James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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Putting One's Problems in the Past

Only two reasons someone goes to the trouble of taking out the Old Man and following the trail to me, Alec decided, once again reviewing the information he knew, re-checking his conclusions to make certain he had not overlooked anything crucial. Either someone is incredibly pissed off about a job I did and he – or she – is now looking for payback, or else someone contracted for the Old Man's services and didn't trust our discretion in keeping everything quiet. Whichever one it is, the motive for the person's – or maybe people's – actions doesn't really give me any clue as to who they may be. Revenge. Secrecy. Who in this world wouldn't be given to being motivated by one of those? I don't need to look any farther than a mirror to find at least one person.

Alec paced into the kitchen, frustration rolling off of him as he hoped that getting himself moving might help his brain make some kind of leap of logic. Sadly, it didn't happen. All right, I still need a place to start, Alec told himself as he poured some orange juice. He almost dumped it out after the first sip, convinced that it had gone bad before its sell-by date, but then he realized that the reason it tasted wrong was because it had been years since he'd had orange juice without vodka in it. It tastes so… orangey. I'd even go so far as to say it tastes better. He took a deep breath and forced a quick image of Keri's body to flash through his mind – that was all he needed to get back on the topic.

I'm right back where I was two weeks ago, he groused silently, remembering the confusion that had discouraged him after finding the Old Man's damaged home. The obvious starting place is with my most recent hits. That's Hahneman and Wagner. Beginning with the most recent hit, Alec opened the first of two dossiers he had assembled containing information that had not been shared with him before doing the jobs. He'd already memorized everything written inside the folders, but he found himself reading over them again anyway, as he knew an ordinary would, hoping that maybe the inexplicable jolts of inspiration ordinaries always seemed to have would maybe strike him for once.

Hahneman didn't have any real allies that I've been able to find, Alec mused. His primary business was the time-honored vocation of gunrunning, though he also appeared to have traded in maritime craft, aircraft, and everyone's favorite – drug smuggling. Alec had initially been surprised to learn that Hahneman was an arms dealer, since he'd never heard of him. He thought that unusual for someone in his line of work. A quick review of the customer list Alec had been able to extrapolate offered a plausible explanation – most of Hahneman's business was high-volume deals that went through cartels. Still, it's strange that I never even heard of him.

Cartels are strong, but they generally don't get involved personally, he reasoned, another memory of Keri's mutilated body redoubling his focus on his investigation. I can't imagine any of them going to the trouble of avenging someone like Hahneman. There'd always be someone else to supply their merchandise, and as long as they had a supply of what they need, I doubt they'd make waves. Then another thought occurred to the transgenic.

The fact that he dealt with cartels – mainly the Russians, Colombians, Italians, and the Yakuza – indicates that he could very easily have made powerful enemies. I guess it's possible that one of his deals went bad; but cartels all have in-house specialists to take care of their problems. None of them would need to go to the Old Man and hire me. Without even being aware of what he was doing, Alec hurled his empty glass across the kitchen, smashing it into a thousand jagged fragments. There has to be a way to figure out who did this. I won't let this stand. Not ever. He walked over to his computer, running a search on five names he thought might have some potential as leads. A surprising possibility arose sooner than he expected.

Two names – Jeremy Fritz and Henry Jackson – came up with recent news articles. Both men had died violently within the past month. Only a few days before the Old Man died. Okay, new scenario – those two guys hire the Old Man to have Hahneman killed, but then someone gets pissed off. Maybe Hahneman had something they need… probably just owes them money. Either way, they want blood because losing Hahneman hurts them somehow. Or maybe it is as simple as revenge. Whatever it is, they go to some of Hahneman's enemies and find out these guys hired the Old Man, so they go there next. The Old Man gives me up, and these guys come to my place and kill Keri while I'm out. He pondered the scenario for several minutes, trying to find any flaws in his conclusion.

Part of his mind called for reason, insisting that he take a step back and test other likely scenarios. But Alec didn't listen to that voice anymore. He wanted vengeance, and that meant taking action, not sitting around playing 'what if.' He liked his possible scenario; it had the dual attraction of both making sense and giving him a route for immediate action.

Of course, if that's the way it played out, they may have killed the Old Man before finding out that it was a man who killed Hahneman. They may have figured Keri was the only one who did the job. The Old Man didn't know I subcontracted part of the hit to an apprentice, so whoever it is may not know that I'm out here, tracking them down to get some payback of my own. Alec found that conclusion oddly comforting as he realized for the first time that there might not be someone hunting him even as he hunted them. Again he bypassed the prudent strategy of considering other possibilities – he'd found a scenario that made sense, and he was sticking with it. Whoever it is may not know about me… they may never see me coming until I skin them alive.

He shook off his glee and re-focused. Money makes the world go 'round, so I'll start with someone who may have had a business grudge. Alec spent several hours on the computer, running standard searches and hacking into corporate systems until he found something that made his heart skip a beat. Hahneman had been in the U.S. Delta Force, and upon his discharge he went into personal security. His first job out of the military had been with Paragon Security, and his second assignment had been protecting Robert Berrisford.

What the hell? Alec delved more deeply into that unexpected link, finally cracking into Paragon's personnel records to find out when, and for how long, Hahneman had worked for Berrisford. He couldn't say he was surprised when he discovered that Hahneman's security company had reassigned him only three days before the Berrisfords had welcomed a new piano teacher into their home. Half-done, his mind taunted, immediately causing Alec to direct his gaze at the bottle of single-malt scotch he saved for special occasions. Half-done, half-done, half-done…

"Just became a special occasion," he grumbled, feeling a sudden need to chase thoughts of Rachel from his mind. I'll just drink enough to numb the pain a bit, so that I'll be able to think clearly. He'd filled a glass with Scotch before he even knew what he was doing, then flung it to join the orange juice glass in oblivion. No drinking, asshole, he cursed himself. No happiness, not even numbness, until I've had my fill of blood.

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In addition to causing an itchy, burning sensation in his nose and throat, the thin, noxious mist that hung over the abandoned plant created an overpowering stench of chemicals that made Alec's sense of smell useless in tracking his prey. He was certain that had been White's point in selecting the defunct PVC manufacturing plant along the banks of the Mississippi River. Here in Louisiana's Cancer Alley, The Pulse had meant a new chance at life. Most local residents were accustomed to poverty, so the loss of jobs when the local plants had closed was nothing apocalyptic. Indeed, on the flip side, a reduction of several million gallons of toxic waste being pumped into the river on a daily basis was an unexpected boon that made most welcome the trade of income for health. The residents of Cancer Alley were far from unique in their crippling poverty, but now, like most Americans, they could dream of the day their children reached adulthood, rather than dread the day their children contracted leukemia or some other, more deadly form of cancer.

In a way, Cancer Alley was a symbol of endings and new beginnings, and that's what made Alec decide this was the perfect place to face Ames White. It wasn't a coincidence that he used this address in his phony account, Alec decided, recalling the business address he found when he broke into Whitney Bank's main offices and searched the bank records for Charles Blanco. One way or another, I'll never have to look at Ames White after tonight. With him gone, maybe I can finally start my real life.

He walked through the gate – now no more than remnants of some rusted scrap, the majority of which had been scavenged by people nearby who'd needed the abandoned materials in order to help make ends meet. Or maybe just to help patch a hole in a roof or a wall.

"You took longer than I expected," White commented derisively as he walked out from behind a long-abandoned truck trailer. He appeared to be unarmed, but Alec wasn't going to take any chances. He took a half-step back, falling into a fighting stance and using the movement to conceal the fact that his right hand was now inches away from his concealed PPK. "I left a fairly obvious trail. I suppose my impression of you was correct – you oozed out of the shallow end of Manticore's gene pool."

"We gonna do this or not?" Alec asked dismissively, trying to sound as nonchalant as one could while facing a superhuman who was intent on tearing him to pieces.

"I expected you to come in shooting the place up," White added. "You surprise me."

"I'm not here to shoot ya," Alec said smoothly. "Putting a bullet in you just doesn't --"

"Give the proper satisfaction," White interrupted. "I know the feeling. You tortured me. You tortured Ray. And in the end, you killed my son rather than let me escape with him."

"That's not how it happened…"

"You think I care?" White countered, his voice shrill, almost mad. "There is no justice for what you did. Not really. I'm just here for satisfaction."

Alec didn't respond. He simply lunged at Ames; the Familiar met him head on, each man's limbs accelerating to blurs as they punched, kicked, parried, and countered. Alec realized immediately that White had recovered fully from his ordeal during the intervening five years he had laid low, and that he was every bit as strong as he'd ever been. And that's stronger than I'll ever be, Alec admitted to himself as he sidestepped a punch that splintered a doorframe as the transgenic moved inside the loading dock. At least I'm still quicker... and I still have military training that his need to spend time fitting into society didn't permit him.

Ames did not even think about allowing his opponent any quarter, pressing the attack with a ferocity that astonished Alec. Within just a few minutes, the transgenic was panting in an effort just to catch his breath, while White seemed like he was only getting started. Every counter Alec came up with was brushed aside, the Familiar being the proverbial exception that proved the rule about never allowing one's emotions to take over. His energy seemed limitless, his rage all-consuming.

"You've been working out," Alec grunted as White managed to connect with a glancing blow to Alec's side. I think that probably cracked a rib, he decided, hoping that his attempt at banter might help distract his opponent from his deadly focus. He had no such luck. White's face had darkened into an expression that Alec had seen only once before – on Joshua's face when he threw himself at an impossible number of Familiars. He knew he was going to die, and his only goal was to take as many of them with him as he could, Alec remembered, fighting the distraction emotions could cause him even as White fed off his own feelings. Bastard probably hasn't thought about his life after this moment – this is all he's thought about since Ray died. Win or lose, live or die, he has no concerns for anything in his life after this moment. I can't win this fight…

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks as he recalled droll lessons at Manticore, most of them steeped in the simple lessons of Sun Tzu as they applied to modern warfare. Alec could almost hear Lydecker's voice extolling them to avoid at all cost battle with fanatics and those whose backs were against a wall. In either case, the opponent had accepted death and any conflict – whether won or lost – would end up being costly. One look into White's frenzied eyes told Alec all he needed to know.

A new sense of urgency welled up within the transgenic. I need to get a little room to breathe. I need to back him off just a little… He threw everything he had at his foe, lashing out with punches and kicks in a display of wildness that matched White's. Alec's arms quickly began to ache, his legs grew leaden. But he had accomplished his goal – White had backed off just a bit, staying more at the edge of Alec's reach, some voice of reason deep within the Familiar's mind arguing for restraint, pointing out that Alec was tiring quickly, that the fight was almost over. And it is almost over, Alec knew.

He willed himself to keep moving, to throw just one more full-strength kick. As his body rotated with the effort, he slipped his right hand to the small of his back, bringing his PPK to bear and emptying the clip into White's chest in a sudden, anti-climactic end to their deadly clash. The Familiar staggered as Alec backed away, keeping his guard up even as he holstered his weapon.

Special Agent Ames White, the scourge of Alec's life, was looking dumbfoundedly at the blood that flowed freely from his wounds. He looked back up at Alec, the inferno in his eyes dying away behind an increasingly frosted, glassy surface.

I killed him, Alec realized, suddenly feeling the anger and regret at his failure. The bastard doesn't deserve a quick, merciful death. He deserves to suffer for what he did to Max. He got off cheap. The desperation that had led him to bring a quick resolution to the confrontation was fading quickly as Alec increasingly thrilled at the pain and misery that rose on White's face. He didn't wonder at how Max would have been sickened at his joy in watching life slip from White's body. He simply lived in the moment, enjoying what he honestly felt might have been the most satisfying experience of his life. It was when he was losing himself in bliss that White struck.

The Familiar had just fallen to one knee when Alec noticed something odd. White's face suddenly became taut, his eyes refocused. By the time Alec realized that White falling to a knee was a ploy to get into a position from which he could spring, it was too late. Blood washed over Alec's face as White tackled him to the ground, his hands locked in a vise-grip that defied death… at least until he had enjoyed his revenge.

Alec was exhausted and pinned, unable to breathe and knowing that he could still die at White's hands. The feeling was euphoric. "Perfect," he gasped as he wrapped his own hands around White's throat. He managed to roll over onto his right side, knocking the Familiar from on top of him, but that was all. He couldn't shake the human bulldog that was strangling him, and so he reveled in the knowledge that he still might be able to kill White with his own bare hands, even if it cost him his life, as well.

Alec's head began to pound, his arms grew weak, but he refused to submit as long as White's eyes were looking back at him. I'm not letting go until those eyes are empty. His chest heaved and convulsed, straining for air that wouldn't come, and finally everything went black.

The room slowly grew brighter as Alec returned to consciousness, awaking to find his grip still locked around White's throat. The Familiar was dead, and though Alec had no way of knowing whether he had died of blood loss or strangulation, he convinced himself that it was his hands, and not his PPK's bullets, that had ended White. He out-lasted me, he actually made me pass out from lack of oxygen, but my grip didn't ease up in the least. Even unconscious, I tore his life from him.

Alec pulled White's hand from his neck and pulled himself off the floor, looking down on the unimpressive corpse lying at his feet, marveling at how hard it was to believe that one man had caused so much pain. But never again, Alec told himself as he turned his back and walked away. Son of a bitch will never hurt anyone else again.

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"It occurs to me that this may be the ideal time for you to start talking," Alec grumbled, his face set in an angry, impatient expression that he knew would only increase the anxiety in the man standing at the business end of Alec's Beretta.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but if you don't get your ass outta here, you're a deadman."

"So says the man with a bullet in his knee," Alec muttered. The other man gave him a puzzled look and then collapsed to the ground, wailing in agony. As Alec had expected, the Beretta had attracted so much undivided attention that the other man had never seen Alec draw the PPK with his left hand. It wasn't until Alec shot him that the man devoted attention to Alec's smaller sidearm. "Now that you understand I'm not just some random shmuck with a gun, perhaps you'll consider telling me what I want to know so you can get to a hospital."

Alec succeeded in concealing his anxiety at the fact that this man – Sheldon Barlucci – was the only accessible link he had found to Hahneman's business dealings. International criminal cartels were notoriously reluctant to share information with vigilante loners, and Alec knew better than to test his luck with such organized mobsters. Sheldon Barlucci, however, was a weaponsmith who had bounced from one morally ambiguous job to the next after the Pulse left him unemployed. His name popped up in three separate searches of Hahneman's finances, and as a free agent with no official protection from Seattle's criminal elements, he was the best source of information Alec could easily access.

"Okay, okay," Sheldon spat through gritted teeth, obviously fighting a losing battle against the pain in his leg. "You wanna know 'bout Hahneman, right? About who does business with him?"

"Correct."

"Lotsa people, man. Lots. He's one of the best suppliers in Seattle."

"How come I never heard of him?" Alec asked, voicing the question that had puzzled him the first time he had found out about Hahneman's business activities. "I've lived here for over ten years, and I've spent a good deal of the time in various vocations that involve Hahneman's wares. I've never done business with him, and I don't think I know anyone who has."

"Like I care." Sheldon started to look defiant, but a swift kick to his wounded knee changed his attitude in a heartbeat. Alec waited several minutes for his less than cooperative informant to collect himself and focus on the conversation.

"Please limit your comments to responses to my questions," Alec requested. "That way we can get this over with more quickly, and I won't have to worry about doing anything that's painful enough to make you pass out. I'm short on time, and I don't want to have to deal with first aid."

"We all have our problems," Sheldon muttered. Alec considered shooting the other knee, but decided against it; he was there for business, not pleasure.

"Back to Hahneman – I was saying that I've never heard of him. I'd like to know why that might be."

"Deals mostly with large buyers. You've probably bought some of his stuff through a middleman. He gets the hard to find military stuff, leaves the crap stuff like old TEC-9's for the street dirt. Unless you've bought in bulk or you wanted some unique weapons, you'd never have to deal with him. But like I said, the people you buy from probably have… and their type are well-known for keeping their mouths shut when there's someone out there sellin' for less than they do."

"Fine," Alec cut him off, deciding that for the time being he didn't need that information. He got back on track quickly. "So tell me this – who'd want to kill Hahneman?"

"Kill him? Dunno." Alec feigned another kick at Sheldon's knee, and got the extra information he wanted. "Fine, I guess there're a couple of people, but no one who'd take the risk. Most likely would be the Russians, maybe Ivanov, but they do business with Hahneman and there's no reason to stop. Everyone's happily making money."

"Not anymore," Alec pointed out. "At least Hahneman isn't."

"What? Someone took him out?"

"Over a month ago," Alec replied, making certain his body language never implied his involvement.

"Look, you may be a real tough guy, but you're about as smart as a salad bar," Sheldon responded with a shit-eating grin.

"Huh?"

"A month ago my ass," the weaponsmith answered. "I picked up some Uzis from him just three days ago. Whoever told you he's dead is giving you a line of shit."

"I have it on good authority."

"Then maybe he's the Second Coming or something, because he's walking around town like everything's copasetic."

"He's alive?"

"Alive as you and me."

"Well, me anyway," Alec commented under his breath as he emptied the clip of his Beretta, burying six bursts of 9mm rounds into Sheldon Barlucci's chest. No way Hahneman can still be alive, not after what I did to him… though that would certainly answer the question of who'd be pissed off enough to go through Keri and the Old Man to get to me. Fine, if he's alive, I'll kill him again. If it's just some imposter pretending to be Hahneman, and taking out the assassins who are the only ones who know Hahneman is dead, then I'll kill him, too.

To be continued……………………………………