ERINYES

Disclaimer - How many variations can a girl do on a theme? No, I don't own them, no I don't expect to. Am I going to use them? Hell yea ... the mileage you can get out of these babies is phenomenal! But, to clarify ... the turtles, Saki, Hun and almost everyone else belong to Mirage. But the crazy Irishman, the nervous FBI guy, and the attorney type - they're mine!

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Premise The feds have waited almost eight years for this moment, the chance to freeze the assets of over three quarters of the Purple Dragon's 'front' companies. With the case prepared all that is left to do is get their key material witness Patrick Kilmour to the stand in one piece. Of course, when this investigation began the Dragon's hadn't met, let alone been absorbed into the Foot, and it's not in the Shredder's nature to simply let that much money slip away.

With their key witness now back in NY state, will he even make it to the stand. All of Shredder's considerable resources think not.

And incase that doesn't make it perfectly clear ... they're gonna be bodies in this baby ... at least two of which will be TMNT originals.

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Days until trial – 7
Current Status of Witness – Alive
Location – Chicago

In high school Patrick Kilmour had been referred to as the 'Brute', his shoulders having supported the weight of many rugby players in his youth back in Ireland. Now his shoulders were rounded with the brunt of old age, the once powerful muscles more relaxed and intimidating by appearance and little else. When standing straight up the man could still reach an imposing height of six foot, four inches, his tanned wizened skin having seen better days in his youth, was now marred with the scars that came with plastic surgery for skin grafts. Burns could be pesky like that. It seemed odd that despite his impressive build he had wispy white hair neatly combed over a set of friendly, deeply set, blue-green eyes. His nose prominent in that it had a small ridge just below the eye line, a throwback to his days when he played sport.

And despite it all the man of 55 years was nervous. His large hands pressed down upon the cane he had nicknamed 'Seamus', his right foot tapping repeatedly off the thinly carpeted floor of this third storey apartment. It was a sign of nerves that he usually hid incredibly well. The silver moustache tickled the top of his lip as he exhaled loudly, the action garnering the attention of the others in the room.

"Mr Kilmour?" it was a stereotype that Hollywood had mastered. That of the 'special agent'. The man, along with his compatriots was dressed in black polyester trousers, polished black shoes and a white shirt complete with tie. All four men also wore sunglasses, though why Patrick could not ascertain. They were inside a small apartment in the upper east side of Chicago, with the thick curtains drawn to block out the sunlight. In Patrick's mind it added to the sense of foreboding that came with the knowledge of what was to come.

"Aye Lad?" the man asked, his thick Irish lilt still present despite the fact he had spent almost forty years in the mighty USA.

"We'll be leaving soon." Chas informed him, he was the youngest on the team and the only whose own nerves slid through his professional armour. It was well known among the Witness Protection Program personnel that this man was a 'widow-maker'.

"I know Lad." Letting Seamus lie against his inner leg, Patrick peeled back the sleeve of his thick dinner jacket; the custom designed Templar Vest that he had been wearing for the past eight years biting into his sensitive skin. Seven pm. The armoured car that would be driving him to the airport was due at 7.30 and then after that he was getting onto a private jet to take him back to the home he had made for himself in New York. Or rather the home he had had there in his youth, when he had had a family, and been allowed the luxury that others referred to as a life. Flexing his large arms out before his torso Patrick cracked each one of his knuckles one joint at a time.

"Nervous sir?" It was Chas again, his own fingers picking at the hem of his over coat. When he had taken this job it had been in order to further his career, and at the time it had seemed like a good idea. On the paper he had signed he had been assured he was merely babysitting an old man on his way to New York to take part in a trial. The nuance was in the detail, and having been introduced to his charge he had cursed audibly.

The air had been sweet in the office that day, the large man sitting in the chair as innocuous as any other he had seen.

"Patrick Kilmour, I present to you Charles McKay." It had been that simple to sign his fate, and the man had turned around with a sad smile to offer him his hand to shake. He hadn't even been offended by the string of curses that had spewed forth. No, Patrick Kilmour was well aware of his 'magic touch' when it came to his minders.

"No more so than you it seems." Standing Patrick began to make his way towards the sole exit of the small apartment. Pausing at the door he offered the men assigned to him a large smile, broad and hopeful. "C'mon now lads … in seven days we're going to be getting our lives back. Just think, we can finally get into a nice home, and make pretty."

Over the past eight years Patrick had been under full surveillance and with good reason. At first he had been hunted like a fox through the undergrowth, with a new city to his name on a weekly basis. In the most extreme cases he had been bounced from one safe house to another night after night. Back then Patrick had been on the right side of fifty and had yet to see how ruthlessly determined his opponent could be. The Purple Dragons had been a formidable enemy, happy to blow up entire buildings if it meant acquiring their target. And one time, they had been a little too close. Peering through the yellow curtain the man's eyes studied the darkening sky, shades of purples blended into the greying blue with ease. With the sun dipping down below the depressing high rises that made up his view the man's mind turned to his past few years. Beyond the calm exterior and the fading nerves resided raw fear. The man yearned to get his life back, and he had clung to the vague notion that this could be gained. But Patrick had not been raised by fools, nor had he raised any. Assuming life was being kind to his kin he had a child out there somewhere that he could find one day. His eyes narrowed as he watched the sun slide down beneath the buildings, the blanket of night spreading out and over the statuesque, soon to be sleeping Chicago.

"The car is here sir."

Turning from the window Patrick smiled once again, "Aye, so it seems." Activity from the Purple Dragon's had tailed off as he had neared his mid fifties until they had finally stopped all attacks months ago. Instead of being comforted by the halt in activity it meant only one thing in this Patrick's mind. In order for his evidence to be admissible he had to be within New York state lines, once he landed on native soil he was not only back in the lion's den but he was more than likely to have every lowlife New York had to offer actively seeking him out. In the movies he had watched growing up Patrick could recall how the life of a man in his position was supposed to play out. The enemy would swoop down on the safe house, and some police man, usually a Sylvester Stallone clone, would single-handedly save the day with the guns all a blazing. The reality was painfully different, there were times it was tedious when in moments of fancy he could convince himself he was living a normal life as a mere store owner, and then on the other hand there were other times it was terrifying. His old bones hoped it would be the former, though in his heart he had a feeling the next seven days were going to be dangerously eventful.

Using Seamus to support his weight the old man limped slowly towards the door, on either side stood Rory and Todd, two of his luckiest minders, and to his rear stood Chas and Mark. With a small nod of his head the door to the room was opened, and the men fell into an easy formation, "This is it lads! We're goin' home!" Chuckling nervously he caused the men to wait as a light tapping echoed through the room.

Drawing his gun Mark moved towards the hanging yellow curtain, his body ready for almost anything. Pulling the material away from the rotten wooden frame the middle aged man let out a long laugh. Perched on the other side of the stained, streaked glass sat a crow, in an attempt to escape the cold the poor animal had decided to try and break into the small apartment. Ripples of relief ran through the room, each minder was edgy tonight, and with good reason. It was only Patrick, with his tightening grip on the top of Seamus, who opted out of joining in the mirth; what had it been his old Da had said to him in his youth? Closing his eyes he blocked out the wise words, his throat swallowing the lump that formed. Aye, that had been it, when a bird comes a tappin' at yuir window Pat they'll be a death in the house afore the year is out.

"Sir?" Rory waited patiently in the darkened hallway for his charge, "Are you ready to move?"

Patrick nodded his head slowly, "Aye Lad, that I am."

"Alright," Rory felt a fool to have to run through this again, but it was procedure when changing safe houses. "In a minute we are going to start moving. Should we so instruct you to take cover it is requested that you drop to your knees and lay face down on the floor, with your hands over your head. This will be signalled by the call "Down." Upon going 'down' we shall circle you Patrick and allow you to rise once we have secured the area to the best of our abilities. Should the worst happen keep a cool head and trust in our judgement and you shall make it to the court on time." Smiling at the older man he gave a small nod to his colleagues, and the cogs that would return Patrick Kilmour to New York were set in motion.

tbc ...

o Special thanks to Sassy for beta reading this MONTHS ago, you are a STAR! Though I never did sort out that foreshadowing malarky ... o