Whoo-Hoo! Twenty-five chapters and over 100K words! Go me!

I know I've done the 'gushing' thing before, so I'll try to keep it to a minimum this time.

However, I do want to thank some people first:

First the Terrific Trio known collectively as johnnysgirls. Individually they are shadow182angel, Double H19, and HeartWritingM, and are some of the nicest people here and great writers to boot. You guys just make FF a fun experience - thank you so much!

Next, a big thanks to my bud High Mage Lady Hawkmoon for tolerating my numerous queries and beta-reading when asked. I appreciate it!

Finally, everyone that has posted a comment, read, kept up on, or just happened to glance at my fic - thanks a lot for taking the time to do so.

Okay, gushing's over with... Here's my latest bit.

Episode 3: Retaliation

Part 7

Harrowgate, Saint's Row District, Stilwater

Hotel Chauvenet

Sixth Floor, Room 618

Sunday, May 8, 9:03am

Jean San-Pierre finished arranging the elaborate breakfast that room service had brought up. Though it was a warm spring morning, a light, cool breeze was blowing from the northwest passing over the river that separated Northern and Southern Stilwater. It was pleasant enough that he decided to enjoy his meal with his lovely companion on the balcony overlooking the shops lining the riverfront down below.

As if the thought of her was a magical summons, she appeared.

She was an elegant looking woman with light bronze skin and features that hinted at her mixed Thai/English heritage. She was dressed simply in a long white button-down shirt that did little to hide her curves. Being barefoot, she was actually shorter than him at a mere 5'9" tall without her customary three-and-a-half inch stiletto heels. She'd just taken a shower and was using a towel to dry her long, feathery, black hair.

She was a gorgeous creature and, as he masked the hungry desire in his gaze, he found it difficult to believe she was also a highly skilled microbiologist.

"Tera, my dear," he purred. "So good to see you awake. I hope all is well."

"Jean," she greeted with a smile, her voice husky and smooth. She stopped drying her hair, draped the towel over the back of one of the chairs on the balcony and strolled over to him. "It's good to see you, too."

Her hands snaked under his suit-coat as she wrapped her arms around his torso. She angled into him as she pulled him close. She nipped his bottom lip then skimmed her tongue along the seam of his mouth. He parted his lips allowing her entrance and very briefly let her control the kiss. He then weaved his fingers through her hair, clenched firmly and forced her head back as he retook control. He thrust into her mouth, pillaging, demanding. She moaned and met him, teeth and tongue.

His free hand wormed under her shirt, pulling it down and away from her shoulder as he slid his fingertips over the soft delicate skin of her back. He eased away from her kiss and raked his lips and teeth down her neck and then onto her smooth shoulder as she moaned again.

She pressed into him and pulled him closer, muttering into his jacket.

He leaned back and looked her in the eyes.

"What was that, my dear?"

"I said that I'm lucky to have found you," she whispered breathlessly, her eyes dancing over his features. "You've been so good to me. I wish there was more that I could do to show my appreciation for everything you've done."

"You've shown your 'appreciation' several times, my pretty one," he reminded her with a sly grin. "In very interesting ways. I've told you not to worry about it. You're happiness and security is all I care about."

"I know," she said quietly, closing her eyes and laying her head against his neck. "It's just I'm worried about the consequences once you start digging up the evidence of Ultor's experiments."

The muscles in his shoulders and back tightened as his jaw clenched.

This again.

He was in no mood for her self-righteous humanitarian antics right now. Normally he could tolerate her oft-voiced desire to bring down the large corporate conglomerate. Late last night, however, he'd been informed of the Samedi's failed attack on the Hideout of the Third Street Saints and the loss of Micas, one of his top soldiers.

An image flashed through his head – his hands firmly clasped about her soft throat, crushing her windpipe just to silence her. The terrified look of panic on her face as he throttled her, watching with grim pleasure as she struggled against him, as the life slowly drained from her eyes. Then tossing her lovely corpse over the railing and watching as she sailed down to the hard concrete below. She'd no doubt appear as an angel descending from heaven, her white shirt fluttering about her.

The thought ran through his mind – briefly.

"Jean?"

He blinked, his face blank, as he focused on reality again.

"Pardon me?" he asked.

"You tensed up." She had pulled back and was looking at him, worry marring her features. "What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, my pet," he recovered quickly. He forced a caring, compassionate look onto his face. "I must say, though, it feels as if I've betrayed you - failed you - and I seem to continue to fail you daily."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been so patient with me," he said with a shrug as he looked away. "I'm ashamed to admit that I've been so busy with the Samedi lately that I've been unable to devote the time to your problems that I promised I would." He shook his head. "I've let you down."

"Jean, no," she said as she reached up and turned his face toward hers. "Look at me."

He wanted to smile at how easily she fell for his deceptions; rather he disguised it with a false look of concern.

"I told you before, you've done so much already." She smiled at him. "Ultor can wait. It's best to be cautious until you can focus your full attention on them anyway." A frown appeared at the corners of her mouth. "What is it that's causing so many problems with your…" she searched for an appropriate word for the Samedi, "um, organization, anyway?"

This time there was no need for him to deceive her.

"In truth, my precious…" he began as he stepped away from her then pulled a chair out for her to sit down. "…the current problem is the Third Street Saints."

She took the proffered seat and picked up a fork to eat the meal he had laid out for them.

"What about them?"

"Their leader seems to be causing a bit of a stir," he went on, sitting across from her. He poured her some coffee.

"Their leader?" she began, a look of guilt appearing momentarily. He noticed.

"Is something wrong?"

"Hmm?" She shook her head with a slight smile. "No, no. Nothing. Er, go on."

She was lying; San-Pierre was a master of it and could tell quite easily. What she was lying about, however, he could not decipher. Mentally putting the matter aside for now, he continued.

"She is more resilient than the General thought." He nodded with a grimace. "Yes, she's quite a problem."

Tera paled slightly, taking small nibbles of her food.

"Is… is there anything I could do to help?" she asked.

His brow furrowed. It was an odd question.

"You've aided my endeavors more than enough," he said, a genuine smile came to his lips. "That mixture of Loa Dust and paralytic agent you synthesized for the micro-darts was highly successful in all the tests I ran. The effects of the weapons I developed to be incorporated into the voodoo-dolls are enhanced even more because of you." He nodded again. "Once they are put into use in the field, they will make the Samedi's efforts of removing the lesser gangs from the city that much easier. After we have control of the city, I promise to turn my full resources to removing this 'Ultor' problem you have."

Tera sat up in bed, the sheet pulled around her waist and chest. She absentmindedly brushed her index finder against her pursed lips as she watched Jean get dressed.

He'd gotten a call from his bodyguard, Jaqual, that there was an impromptu meeting called by some of the other Samedi. He apologized for having to cut their rendezvous short and told her he had to meet up with someone nicknamed 'The Jamaican'. Jean's tone indicated that he had little respect for the man, or maybe, she hoped, that he preferred staying with her as opposed to going to this meeting.

Regardless, he said it was necessary and would soon be gone. Nervously, she watched him as he straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket.

Did he suspect anything she had done? Jean was highly intelligent and seemed to possess the ability to always know what she was thinking. Did he know what she was doing a year ago?

She glanced over to the nightstand where she kept her old Ultor security badge. The label read:

DR. T. PATRICK

SCIENCE DEPT

She had placed it there as a reminder of why she quit.

The memories flooded back. She had been content with her position at Ultor. She excelled in her field, microbiology, and was promoted several times. She enjoyed many benefits of the corporate powerhouse. She was happy, excited even, to be a part of creating 'A brighter future and a better life…' the motto of the conglomerate itself. She worked, all the while being blissfully ignorant of Ultor's true intentions.

Then a year ago she was approached by him, by Dane Vogel.

What Mr Vogel wanted done, what he asked her to do…

Her hand clenched into a fist. That goddamned, shit-fuck bastard-ass prick… She shook her head. She didn't need her old, inner city background to come bubbling to the surface at the moment. She was elegant now, refined. Like Jean was.

Jean. She should really tell him about all of it, how all of this was her fault, how she was involved with the Leader of the Third Street Saints.

He said something to her.

"What?" she asked as she blinked.

He leaned down toward her, apprehension in his eyes.

"My pet, what is wrong with you?" She loved when he called her that. "You seem preoccupied."

She brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. It felt good to have someone like him.

"Just worried about you."

"Oh?" He smiled.

"I always fret when you're gone." She sighed. "Be careful out there."

He searched her eyes, but she wasn't worried. What she said was the truth after all – she did fret when he was away. He seemed to believe her.

"Then take care until I can come back."

"Which will be when?" She hated asking. She knew he was very important and very busy. She knew he wasn't always able to see her, but that didn't stop her from missing him when he was gone.

"As soon as I am able," he whispered quietly, leaning forward. "After all, there are so many reasons for me to return." He pulled her forward, pressing his lips against hers. He was always so passionate. She gave herself over to the kiss. Then, regretfully, he pulled away from her.

He winked at her and, like that, he was gone.

She smiled to herself as she lay back down. She never thought she'd have to ally with a street gang to get back at Ultor, but she was glad to have hooked up with someone she knew cared so deeply for her.

That needy woman is starting to get on my nerves, San-Pierre thought darkly as he rode with Jaqual to the Samedi meeting. He smiled as a second thought surfaced . At least the sex is fantastic.

The green Status Quo drove east along Hancock Street passing through the Mills, then Pilsen, and finally the Black Bottom Neighborhood. Down the hill to the southeast, the golden glowing letters of the Phantom Caverns came into view.

The limo, however, passed the turn for the tourist trap and continued due east following Hancock Street to its end, stopping at a small security booth. The guard looked briefly at the vehicle, nodded and raised the barrier. The limo drove onto the lot of the Miller's Plastic Co. Turning north, the vehicle skirted the main warehouse and loading dock. They passed a few legitimate workers as well as several members of the Stilwater Biker Club.

San-Pierre had heard that among the casualties of the failed raid yesterday were Skeeve, the leader of the Biker Club, as well as Harley and Marty, two of the club's prominent members. In one fell swoop, the Biker Club was left leaderless; the surviving members were easily incorporated into the Samedi rank-and-file and now served as low quality, but cheap enforcers.

They passed a building in the back with the words Miller's Plastics, since 1820 on it and parked near three other green vehicles. It appeared as if both Taibot and the Jamaican were here. This should be fun.

…

Entering the building, San-Pierre was underwhelmed at its condition. There was debris everywhere. Barrels were lined haphazardly along the eastern wall. Shelves, both metal and wooden were in need of repair – some leaning so badly they were dangerously close to falling over. Broken crates and containers were scattered around the center of the room.

He was growing annoyed at the decrepit conditions of the sites his fellow Samedi chose for their meetings; the fact that there wasn't a central Hideout for the Samedi meant there wasn't a single place their enemies could target. But still, there had to be someplace better than this.

The drama playing itself out in the office to the north of the room drew his attention from the rancid place. Jaqual and he headed toward the noise. Two Samedi soldiers were guarding the entryway and nodded to him as he came into the middle of a 'discussion'.

"…pathetic attempts of your men!" the Jamaican was yelling. "I don't know why the General puts faith in you at all!"

Taibot had lost a lot of men during the raid, but probably the biggest cause for concern was the failed apprehension of the Leader of the Third Street Saints herself. During that debacle, both Teege and Darco, two of the Samedi personally trained by the Jamaican had been killed and Mr Sunshine was gravely injured. The General himself was even placed in danger by the Saints' Boss. It had been a serious blow to everyone's ego.

Taken in a certain light, the failure of Teege and Darco could be laid at the Jamaican's feet. It was this frustration that was fueling his current rant.

San-Pierre smiled as Jaqual and he entered the small office.

The Jamaican turned as he noticed them, a furious look on his face.

"So, you're finally gracing us with your presence, San-Pierre," he growled.

"Anything to help my fellow…" San-Pierre began, but he was quickly cut off.

"You will shut your cursed mouth and be silent," the Jamaican continued on.

A scowl crossed San-Pierre's face. "Excuse me? Just what…"

"I said SILENCE!" the Jamaican screamed. "No more of your ramblings, your tricks. You will be quiet and you will know your place. If not, I will teach it to you."

San-Pierre forced a blank look onto his face as inwardly he seethed with anger and contempt for his fellow lieutenant.

"I'm listening," he said quietly.

"For once," the Jamaican muttered. He indicated a shaken Taibot who sulked against the back wall - his lip was bleeding and his left eye seemed to be swelling shut. "The two of you failed."

"I beg to differ…" San-Pierre started, but was interrupted again.

"Quiet!" the Jamaican hissed. "I'm done listening to you. The attack on Shivington will proceed tomorrow morning as planned."

Confusion was on San-Pierre's face. "Do you think that's wise?"

"The General grows weary of failure and excuses!" The Jamaican stepped forward getting dangerously close to him. "There will be no more of either."

"I understand your concerns," San-Pierre said, trying to placate his irate companion. "But attacking immediately will push our reserves at the moment." He shook his head. "It's not a wise move. I would wait for things to calm down, regroup our people."

"The Saints are wounded," the Jamaican snarled.

"Which is the time an animal is most dangerous," San-Pierre explained. "I know you wish to avenge the loss of your men…"

The Jamaican lunged forward, grabbing him by the neck, his grip unbelievably strong. He spun around and slammed San-Pierre into the wall, hate in his eyes. "You know nothing, foolish man!"

San-Pierre was surprised at the Jamaican's attack. Surprised but not worried, and with good reason.

"You will release Mr. San-Pierre, immediately," Jaqual threatened quietly as he inched forward. "Or you will regret it.

The Jamaican turned to look at the bodyguard as he held San-Pierre in place.

"You are said to carry no firearm, is that not so?"

"That is correct," the bodyguard admitted. "But it hardly matters."

The Jamaican chuckled. "Then you can't stop me. I am known as the best fighter, the best warrior of all of the Samedi, better than even the General himself."

"That may be true," Jaqual said grimly. "But you forget one thing: I am not a Samedi. I was hired directly by Mr. San-Pierre himself. If you do not release him, my reprisal will not be pleasant."

The Jamaican looked past the bodyguard and gave a quick nod. The sound of rapid footfalls indicated the two Samedi soldiers that had been guarding the entrance were approaching.

Jaqual tensed at the sound and spoke quickly.

"This is your last warning. Release Mr. San-Pierre or suffer the consequences."

The Jamaican grinned smugly. "You are in no position to make demands." One Samedi pulled out a Vice9 and put the business end to the back of the bodyguard's head as the other grabbed his left arm. "Now take him out of here."

The Samedi with the gun nodded. "As you wish…" He was unable to finish his sentence.

In a blur of movement, San-Pierre's bodyguard struck. He shifted his weight quickly to the left, reaching up with his right hand and grabbed the wrist of the man holding the gun at his head. Simultaneously, he twisted his left arm around breaking the grip of the second Samedi.

He pull forward and down on the first Samedi's wrist, breaking his enemy's arm on his own shoulder. The gun fell from the Samedi's grip. As he spun to face the second Samedi, Jaqual reached out with his right hand and snatched the falling weapon out of mid-air.

Continuing his momentum, he slammed the pommel of the pistol into the second Samedi's face, knocking him over. As his second opponent was falling, Jaqual cocked the hammer back and fired once catching the man in the side of the head, killing him before he even hit the ground.

Jaqual spun quickly and pulled the trigger again, hitting the original owner of the pistol square between the eyes.

In less than three seconds both Samedi were dead.

The bodyguard then turned his attention back to the stunned Jamaican, pulling the gun up. "You had your chance."

"Jaqual, stop!" San-Pierre ordered.

Jaqual hesitated, but kept the gun trained on the Jamaican's head.

"Perhaps now we can talk about this," San-Pierre said to the Jamaican with a smirk, his eyes narrowed. The Jamaican scowled a moment then released San-Pierre with a huff.

"I'm running the attack tomorrow on Shivington. My men will do this - not yours." He glanced at San-Pierre and Taibot. "The two of you will stay out of it." He turned to go and got to the doorway as Jaqual called out to him.

"I hope for the continued sake of the Samedi," the bodyguard said, "that you lead your men better than you did these two." He ejected the mostly full magazine from the pistol, cocked the slide to expel the bullet in the chamber and tossed the empty gun at the Jamaican's feet. "Otherwise, your failure is guaranteed."

The Jamaican looked at him with contempt, turned and left, leaving the pistol where it had landed.

Taibot turned to look at San-Pierre. "Why ya do dat, mon?" He had an incredulous look on his face as he shook his head. "Ya mon here had the drop on'im. He coulda gotten rid of'im!"

"No, no," San-Pierre muttered with a shake of his head. "As much as I would have liked to see Jaqual put him down like the dog he is, the Jamaican is still one of the General's favorites." He glanced at Taibot with a smirk. "To ruin him will take a bit more subtlety."

"If dat's what ya tink," Taibot replied looking downward. "Ya always were da best of da Samedi at dat." There was a momentary pause.

"I'll take that as a compliment," San-Pierre said with a smile as he turned to Taibot. "I think it's time we ended our feud and looked forward to dealing with the Jamaican." He held his hand out toward his fellow lieutenant.

Taibot hesitated for a second then finally reached up and grasped his hand. "Fine den. But what will we do about'im?"

"Oh, leave that to me, my friend," San-Pierre said with a dark grin. "Leave it all to me."

Shivington Neighborhood, Projects District, Stilwater

Monday, May 9, 9:31am

San-Pierre stood with Jaqual in an alley located near the southern border of the neighborhood. Hidden behind some abandoned homes, San-Pierre regarded their 'guest'.

The young man with them was lanky with a mess of curly black hair and wearing a purple Skeeters jersey with white jeans and purple tennis shoes. He was bleeding from his nose and was holding a hand up to his swollen lip as he leaned heavily against a wall. His name was…

"Taivey?"

"Wha..?" the boy asked of the man in the black suit with the green tie.

"Your name? Taivey was it?" San-Pierre inquired.

"Tivey, man, I told you," he replied glumly.

"Ah, yes," San-Pierre smirked. "And you are one of the Third Street Saints, correct?"

"Naw, I jus' wear purple cuz I'm royalty," the youth shot back. Jaqual moved forward to strike the boy again, but San-Pierre waved him off.

"No, no, my friend," the Samedi lieutenant said, a gleam in his eye. "This one has spunk. Would that more of our own had his fire." He turned back to the young Saint. "Now, then, for the third time, I ask that you call your superiors for me." He held out the cell phone Jaqual had taken from the boy a few moments ago.

"And for the third time, jack-off, I'm tellin' you this: I ain't callin' no one! I ain't gonna betray nobody."

"I merely want you to warn your boss and the rest of your little Saints."

"Warn'em?" The young man looked at the Samedi suspiciously. "Warn'em about what?"

"An impending attack on Shivington against your gang, your places of business."

"Attack? On the Saints?" He leaned forward. "From who, the Ronin?"

"Alas, no," San-Pierre said with a shake of his head. "An attack from my own crewmembers. From the Samedi."

The Saint's eyes widened. "You-you're betraying your own gang? Why?"

"The organizer of this ill-advised expedition goes by the moniker of the Jamaican," San-Pierre said. "He himself won't be there, but his top men will." He smirked. "I think this attack is a mistake and I'm seeking to, um, correct it, as it were."

"This is on the up-and-up? For real?"

"Yes, young man," San-Pierre nodded. "It is completely on the… 'up-and-up' as you say." He held the phone out again. "This attack will be happening in but a few moments. Now will call your Boss?"

"I don't know her number," the young Saint admitted. "I ain't... I ain't that high up. But I'm in Pierce's crew. I can call him." He reached for the phone.

"Just tell me which button to press," the Samedi said holding the phone just out of Tivey's reach. "And we'll put this on speaker so there'll be no trickery on your part."

"Number three."

San-Pierre pressed the number and flipped the speaker on. The phone rang a few times, then…

"Hello?"

"Pierce? Hey it's Tivey from Shivington."

"What's up, man?"

"Hey listen, I got some news," Tivey explained. He glanced over at San-Pierre who nodded. "Uh, I think there's gonna be a hit… another one. From the Samedi… uh, over here at Shivington. Like right now."

"What the hell you talking about? Are you serious?" Pierce's voice took on a worried tone.

San-Pierre nodded again as Tivey replied, "Yeah, pretty sure, man."

"How… where you getting your information?" Pierce asked.

"Uh," Tivey looked over at San-Pierre again. The Samedi shook his head as he put a finger up to his lips. "A pretty reliable source." San-Pierre smiled and winked at the young Saint's answer.

"Alright, alright. Uh, shit!" Rustling could be heard in the background. "I'll make some calls. Thanks, man. Okay be careful. I'll get some of the crew there quick as I can."

"Okay, Pierce," Tivey called out as San-Pierre clicked the phone off.

"There now, see?" The Samedi looked quite pleased.

"You didn't have to…" the Saint started. "I mean, I would'a cooperated if you'd of told me what you wanted." He felt his swollen lip again. "I mean if you're wantin' to join up with us, it's all good."

San-Pierre tilted his head. "Join up with you?"

"Yeah, I mean that's why you gave up your gang, right?"

"Gave it up?" San-Pierre laughed at that. "Oh, no no." He leaned forward. "I'm not giving up anything."

"Then why…?" the Saint seemed confused.

"I want the Jamaican to fail, not the Samedi as a whole." He reached into his jacket and quickly pulled out an NR4. "Once you Saints wipe out the Jamaican's little thugs…" He flicked the safety off and aimed the pistol at Tivey whose eyes widened in fear. "I'll have no further use for any of you."

BLAM!

The bullet impacted the young Saint square in the chest, coating his purple jersey with a dark stain. He slammed back into the wall and slowly slid to the ground. His chest shuddered once then he lay still – San-Pierre, his head tilted, watched in fascination as the boy expired. He was quiet for a moment, then…

"Well, now, I think it's time for breakfast, don't you?" he turned to his bodyguard who regarded him solemnly. "Oh don't give me that look, Jaqual. I know that it disturbs your sense of fair play, but we couldn't have the boy informing his superiors about us."

"As you say, Mr. San-Pierre," the bodyguard muttered with a nod.

The two men went back to the limo and got in.

"On second thought, I think I'm going to skip breakfast and go right for dessert," the Samedi announced with a grin. He pressed the button on the intercom. "Joshua, take us to the Hotel Chauvenet."

"Yes, Mr. San-Pierre," was the chauffer's reply.

Tera opened the apartment door and was stunned to see Jean standing in the hallway.

"You're back so soon?" she asked, the surprise in her voice was evident.

"Would you rather I come back another day, my pet?" He poked his head in and glanced around. "You aren't entertaining another lover, perhaps, hmmm?" He winked at her.

"No!" she laughed. "Get your ass in here." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A genuine smile appeared as she opened them again. "Er, I mean, please come in. Sorry, the inner city kid wants to get out."

"Don't apologize, pretty one," he said as he stepped inside. He pulled her close. "Get dressed. I want to take you out."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Are you sure it's safe?" She glanced cautiously out the large windows facing the northeast where the Phillips Building, the icon of Ultor's power in Stilwater, loomed.

"Ah, let's not worry about that, dear Tera," he smiled. "Let's just enjoy the day. Maybe have some decent food for a change. I'll even take you to the Shops of Sonterra along the riverfront down below. I here there's a new Impressions clothing store that just opened."

She couldn't help but smile. "I take it the meeting yesterday went well then?"

His eyes twinkled. "Hmm, let's just say that I think I'd like to spend the next week here with you at Hotel Chauvenet."

"The next week?" she exclaimed. "Oh, Jean!" She held him close, barely containing her excitement.

Tera just couldn't get over that in a city as dangerous and cold as Stilwater could be, she'd been able to meet up with someone like Jean San-Pierre. She really was so very lucky.

Ah, San-Pierre… you're such a slimy bastard.