Author Note: To all the readers out there who've found interest in this mindless drabble I've been scribbling down, I profusely apologize for having delayed the third installment in this collection of pathetic letters. I will do my best to not do so in the future, so put away the torches, pitchforks, and crosses--yes, I'm referring to the guy dressed as a Roman soldier and balancing a rather large crusifix in one hand and a bunch of large nails and a heavy looking hammer. Shoo! So enough with this, the witch hunt is over and now I present you with the next chapter of "War of the Angels..."

Chapter 3: The Hunters and the Hunted

After an uneventful twenty minute drive, they'd returned to the hotel penthouse, aka the INTERPOL CP. Smecker was caught unawares by how organized the INTERPOL agents were. They made the FBI look like fresh rookies, it would have made him eager to get into the investigation if it wasn't for the fact they were after the Saints. He glanced over at Bishop who was sitting at a table across from Smecker, reading a file. Looking closer, Smecker could make out his name on the cover. From the thickness of it, Smecker surmised that this guy did his homework and did it well.

"So," Bishop stated, making Smecker jump a little. "Fifteen years in FBI, second in your graduating class, commendations for CSI, recommended for therapy twice concerning unusual behavior at a crime scene including firing your weapon in the air and screaming wild profanities."

Bishop raised an eyebrow at that. He looked up at Smecker and smirked, setting the file down as he did.

"Luckily for you, Yank, I don't care if you start dancing a flaminco and singing 'La Cucaracha' in a ballet gown as long as you can do your job," he said. He offered Smecker a seat and as soon as it was taken Bishop continued. "You've been in charge of the Saints case in the States for almost eight years now?"

"That's right," Smecker confirmed. "That's why you called me in."

"You've put it succintly," Bishop replied taking a sip of coffee. "Now before we brief you on everything I'd like to know everything you've learned about the Saints."

"That depends on what you already know," Smecker sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I'm gonna take a good guess and say that anything I'm gonna tell you you've already found out. You already figured out all the basic stuff from your own briefing and have done everything else through basic info scrounging, most of it being on your database. I'm going to take a guess and say that isn't very helpful."

"Do you require an answer?"

"Nah, that stuff was obvious before I got on the plane," Smecker snorted. Then his face got grim. "But let me give you some advice, Bishop, right? If you're going after the Saints, you're going to need to pull all the stoppers out of the bottles on this one."

Bishop smiled and leaned forward. "Let me be clear about something, Smecker. I have never held back for anyone, or anything, and I have no intention of doing that now. If I had thought otherwise, you'd still be back in your bed in the colonies."

"States."

"From your perspective..."

* * * * *

Smecker looked over his shoulder through the glass of the phone-booth again as he dialed the number the Saints had given him when they'd first reached England. They said it was for emergencies, and if this wasn't an emergency... He nervously began biting his lips as the phone began to ring without an answer. When the phone was finally picked up, Smecker let out a sigh of releaf that all but blew away Connor MacManus on the other end of the line.

"Hello?" Connor asked tentatively.

"Connor? That you?" Smecker replied. "It's Smecker."

"Paul!" Connor said with surprise. "Well it's certainly been more than a coon's age, you old fucker! What are you calling for?"

"Well that's the thing. I need to talk to you, all of you, now."

"Well, I'd love to help, boy. But it'd be quite the drive from London to Boston."

"Yeah, I know. I'm in London, too."

"..."

"..."

"You're fucking with me?" Connor asked.

"This is an emergency number, right?" Smecker replied. "Why would I joke about this?"

"Alright," Connor said as he waved over his father and brother. "There's a pub in the north district, it's called the Lazy Man's Bride. Can you be there in twenty minutes?"

"Ten."

"Done."

Both men hung up the phone at the same time, Smecker making his way to the pub, and the other MacManus' learning what was going on from Connor as they headed to the same destination. Later that night, after many beers were consumed, the Saints and the FBI Agent would formulate a temporary strategy to keep INTERPOL from finding any of them. Unfortunately, due to the fact they knew almost nothing about their new nemesis, Inspector Bishop, this didn't get very far. That meant that the hangovers they'd get the next morning would be almost for nothing.

* * * * *

Bishop stood on the porch of the penthouse of the hotel, gazing out on the city of London. It amazed him that he was fulfilling his dream after all this time, chasing down the dirty lowlives who thought they were above the law like Sherlock Holmes. And if it was one thing he liked about Holmes, it was that he never left a case unsolved.

"I hope you're saying your prayers, Saints," Bishop muttered as he lingered his gaze on Big Ben. "Because only God Himself will be able to stop me from running you fuckers to the ground..."