Riddick:

The hunt had been fun. Somewhat anti-climatic in execution, but Xing the guy in a public place had been a bit of a twist. It was dark, no cameras or lights in the parking lot, but wide open spaces. It was like pouncing on a zebra in the middle of a meadow, dumb-ass animal didn't even have a herd to run back to.

Still, assassination in the open wasn't a good idea. Even if the beast had enjoyed the opportunity for an open display, wasn't an urge he should give into again. Riddick dumped his gear on the dresser and looked around the room. He should have checked out yesterday. But hadn't planned to take out the target yet, it was just recon. But seeing the spineless suit scurrying nervously back to his car after being dropped off from whatever dirty midnight deal had transpired... the animal side instinctively took the opportunity to vent frustration at having been caged for hours silently watching Takay's car in the vacant parking lot.

Riddick moved to the bed, flipping on his com unit and logging in. Yup, Wiskel was good as his word. Credits all accounted for. Few more jobs and he could get off this rock. Find something less conspicuous to sate his bloodlust on.

He'd be lying if he didn't admit the high profile contracts weren't a challenge. The animal in him purred, reliving the hunt in flashes and stretched proudly. Primal killing urge satisfied, it lazily kneaded the prefrontal lobes, wanting another hunger sated. Sex and death. Yeah, his cock twitched. He didn't get off on killing, that was sick, but he'd figured out a long time ago that as the adrenaline rush and primal satisfaction wore off, his body began craving another high to replace the fading bio-chemical charge. Mating was just as instinctive. Women had a basic craving for sweet and sour, salt and chocolate. He got horny after a kill. Wasn't always a hunger he could satisfy, but... he glanced at the clock. Still early enough to hit a club, find an easy lay. He was in the mood for a Latin girl maybe, or a tight-assed lanky college boy. Something hot and fine he could sink his dick into, get his rocks off good a few times. Shouldn't be hard to claim it was his last night in town, kick 'em out early when he relocated.

Something in him whispered he might want to lay low for a bit, but he ignored it. There was nothing to link him to the crimes thus far. He didn't leave evidence.

Dexter:

"This guy doesn't leave much evidence, does he? If it is one guy." Masuka muttered as he hovered over Dexter's com.

"Oh, it's one guy," Dexter answered thoughtfully. "What he doesn't leave in physical, is written in the blood. I ran the simulations on our three confirmed cases, I'm checking against the other political cases in the last six months. Got two down in Mexico I'm running now. Your one down in Cuba came back a possible match, if messier. Seemed a bit hasty. Good spot, Vince."

"Possible? I'd say the M.O. is dead on." Vince crossed his arms, tapped his foot. He wanted the bragging rights on this one.

"Yeah... it would be if it wasn't such a hack-n-slash. If it was him, he got interrupted. I mean, the force marks match - depth and strength of the blows" Dexter pointed at the data on the screen. "But if it's our guy, he was using different blades."

"But they look custom right? Modified or homemade? Not traceable off-the-shelf stuff? Prison shivs or self-sharpened?" Vince was bouncing on his feet, excited to use his slam slang.

"Prison shivs? You think this guy has done time?" Dexter swiveled in his chair. "I can add that to the possible profile write-up, but I was thinkin' accuracy like this is more a military trait. Highly trained, maybe Space Marines." Vince snorted.

"Lucky Doakes ain't around to hear that. He'd probably gut you for that, or at least bite your head off in a lecture about how his former unit saved the universe... blah blah blah." Vince eyed the screen again. "So whachu got worked up so far?"

"Well, male, good shape, strong even for his size, which I'm putting at about 6'1" to 6'3"- that's based on the spatter patterns," Dexter winked at Vince. " Probably 30 - 45 years old. Put in possible military service, but you're right that if this is contract killing, he's gonna have to have access to the criminal element, and nothing like an ex-con to know how to work the angles.

I just can't get over the textbook efficiency of the dissection. Not many criminals are smart enough to know this many kill spots on the human body. Maybe one or two - but variety and opportunity don't always give you a clean neck or heart shot. This is medical school knowledge of human anatomy. Seems kinda wasted on an assassin. Think it'd be easier to use a gun." He shook his head.

"Nah. Guns leave trace, you can match bullets. This guy likes what he does. Knives are much more intimate. This is one sick puppy." Vince shuttered theatrically.

Dexter suppressed a smirk. The Passenger chuckled. If only you knew Vince. He preferred a scalpel. One little cut before the killing blow. But yes, knives were much more intimate. He hoped he'd have a chance to discuss bladesmanship with this new playmate before their dance was done. He hoped too, that the other would appreciate Dexter's own skills when the knife came down on him. Really, his brother had been the last one to truly appreciate the artistry of his work. Such a lonely life, the artist's way. At least this fellow knife-wielding maniac would have the joy of someone acknowledging his talent in his lifetime. Even if that was minutes before it was cut short.

"Dex? Earth to Morgan!" Vince's voice finally cut through his pleasant day-dream of moonlit tables and flashing steel. Dexter looked up.

"Huh?"

"I said, 'do you wanna read the paper I'm working on?' This perp may make or break my theory on multiple-offending stabbers." Vince looked smug. Dexter shook his head.

"Nah, got too much going on here. And, you know... personal life stuff." Masuka had been all set to be rankled, but his face softened.

"Yeah. Sorry. Sorting out Rita's stuff huh? Dead is never the end of it, is it?"

"Nope." Dexter stared at the screen. This was probably a safe reaction. He'd never mastered looking sad. Contrition, confusion, even guilt - when it suited him. But sadness, grief. Nope. He had to settle for blank.

One thing he couldn't understand about his fellow human beings, their inability to accept the inevitability of death. True, a head-on car crash wasn't exactly due-time, but Rita hadn't suffered the indignities of old age and being abandoned by her family in some automated rest home.

Cody and Astor were shipped off to grandma's while Dear Daddy Dexter dealt with the grief of losing his bride. His mother-in-law had never liked him, and was contesting the adoption paperwork that hadn't quite been finalized. She had temporary custody. It would be remedied soon enough, but for now, he looked at it as a holiday. He liked the children, he truly considered them his own, their darling dark side only adding to their charm. But handling them full time without Rita was going to be a chore. And right now, not one he was ready to deal with, especially with the Passenger already kicking him from the back seat like an irritated, impatient child squirming in its carseat.

"I'm going to go back and check out the scene again," he finally said, pushing back his chair. "See if I can get a few more shots of the area, see if there's anything we missed." Vince nodded, grateful for a way out of the awkward silence. "Tell Batista for me?" Vince nodded again and ducked out the door. Dexter smiled briefly to himself. It was always nice when work and his personal hobby coincided. He could case the area, maybe find a clue about his new dance partner. That the information may never make it into a report, oh well. Justice would be served. It always was.

--------------------------

Dexter mused to himself as he drove across town, some people hated the murderous Miami traffic, he found it soothing. Everyone out for number 1, everyone willing to kill for that one car length a lane over. Car horns, expletives and death threats, all very primal. Something he understood. A time to feel at peace with what he was, human after all. He just chose his victims more carefully than most, and didn't use 4000 lbs of steel and rubber to accomplish his goal. Some people were foodies, audiophiles, fashionistas... he was just more picky about whose blood he spilled on the highway of life.

And that was something his new dance partner didn't have particularly good taste in. Politicians of all things. Then again, his predilection was exactly why he'd ended up on discerning Dexter's dance card. His style was flashy, aggressive, but his movements were precise and very exacting.

Dexter didn't know how he felt about killing for money, if indeed, this was an assassin. The variety of political targets had made it clear this was not a motivated idealist out to advance an agenda for his party. And despite the obvious dirty dealings of his victims, it also didn't smack of a vigilante, no comic-book Dark Defender here. Military or Company agents certainly weren't public when taking out their trash, they did everything they could to disguise their dirty business and keep simple public servants like Miami PD out of their garbage pile. No, corporate espionage didn't stick a blade in your back and leave your body out to be found. Vaporized or dumped in deep space, light years from home, but not left out for the gulls and alligators.

So, that left contract killing. Which meant this was a soldier of fortune. There was that military vibe to it. Perhaps personal security or merchant marine, but the efficiency smacked of training. A conservation of time and movement, go for the death blow, move on. Masuka was right that blades were intimate, they were also quiet, and fairly efficient. No loud bangs, no moving parts to jam up, no extra things like fuel or bullets or power cells. Snick, slash, walk away. Let the pressure of the blood and pumping of the victim's heart be what actually kills him. Hit an artery and the bleed out is often quicker than it takes to scream. That's why he had a job, interpreting the fountaining of the red water of life. It just depended how much force was applied, where and how many times.

But hunting for money. He hadn't waltzed with an assassin before. Unless you counted Doakes. And well, he hid behind the fact that the government told him to do it for many years. That it was honorable and just, the sacrifices he made for his country. That he liked it, became a cop for the right to continue to exert force on his fellow man while hiding behind society's mask of necessity... well, that was just cheating.

So this one's career path was a bit more twisted than his own. It would make for a change from all the psycho-sexual predators, the gang-bangers and black widows. Perhaps they could talk shop, exchange tips. No, probably not. He'd tried that with his brother. He'd tried to have... friends. It didn't work. Killers were loners by nature. The Passenger rankled a bit at this, irritated for some reason. That was a change too. Did he know something? Was he not sharing? Dexter didn't like it when his companion didn't share.

Well, perhaps this hunting game would make him feel more cooperative. He pulled the car into the parking lot, flashing his laminate at the lone guard standing watch over the taped off crime scene, and parked on the far side of the lot, which was screened by a windbreak of trees. It was a good watching place, and a good place to start.