I've got just two small spots left baby, woo hoo! To anybody that's just picking up on this story now, I'm talking about how I'm taking the wallpaper down in my room, it has taken me one week to do three walls...just sad. But I'm almost done so I don't care, although I now have no idea what color to paint my room...

Anyway, I was so excited about this story when I started it because I knew what I was going to do for the first and second chapters, but I had NO idea what I was going to do beyond that, I have no idea where I'm going to go with this thing. So I have decided that I'm just going to wing it and hopefully somebody will leave a review that will strike up an idea for me.

If anybody has any ideas, I'm open to anything! I may not use it, but I might get an idea from it.

Ok, on with the story....

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Under the Radar - Chapter 3 - Turning Tables

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One week later.....

The buzzer on his alarm clock sounded and he angrily slapped his hand down on it.

He was usually awake before it ever got a chance to go off, but last night had been different.

He had stayed up late, past the early morning hours, just wandering aimlessly around his dark room.

The room was still pitch dark, thanks to the heavy black out drapes that hung before the clear glass walls that surrounded his bedroom.

He pulled himself out of bed and wandered over to slide the drapes open that covered the wall and sliding door that led to the small backyard, occupied by a pool that he had resurfaced with small dark tiles, mirroring the image that the house created.

It was lightly snowing.

He had arrived in London just a day prior, telling his friends that he was on yet another business trip.

He could only keep up this business trip thing for so long, but there was some "unsolved" business to take care of on this side of the ocean and he just honestly could not come up with a better excuse.

He had bought this small house a few years ago after realizing that he would be spending a lot of his time here and he didn't want to sleep night after night in a hotel.

The house was very modern, painted with mostly dark colors, several rock covered walls, soft carpet and furniture, plasma TVs, chrome kitchen appliances, and dark stained cabinets.

It was ten times nicer than the apartment back home, but he couldn't show it to any of his friends, they would definitely start asking questions.

He stared out the window for a few minutes before turning and walking into the bathroom.

It's floor was covered in small dark tiles--much like the pool--and the walls were painted an off white color.

A bathrobe hung from a hook next to the shower and the counter/sink was neatly organized below a large, black framed mirror.

He walked over to the sink, letting it run a few seconds before taking a handful and splashing it on his face.

He didn't bother to stop the small drops of water from running down off of his face and onto his bare chest.

The image the mirror provided him of himself was not a happy site.

His short hair was sticking up in all directions, his face was unshaven and pale--surprising for the amount of time he spent outdoors--and a small scab was forming above his right eyebrow where he had been clipped by his head board when he stumbled into bed last night after drinking half a bottle of Jack Daniels, a very unwise decision that he was just now coming to realize..

He didn't know what had led him to do it, it had just seemed like a way to drown his thoughts, but never the less, they would resurface when the effects of Mr. Daniels wore off.

He decided against breakfast and opted for a quick shower before heading into headquarters.

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Half an hour later.....

He dressed in black pants and a black sweater and headed for the garage door quickly upon noticing that he was now running late.

Just as he opened the door to the garage, the shattering of glass--a window presumably--come from the back of the house.

He softly shut the door and walked into the kitchen, poking his head around the corners before his body followed.

A man, not much larger than himself, appeared from around the corner, a small handgun in his left hand.

Chandler swept into action, his "alter ego" shinning though.

He elbowed the man in the face, making the intruder stumble back a few steps. He was quick to react though, he pulled the gun to attention and aimed it at Chandler's chest, the look on his face stern. Chandler dodged out of the way, milliseconds before a bullet whizzed through the air. He grabbed the mans arm that held the gun and twisted it under his own, gripping the muscles of his forearm, paralyzing his hand. Chandler knocked the gun out of the way and crouched down the knock the man's feet out from underneath him. Just as he kicked his legs out, the man jumped in the air, moving behind Chandler once he landed. Chandler hopped to his feet before the man could do anything and prepared for any attack.

The man flicked his wrist, producing a small finger blade between his middle and ring finger on his left hand. The man proceeded to swing his arm wildly at Chandler but never hit seceded in cutting him once. They were now in the kitchen and Chandler was backed against the table, his hands roaming behind him for something to use, but his eyes never left his target. His fingers found a fork and he quickly brought it in front of him, the man hadn't noticed. He swung his fist out, intending for it to hit Chandler in the face, but he grabbed his wrist and stabbed the fork into his arm. The man grabbed his arm in agony and Chandler took the opportunity to once again, crouch down and kick at his shins. He hit both of them and the man fell to the ground, crying out in pain.

The fight was over and Chandler had won.

He walked over and stood above the man, he didn't recognize him for the U.S. nor London.

He bent down and rested his knee on the man's chest, applying a slight pressure. "Who sent you?" He asked angrily.

The man did nothing. Chandler put more weight on the man's chest. "Who are you?"

Again, the man said did nothing. Chandler put all of his weight on him and grabbed the man's neck. "Who do you work for?"

The man had grabbed the fork in his hand and swung up at Chandler, sticking the fork into his left shoulder.

Chandler quickly rolled away from him, staring down in pain that the small object that protruded from his arm.

The man got up and hobbled his way out of the house, running to the street in search of a car.

Chandler rushed to get the gun he had dropped and followed him outside. "Hey!" He screamed.

The man had reached the middle of the street and spun around to face Chandler, just as a car sped toward him, the driver distracted by something he had dropped.

The car hit him and Chandler quickly ran back into the house, grabbing his keys and jacket before heading to the garage.

He pulled the fork from his arm before getting in one of his two cars and starting it up.

He sped from the house, past the dead body and ruined car in the street.

He had to get away as quickly as possible.

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to be continued.....

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I'm so sorry this is a short chapter again. I'm trying to update once a week and I usually do it on Wednesdays. This morning I realized that today was Wednesday and I only had half of this chapter written so I quickly wrote the rest and now I have no time to write anymore. I'll get on the next one ASAP, but I'm also writing another story. I don't know if I should post it now or wait until I'm done with this one. Depending on the reviews I get, I'll probably hold off on that for now. Please Review!