AN: Here is the second chapter, though it is short, the next one will be longer.

My regards to the following people, who reviewed and I could not PM back:

Albany: I am bad at Spanish, but that is what the translator is for. Thank you, and there will be a lot more mystery coming, and here is the update.

Me myself: Interesting name, I almost thought it said, Me Myself and I. But sadly not. Still a cool name, thank you for reviewing, and here is the next chapter.

KayKit: Thanks! Hopefully it gets more interesting. ;P

And these are the people who alerted this story, and I could not thank:

Countless Cullen: Thank you for alerting my story.

Pygmyeese: I know I already thanked you, but I wanted to do it again! Thanks, and I did get a beta. So hopefully you will not find any errors.

And a big THANK YOU! For my beta- Dark Rook. Couldn't have done this with out you!

Sorry for the lengthy authors note, onto the chapter.

The door closed with a barely audible click. Michael just put his hands down to his sides, the threat not staring him in the face now, and looked towards his Mother. "What do you mean you let him in?"

"That's exactly what I did; he came knocking on the door Friday morning asking for help and a place to stay." His Mother said as she took another drag of her cigarette.

Michael just sighed. "Really Mom, really? You let some stranger in your house. And you didn't think he would kill you in the middle of the night?"

"Yes, really Michael. When he came in I showed him his room, and he locked the door as soon as he got in. And he didn't even show his face until this morning." His Mom explained to him as she took a drink of her tea. "You know I may not seem like it, but I can protect myself. You don't have to worry about me."

"Well I wouldn't worry about you if you didn't go and let drunken people in at night. Especially if they have a gun!" Michael told his Mom while he dug in his pocket to get his phone.

"Well sorry, he didn't really go waving it around stating 'hey look at my gun.' Are you sure it's not one of yours that you left in the guest room?" His Mother asked him.

"I am pretty sure; I think I would have recognized my own gun." Michael said.

"So are you going to follow him?" She asked as she lit another cigarette.

"Yes, but I have no idea who he is." Michael said as he dialed a number and put the phone up to his ear as it rung.

"Hey Mikey, what's up?" A guy on the other line asked.

"We have a problem Sam; I need you and Fiona to help me out on this one." Michael told Sam.

"Ok, let me just finish my beer, and we will meet somewhere to talk." Sam told him.

"Right. Thanks Sam." Michael then hung up.

"Well if you find anything out, tell me." His Mother told him.

"Will do Mom." Michael said as he ran out the back door.

The man just closed the door lightly before putting his gun away. He started jogging in a random direction. Now with him being blind, you would suspect that he couldn't see where he was going. And you would be right, but this man was far from blind. At least in his mind.

He has memorized all of Miami, as if it was the back of his hand. So he was headed towards a shortcut that would lead him to the warehouse, where he spent all of his time. However, with his memory fading in and out, and his impaired eyesight, he decided against it.

Instead, he slowed down to a brisk walk, and headed for the shops. At least until he could gather what had happened to him. His eyes not being that big of deal, though, he would probably kill the person that did it to him. The thing that was pulling at the back of his mind was why on Earth would he just knock on some stranger's door? He was pretty sure he wasn't dying, because he couldn't feel any new wounds on him. So except for his eyesight being nonexistent, he was in a pretty good state.

He wanted to remember what he was thinking Friday night - waltzing into a random house, without any background knowledge at all. That didn't seem like him. Well, maybe it did. But he usually had a good reason, at least at the beginning. If his plan ended up going south the majority of the time wasn't his fault.

He crossed the street when he couldn't hear any cars coming. He stayed away from all the shops, not wanting to accidentally run into someone or get sidetracked and forget where he was going.

Now there were two problems that could trigger his memory of Friday night.

Wait, why did that lady or Michaels mom I guess, say Friday night? He thought. Why not say last night? Today is Saturday, right? No, can't be, then she would have said last night. Did that mean he had slept or passed out for more than one day?

He would have laughed at the thought if this wasn't a serious situation, him sleeping a full day away. Like that was ever going to happen. However, if he puts two and two together he couldn't deny the facts. He had wasted a full day. What didn't make sense was why.

Michaels mother had said he was drunk and he did remember being dizzy, but he knew how to hold his liquor. Even if he did have a few drinks, he wouldn't have gone far enough to make his brain wired, especially to the point where he couldn't even remember what happened that night. Or pass out for a whole day, for that matter. He had never passed out from drinking too much; he had not passed out in any normal way for a while. So what was up?

The next problem nagging him would be the gun, and when, where, and how he got it. The time would have to have been on Friday, probably at night after his memory had trailed off. Where he got it was a complete mystery. There was no way, not in a million years, for it to have been obtained in a trade off. He might have been a little drunk, but he would never trade his one of a kind gun for this piece of shit currently weighing him down. That meant he had lost his gun and stole this sad piece of machinery to make up for it. And the how….well, as he found out a second ago, he stole it. Why would he have paid? He had certainly come to the conclusion that the gun wasn't his; he had always carried a USP compact nine millimeter V2 hand gun, not this nine millimeter blue finished handgun.

There were a few things that set the guns apart, one of them being the blue finished gun was a piece of trash. Also, the V2 was twice the price. The more expensive the gun the better it fires, reducing jamming, and lasts longer. Though he was taught to pick up any gun and have alarming accuracy, it didn't change the fact that he went through a lot with that gun, both with what he did to get it and when he carried it. The blue finished gun held only one magazine with seven bullets. He wasn't surprised that he had used four of the bullets for a prior situation. Whoever he had shot at had probably deserved it. In comparison, the V2 could hold thirteen rounds in a magazine and had a total of three magazines. Simple math told him that the V2 could hold close to six times that of the blue finished gun. And why buy or steal a cheap gun that contained less than a fifth of the bullets of his old one? It didn't make sense.

Now for his last matter at hand which he considered fairly important and explained the whole reason why the V2 gun was left handed. He was a lefty, well, now he was. It was his cover for his most recent mission. Speaking of missions….that's what he was doing Friday night.

AN: How was it, tell me by dropping a review! Can anyone geuss what he was doing Friday night? A huge hug, and a cookie, for the person who gets it right. And a virtual high-five for those who try! :)