In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; in passing it over, he is superior. – Francis Bacon

Newport, RI – 0715 Local – 14 December 2023

There are many three-word phrases that can change the course of a man's life. "I love you." "You've been hired." "Contract is over." "Your father's died." "Absolutely you can," when you have asked a father to marry his daughter. For Percy Jackson on a crisp Narraganset Bay morning, the three providing such an impetus for change, sparked a series of events he had fantasized over for nearly a decade.

The phone buzzing in his pocket, he stepped out of Springline Coffee on Bannisters Wharf, a steaming mug of First Light Blend black coffee in hand. He answered the call on the fourth ring without looking at the ID, few enough people possessed this number. He lit a cigarette before answering. "Yes?"

He knew the voice on the other end without introduction. "We found him."

Annapolis, MD – 0912 Local – 17 August 2002

The priest's voice was a deep baritone and echoed throughout the ninety-four-year-old chapel. Beneath the one hundred and ninety-three feet of the cupola and its great copper dome, the scions of New England's great old-money families watched what they believed to be a mistake. Rachel Elizabeth Dare, sole heiress to the long-standing Dare financial empire of New England money mixed with New York City extravagance, was marrying a Marine.

To them it made no difference that he was an officer or that he had graduated in the top ten percent of his class at one of the country's premier and most respected academic institutions. He was a Marine, a service member and few enough of them understood the concept of service anymore. He would also be fighting in "Mr. Bush's War" just has his father had fought in "Mr. Kennedy's War" and his grandfather in "Mr. Roosevelt's." Despite the concerns of the greater New England assembly, when asked the question by the Navy Chaplain, a commander in rank, Rachel responded with a tear-filled "I do."

Anbar Province, Iraq – 0400 Local – 28 October 2014

"Do you have a minute?" Percy could not help himself from pulling the phone away from his ear and staring at it incredulously.

"No, I fucking don't. You fucking know this too; we're hitting the target in ten mikes."

"We'll talk afterward," the CIA Deputy Director of Operations rang off, leaving Percy holding the phone thinking What the fuck, Minerva? He looked around the mixed group. Ten of them were CIA Special Activities Division, also known as Ground Branch, and the rest Navy Development Group, DEVGRU or the artist formerly known as SEAL Team 6, operators.

"On your fucking feet, ISIS motherfuckers ain't going to kill themselves." He rolled his eyes as a SEAL shot back at him.

"They will, just like to take a few of us with them." The man mimed thumbing a detonator switch before using both hands to pantomime an explostion. Percy flipped him off and the collected team leaders huddled up.

"Target is Salim Tariq al-Zahrani, he's the one that's been shitting on the Iraqi commanders trying to retake Anbar. The Iraqis don't want to admit they need us, so we're removing him from the chess board and bugging out. Capture or kill gentlemen, personally, I'd rather bag the son of bitch and call it day." He looked at the two leaders. "You know the plan. Chief Kahale's second team is perimeter, first team breaches. "Mitch, your guys and me follow the SEALs first team and we rip the building apart until we find the target. Any military age male is considered hostile. Collateral damage to be avoided if possible. Let's move."

Thirty figures slowly emerged from the nearly inaccessible basement of a bombed-out building. Most of the SEALs carried the U.S. standard weaponry, 5.56mm rifles and 9mm pistols. The CIA personnel carried the same type of weapons, but each was outfitted differently. Percy preferred the .300 Blackout caliber to the 5.56 and his HK USP .45 carried subsonic ammo in addition to the suppressor affixed to the barrel.

"Valkyrie set," came the word from first of three sniper teams that would cover their infiltration. They had entered the city over 48 hours before, not leaving their nests for any reason. Their 7.62mm rifles with thermal optics scanned the streets, while their spotter used a night vision device to aim Infrared Lasers down the alleys and streets, calling out targets as they did.

"Eagle set."

"Hawk set." All three SEAL sniper leads confirmed their targets and announced they were on scope. They only waited for word from the mission's leader. The thirty men of the assault element prepared themselves in the shadows, where they spent much of their careers. Their leader, a former member of the Marine Corps' elite Marine Detachment One, MARDET-1, closed his eyes for half a second and breathed through his nose. He said a silent payer to a God he did not know if he still believed in, but for the sake of the men following him he felt they deserved the chance for whatever protection God might give them.

"Take 'em," he said cooly into the throat mic and despite being unable to hear them, he knew a series of suppressed 7.62x51mm NATO rounds cut through the Iraqi night. Eight bodies fell as thirty moved in close order to the target house. According to the plan, ten of the black clad figures peeled away from the main group. At least two posted on each of the main approaches to the target. Three of those were roads, the final was the open-air market, a souq, it received four watchers. Eight SEALs stacked outside the primary entrance point and prepared their breaching charges. Twelve CIA operators prepared in the small alley across from the breach point. They would take the upper levels of the three-story building while the SEALs cleared the ground floor and basement if it existed. Twenty men would enter the building with sixteen covering them from the outside. Percy watched the SEALs prep their breach.

"Hammer time," he called into the mic. The codeword prompted the explosion that turned the metal door into a twenty-pound projectile that ripped through the central room of the house. Seconds later subsequent explosions marked the detonation of flashbang grenades as the SEAls flowed into the building. Speed and aggression, Percy thought, the principle as applicable for these SEAls as lieutenants at The Basic School. Hesitation kills.

"First floor clear, seven EKIA. Raptor, move." The call came from Senior Chief Petty Officer Mitch Taylor. His boys had killed seven enemy and the CIA team, Raptor, could now move into the house.

"Moving." Twelve more men entered the building and immediately moved for the stairs leading upward. Mitch Taylor looked at Percy.

"None of these are al-Zahrani." Percy nodded and his team moved upwards. A burst of Kalashnikov fire funneled down the stairs. Percy put eight .30 caliber rounds into its wielder's torso. His team continued to move. Three more bodies dropped. The team divided across the three doors on the second floor. Two men each would breach, the other six continued to the third floor. Percy was in this group. He was halfway up the stairs to the third floor when the doors were breached. He was two steps higher when the team clearing the room directly beneath the stairs reported.

"Jackpot, jackpot." Two seconds later. "S-Vest! S-Vest!"

Percy looked to his feet and then the concrete steps seemed to be flying toward him. A chunk of it crashed into the left side of his face.

30,000 feet above Jordan – 1315 Local – 28 October 2014

Percy groaned as he rolled over. The industrial interior of the Lockheed C-130 transport greeted him. He attempted to sit up but found medical tubing and then the strong hand of Mitch Taylor holding him down.

"What the fuck happened?"

"Al-Zahrani went all Allahu Akbar and blew himself up."

"How many?"

"Three of your boys, one of mine. Five wounded, we lost one Kahale's when the response came in. Another four wounded there."

"Fucking shitshow."

"We still got him, Perce. Just not how we wanted." Percy looked at the SEAL and could tell something else was on his mind.

"What is it, Mitch?"

"Bro, you don't wanna…"

"Say it." The SEAL massaged his temples before dragging his hand down his face.

"Minerva called while you were out. I know what she wanted to say earlier."

"And that is?"

"Rachel's dead. Man, I'm…" Percy held up a hand.

"We need to get people to medical and families have to be notified."

"Bro, you…"

"I'll deal with it how I want to, Mitch. Give me that."

Washington, D.C. – 1100 Local – 31 October 2014

"I am Detective Chase, Metro P.D." Percy quickly analyzed the female detective. Maybe five-nine or five ten, built like an athlete, gray eyes, blond hair. What struck him however was her pantsuit, it was apparent it was tailored specifically to hide her curves. Considering he could see them anyway; he assumed them more than average.

"Detective," he said coolly in response. Despite being in the station, he could feel the HK45 Compact Tactical pressing into the small of his back. The desk sergeant had attempted to persuade him to surrender it, but a flash of CIA credentials ended that quickly. For their benefit, he did not attach the suppressor.

"Let me begin by…" he cut her off.

"Detective Chase, let's cut the bullshit. We know why I'm here. It's impossible that I killed her, and you want to know if I'd have arranged someone else to do it."

"Did you?" he again looked at her. Her face was quite beautiful, with a hardness he recognized, but could not place. Her pantsuit was a direct counter to his attire, which consisted of Salomon hiking boots, KUIU pants, and a loose button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled. His sweat stained cap and GATORZ sunglasses sat on the chair.

"No."

Sana'a, Yemen – 2100 Local – 28 January 2014

"Brother, they're pulling us out." Percy did not avert his eyes from the shitty television set showing a soccer game as he sipped at the scalding tea in his hand.

"What happened?" They were here to track down an ISIS cell, one that seemed to do nothing but target young girls with the promise of being martyrs' wives. If the four-man SEAL unit was being pulled out, there was a definitive reason. Mitch Taylor looked across the table at the bearded man who had been in country for nearly sixty days now. In Mitch's opinion, he shouldn't have been.

"Fucked up shit, man. Two of the supposedly hidden safehouses were hit. These weren't the standard compound style ones. Ground Branch sites, both were wiped out by ISIS cells. One of them, a few of the girls from the regular CIA Station were there. Bro, I ain't ever seen shit that fucked up. They forced them to do things that, fuck man, just fuck. They killed them, mercifully. If they hadn't and they'd asked, I'd have fucking done it. No one deserves what the fuck happened to them. I'll burn every one of those motherfuckers alive if I ever catch them, because those fucking savages videoed it and sent it to the families." He took a long drag on his cigarette and repeated, "Fucking savages."

"So, you're going hunting?"

"Yeah."

"Good luck."

"What about you?"

"I've still got a mission, don't I?" Taylor nodded. "Then I'm finishing it. See you on the other side."

Two weeks later, he walked out of the Yemeni desert alone. The cyber cell in Yemen had gone offline. Orders to join the hunt for the ISIS personnel responsible for the attacks on the CIA compounds waited for him. A dhow like fishing boat carried him to a clandestinely owned private yacht with a twelve-man security detail and a helicopter pad.

Raqqa, Syria – 2330 Local – 01 December 2015

Muamar al-Raziq was the last of the men that known to have perpetrated the attacks on the two CIA bases. He had been the one to lead the team that struck the facility with the female personnel. For over a year he had hidden himself behind the shield of women and children from the drone strikes looking for him. But much as occurred to the other twelve men who struck the compounds and attempted to hide themselves, Percy came for them.

In the quiet of the street, he shuffled along. A dark thawb reached to his ankles where a pair of light shoes and the bottom of his dirty, tan shirwal showed. The long hanging loose shirt and billowy pants were traditional Syrian attire, the disguised Salomon hiking boots and concealed HK USP Tactical .45 ACP was more contemporary American. Percy knew an Unmanned Aircraft System, if not a satellite, tracked his movements. Those would proceed exactly three hundred and forty-seven more yards down what passed as an illuminated street in Raqqa.

Two men stood outside the building. Both held AK-74 rifles and wore combat vests with four double stacked magazines. Unlike most of their peers, these men wore pistols on the outside of their shirwals and radios hung from their vests. Six more men waited inside the house. If rumors were to be believed, the three to four wives awarded to Muamar for his actions at the CIA facility would be there as well. Percy's green eyes analyzed the unreliable streetlights. He came to the quick and unfortunate realization that the only reliable lights were the ones directly in front of Muamar's residence. Shit.

His hands danced across the front of his thawb in a motion that made it appear that he was better preparing his appearance before presentation to the residence. Instead, he rotated the Blue Force Gear tactical belt that fit under the long, flowing, "man dress" as many of his compatriots had called it over the years. Two slits had been torn in the sides of the garment and their access now sat with his left hand nearest the Heckler and Koch pistol and his right next to the CRKT Kangee Tomahawk. Designed by Ryan Johnson and made by Columbia River Knife & Tool, it featured a compact head with an angular back-spike and every surface that could be sharpened, was. Weighing just 1.53 pounds, Percy had wrapped the hardened polymer handle with paracord that better fit his hand. He now shuffled along just fifty-five yards from the building.

He watched the closer man flick a cigarette butt to the ground. It was his fifth in what had been a series of them. Throw one to the ground. Wait sixty seconds. Light up again. At this rate the man would smoke himself to death before Percy could provide it. Forty-seven seconds after the man tossed the smoldering butt to the ground, he reached into one of the pockets of his tactical vest. It should have held grenades, instead the man used it to hold cigarettes. The second man began to razz the first about his smoking, in Dutch, which only served as a reminder of ISIS's global recruiting efforts. Percy was fifteen yards away now. His hands slipped into the slits of the thawb each hand finding the grip of the weapon. The tomahawk hung in a metal loop instead of it's marketed hard-plastic sheath. The first man pulled a cigarette from the pack with his lips and raised a lighter. Percy pulled both weapons and began to sprint.

As the striker fired on the lighter, the sudden flash of orange flame momentarily blinded the first and closer man. The second man saw movement beyond his fellow guard, but as he stepped forward to look, the pistol in Percy's hand leveled on his chest. The .45 ACP jacketed hollow-point within the HK's magazine was already subsonic, combined with the Rugged Obsidian 45 8.6-inch suppressor, reduced the sound to just 130 decibels. The first round was louder, as was common with suppressed weapons. It was also deadly, as it struck the man in the face. Despite that, Percy put four more into his chest anyway. The smoker received a right to left slash of the tomahawk across his exposed throat. Even as he clasped both hands to it to vainly attempt to staunch the bleeding, smoke escaped from the wound as a result of his large drag on the cigarette seconds before. The cigarette still hung from his dry lips as he looked up at Percy with wide eyes. Percy spun the handle of the tomahawk and buried the spike into the man's temple.

Percy quickly tore the thawb from his body. The shirwal still covered his legs, but now a three-quarter sleeve Crye tactical shirt covered with plate carrier were exposed. Percy spun his belt to its proper position and prepared to enter the door. He exchanged magazines for the pistol and put the tomahawk back onto his belt. He could hear the door's lock being undone and prepared himself. The door swung open to reveal a large, bearded man who was not expecting Percy. Percy punched him in the diaphragm with the end of the suppressor and drove him into the entranceway, unloading five .45 hollow-points into his torso as he did so.

Old Town Alexandria, VA – 0945 Local – 14 February 2016

"Did you find him?" Gray and green eyes met in mutual dislike. Everything about Percy Jackson screamed "fuck the rules, get it done," in her mind. Meanwhile Annabeth Chase's entire being seemed to fall within the parameters of "there is legal and procedural standard that is more important than results," should Percy's rants to the few close friends be revealed. This meeting, however, seemed counter to her usual methodology. She had reached out to him after all, though he was the one that mandated the time and date of the meeting, ruining the first full day Valentine's Day she and her boyfriend had ever planned.

"We found who, but we cannot find him. The department and FBI have been trying to for years. But Cyclops…" He cut her off sharply.

"Cyclops, the fuck does that mean?"

"That the only person alive to have seen him says he's only got one Goddamn eye."

"Then how the fuck do you know it was him."

"He told us." Detective Chase saw the muscles of his chest and shoulders flex, and she was afraid the coffee table between them was about to go flying. "Two years to the day after a kill, he claims it. He's a professional, Mr. Jackson, which means the crime of opportunity angle we've been tracking since the murder is fucked."

"Then maybe it's time I do some of this digging for myself."

"He's a professional killer, Mr. Jackson." The grin that crossed Percy Jackson's face caused her to recoil. He dropped a twenty-dollar bill onto the table.

"No, Detective Chase, he's a hit man. I'm the professional."

Newport, RI – 0715 Local – 14 December 2023

There are many three-word phrases that can change the course of a man's life. "I love you." "You've been hired." "Contract is over." "Your father's died." "Absolutely you can," when you have asked a father to marry his daughter. For Percy Jackson on a crisp Narraganset Bay morning, the three providing such an impetus for change, sparked a series of events he had fantasized over for nearly a decade.

The phone buzzing in his pocket, he stepped out of Springline Coffee on Bannisters Wharf, a steaming mug of First Light Blend black coffee in hand. He answered the call on the fourth ring without looking at the ID, few enough people possessed this number. He lit a cigarette before answering. "Yes?"

He knew the voice on the other end without introduction. "We found him."

"Where?" an address came over the connection. "I can be there tomorrow." He disconnected the call and began to walk. He finished the coffee before the end of Bannister's Wharf, where it intersected America's Cup Avenue. It would take him nearly thirty minutes to walk to his house near Salve Regina University. He could make the walk in fifteen minutes, but such a pace drew attention to him, and he attempted to avoid that.

The people of Newport, Rhode Island did not notice his scars or his accent. They noticed that instead of Helly Hansen and Raybans, he wore Kuiu and Gatorz. They noticed when the rest of the room drank wine, he asked for a Coors Light. How instead of Sperrys, he wore lace-up boots of such a beaten quality that their brand was unknown. In short, they noticed everything he wanted them too. For Percy Jackson liked to be the one to notice everything.

There was a reason the latch on his gate caught at a certain angle. Why the blinds of his windows aligned with the dividers within the panes of glass. Why the hallway rugs were vacuumed every time he left the house. Some might say, and had said paranoia, as he routinely responded, "it's not paranoia if they're after you."

Once at home, he promptly entered a large, secured closet and began to load Pelican cases of gear. Six were loaded into the back of his 1984 Bronco II.

Methodically he then paced the house, resetting every combination on his locks and placing non-electronic methods of intrusion detection. He did not trust any third party willing to access cameras set up in his house.

He made exactly three phone calls and at 15:35 lay down to sleep with the blackout curtains of his room drawn.

By 0330, Percy began driving south, a large travel mug of Black Rifle Coffee in his console.

A/N: About two years ago, I completed a story called Enemies Foreign and Domestic. I consider it to not be my best work, but pretty enjoyable. However, a few months back I heard someone say how they enjoyed it because they enjoyed thrillers. That started me on the path of rewriting the story. That instead turned to a complete reconstitution of the story. This story is not connected to Enemies, but instead used it as a springboard to create something different. I am not certain of the pace or frequency of updates, but wished to provide at least a taste of what is to come.