A/N: First off, a huge thanks to Maxiekat for reading over this and wading through my mistakes o' de grammer and POV shoz and helping me fix them. :D

This was written for the September challenge at GHMB.

Obligatory Disclaimer: For the safety and well-being of the characters I have been denied ownership to anything.

He'd been waiting for this day for over eight months. Dreamt about it, planned it out, obsessed over it, allowed it to consume him. Today it ended, for good. He decided who lived and who died, and he always kept his word.

-- -- --

"Ready?"

He felt nothing as the thin man next to him pulled the large handgun from his side. Because he had won, regardless of what happened next, he had already won. And so he smiled, the corners of his mouth turning into a grin as he allowed his head to fall back against the top of the pew where they sat. The two of them, each having destroyed a piece of the other, sitting in a church pew as if they were the oldest of friends. Bloody, broken friends.

The cool metal of the gun didn't surprise him as it came to rest against his steaming temple. It felt...refreshing. He lifted his head slowly, the gun following his movement closely as he turned slowly to face the other man, smile morphing flawlessly into a contemptuous scowl.

"It doesn't matter whether you kill me or not, I have people who will hunt you down and fuck you up. Over and over and over again!," with the last words he was screaming, mere inches from the bastard's face, spittle covering the distance in his rage. "And you will fucking wish you had put that bullet in your fucking head right now! You will fucking pray to die!"

The metallic click surprised them both. Hume jumped and jerked his head toward the sound. Billy moved his own head slowly, toward the stage where his severed fingers lay. Useless.

Red rays crossed the boy's face as he stepped from behind the curtains into the light. Jesse. Heco's younger brother. He carried the gun at shoulder height, arms locked as he pointed it at Nick. He was breathing hard, chest heaving. Billy relaxed, leaning back into his seat again, watching the two men. Jesse broke the silence first.

"Get the fuck out of here before I blow your fucking head off!" his voice shook, uncontrolled as he screamed.

"This is about me, and him." Hume motioned to himself and then to Billy with the gun, movements slow. "Don't make me kill you too."

"You made this about all of us when you killed Joe."

Nick remained silent, fingering the cold steel of the gun, staring at Jesse. He moved quickly then, raising the pistol. Jesse moved quicker, the bullet mauling the flesh and splintering the bones just below Nick's wrist. He screamed, the gun dropped.

"Now get the fuck out of here before I shoot you in the fucking head."

Nick had moved then, struggling to stand as the blood fled down his body. Swaying dangerously as he stumbled towards the door, shoulders slumped. A man defeated.

And Billy remembered why Jesse wasn't part of the gang. He refused to kill. He was weak.

-- -- --

The smoothness of his scalp felt good under his fingers. He had had it shaved yesterday. So Hume would remember. He didn't want there to be any mistake.

He had fled that day, with Jesse's help. An old army medic had patched him up as best he could in a back alley in exchange for some cocaine. Sewed him up with shaking fingers and bloodshot eyes, making no guarantees that he would live. But now Billy cared. Now he had unfinished business. He spent weeks holed up in Jesse's small apartment, reading about the drug war casualties on the back page of the paper as the sutures held his mending flesh together.

And as soon as he had been able, Billy started readying himself. He taught himself one thing - to shoot with his left hand.

Earlier in the day he had torched his car outside of the city. Watched as the flames licked at the hot black leather of the seats before dissolving into billows of grey smoke. If nothing else it would serve as a distraction for the police. Keep them off his tail until he had done what he had come here to do. After that he couldn't care less what they did. And though he knew there were security guards here, they didn't scare him. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt scared of anything, except maybe of Bones as a child. On the whole, fear was nothing more than an inconvenience. It achieved nothing, it had no place in revenge.

The bench he was sitting on was less than comfortable. The pistol tucked in his belt dug into the small of his back, sweat trickling against the cool metal of the slide. Shifting, he tried to find relief, drawing his left ankle up to rest on his right leg, throwing his left arm over the back of bench. His right hand would remain hidden inside of his jacket.

He scanned the crowd moving about; joggers ran and people walked their dogs on the gravel path to his right. Cars whirred noisily by on his right, the continuous jumble of brakes and horns went unnoticed. His focus remained on the large, castle-like building directly in front of him. Steps cascading from the great arched doorways to the iron wrought fences that kept the scum out. A large sign hung above the doors. "St. Bartholomew" it read.

Earlier he'd watched as the teachers walked up the stairs, suits and loafers, not a hair out of place. A good impression on their first day back. Now he watched as the students began to arrive, little robots with parted hair and stuffy sweater vests despite the heat. For they too, must make a good impression. He promised to make an impression they would not soon forget.

He scanned the crowd as the minutes went by, eyes relentlessly looking for his target. So concentrated on the view he remembered that he almost didn't recognize him as he walked past. He did a double take. It was definitely him, Hume. His hair was different and his carriage altered, but his eyes were the same. He didn't even glance at Billy as he walked past, headed for the school. To make a good impression.

Billy waited until he reached the steps before calling out, his words deep and commanding. He was shaking with anticipation.

"Lucas!" the boy paused for a moment, as if deciding whether the person was calling to him or someone else. "Lucas Hume!"

He turned then, brown hair falling diagonally across his face, eyes scanning the crowd. Billy waited. Waited for them to land on him, relishing in the instantaneous cold fear that settled in the eyes as they did. He allowed a smirk to pass his lips as he leaned forward, pushing himself into a stand. He moved forward, steps confident, hands resting in the pockets of his jacket. Joe's jacket. Dried blood still lined the holes that Nick Hume's bullet's had made. Today, he would make some of his own.

He waited for Lucas to turn, to make a mad dash up the steps toward safety. Instead he stood stone still, only his eyes gave away the terror. It was a shame that bravery was so overrated.

Billy stopped at the curb. He stared at Lucas, and Lucas stared back. In the midst of a crowd they were all alone. Billy didn't know how long they had stood like that, only that a bell had sounded and the crowd was moving. Like a wild herd they raced for the doors. To be the first. He reached behind him then, hand coming to rest on the grip, fingers tightening in the familiar grooves. He pulled it slowly from the waistband, watching Lucas as the gun came into view.

Billy could tell he had been expecting it, probably from the day his father's obituary ran on the front page of the newspaper. He had to know it would come to this.

"Ready?" the words were soft, he doubted the boy had even heard. It didn't matter.

He raised the pistol, hesitating for only a second before pulling the trigger. And again. And again. There would be no survivors today. Today, this ended.

He watched as the boy crumpled to the ground, laying back against the steps where he had been standing just moments before. He watched as the red overtook the white fabric, dripping onto the concrete steps. Staining them. He watched as the herd dropped and fled. A predator was amongst them, they must panic. Fear is survival.

He watched as blood trickled from the boys lips. As he took his last shallow breath.

And then Billy ran. The cool morning air felt fresh against his head, the concrete hard under his boots. He turned into alleys and down streets aimlessly, there was nowhere for him to go, nobody waiting for him at home. It ended, today. Like this. He just had to wait for it.

Fin.

Also, I shamelessly stole these lines: :"Billy could tell he had been expecting it, probably from the day his father's obituary ran on the front page of the newspaper. He had to know it would come to this." from Maxiekat. I had the POV all wrong and she's a better writer. So I took it. O.o

racquet.