friend and the man she was in love with had shifted into something deeper, but now everything was falling into place at last.
They were faced with a mortal danger, it did make sense for Patrick to grab the chance before it was too late; and Angela had always been far more beautiful than she could ever be.
"Does Patrick know?"
"I can't tell him now; we might be all dead tomorrow."
A thick silence fell, interrupted only by their soft breathing; at length Teresa spoke again.
"Try and get some sleep. It will be over soon."
Weariness got the better of Angela at last and she sunk into a deep slumber. That was when Teresa slipped out of the bed, pocketed her gun, and vanished into the night.
Whatever happened, Patrick and Angela weren't going to raise their kid under the shadow of the Eye. As for her, she was well ready to spend the rest of her life in jail, or lie dead on the concrete before the crack of dawn.
She was not afraid.