Disclaimer: I don't own any of theses characters . . . but believe me, if Cilian Murphy did belong to me . . . never mind.

I don't think this story has been done yet . . . so I thought I'd give it a try!

Enjoy . . .

The heavy weight pressed down hard upon Jackson's back, elicting a moan from him. He immediately berated himself for being so weak; he had been tortured over and over in his experience with his old organization.

Though at this current moment he knew that he was quite out of practice, he had not been in service for over five months. After he had recovered from his little ordeal with Lisa Reisert, he had graciously resigned fromthe agency. Jackson had even gotten a small house in Miami.

His two-month's in the hospital had changed his perspective on things, his life in particular. He had endured physical therapy after he had awoken from his coma. His agency had bought off everyone involved with his trial, and he had gotten off scott-free. It's amazing what a pretty penny will get you in Miami.

The sharp sting of a knife being thrust into his bareback had caught him by surprise. But he was able to swallow the sound he would have made before it could materialize. Although the unmistakable screech of excitement from these men had not been held within.

Jackson could hear one of the men begging the leader that had invaded his home to kill Jackson and get it over with. Hearty chuckles had answered him, and the torture went on. He was face down, and his arms were spread apart above his head, his legs were in the same position.Strong arms were pushing him into the ground totaling three men on top of him. One was holding his feet, another holding down his arms and the last was pushing his face into the shag carpet. Two others watched, eight men were in his house including him.

He couldn't see his back, but he knew that if he could, he'd be able to see a wide array of slashes and bruises. Blood dripped steadily from a cut on his forehead, and he was sure he had a concussion from the brawl he had put up when these men had first entered his home.

It had been a long time since he had been surprised; he'd taken security measures around the house. He made sure that his knives were evenly scattered around the house just in case he ever had to locate one quickly, he even slept with one placed under his pillow.

The pop that had come from his shoulder ripped him from his silent queries. Jackson was now taking an inventory of everything that was now out of place and broken on his body. His newly dislocated shoulder now making it to one of the most painful on the list.

Still no sound left his throat, even though he was screaming in his mind, silently begging it to stop. Jackson knew that the men wanted to hear him scream, and beg for mercy. He was stronger than that though, he would rather die an unthinkably painful death than share one sound of pain with these men.

"Come on Rippner, scream for me," the man blared angrily, pulling Jackson's head back by his hair. The man's eyes went wide when Jackson smiled at him. The fist slammed mercilessly into his jaw, making his head smack into the ground again.

Jackson recognized these men from a particularly unsuccessful job in the past. The leader of this particular group had been accidentally murdered instead of the intended target. That's what you get when you are dealing with moronic drug dealers, none of them can ever do a job right.

Blood saturated Jackson's dark-blue sweats, from the stab wound in his lower thigh. The pain was only beginning to hit him, and he knew that when the full force of it hit him he would go into shock. And if that didn't kill him, these drug dealers were.

"What?" the new leader asked feigning innocence. "You take my money, leave me and my men to die, and you're surprised to see me?" his thick Mexican accent was slightly rough sounding.

The man pulled out his gun and held it to Jackson's head. "We had a deal pretty boy, and you skipped out on it, you lied."

Jackson finally spoke up. "I never lie, nor do I break promises. Your men were morons, every one of them deserved to die."

A loud shot, and a hoarse yell followed the last statement. Jackson looked down to see blood dripping down his shoulder. At least I'm not wearing one of my good suits, he thought. The gun was placed back on his head.

"Say goodbye junior," the man spoke.

Jackson kicked out hard; surprising the man who was holding his feet so much that he let go. Jackson then kicked the leader legs out from under him, he heard curses as the men tried to get Jackson's ailing body under control again.

The young man wrenched his arms free and flipped over onto his back. He kicked out again, but harder, catching the man at his feet by the head and effectively knocking him unconscious. Looking over at the couch, Jackson quickly clambered to his feet and darted to one of his knives. After it rested in his hand he started attacking the invaders.

The men were being forced back whenever Jackson would leap at them. The gun lay forgotten by the leader as he tried to keep from being impaled by the carver's knife.

After a half-an-hour of playing cat and mouse with these men, Jackson had one out. They all lay dead, scattered on the floor. It was at that moment that Jackson's legs refused to hold him up any longer. He collapsed to his knees, knowing that he would have to escape from this house before more of these goons show up and finish him off.

Ten minutes had passed before Jackson had been able to hoist himself up off of the ground. He dragged himself to the front door and began walking aimlessly down the street. The man was not in his right mind, everything was blurry and nothing made sense. The only thing he knew was that he needed help, and he needed it now.

Lisa Reisert popped into his head. He'd find her; maybe she'd help him. That was it, he was on his quest to find her. He started treading heavily down the street in search for her.

Lisa Reisert sat on her couch, drinking a glass of whine while watching TV. Sure it was late, and all of the sane people were safely tucked away in they're beds. But tonight, much like every night, she sat awake and thought about events from the past few months.

Jackson Rippner would forever plague her mind, if only she could get him out. But she was far too paranoid to be forgetting his face, and his eyes, out of her mind.

Those icy blue irises of his had seen through her that day, he had seen everything she had. That though sent a chill up her spine.

Lisa was pulled from her thoughts when a loud crash sounded at the door. Immediately she was on alert, she pulled open the drawer next to the couch to reveal a gun. Lisa turned off the TV and walked tip-toed to the door.

She yanked open the door and stood frozen in shock at the man in front of her. "Jackson," she whispered. The man was drenched in blood; bruises and open wounds decorated his muscular body and face. His lips were a light colored blue and his pale face stood out against his dark hair.

Lisa lifted the gun so it was pointing point blank at his chest. Though the look on his face made her hand waver and it found its way back down against her hip.

"Leese," he whispered desperately.

Suddenly his eyes rolled back into his head and his body pitched forward. Lisa barely caught him before his knees could contact the ground, and oomph sound left her when his dead weight slammed into her. His head lolled helplessly against her shoulder.

She pulled hard, dragging him through the doorway of her home. Lisa set him down carefully, his limp limbs swaying back and forth. She looked down at her nightgown, it was once white but now crimson blood smeared it.

Putting her fingers against the crook in Jackson's neck, she felt for a pulse. It was there, erratic and a bit shallow, but there none the less.

She looked at his battered, but still handsome face and said, "What am I going to do with you."

TBC . . . I hope you enjoyed the first chapter.