A/N: I've always wanted to do a spy/espionage flick and this is the product. This fic is heavily inspired by the Brad and Angelina movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith, as well as personal research on espionage. I do hope you get to read and enjoy it, and hopefully review! The first set of feedback is essential because it encourages us writers to keep going. So if you like (or not), kindly let me know. Much appreciated. :)

No one ever ventured into this part of town. No one dared to. Not if they wanted to leave with their possessions and body parts intact.

This area of San Juan, Puerto Rico was a complete contrast to the peaceful, scenic tranquility that the island was portrayed as to the rest of the world. It had such a terrible reputation that it was simply referred to as The Other Side of the Tracks. The abnormally high crime rate, the blatant lack of respect for authority by all who lived there was enough to keep one's distance. The authorities and the government had long since abandoned any attempts at salvaging what was left of the streets' dignity.

There was a party happening inside the infamous warehouse on the Other Side of the Tracks, a party that was in full swing. But this was no birthday cake, hat and streamers affair. This was a typical sex, drugs and rock and roll event, and it was strictly by invitation. From the outside, the warehouse looked decent enough for worthwhile use, but the inside was another story, telling a dire tale of guns, drugs, prostitution and all-round illegality. No person of any self-respect showed their face in here. All activities taking place in this run-down warehouse were organized by the sleaziest group of vagabonds in the city. Tonight they converged, spent from a week of hard work and intent on enjoying a weekend of excess and debauchery.

At the topmost floor, loud reggaeton music blared from the stolen speakers set up beside the door. Half-naked girls sauntered around tending to the horny males. Two men oversaw the happenings in this place.

"There's nobody in this fucking town that's better than us right now," one of them boasted loudly over the music. He went by the name of Primo, a direct product of The Other Side of the Tracks. He was brash and arrogant, calculating and ruthless. For some reason, those qualities took him far as he was one of the most feared and formidable gangsters in the area.

His best friend and partner in crime, a drug runner called Epico, agreed. "The best guys, the best bitches, the best guns and all this cash," he listed, tossing currency notes carelessly into the air. "What more could you ask for?"

Epico's girlfriend Rosa, Primo's cousin and a hard-nosed weapon-wielding prostitute, proceeded to yank his face towards hers and engage him in an erotic lip lock. He spread her across the couch and mounted her, his lips still attacking hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Primo eyed them enviously. "Man, I really need me one of those." He sat down and beckoned at a girl, who obediently scurried over to him and took a seat on his lap.

Some old geezer they picked up the night before on a night out sat in a corner, drunk as a skunk and high as a kite. He was from out of town, from Glasgow, Scotland or somewhere like that, and had spent the past few days waxing lyrical, trying to convince Primo and Epico that he was as badass as they were. Contrary to stereotype, his tolerance for alcohol was extremely low, as having had just three drinks he was already stoned out of his mind. He raised his bottle in the air in a drunken toast. "You Puerto Rican guys are the best, man," he slurred, pointing at Primo. His name was Rodney or something. They hadn't bothered to find out. "I could drink this shit forever. It tastes really good, really different."

Of course it did. They had the drink laced with sleeping pills. The gangsters planned to butcher him up alive and sell his heart, kidney and other vital organs to a black market to make themselves some money. Not that they were going to tell him that...

As Primo conversed with one of his men, something floated down from above, coming to rest by his feet. It was a white envelope. He picked it up and looked at it. There was no address, it felt empty, and there was a wax seal that fastened the envelope closed at the back.

"What'cha got there?" the old man asked. He stumbled his way over, glancing lazily at the envelope. Suddenly he squealed like a pig, dashing away from the thing as if it were a communicable disease.

Primo glared at him. "Hey, what's up your ass, man?" he said, annoyed. Epico pushed Rosa off of him and looked their way.

The old man cowered in a corner, staring at them with frightened, beady eyes. The sobriety evidently had been slapped back into him. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. "You opened it!" he cried incredulously, looking wildly back and forth between the two gangsters. "You should never have touched it!"

"What? There's nothing inside!" Primo said, waving the envelope in the old man's direction. Epico took it out of his boss's hands and inspected it. "It's empty, you pussy!"

The old man flinched and edged away from any possible contact with the stationery. "You fool! The flying demons are here!" he whispered. He glanced fearfully towards the ceiling, looking like he was about to piss his pants. "Oh Jesus, oh God, we're dead. We're all dead!"

"Hijo de puta!" Rosa hissed, inspecting the envelope. "I was hoping to find some angel dust or coke in this piece of shit." Irritably she lobbed it over her shoulder and went back to fondling her boyfriend.

"You messin' with us, old man?" Epico demanded, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. He was certain they had only put sleeping pills in his drink, nothing stronger.

"I thought it was a fuckin' joke too," the old man insisted, glaring at them. "But they're real! Real, I tell ya! I saw them once before back in Glasgow, and I barely made it out alive." His eyes were alight now, haunted in reminiscence. "They strike like thieves in the night, destroying everything in sight." He pointed a trembling finger at the envelope. "Once the seal is broken, there is no escaping the flying demons. We cannot cheat death," he warned them, "We will die tonight, every single one of us in this room!"

Epico stared hard at the man, his head cocked to the side as he contemplated him. Then he burst into laughter, as did Rosa and the rest of the other marionettes. "If that ain't the biggest pile of bullshit I ever heard!" he guffawed. He turned to his cronies and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the Scotsman.

"Can you believe this guy?" he said, laughing his head off. They all joined in, a few of them even going as far as rolling around on the ground.

Suddenly Epico's laughter stopped, so abruptly that they all paused to look at him. The mirth that had filled his features was now replaced by dazed surprise. A hole had appeared smack between his eyes as if by magic. Then the hole started to pour blood. No sound came out of his mouth again. The young gangster keeled over backwards and collapsed like a log of wood to the floor.

"Hijo de puta!" Primo shrieked, gawking at his friend's lifeless body.

Rosa screamed. The other women standing around screamed. Some of them tried to scamper out of the room in a fruitless attempt to escape disaster. In a state of panic, the men's guns materialized by their sides, their heads darting around the room, searching for the invisible killer. The Scotsman was beside himself. He whimpered in his little corner of the room, more than aware that the end was near.

There was a whizzing sound, and then a snap. Primo turned around. Rosa was standing with a gun in her hand, but she could not use it. A knife was embedded in her chest, right inside her heart. She stared blankly at Primo before falling forwards to the ground, the impact driving the knife even further into her body.

What little composure that was left in Primo disintegrated. Seizing his dead's friend sub-machine gun, he opened fire, screeching like a banshee and spinning around in the same spot wildly. Not one bit of the ceiling was spared. His henchmen followed suit. They did not stop shooting until all of their bullets ran out. They stared up at the ceiling, waiting, expecting to see a bullet-riddled corpse fall from the sky. The faceless bastard was dead. He had to be.

The next few seconds happened like a blur. Bullets rained down from above like hailstones, hissing like venomous snakes, ripping cleanly into every intended target. Flying daggers decapitated heads from shoulders like hot knife through butter. One by one they dropped like flies until there was no one left alive. The only survivors were Primo and the elderly Scotsman, who was sobbing hysterically as his profligate life flashed before his eyes. Primo's gun clattered to the floor. He fell to his knees and raised his head heavenwards.

"What the fuck do you want from me?!" he yelled into the air, saturated with the stench of blood and bullet residue and brain matter. "Get away from me! I ain't done nothin' to you! Leave me alone!"

Abruptly he stopped talking, and a look of surprise, similar to the one Epico had before he died, appeared on his face. His eyes glazed over, and then he plummeted face-first to the ground. A knife stuck out of the back of his head.

The Scotsman looked frantically around, panic welling up inside his inebriated system as he took in the destruction before him. Then all of a sudden, like a wisp of smoke, his name filtered through the air.

Mister Piper…

The old man sucked in a terrified breath. It was them. He had been found.

Mister Piiiiiper…

Mister Piperrrr…

He started to cry. "Wait! Wait!" he shouted, making a lame attempt at diplomacy, taking great effort not to make eye contact with the grisly carnage again for fear he would throw up, but the alcohol in his system was not helping matters. "Please, please don't kill me! I'm begging you."

His pleas were met with cold, deathly silence. Then, from the corner of the room, a heavy combat boot stepped out of the shadows, followed by the other. A tall, hooded, intimidating figure emerged, and Piper's eyes bulged, paralyzed by terror. It was just like that night in New Orleans all over again. Piper trembled violently. He had escaped before, but this time he knew his luck had run out. Nemesis had truly caught up with him.

The hooded man slowly approached him and crouched in front of him. Piper still could not see his face. The drugs in his drink were now starting to work. But still, he knew he couldn't run if he was a hundred times sober.

"Please don't kill me," he begged, his words slurring and his eyes starting to give up on him. "I'll be a better person from now on, I swear! I'll start paying my taxes! Hell, I'll even go back to Church. I-"

Without warning, his eyes drifted closed and his head lolled to the side, the sleeping pills finally knocking him out. The hooded man regarded him for a moment or two, then stood upright and walked out of the warehouse. As he exited, he lit a match and dropped it. It caught a thin line of fuel, rapidly retracing its origin. Emerging into the cool night air, the hooded man mounted his motorcycle. The warehouse exploded, forming a huge mushroom cloud behind him. Glass and debris flew everywhere, but he did not flinch. He rode off down the road, disappearing into the night.

Mission accomplished.

A/N: thoughts? I know I'm being ambitious, publishing two stories at a time, but we'll see how it goes. I'm really excited about both. I hope you let me know what you think. Thanks!