As if to prove how isolated this part of the world was, there was no emergency response to the helicopter in flames and it had burned itself out long before dawn. By then Michael was several miles away moving northwest towards Kintla Lake.

He backtracked several times, walked across the rocks beside a stream, and even waded several hundred yards in shallow water to lose his tracks. Sending the kid had been stupid and when the boy didn't return they would know Michael was alive. Perhaps the next guy would be more experienced ... but he was sure they would send someone.

He had grown up about a hundred miles to the south in Essex, Montana. A regular family with two little sisters, a mother and father, parents who tried their best to tame him. That was the Kellum family. But Essex was a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business and he hated that, especially when his parents fought about him.

His mother had great aspirations for him, a college degree, maybe a career as a lawyer. His father seemed to understand him better, knowing his son needed direction. The manly arts, the skills to survive, these were the things his father emphasized. Maybe he sensed his boy was different but he never voiced that opinion.

Michael had developed a high regard for himself and the things he learned early on forged that identity. Nature had been a great part of his life from the earliest age, especially when he learned to hunt. That Kellum kid developed quite a reputation in his teens.

Michael had pawed his way through everything he could find in the helicopter and come away with backpack full of useful things. A cell phone but no food ... the kid was not much of a survivalist except for the snowsuit and a very expensive GPS unit. At least the idiot would have known where he was as he starved to death but the phone wouldn't work out here. Don't they teach these people anything anymore?

The kid's name had been David Parks, but even when Michael found the ID it didn't mean much. There was no emotional fallout from killing the kid. Creating death was just part of a job, his career, and the everlasting sense of self-preservation. Only now he had turned another page.

In the long run a revenge killing offered no satisfaction. Michael understood that since it had been the motive the first time he killed. Walking through densely packed trees on his way towards the lake gave him time to think ... and remember.

When he turned fourteen, Michael Kellum was given a Mossberg 4 x 4 bolt action .300 caliber rifle for his birthday. It came with a 12x scope which was a bit much for deer hunting but great for long distance shots. He could now join the men from town who hunted over in Swan Valley by Flathead Lake. It was a grownup thing to do, but first he had to learn how to shoot.

Almost every kid in Essex had a .22 rifle which came with strict rules about what they could and could not shoot. At the first sign of bullet dents in a stop sign the sheriff was all over every kid in the neighborhood surrounding the site of the offense. Michael had a .22, but he was not allowed to shoot unless his father was present.

The Mossberg .300 could use magnum cartridges which were like cannon shells when compared to the .22, but the rifle also kicked like a mule and took a strong shoulder. Fortunately Michael had taken a swipe at personal training early in life and felt strong enough to manage the rifle.

The development of his body had great appeal as he began to grow taller and felt the muscles strengthen. With the advent of the new rifle, his father took him to the range in Kalispell. Michael was looking forward to blasting a few targets to pieces, but that first hour was consumed by a small safety class with three other boys who were about to embark on a season of hunting.

When he finally stood at the head of the sloping range and glanced downhill at the targets a hundred yards away he didn't think he would ever hit one. But his father clamped the rifle in a padded vise and adjusted the scope. It took four shots to zero in properly and align the scope with the rifle barrel, and Michael didn't get to pull the trigger once.

Finally his father unclamped the rifle and handed it over. Michael carefully loaded the magazine with five cartridges and pointed the rifle down range. He rested the butt on his thigh and cycled the bolt which chambered a round.

The barrel was twenty-six inches long, but the rifle was forty-six inches in overall length. With the scope added the weight of the rifle was close to nine pounds. He had to fight to keep the target steady in the reticle of the scope, the image seemed huge.

He knew to breathe normally and focus his mind through the scope. His finger tightened on the trigger and when the rifle went off it almost knocked him over.

"Some kick, huh?" his father asked.

"Yeah, but I'll get used to it."

Over the course of a summer Michael learned to shoot until he could put all five shots in the magazine on the target with only a two inch spread. But that was still at one hundred yards and he knew a hunter would be lucky to get that close without being detected. The range had one slot with targets at two hundred yards, but that was the limit. Not good enough, Michael thought.

The valley around Flathead Lake held several private hunting preserves frequented by wealthy businessmen and sport hunters from around the world. Backed up to the Glacier Park where hunting was forbidden, they still managed to attract a good number of elk and deer.

Michael's father knew some of the owners and in early September they drove over to the Eagle's Nest Ranch. They were met at the door of the office by Bob Kemper who managed the ranch for the owners. This was the quiet season on the ranch but in a month they would be swamped with clients.

"So, Frank, I hear your son wants to be a sniper," Kemp said, shaking hands.

"Um, I don't think so," Michael said. "I just want to test myself at a greater distance."

Frank nodded. "The boy has a keen eye ... might serve him well on the hunt."

"I guess we'll find out. Come with me."

Kemp drove them in a bush cart over to a far corner of the property. They passed a shooting range and stopped beside a shack. There was a firing post next to the small building and a long grass covered alley leading away into the trees.

"Targets are out there ... can you see them?" Kemp asked.

"I see a red flag way out there, is that what you mean?"

"That's at five hundred yards, let me open the shack."

Inside was a spotter scope set on a tripod and focused downrange towards that red flag and beyond.

"Come look through this and get an idea of what you're shooting. Your father and I will spot for you and keep score. Five hundred yards is at the red flag, seven-fifty has a yellow flag and one thousand has a white flag. The flags will help you gauge the wind, but it looks pretty calm today.

"At a thousand yards a twenty mile per hour wind gust can take your bullet right off the target by several feet. We had this Army sniper guy up here a few years ago who gave us a lecture on judging angles and the effects of wind speed. Pretty interesting stuff to remember if you plan on dropping a deer at long distance."

"I don't think he will ever shoot at that distance, it isn't safe," Frank said. "Who knows what's out there that far away and even if he hit the deer he might only wound it."

"Not if I hit it in the head," Michael said.

Kemp laughed. "See, he does want to be a sniper."

Frank shook his head. "Go on, set yourself up."

There was only one way to shoot at such a great distance and that was in the prone position. By now Michael had become used to the kick and even enjoyed it a little because it made him feel a part of the rifle. But five hundred yards was a challenge and he would have to adjust the scope.

Two clicks up Michael figured would adjust for the trajectory of the bullet as it dropped. He lay on the carpeted firing step and rested the barrel of the rifle on a sandbag. He put his eye to the scope and adjusted the focus until the red flag became clear. It was hanging limp, not a breath of air.

The target was an aluminum plate about two foot square with a paper grid attached to it. Concentric rings printed on the surface were set about two inches apart with a center bull's eye. Michael zeroed in on the target and shifted the rifle an inch to take one last look at the flag ... .still no movement.

With his left hand he held the rifle down on the sandbag as he cycled the bolt. The .300 Magnum cartridge slid into the chamber. Michael had started using the more powerful load when he decided to go for distance. He settled in behind the scope and began to regulate his breathing.

With the reticle image in the scope lined up on the center of the target he squeezed the trigger. The shock to his shoulder was followed by a click of the intercom overhead.

"You have a good line centered on the target but the shot came up short, it dropped low," Kemp said.

Another click to the scope and Michael's second round hit the target near the center.

"That's better," Kemp said.

"I'm going to shoot a thousand," Michael said.

"Don't get impatient," he heard his father say.

The image was much smaller in his scope but the target was on a slight uphill grade beyond the trees and he could see that the white flag had some movement. Two more clicks to align the scope for trajectory and one click to adjust for the slight shift the wind would give to the bullet. Michael settled in and the squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the rifle was followed by silence.

"I'll be damned, you hit the target with your first shot," Kemp said.

Michael could not see a spot on the target, it was too far away. "Where did it hit?" he asked.

"Bottom right corner about twelve inches from the center ... try again."

The scope was set properly, a deviation like that was in the shooter. Michael chambered another round and looked through the scope. He knew it would be different when the target was a living creature. The excitement of the hunt, the adrenaline rush making his heart pound, these were all things that could spoil his aim.

Michael peered through the scope and his thoughts followed the trajectory of the bullet as his finger squeezed the trigger. Even before Kemp whooped in the intercom Michael knew he had hit the bull's eye. He cycled the bolt and chambered another round ... and the results were the same for his final two shots.

Kemp was excited but Michael noticed his father was less enthusiastic. "You have a keen eye," his father said. "We'll see how well you control this ability on the hunt."

Michael wanted to tell his father that shooting was all about control. The rifle was a tool like any other and it had to be used properly. The mechanics of shooting came easily to Michael and so that fall when they were stalking the woods in Swan Valley the mantle of hunter fell easily around his shoulders.

The hunting grounds were vast, nearly fifteen thousand acres of trees, fields and swamp land as you got closer to Flathead Lake. There was only one entrance off Highway 83 which acted as a control point for hunters.

The warden checked rifles, ammunition, and stamped the deer tags of each hunter. Hunting licenses were clipped to the outside of the bright orange vest each hunter was required to wear. Deer were essentially color blind in the orange-red spectrum, seeing the vests only in shades of gray. But they were a lifesaver for hunters.

This would be the first of many hunts Michael made with his father while he was in high school, and the results were always the same ... they ate venison for weeks afterwards. Still, he was mindful of his father's concern and all his kills were within several hundred yards.

Michael wasn't after trophies and he didn't want deer antlers on the wall to prove his skills. Instead he went for the most difficult shots and honed his skills on moving deer. It didn't take long for his accomplishments to become legendary over at the rail yard where his father worked as a manager. Each deer was a clean head shot.

By age fifteen Michael had topped six foot tall and was not the least bit shy of his muscular body and the endowment that declared him a man. The first year of high school was often difficult for most eighth graders who were hazed by the upperclassmen. It was known that Michael was from Essex, a hick town to many of the other students in Columbia Falls.

But the years of physical training, weight lifting in the garage, and assaulting the punching bag his father had bought for him gave Michael the confidence to avoid any sort of bullying, or so he thought. There would always be one in the crowd who thought he was better than his peers, and Steve Patterson thought he owned Columbia Falls High School.

By virtue of his father's position in Flathead County and the wealth of his landholdings, Patterson was little more than a spoiled brat to most students. Rumor had it that the boy had been kicked out of a high priced private school and as punishment he was relegated to Columbia Falls.

Michael wasn't worried about himself but he became aware of Patterson's bullying. A boy in class with a bloody nose, another with a torn shirt, signs that things were going on. It was something he thought to ignore but finally it happened to one of his friends.

Patterson was subtle, careful to time his assaults when the authorities were not around. But these little attacks seemed to be aimed at boys Michael thought were smaller or weaker than the rest ... and then it happened to Tim. By then Michael was in ninth grade and only too aware of what lay ahead.

Michael's classroom buddies had become lunch companions and he got to know them better. Tim had seemed fairly shy at first, but he was the artistic type who liked to sketch nature themes. Josh and Brent were not in the mainstream of student life which made Michael gravitate towards them in friendship.

So it was immediately apparent when Tim didn't show up for 3rd period English class and Michael asked Mrs. Jacobs to be excused to the bathroom. It was there he found Tim sitting alone against the wall beside the urinals with blood on his shirt.

"Who did this?" Michael wanted to now.

"I ... I slipped and fell," Tim replied, but that was a lie.

"Tell me."

"It was Patterson and two of his friends. They called me a faggot and he punched me. Don't do anything stupid or he'll never leave us alone."

The hallway was crowded as they were approaching the Thanksgiving holiday and the mood among the students seemed so positive. Then someone slammed Michael on the back of his head with a textbook. The hit was hard enough to hurt and yet he didn't stumble. Instead he turned around and looked into the leering face of Steve Patterson.

"Out of my way, faggot."

Michael laughed and stared the boy down. "Is that all you have?" he asked.

Patterson reached out to grab him and Michael retaliated with two solid body blows to the boy's stomach which put Patterson down on the floor in pain. Of course this is when the vice-principal arrived to view the altercation.

The students in the hall had frozen in place as Mr. Trent cornered Michael.

"What did you do to him?" Trent asked.

"Nothing he wasn't asking for," Michael replied.

"He's right, Patterson assaulted him first." Trent looked up at the custodian who had witnessed the whole thing. "Boy just picked on the wrong man."

Trent wasn't sure what to do and so he dragged both boys down to the office. Michael was suspended for three days while Patterson was out for a week because he had a record of such activity. They called Frank at work and he had to take the time to drive to the school.

Michael expected to be punished for being suspended, but instead his father took the boy down to the freight yard.

"You see those men working the yard?" Frank asked. "They have a hard, dirty job and sometimes they get hurt when ten thousand pounds of steel breaks down and they get run over. The railroad is not in your future, but if you don't graduate school then it might be.

"Look, Mikey, I know there are idiots out there, we both encounter them all the time. But you have a chance to get into college and make something of yourself. Don't let some asshole like Patterson derail those chances."

"So I'm supposed to let him hit me?"

"Didn't say that. He needs to learn his lesson hard enough to leave you alone. A few punches might feel good now, but that will only make him seek revenge. You need to think beyond this moment and take your best shot at him when no one knows it is you."

Patterson never made it to senior year. The night of the junior prom his sports car went off the road into Winslow Canyon, a nearly six hundred foot drop onto rocks along the Swan River.

The newspaper said Patterson must have been doing over sixty on a steep curve when he lost control of the vehicle sending the car over the guardrail. The sheriff was quoted as saying that the road was particularly dangerous near the river and that's why the speed limit was forty.

The car was crushed on impact and little was said about the beer cans found in what remained of the vehicle. Michael smiled because the car burned on impact, melting the tires and any chance the coroner's investigation might have of discovering the bullet hole in that front tire.

He was surprised at his reaction to causing the death and knew his father would be mortified if he thought Michael had taken the comment about his "best shot" literally. But Patterson was gone and the school seemed quieter. Somewhere in the back of his mind Michael felt good about defending the other boys, but he would never admit it.

Far beyond the normal teenage angst of becoming a social creature in high school, adolescence had made him confront other issues. Girls found him attractive, but so did boys, and that was a puzzle. He met girls on cross-country ski trips and even kissed a few, but he wasn't particularly fond of dating them.

The rules for boys socializing together were far different. Michael had his mother's old Blazer to drive and with it came the freedom to go places away from Essex. His junior year he made a fall camping trip with three other guys and got to share a tent with Tim Hutchinson.

It had been quite a while since the business with Patterson and the bully had been quickly forgotten. But without the threat Tim had become a closer friend and Michael arranged the camping trip. The mountains were his element as a hunter while the other three boys would have a new experience. Michael thought it would be amusing.

The site was secluded, one of the more scenic spots in the Glacier Park. After hiking for hours and returning to their site for dinner, Brent pulled out a couple of joints. Michael had never done drugs but the others talked him into it and they got high. The flickering flames in the fire ring were mesmerizing and the boys spent a lot of time giggling under the influence.

Brent and Josh finally went in their tent and Michael followed Tim into theirs. With whispered laughter shared between them the boys undressed and then Tim seemed to lose all his shyness. What followed would define Michael's knowledge of sex for several years, and it wasn't just the pot that made it good.

When they were done, spent and pretty well exhausted, Tim confessed that he'd had a crush on Michael since the day they met. It was flattering and romantic; although Michael wasn't sure he could define it as such. Their relationship went on for almost eight months, and then the Hutchinson's moved to Seattle.

It left him without a sexual outlet but Michael now knew he was gay, although he wasn't sure what he was going to do about it. It wasn't something he could discuss at home, and he didn't feel the need to come out. But it was part of his decision to leave the town of his birth and work on a new assessment of himself ...

His body was sore after the plane crash, especially where the seat harness had dug into his shoulders. The hike to the lake took him the better part of the day, mostly because he followed the tree line and tried to avoid open spaces. But finally he reached the shoreline and turned south for about three miles until he reached the campground.

He was tired and hungry, but he did not go barging into the site. Instead he sat in the trees and observed. The rifle felt good in his hands, especially once he had detached the grenade launcher and tossed in into the burning helicopter. He felt like a trained sniper once again although he had never really been deployed in one place overseas for any length of time.

Once out of high school he had wandered for a summer and then attended the University in Missoula with no clear objective in mind. Michael could study anything and learn it well but he was not happy being in the midst of fifteen thousand students. He was just a small town boy who wanted to see the world and the military seemed like a good way to do it.

The Army recruiter promised him the moon but they shipped him out to Fort Jackson, South Carolina. In basic training they discovered he could shoot and once graduated he was sent to Fort Benning, the Army sniper school in Georgia. After fourteen weeks he graduated near top of the class and thought he would be shipped off to Iraq or Afghanistan, but he was wrong.

The man who called him out of the barracks one afternoon wore a uniform with no rank or unit designations, but one look told anyone this was an officer of some standing. Michael was led into a small private office in the company administration building where he was told to close the door and sit.

"Corporal Michael Kellum ... my name is Saunders and I work for the government just like you do. Your company is about to deploy to Iraq ... how would you like to stay here and work for us?"

"Us, sir?" Michael responded.

Saunders nodded. "Intelligence. The unit I work for is designated black so I cannot mention the name, but we could use a good sniper once you've been trained."

Michael felt like laughing. What the hell did this man think he had been doing the past six months? But he did not make a sound. "Intriguing, sir ... I enjoyed sniper school."

"Yes, well ... what I'm offering is a little more intense ... more personal."

Oh really? What could be more personal than killing a man at a thousand yards?

"Nothing to write home about I imagine," Michael said. "It must be important work."

"It is, and I promise you'll get to see the world," Saunders said.

"Black ops, the highest of the high or the lowest of the low I've been told. What do I have to do to join your outfit?"

Now Saunders smiled. "Go pack your gear, someone will come for you."

That was the first time Michael had disappeared off the grid, and it had lasted four years. He looked across the open spaces between the trees at the small cabins the campers used. There was a larger two story building set back from the lake nearer to the road and that was his objective. In two hours of scanning the site he saw no signs of life, so he moved.

The front door to this larger building was padlocked and built solid, but he didn't waste time breaking in. Around back was another door with several windows that allowed him to see into the kitchen area. Breaking glass would reveal his presence so he moved on towards the shed built into the back wall.

The shed was interesting, and also locked, but Michael sniffed at the edge of the door and caught the scent of gasoline. Sweet, there was probably a vehicle of some kind inside. He would have to check that out later. The lean-to on the side of the shed was filled with firewood which was damn nice.

He'd seen electrical wires running into the second story from a power pole but in this remote area the power probably came from a generator. Beside the power line was a single wire running off into the trees. Good, there was a telephone line, although the managers probably used a radio on the park frequency. In the long run he might have to run the generator to use the kitchen but that would indicate his presence. He would have to think about that.

From the roof of the shed he reached a second story window and applied the K-Bar knife he had inherited from the dead kid to the trim. He pried away the molding until the window, frame and all, fell out in his hands. He made sure the latch was disengaged and then reinstalled the window, tapping the nails back in place with the butt of the knife. He slid the window open and called out, "Honey, I'm home."

He slid the window shut and looked back at the lake in the distance. The sky was turning gray and it would probably rain and sleet this evening, but in less than a month's time it would be several feet of snow. At least he now had a warm spot to hole up providing no one came to check the place out.

It took all of ten minutes to search the building top to bottom. This was the manager's place of residence when the campsite was in operation, and the administrative office was downstairs in one corner. Michael would go in and out the kitchen door and leave the front padlocked so everything appeared normal.

Whoever ran this place knew his business. Michael opened the pantry door and discovered emergency rations along with a good amount of canned goods. But the kitchen probably fed thirty or forty campers at a time and so he would eat like a king if he was careful. He looked at a number ten can of green beans and wondered how long that would last, there were dozens of such cans.

The dining room was the largest room in the building with long tables and benches for the campers, along with a large fireplace which would provide little warmth. Fireplaces were terribly inefficient but the manager had his own little living room and it was there Michael discovered the potbellied stove ... perfect.

He would use the stove only after dark to prevent the smoke from being seen. He could black out the windows in the living room before he turned on a light and only use the kitchen in daylight. Then he wondered about water ... he would need power to run the well pump.

The breaker panel for the building was at the back of the pantry, but even as he looked at the breakers he realized there was no power to the panel. He would have to go find the generator to run the well pump and heat water long enough to take a shower. Michael smiled as another memory returned.

Unit 4, the mysterious black ops organization run by Major Saunders, was all over the map. There were only four teams in operation by the time Michael finished his second round of training. As the Major had implied, Unit 4 was intense and a lot of guys just couldn't cut it. But if there was something you needed to know they taught it to you.

The intelligence operations they pulled off ran the gamut of long term observations, quick strike assassinations, and almost anything that would disrupt a target's operations. Sometimes they had a full range of equipment to use and other times it required a creative hand ... Michael was good at that.

Whereas most sniper work was done from dense cover, when it came to urban targets there was often nowhere to hide. Michael and his partner, Ducky, they all had nicknames, were sent to a small town in Pakistan. Their objective was more than the ordinary terrorist ... this man designed the bombs that were killing American troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Niaz Janwari spent most of the year in Iran where the Revolutionary Guards provided him with a bomb making facility and gave him total security. It was determined he would be impossible to reach there, but once a year he went home to Makli in Pakistan to visit his family.

The ancient city was about thirty-five miles southeast of Karachi and just as far inland from the coast. Niaz had been under observation by the CIA for some time when Unit 4 received the order to terminate the man. From the planning stages onward it was understood this could not be a simple shooting, an explosive device seemed the only answer.

Michael didn't question the orders even though he understood that an explosion would have secondary victims and result in the death of innocents. The apartments where the family lived were on the top floor of a modern construction complete with a new gas oven and all the latest electrical gadgets.

As foreigners, any team from Unit 4 would stand out on city streets. But like most countries in this part of the world men in uniform would blend in. To prepare for the insertion both Michael and Ivan "Ducky" Ducko grew beards and had their skin dyed.

They would wear the gray uniforms of the local power company, complete with hard hats and a bright orange safety vest. In this particular case standing out was the best way to hide. The CIA would provide ground support which meant they would steal a power company truck and have it parked at the insertion point.

The power transmission lines from the Karachi nuclear power plant passed by the city on the northwestern side and continued onwards towards Hyderabad and points north. It was along those lines that Michael's team was inserted by helicopter in the middle of the night and they found the truck.

They spent the following day moving ever closer to the city and the target until just at dusk they parked around back of the building. Lugging a toolbox filled with equipment and ten pounds of C4 explosive they reached the roof above Niaz's apartment without being challenged.

There they followed the power lines into the rooftop distribution box and removed the cover. Building codes were pretty lax in many of these buildings and Michael could see the cables snaking down the shaft to the breaker panels in each of the units in the four story building. The one he wanted was just six feet below roof level.

He lowered himself into the shaft and removed the back cover of the panel. He could see lights were on in the apartment and the smell of cooked food reached his nose. The family was eating dinner. With a tiny flashlight he could see the markings on the panel door written in Urdu and English ... he chose the refrigerator breaker and tripped it.

He pressed the C4 explosive to the side of the panel and hooked the detonator wire to the tripped breaker. It was time to evacuate the building and he scrambled back up the shaft where Ducky awaited. It took them three minutes to exit the building and drive away, it took Niaz's family another fifteen minutes to notice the refrigerator was off and reset the breaker. Michael could hear the explosion from five miles away.

Major Saunders met them as they landed at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan ... with him were two CIA suits who looked livid. Saunders gave Michael a wink and then stood back as the CIA men screamed above the whine of jets taking off nearby.

"Thirty-five civilians ... you blew the top off of the whole fucking building ... the Pakistanis are furious."

Michael stopped in the middle of the taxiway. "And what's your point?" He yelled.

"You fucking killed dozens of people just to get the target," The CIA boss said.

Michael stepped right up in the man's face. "It was your operation, your plan ... I was just the trigger man so don't blame me. I'm an assassin, I kill for a living ... you better think about that before you decide to go critical on my ass."

With that Michael turned away and walked towards the hanger leaving Saunders to deal with the asshole. The collateral damage was not his problem. If the Pakistanis allowed that terrorist to live in their midst then they should expect people to die. Michael would not lose a minute of sleep over the casualties.

As darkness fell on Kintla Lake Michael lit a fire in the living room stove. Within minutes the room was warm and the stove was hot enough to cook on. The only thing he had eaten all day were a few power bars the kid had in his backpack, now he would have canned ham and green beans.

With the drapes pulled shut Michael sat and mulled over the circumstances that had brought him here. All he knew about Terrance was that he represented some powerful people, the Principals. Funding for his operations had never been an issue and the materials for his missions had always appeared on time. That spoke to good planning and a large support organization.

The kid was supposed to return the body he found to Boise. Terrance didn't expect Michael to ever learn that piece of information so perhaps it had some significance. With his Canadian cover blown Michael could not head further north. Chances were once Terrance figured out that he was alive the Canadian authorities would be notified.

Michael didn't think this was about the money or the time involved in reinventing himself. He felt that Terrance had been lying to him all along. He would have to review the targets of his assassination missions because the clues had to be there. Michael yawned and sat back in the chair ... he would begin his assessment in the morning.


On to Chapter Three

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