Disclaimer: Don't own the characters from the movie, nor the song title.

A/N: To the Jackson fangirls -- Jackson altert!!

Chapter Seven – Versions of Violence (from the song by Alanis Morisette)

Peter was a smart man. He'd been in this business for a long time, although he was only a few years younger than Vincent. He was one of the dozen or so human beings in the world that was powerful and invisible. Money did not have to bring celebrity, not if you had enough of it.

Arcadian Estates was owned by a dummy corporation, and certain apartments were kept empty so that they could be occupied by operatives, depending on the mission. Right now, Jackson had taken up residence in a smaller one, ground floor, so that he could easily get in and out.

Vincent had never stayed at any of Peter's safe houses. He'd never needed to. He didn't like the big cities, where almost all the places like this were located, and part of his routine was to be in and out in one night. That was what made him good. No fuss, no muss.

Ah, the good old days, he thought as the cab pulled up.

It was getting past nine o'clock. He'd gotten this cab at the airport, and the driver was very good. A young African-American, glasses, the kind that didn't like conflict. He was polite but not friendly. Disengaged.

"Hey," Vincent said, leaning forward, "I'm only going to be here for a bit, maybe a half-hour at the most. Think I could persuade you to wait?"

"I can keep the meter running," the cabbie said, "no problem."

"Yeah, well…in case I'm late, I'll give you a hundred, plus the fare, however long it takes, as long as you just keep waiting." Vincent flashed the hundred dollar bill. It was his only one – the rest were all fifties and twenties. He was an all-cash kind of guy, but as Trent had not brought him a bag, he didn't have his usual supply. He ripped the bill in half and handed half to the driver, shaking his hand in the process.

"Yeah, man, sure," the cabbie said.

"Great, here's half, you'll get the other half when I come back," Vincent said. "What's your name?"

"Max," the guy said.

Vincent smiled. He couldn't give his name. On the way here, Vincent had asked Max if he happened to have a newspaper in the cab, and Max had said no, but there was no guarantee he hadn't already looked at one and wouldn't suddenly remember. "I'm Albert," he said, and got out of the cab.

Max pulled into a parking spot along the curb and put the car into park. He glanced at the back seat and saw that Albert's briefcase was still sitting there, plain as day. "Definitely not from around here," he said with a rueful chuckle.

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Vincent pressed his ear against the door. There was no sound. No television, radio, running water…he stayed silent and still for a few minutes, in the empty hallway. Peter always had the marked apartments away from the main paths. Sometimes they were hidden entirely.

When he was sure the apartment was empty, he picked the lock and slipped inside. Moving through the dark, Vincent carefully scoped everything out. He located Jackson's gun – even a lousy shot kept one, it was just pure common sense in their line of work. It was nice – a glock, with a silencer. It was under the bed, on the right side – a very obvious place for people to keep a gun. He supposed he was lucky that Jackson kept a gun at all, now that he thought about it. Jackson really was a terrible shot.

Now, the question was – where was his gear? Vincent had worked with Jackson on a few occasions. He was never quite sure exactly what Jackson did, except for the obvious gathering of intel, at which, admittedly, Jackson was quite good. He knew he didn't like him much – Jackson was a talker. That was probably part of his job, but still, Vincent didn't have to like it. Still, Jackson was no wimp either, and like or not, he respected him.

The first place was the bedroom. Five minutes was spent rummaging through the single closet and the single chest of drawers. There was no way it would be in the living area, and the bathroom was ridiculous…

Vincent moved down the hallway into the kitchen. It was stupid to keep important things in a kitchen – the risk of fire was always highest in a kitchen. Then again, if Jackson had to dump his gear quickly, that would be the easiest place to do it.

Five more minutes. Twenty now. He did not want to be here longer than thirty. He felt the first prickles of anxiety.

No, he had to be calm. Where would be an unlikely place to store waiting intel? Vincent went to the cabinet under the sink – always the least appealing place in any kitchen, as it was filled with pipes and usually cleaners. But as Vincent popped the cabinet open, there was a metal box, about the size of a desk drawer, sitting there. With a padlock on it.

Vincent had never had much time for padlocks. Picking door locks was easy, but padlocks were a pain. Still, he tried it. He would have liked to just take a hammer and smash it, but the amount of noise that would make…and if Jackson came home while he was doing it, it would be like an alarm system to the man the second he walked through the door.

It took him almost ten minutes. His fingers were trembling mildly, and he kept cussing under his breath, but he did hit paydirt. Callie's picture, freshly printed images from a digital camera, smiled up at him. Vincent pulled out the whole box, and was surprised to find how heavy it actually was.

It wasn't all on Callie. There was intel on a few other jobs as well, but Callie's stuff was all on top. Addresses, written notes in Jackson's nearly illegible scrawl, and lots and lots of photographs. Vincent stuffed as much as he could into his suit pockets, and it made a bulge. He would go through it in a bit. Right now he was at the end of his allotment and it was time for an exit.

And that was when he heard the front door click open.

The first thing Vincent did was pull out his gun. It was his now – rammed into the back of his pants, like an idiot. But what choice did he have, he didn't have a holster or anything, not even his switch. Things like that would never make it through security, and he had depended on Trent to bring him a bag. But Peter had to protect his own – if airport security had decided to nab Vincent, Cash could have gone down with him, and that would have been bad for business, not to mention just plain embarrassing.

Jackson walked down the hallway. Vincent heard him toss some papers down with a rubbery thwap onto the coffee table, and then head into the kitchen. The minute he reached for the light, Vincent cocked the gun.

"Don't," he said.

Jackson reacted fast. He had his knife out, but Vincent had wisely already put the silencer on the gun. Crack shot that he was, he shot at the knife, and the bullet hit the blade, bouncing off it and going into the nearby wall. The affect was to send a painful vibration that left Jackson clutching his hand.

"Do it again and the next one goes into your wrist," Vincent said.

"Fucking hell, Vincent. What do you think you're doing?"

Vincent smirked. Jackson was quick, he'd give him credit. "What gave me away?"

"Your stupid hair is reflecting in the window," Jackson replied cockily. "Are you out of your mind? Have you even read the papers?"

"I was in transit. There wasn't any way for me to know until I landed. But yeah, I saw. And when my drop didn't make it, I knew something was up. So I decided to come see you."

"Why me?" Jackson sounded surly. Vincent's eyes had long since adjusted to the dark and he could see the expression on the younger man's face. Blank, unassuming. Jackson was a master of expressions.

"Because your name came up when I was offered the assignment," Vincent said. "And I have a good memory."

Jackson chuckled. "Peter told you to keep him out of it, didn't he?"

That threw him. But Jackson was a talker – his most important skill was the ability to keep people off balance. Vincent was not about to be played. "You know, I know that you have this opinion of my kind of people," he said coldly, glacier-like, putting as much scorn and loathing into his voice as he could manage to convey to Jackson exactly how much he did not appreciate his attitude – and it was easier than he thought, because most if it was coming from his exact dislike of Jackson himself – "that we're just well-trained dogs. But even the best trained dog will eat his master if he's desperate enough. I'm not stupid, Jackson."

"No, you aren't." Jackson's tone was almost conciliatory, but Vincent could tell he wasn't completely buying it. "I've never understood why Peter is so fond of you. If that's what you can even call it. I've had a lot of interesting theories, but I'm not paid to—"

"No, you aren't," Vincent cut him off.

"So, I take it you're here for the stuff on Calliope Fanning?"

Vincent felt his finger twitch. Damn Jackson, he could put so much into that tone of his…"Don't bother," Vincent said. "Your hiding place was pretty easy to find."

"Was it?" Amusement. It flickered in those huge blue eyes, which were glowing slightly, cat-like, in the dim light. "Huh. I'll have to try harder in the future."

A warning bell went off in the back of Vincent's head. Jackson was hiding something.

"What is it, Rippner?" Vincent asked, coming closer. He aimed higher, so that Jackson was staring down the barrel of the gun. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I haven't told you anything," Jackson replied, shrugging. "You're so smart, you've figured everything out for yourself."

That tore it. Vincent reached out and grabbed Jackson by his collar. He yanked him forward and spun him around, shoving him hard against the opposite cabinet. Jackson's spine met the hard marble edge of the countertop and he grunted, then bent over backwards. Vincent had him spread eagle and helpless, and the gun pressed to the underside of Jackson's jaw.

"I have no time for your bullshit," he said. "What don't I know? What's not in your intel?"

Jackson stared upward, not meeting Vincent's eyes. "Peter's going to be very pissed if you kill me," he said calmly. "Even you, I'm sure, have limits."

Vincent pressed the tip of the gun harder, digging it into Jackson's throat. "You willing to bet your life on that? Haven't you heard? I've gone nuts. I've come all the way back here to protect a woman I should have killed. You think I'm playing the game by the rules? You think I have anything left to lose?"

Jackson met his eyes. Blue against green, ice against fire. "On the table," he said. "What I just brought in. The address for St. Anthony's, called Crazy Ants by most of the staff and patients. That's where your girl is. That's where they're hiding her – she just moved today, it was a last minute thing."

Vincent paused. "That was too easy," he said.

Jackson chuckled. The tremor went through his neck and up the metal barrel of the gun. "Rochester got all of this about two hours ago. Two hours, Vincent. Quite frankly, I doubt it matters much now, and I'm not going to risk dying to protect information that's already—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Vincent yanked him up, turned the gun around and clobbered Jackson over the head with the butt. The man fell limp, but breathing. Vincent checked the packet before he took it, just to make sure the weasel hadn't been bluffing, and he was rewarded for this extra bit of care.

The address for Crazy Ants was the first thing in the pack.

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Rochester lazily moved up the walk. It was a quiet evening – dogs barking in the distance, traffic rolling by on the nearby streets, people putting out their garbage. It was beautifully, wonderfully mundane.

Nobody in this world took time to appreciate the mundane.

The porch light was on and so was the kitchen light. Rochester moved in the shadows, keeping out of the line of sight. Raymond Fanning Senior was hovering over the sink, probably washing dishes. He had a cop's face, heavily lined. His brow was furrowed in concentration.

How could he be happy? Rochester wondered. The simple answer was, he couldn't. His wife was dead, his daughter was in mortal danger, and he himself had cancer, and hadn't even told his children yet. But it would be over soon, Chess mused. And Ray Sr. would get to die knowing the full extent of himself as a man. So few actually got to do that.

Chess moved along the garage door until he found the back entrance. He did not break the glass, but instead sliced it expertly and used a suction cup to keep it from falling. He reached through, unlocked the door from the inside, and let himself in. It was easy to move silently through the garage. Concrete that was saturated with grease and various other fluids did not echo footsteps as well.

As Rochester entered the kitchen through the side door, he had to be cautious. There was no window on this one so he couldn't see through it, but as he cracked the door he saw that Fanning Sr. was still intently washing the dishes. He was making a bit of a racket, and the radio was on beside him, so when Rochester reached him and slipped the razor blade around his throat, he almost didn't notice.

Not until Rochester spoke.

"If you move, you'll get hurt."

He felt the older man tense, but wisdom and years prevented him from doing anything foolish.

"Pull your hands out of the dishwater and get them where I can see them," Rochester told him, in the casual tone of voice that indicated he was in no hurry.

Fanning obeyed. Wet hands dripped suds onto the floor below. Rochester twitched his shoe to keep it from getting dampened. Then, ever so gently, he moved the knife so that it gave the older man room to move, but not so that it would easily slice through a jugular vein if he was prompted.

"Now turn around."

Fanning didn't look anything like his daughter…except in the eyes. Of course, the first thing that Rochester noticed was the sudden look of surprise on Fanning's face.

"What?" Chess asked.

"Nothing." Fanning's voice was gravelly, rough.

"No," Rochester said with mildly strained patience, "you were surprised. Not when I grabbed you, but when you saw me. Why?"

"I thought you'd…be someone else," Fanning finished with a light shrug.

"Huh," Rochester said. "Vincent?"

The muscles around the old man's eyes tightened. Rochester smiled. "You met him, didn't you?" Rochester reached behind him and yanked out one of the kitchen table chairs, dragging it beside him and turning it around. He indicated for Fanning to sit. "He came to this house, that night, with your daughter. What did she tell you, that he was her boyfriend?" He chuckled. "That was classic. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall and seen that."

Fanning sat down, put his hands on his knees, and looked at a point on the floor.

"So what do you have around here, duct tape, binding cord, anything?" Rochester started to rummage through drawers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the subtle shift in Fanning's body language, saw his eyes rise to glare at him. "Before you do anything stupid," Rochester said, still rummaging, "you'd best know that the second you touch me, you're dead. I'm faster with this knife than a teenage boy popping his cherry. So just a friendly heads up."

In the last drawer, he found what he was looking for. A roll of duct tape, almost new. Rochester scooped it up and used his teeth to pull off a long strip. "Get your hands on the arms," he said, and then ripped the tape with his teeth. He tucked the roll under his arm and then wrapped Fanning's wrist in place. He repeated it for the other wrist, and then, for good measure, did it a half-dozen more times on each arm, until Fanning was bound from wrist to elbow to the arms of the chair.

Rochester put the blade away and expertly stepped on Fanning's free foot as he bent over and bound him from the ankle to the knee against the chair leg. Then he did the other leg. After that, he wound the tape around his stomach and then his shoulders to the back of the chair until he used nearly the entire roll. Smiling, he tossed what was left back onto the counter.

He came around and stood in front of Fanning, folding his arms and scrutinizing him. "So I guess you're wondering why I'm here…or maybe not. It's not everybody's daughter that manages to witness five hits and lives to tell the tale. You guys knew that this was coming and you've done a pretty good job hiding little Callie from me. But sooner or later, Ray, you've got to face facts. I am going to find her. She is going to die. How she dies, however, is going to be up to you."

Ray's chest heaved, but he was well in control of himself. It was an old cop's instinct to be this cool, Rochester knew.

"Vincent didn't kill her because Vincent was old and stupid," Rochester went on, conversationally. "Or maybe he's going through a mid-life crisis, I guess it happens. Me, though, I'm young and hungry." His voice and mannerisms gained intensity as he went on. "I live and breathe this shit and there's really nothing, not even your cop son, that's going to keep me from getting to her. Sure, you're going to run me on a wild chase, that I can admit. You might even keep her from me for a good long while. Now, I have to tell you…that's going to make me frustrated. And when I get frustrated, I get mad. And when I get mad, well, I have to somehow relieve my stress. And that means, what am I going to do to your precious Callie when I get a hold of her?"

Fanning's eyes were slowly gaining a bloodshot look. If he had possessed heat vision, Rochester would be a smear of ash on the floor. The thought made him smile.

"You're going to die, Ray," he suddenly said, softly. "Cancer, isn't it? You only have what, a year left? And it's not going to be pleasant. Cancer eats you from the inside. It's an ugly, painful business. But you know, there are worse ways to die." Rochester had started pacing, lightly, not too far back and forth, but enough. "I know a lot of them. I'm still looking for more. Nobody's coming here, are they? Your daughter is holed up in that insane asylum they call an institute, your son is on shift. We have all night. We could find worse ways to die than cancer. But we don't have to." He stopped and leaned down into Ray's face. "And Callie doesn't have to, either."

To his credit, Fanning hadn't changed facial expressions in the last several minutes. But if looks could have killed…

Rochester smiled gently. "It will be quick. Squish, done, you get to meet your maker without all the agony beforehand. And I give you my word that Callie will get the same. But if you force my hand, first, you get to die the ugliest death I can possibly give you – and trust me, that's considerable. It won't be anything, though, compared to what Callie gets." He leaned in a bit closer, so that he was almost by Fanning's ear. "I could make it last for days, if I wanted."

He felt every muscle in the older man's body coil. He was struggling with himself, a battle he had never imagined fighting before.

"All you have to do is get Callie over here. I'll even wait, so that you can see her die quick and clean before you join her. I'm going to bring you the telephone, you're going to call your daughter's line, and you're going to get her over here, alone. Or you're going to die knowing that before she joins you, whatever you suffer will be nothing compared to what she's going to endure. She's nobody to me. I can think of a million different ways to soil her before I'm done. You're a cop – you've seen the filthy things a man can do to a woman. Imagine all of them, on your precious…baby…girl."

There was a strange noise, and Rochester backed up a bit to figure out what was going on. He realized it was coming from Fanning's throat, and that suddenly, with more force than he would have expected, Fanning hocked the ugliest loogie known to man right across Rochester's cheek.

Rochester closed his eyes. He straightened, made his way over to the counter and found the paper towels. He cleaned himself using warm water, all the while cool as an icicle in January. Fanning, however, had seemed to unleash something else with the wad of flem. A stream of profanity issued from him, until he made himself hoarse.

The assassin patiently waited until his victim was done. Then he pulled the razor blade from his pocket, and made good on his promise.

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(Jackson and the writer sit on chairs. Jackson has a very large ice bag on his head and the writer looks distinctly bruised. Both look very peeved at Vincent.)

Me: Did you have to hit him so hard?

(Vincent just smiles smugly.)

Jackson: I think I have a concussion.

Me: Do you know how many fangirls are going to be pissed off because of this?

Vincent: Bring them on.

Jackson: He's just being pathetic. He just wants attention.

Vincent: (to Jackson) You want attention? I can give you more.

Me: And to think, Rochester makes Vincent look like a teddy bear.

Jackson: Well, that's your own fault, you created him.

Me: Oh, I don't need shit from you, too.

Vincent: Actually, she borrowed him, too. Wasn't he in that movie, Ironhead?

Me: Ironman. And yes, Robert Downey Jr. plays an excellent psycho.

Vincent: (with a warning look) Do you need another trip to the closet?

Me: You'd just better watch your step, buddy.

Jackson: (to break the tension) Nice move, putting Max in there, by the way.

Me: Thank you. (to Vincent) See? He knows how to be charming.

Vincent: I can be charming.

Me: Nearly making out to death in a closet is not being charming.

Vincent: Why did you have to bring Max into this, anyway?

Me: It was a full circle kind of thing. You needed to get into a cab with him, trust me.

Vincent: Whatever.

Me: (sighs) Anyway, I forgot the disclaimer, so I don't own anything. At this rate, I don't want to.

Jackson: Hey!