The winds moves and blows my black hair behind me. The night is cold and standing on the roof of this abandoned two-family house exposes me to its biting chill. I look up and see my angel. Ghostly and ethereal she floats high in the distance watching me. Faint against the black sky and the crisp winter stars I can barley see her.

I remember the first time I saw her. While in a foreign land during one of my country’s nastier engagements I saw her floating in the clouds. As bullets rained and artillery thundered like the ire of an angry god all around, she came to me. Time slowed and she touched me. My head was filled with images of evil and madness; of her great sadness at the wickedness in the world. The angel would spare me here and guide me but she wanted something in return; a warrior.

I come out of my reverie and find myself still straining to look at her. I watch her shift her gaze and look down and frown. Three men stand below me. They are guarding this decrepit house while millions of dollars and kilos of cocaine change hands.

I jump outward, my body parallel to the ground. For a second everything hangs there, suspended in time and possibility, and then the ground rushes up to crush me with its solidity. I tuck and roll coming up in a liquid movement. My right arm rises while grabbing the large caliber pistol at my side.

Three sets of eyes focus on me, wondering at my sudden appearance, while various degrees of surprise start forming on their faces. The gun coughs twice spiting fire and death. Two of the men die before they even know I fired. The third becomes paralyzed with fear. His eyes quickly scan the bodies of his dead comrades. He falls to his knees and grips my leather trench coat in sweaty hands. He begs forgiveness, tears streaming from his eyes.

I am appalled, I am not God, I cannot forgive sins and this is not my place. I briefly close my eyes while holding the gun to his forehead. I see my angel and she is still frowning. My trigger finger moves imperceptibly, sending the bullet forward in a rush of fire and gas. It thunders through his head sending shards of skull and streaks of blood that paint the back wall in a mosaic of pain.

The house has fallen almost silent. I hear the faint scurrying of human rats as they seek holes for cover. As liquid shadow I move to the front door and apply a small square of plastic explosive on its worn and weary frame. A few buttons pushed and the small battery powered timer comes on and begins its suicide mission to zero.

A deadly bloom of fire leaves a gaping, wrecked wooden hole. Taking advantage of their attention being on the front, I sprint around back and leap through a window. I wear a leather trench coat for a reason and it is not fashion, the thick material protects me from much of the damage I would take normally.

The three remaining thugs are still busy spraying wasted ammo at the front of the house. The sound of the window breaking doesn’t register against the noise of their fear. Their muzzle flashes create a staccato strobe light that lends a sinister cast to my deliberate movements. Dark-light-dark-step-dark-aim-dark-flash-death.

My ghoulish dance continues as the second of the three men sees me and sends a stream of automatic fire at me. I drop my gun and pirouette; I crouch down, collapsing into a small standing ball so I can grab the knife from my boot. Rocketing up I turn again and land before him untouched, for I am being guided by my angel.

I jerk the knife downward from the cradle in his chest where I put it to rest. He collapses in a limp heap and I turn to the last man.

Seeing his own death in my actions the third man drops his gun and turns to run through the destroyed front door. I flip the slick knife so that I hold its tip and fling it at the fleeing form of his back. A soft whisper is the last sound he makes as he falls with only the hilt projecting from right below his skull.

I walk through the gun smoke, covered in blood. I remove the knife and stand up straight. The cool wind is a baptism of purity. I look up and see my angel smiling down at me.

Robin Snow was running through the chill night air, chasing down a foe who could rip her to shreds, and her only protection was a pair of shorts and a tee shirt and one incredibly foolish plan.

She also had her Beretta 92F pistol, but that would only get her prey angry, also part of her plan. Not for the first time did she wonder what in the hell she'd gotten herself into.

Robin found herself running through a small Romanian town hours before dawn, trying desperately to work up a really good sweat which, sadly, was the cornerstone of her absurd plan. She ran through the town, making her way toward a farmhouse on the outskirts. All the remaining inhabitants of the village of Almas-Egres had wisely locked themselves inside their dwellings on this night; the streets were deserted.

Until the rash of grisly deaths started up six months ago, Baron Frantisek Balcescu was last seen alive in 1782. He was a vampire, and Robin wanted to give him a hug.

As she approached to within a hundred yards or so of the farmhouse property, she slowed to a walk. Her heart rate was up and she had a good sweat going, but she didn't want to be drained of energy for this confrontation.

The night sky was mostly clear, padded with ash-dark clouds just failing to obscure a full moon. On any other night she would enjoy the cool air, carried by on a susurrant breeze, but tonight she had to get inside before her body cooled down.

About halfway up the path Robin saw two shambling figures heading her way. She closed to about 15 yards and stopped, setting up in her standing firing position. She recognized these zombie-like creatures from past encounters and knew she didn't have to fear them.

Just as she dispatched the two slow moving targets with well-placed shots a snarling, shrieking beast exploded from the foliage on her right. Years of training kicked in and she fell to the ground and tumbled with the attack, but still took a nasty claw wound to the shoulder. When she ended up in a crouch, weapon at the ready, she found herself uncomfortably close to a wolf, barely ten feet away.

She had been about to mentally chastise the Baron for making this too easy; instead she was cursing herself for getting careless, but right now she was back in control. The wolf was slowly circling her, and she seized the opportunity and fired three shots, not killing the beast but taking it out of action.

Her heart rate was back up, and fresh rivulets of sweat were running down her side. Perfect.

Now at the door, she dropped the nearly-empty magazine from her pistol, replaced it with her last mag, loaded with specially prepared rounds, and racked the slide, ejecting the last Golden Saber hollow-point round and loading the first new round. These last five rounds were consecrated by a priest who also knew how to carve and etch metals; the bullets had blessed holy symbols carved into them. They wouldn't kill the vampire, but they should enrage him mightily. That was the first surprise Robin had in store.

Once more she wondered what in the world made her think this plan would work and opened the door.

And there stood Baron Frantisek Balcescu, supremely confidant, wearing loose-wrapped breeches topped with an emerald green sash and not much else. Robin was pleased at this fortunate break.

Without hesitation, she raised the Beretta and fired all five rounds in rapid succession, scoring five center-mass hits. The Baron’s expression went from the supreme confidence of near-immortality to all-consuming rage at this unexpected pain. Preceded by a screeching paroxysm of fury, he leapt towards Robin who simply dropped her weapon and opened wide her arms. The Baron rammed into her sweat-soaked body with the force of a rhino, but she wrapped her arms and legs around her prey in a bear hug, for at that moment of contact the vampires body exploded in a violent mist of steam and smoke. The stench of searing undead flesh was worse than she could have imagined. The vampire was thrashing around violently and screeching so loudly it stung her ears, but she dared not let go.

For the two months preceding this final attempt at killing the Baron, Robin consumed no liquid other than holy water. She drank it daily for those two months, she even prepared food in it; she needed it to permeate her body. It was expensive, but she had to try the unexpected if she were to defeat this foe.

This was the other part of her unorthodox plan, and it was working. Her holy water infused sweat was burning the vampire, reducing its body to a bubbling, steaming shell. Robin was now embracing a desiccated husk, but still she held on until the form disintegrated and crumbled away and she was left holding herself.

“…load the bomb. I have the detonator in here…”

Inch by inch, Jack silently worked his way across the dark roof of the abandoned house. Engrossed in their conversation, the men didn’t notice the shadow above them.

“…hit it at 8:30, we can maximize our impact.”

Not if I can help it, he thought. At the edge of the roof he paused, then quickly glanced over the edge.

Two men stood in the driveway beneath him, focused on a city map. At their feet a steel briefcase glinted in the light of the moon. Beyond them, Jack could see the dark outline of two cars parked behind some overgrown bushes, out of sight of the road. The taller of the two men nudged the case with his toe.

“Do you think it will be enough?” he asked. The shorter man shook his head fervently.

“More than enough. Trust me, we’ll definitely get their attention,” he said. Then he started to laugh.

As maniacal laughter drifted into the night sky, Jack made his move. Grabbing the edge of the roof, he quietly dropped behind the two men.

“Why wait, when you can have my full attention right now?” he asked. As the two men turned, Jack noticed the taller one’s belt buckle. Or rather, the area right above it, where a Glock .45 was lovingly nestled. Then he was looking down its big, black barrel.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. James,” the shorter man said.

“I’d never miss one of your parties, Doctor,” Jack casually replied. He nodded to the taller man. “Evening, Mac. Still playing doctor’s assistant?”

A low growl sounded in Mac’s throat. The doctor laughed. “I see you still have that dangerous sense of humor, Mr. James. Too bad that we’re on a tight timeframe – I’d love to see Mac strip it away from you. I guess he’ll need to do it in a more…conventional manner.” He nodded to Mac.

“Get rid of him, then meet me at the drop zone.” Bending, the doctor lifted the metal case.

A loud explosion shattered the silent night. Jack lunged at Mac, hitting him low and driving him to the ground. The Glock skittered across the concrete.

Jack was the first to recover. He scrambled for the gun, but a hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled him back. He turned around in time to dodge a wicked left, but not the right that followed. It connected with his chin and he fell back hard, dazed. Shaking his head to clear it, he stumbled to his feet in time to see Mac pick up the gun.

A vindictive smile spread over Mac’s face as his finger tightened on the trigger. The smile froze as the tall man’s body started to shake. Looking down, he noticed a small dart embedded in his groin. A thin wire stretched from the dart to Jack’s watch.

Jack casually rotated the face of his watch, slowly increasing the electricity now pulsing through Mac’s body. He dropped to the ground in a fetal position, the gun forgotten.

Picking up the Glock, Jack looked around for the doctor. A flash of steel caught his eye and he ran towards the cars.

An older model Volvo tore out from beneath the brush, the doctor hunched over the wheel. He aimed the car at Jack, determined to succeed where Mac had failed.

Jack dove out of the way and the Volvo sailed by, missing him by inches. As it spun around in the yard, he ran towards the back of the abandoned house.

He could hear the old car coming up behind him, engine whining as it tore across the grass. He was in its headlights now, the car only 20 feet behind and closing. He veered sharply left. The car stalked him, accelerating for the final kill.

Suddenly, Jack dove to the right. Unable to stop, the Volvo crashed into the empty pool, its tires spinning uselessly. The doctor’s form slumped across the steering wheel, motionless.

Walking to the edge of the pool, Jack pulled out his cell phone and punched in a few numbers. A friendly voice answered.

“AAA roadside assistance – can I help you?”

On a bright sunny morning in mid-September, Walter’s good luck grew even better. He was in the kitchen, picking cat hairs out of his French omelet when a tap on the door lifted him from a reverie. Hastening to tie his robe shut, Walter stooped, wincing at a twinge of arthritis in his back, and peered out the peephole to see a doe-eyed girl on his doorstop in a cheery green vest with several felt badges stuck on it and a jaunted beret poised on her head. She had a wagon with her, and it was stacked with bright boxes.
“Hello, sir, my name is Maverick Thrice. Would you like to buy some cookies?”
Her sweet young voice rang like a bell through his head. It was as if the groceries at the local supermarket had climbed up off their shelves and arranged themselves on the doorstop, no need to drive to town, no, here they were, fresh and young and ripe in the shaded seclusion of his yard.
“Well, aren’t you as cute as a button. Why don’t you wait here while I go get my wallet.”
“Could I come inside? It’s kind of chilly out here.”
“Sure, kid.”
“I have Trefoil, Do-si-do’s -”
Standing in the foyer, she listed her cookies while Walter vanished back in the house to find his kit. His Winchester, a pair of handcuffs, and a scarf could suffice for now. He’d get the real implements from the basement later.
“Where’re you going,” asked Chester, Walter’s brother who looked up from his paper. Walter whispered from under his hand.
“Got a live one, here, at the door.”
“What, one of your internet friends?”
“No, some girlscout.”
“Aren’t we lucky. Hell, you think there’s room down there for her?”
“Come this way.”
The brothers winked at each other, a signal they’d had since they’d terrorized in ‘Nam together.
They came into the foyer together, all grins, Walter hiding his implements under his robe.
“…and Thin Mints,” Maverick finished. She offered a box to Chester and he, smiling oafishly, took it, though when she let go a shadow of doubt passed across his face.
“Wow, this is awful heavy for a cookies -”
Walter caught the flash of a green beret ducking out of sight before a weight like a millstone caught him in the stomach, a searing blast sheered his eyebrows off and he found himself on the floor with the burning embers of a Thin Mints box whirling around his face. Faintly, he was aware of a familiar click of a shell ticking down a gun barrel. The girl’s face emerged from the smoke, no longer sweet or innocent. She shoved another shell in the shotgun she held, one that she’d pulled out of the stack of boxes on her wagon.
“Forgot to load,” she said. “Sloppy of me.”
“Who - was that a bomb?” Walter managed, but then the dark bore of the girl’s shotgun loomed down on him like the maw of a lunging lion and Walter knew no more.

Descending the creaking stairway, Maverick’s eyes adjusted to the basement’s gloom, picking out what she knew she’d see: a row of dog cages in stacks. The dirty faces of children peered out sadly, tears in their eyes.
Maverick unhinged the cages one by one and the sorry children dragged themselves out, most bursting into tears and clinging to one another.
“Grow up,” Maverick muttered, finding the one she wanted. As her brother climbed from the cage, she spared a glance for a blood-stained chair with shackles bolted to it and helped him to his feet.
“That bomb recipe on the internet worked just like it was supposed to.” she said, drawing a cigar from her vest and lighting it.
“Why didn’t you just call the police? You saw who grabbed me at the park. And mom said those are bad for you.”
“Why police? Dad left the gunsafe unlocked again.”
A dry croak brought their attention to the stairs. The pedophile Walter, barely recognizable under the mat of blood, snarled, raising a shaking Winchester at them.
“You dirty -”
Maverick took Roger by the collar and threw him against the wall; the bullet shot by them both, grazing the tip of Roger’s nose.
The freed children broke out in a panicked scream and scattered as Walter pumped shots down the stairwell. Maverick kicked a stack of cages over and dropped behind them, shooting Walter in the knee. Cursing, Walter fumbled down the stairs. Maverick leaped on the chair, tipping it over; its back fell on Walter’s head with Maverick’s weight on top of it. Taking a long pull on her cigar, she tapped the ash on his bloody forehead.
“What are you?” Walter croaked. Maverick just looked down at him.
And winked.

Emmett Walters was not someone you would say was ‘remarkable.’ In fact, he was completely unremarkable in every way.

He was 5’9 and weighed one hundred and ninety-nine pounds. He did not appear overweight. His hair and eyes were dull brown and he dressed in clothes he bought off the rack at Sears and Target. He worked during the day as an accountant at an unremarkable firm and lived alone in an unremarkable flat in an unremarkable part of town where he often ate unremarkable microwave meals.

Emmett went to an unremarkable bar Friday nights, and was never a remarkable success with the ladies he slightly coveted. He always returned home by eleven to watch the nightly news and sigh.

Even when Emmett woke up in an unknown field with his left shoe missing, his pants ripped, two flash drives taped to his chest and one to his buttocks, it somehow seemed wholly unremarkable. Although, it did make it uncomfortable to walk.

The very thing that was Emmett, his unremarkable nature, made him really quite remarkable.

Emmett stood up, dusted himself off, led a fruitless search for his missing shoe, and then began to walk. After two hours he hit a highway and had moved that one chaffing drive to his pants pocket.

After fifteen minutes on the highway he was offered a ride into town. No questions were asked on either side.

Five minutes into the ride the driver was on the side of the road and Emmett was in control of a Yellow VW Bug with a golden retriever named Buddy in the back seat.

All the owner could tell the highway patrol was that he had picked up an unremarkable man.

Twenty minutes later Emmett was entering the city, and saw that he was being followed. He made a rather unremarkable turn left, then right, then crossed a bridge and went toward the water. Buddy got excited, stuck his big golden muzzle out the window, barked, then sneezed, and then coughed up something that flew behind them and smashed into the windshield of their pursuer, causing them to swerve into a building.

The building was old, and started to crumble. Inside was a ballet troupe that, upon feeling the floor shift, pliéd down the stairs and finally jumped from the second floor fire escape, pirouetting on to the car stuck into their school. The men inside were slumped over. One of the students glanced inside and saw a dossier. She was going to grab it when she smelled something funny. She leaped after the rest of the troupe just as the car exploded.

Nearby was a tree, which, caught in the explosion, sent burning branches everywhere.

Emmett and Buddy abandoned the car at a beach and began walking. A flaming piece of wood landed in the sea foam, and Buddy ran to retrieve it, happily bringing it to Emmett.

In the lifeguard tower a few yards from Emmett sat a sniper. He saw the unremarkable man, looked at his dossier, and set his sites. Emmett threw the stick in a high arc and Buddy ran after it. The stick hit the tower just as Buddy did. The sniper had his finger on the trigger and pulled just as the tower tipped slightly back. The gun went off into the air and hit a seagull, which plummeted to the ground. Buddy abandoned his stick for the new toy and cheerfully ran back to Emmett, the bird dangling from his mouth. Emmett looked at the tower and said, rather unremarkably, “huh.” He looked farther and saw a Red Hummer barreling toward them. It crashed into the tower sending the sniper onto a rather sharp rock at the waters edge.

Emmett and Buddy jogged to the Hummer and climbed in, bringing the seagull, unconscious (and possibly dead) sniper, and dossier with them. Hanging over the back of the seat was a freshly pressed suit.

“You’re going to be late for work Emmett, how fast can you dress?” asked the driver.

“Oh, no worries Larissa,” Emmett replied, “I’m on holiday through Wednesday.”

Larissa looked at Emmett through the mirror. He slowly peeled off the two drives still taped to his chest and placed them in his pocket. “He really does look remarkably unremarkable,” she thought to herself, before turning her eyes to the sniper, and then Buddy.

“Emmett, he’s getting blood all over the seat,” she said. She thought about the flash drives, but didn’t want to ask about the mission, it was against protocol. Plus, if Emmett was the agent, the mission was undoubtedly of the highest priority.

“No worries, a little cleaner will take it right out,” he said, buttoning up his new crisp, clean shirt.

He leaned over the table and carefully lined up his shot. The stick drew back in one slow, measured movement then quickly surged forward. The chalked tip sharply struck the queue ball, sending it across the green and into the stripped thirteen ball which gently rolled into the corner pocket.

When the front door to the smoky bar opened, Jonathan knew instantly the people he has been waiting for had arrived. The first one through the door was the lanky kid known as Gabs, and true to his name he was talking a mile a minute. Next in was Mouse, the polar opposite of Gabs. He was tall and muscular and well known for keeping his mouth shut and his fists ready. But even with his size and stature, he seemed dwarfed by Bowie, the undisputed leader of the group. Bowie got his name from the set of foot long hunting knives he kept on him at all times.

But the person that Jonathan was waiting for walked in last. Michelle had the look of a beautiful young lady gone wrong. The large sunglasses did little to hide the black eye and the halter top exposed the bruises and needle tracks covering her arms. Although he hadn’t seen her in almost four years, he recognized his sister immediately.

Jonathan remembered the pretty young girl as she looked when she ran away from home at the tender age of 16. Michelle had devastated their family and Jonathan swore he would bring her back. After four years of searching, he finally found her and was ready to take her home. But the three thugs with her wouldn’t let her go easily. He grabbed the queue stick in his left hand and the queue ball in his right.

Although Michelle never looked his way, Bowie saw the intense look on Jonathan’s face. His hand slipped down to the hilt of his knife. “Do you have a problem, punk?” Bowie asked. Gabs and Mouse turned towards the pool table.

Jonathan’s heart began to race. “Yea. I’ve got a problem.” came his reply.

Gabs legs and mouth worked in unison and he jumped towards Jonathan. “I’m gonna kick your sorry…” The queue ball flew across the room and hit the motor mouth right between the eyes. He crumpled into a heap on the floor.

Within the same second of throwing the pool ball, Jonathan swung the queue stick with measured perfection. Mouse jumped quickly outside Jonathan’s range.

“A true Cat and Mouse game.” Jonathan said. “I’ll be the cat.” Swinging the stick left, Jonathan jumped to his right and onto the pool table. His feet quickly launched the remaining pool balls towards the silent giant. Mouse dodged some and knocked some out of the air with his hands. A few met their mark, but it only seemed to anger him more. When one table had been cleared, Jonathan leapt to the next, the balls kept flying.

“Keep him busy, Mouse!” Bowie yelled as he tried to circle around behind Jonathan, his two knifes twirled in his hand.

Mouse quickly glanced at his leader. Jonathan used the split second distraction to launch himself of the pool table; the stick arced overhead like the fatal blow from a Samurai sword. It snapped in half as it connected with the goon’s head. Like Gabs before him, Mouse fell to the floor.

Bowie charged like a mad man. Guttural sounds came from the back of his throat. “Aaaaaarrrrggggghhhhh” The blades slashed and sliced as the distance between the two remaining men closed.

Jonathan crouched and waited. When Bowie was almost close enough to do damage with the knives, Jonathan grabbed the bar stool and heaved it into the larger man’s chest. One of the knives fell to the ground.

With cat-like reflexes, Jonathan sprang into the air, twisting his body and letting his foot fly. The round-house kick landed squarely on Bowie’s temple. The final combatant collapsed into unconsciousness.

Jonathan slowly stood, blood poured freely down his calf. The leader had been vanquished, but not until he had left his mark.

Jonathan turned toward his long lost sister. “Michelle? It’s me, Jonathan”

There was nobody there.

He quickly limped out the front door and looked both ways down the crowded streets.

Once again, his sister had run away. Jonathan knew he needed to take care of his injury, but he would find her again and next time he would bring her home.