The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel's pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other. A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent.

He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again. The man at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawler's bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left, unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin; a fifth gunshot fired wildly.

The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below. He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface—only to gasp a single breath of air.

A gasp and he was under again. And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an icelike throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him.

He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle—yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved. Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition.

He could not submit to peace! Not yet! It would happen any second now; he was not sure what it was, but it would happen. He had to be there! He kicked furiously, clawing at the heavy walls of water above, his chest burning. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climb up! Climb up! A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Nothing. Turn! Turn! It happened. The explosion was massive; he could hear it through the clashing waters and the wind, the sight and the sound somehow his doorway to peace.

The sky lit up like a fiery diadem and within that crown of fire, objects of all shapes and sizes were blown through the light into the outer shadows. He had won. Whatever it was, he had won. Suddenly he was plummeting downward again, into an abyss again. He could feel the rushing waters crash over his shoulders, cooling the white-hot heat at his temple, warming the ice-cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and.… His chest. His chest was in agony! He had been struck—the blow crushing, the impact sudden and intolerable.

It happened again! Let me alone. Give me peace. And again! And he clawed again, and kicked again … until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it. Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness … and peace.

Nyssa's POV

Her mission had been to take their healer to get some rare herbs off the coast of France. It wasn't often that she was assigned to such a task. Given the unrest in the world there weren't many of the members free at the moment. Most were tracking down leads to the Jackel and Bourne.

The Jackel was an old enemy of the League of Assassins. He had been terrorizing most of Europe for the better part of a decade. They had a name and his designation of an alpha. However tracking him was next to impossible. Even Sayad their best tracker could not find him. All who got close were found with bullets in their throats. Killed by the Jackel.

Despite his hold of Europe for such a time a new contender appeared. Jason Bourne also known as Cain. Bourne they knew almost nothing about. They didn't have a true name or even a designation. The man was truly the chameleon they claimed him to be.

Even only being in the game for less than half a decade the man had a reputation. He would kill anyone for a price. It didn't matter who they were or why you wanted them dead. His body count was nearing that of the Jackel's and out did most of the League's.

A shout drew her from her thoughts, "Man in the water!"

What? They were too far out to sea for someone to be swimming. Given the storm that just passed a few hours prior, it wasn't logical. Maybe a shipwreck.

She moved closer to the edge of their boat. Sure enough a man was in the water. He was holding onto a plank of wood. It confirmed what she originally thought. A shipwreck and he was dead most likely. Too long in the water and a death grip on the plank. When one of her men shined a light on him however he groaned.

Her eyes and widened in surprise. Not only was this man alive but he was gravely injured. If left he would not survive much longer.

She snapped to the men, "Get him out of the water and find the healer. He's alive."

The men went to it without a single moment's hesitation. It took them several moments to get the man from the water. Their main difficulty was getting him to let go of the plank. Eventually they had to let his fingers from it. With that done they lifted him from the water and Nyssa got her first real look at the man.

It was an absolute miracle that the man was even alive. There was a gunshot wound to his head. One that should have killed him. There were several to his abdomen.

Her attention was drawn to the arrival of the healer. The healer let out a soft sound.

She snapped, "Get me some fresh water and clean bandages. I need a room prepared for surgery. He's alive but he won't be for much longer if we don't get these bullets out of him."