This story has been haunting me since I guess one year…and I wanted it to be my masterpiece, so I told myself to wait with writing it till I would really have time. Well, I still don't have it, and my English is far too bad for what I want to say (or at least how), and the longer I carry the idea of this story with me, the weaker the plot gets in my mind, so I've decided that maybe the best time is now.

- starting in the night before "One Shot Kill" -

I know those eyes, following me;

Dark and familiar, and deep as the sea-

I know that face, strange though it seems,

Younger and kinder it haunts all my dreams.

How can you stand there, a whisper from me

When you are just so far away?

I know those eyes; The Count of Monte Christo

"Hey! 'Nother one." Without even looking at the man behind the bar, he ordered his fifth whiskey. American stuff. Not hard enough. He let his fingertips circle round the edge of the empty glass before him, apparently lost in thoughts. Actually his eyes were fixed on the blurred reflexion on the glass – the small figure deep in the bar's corner. The one that had followed him since three hours, at least three hours. As much as Mick hated to admit it – the other one was good. Maybe he wouldn't have noticed him at all if it wasn't for his eyes. Something in the green eyes struck familiar, but right now he couldn't say what it was. Nothing too obvious, of course. And nothing that would prevent him of killing that guy, should it come down to that. But not now. Now he just waited, and watched the other as the other watched him.

"Sir!" Roughly, the empty glass was wound out of Mick's hands as a new one was put before him. The Welsh's eyes blazed as he now focused them on the fat barman. "That's a smaller one." His voice, calm as he held it, was threatening. He hated the power American barmen thought to have – the power they had, actually, since nobody ever dared to say anything against them. Slowly, without ever looking away, he pulled his empty glass out of the barman's grip and poured the content of the smaller one into it. Then he held it up, between their faces. "See? There's something missing. And I paid for it." His glaze was still steady enough to have scared every murderer away. But not the barkeeper. Working in a shady, dirty back road in the shadiest, dirtiest part of Washington, he was used to worse guys. Plus the black FBI-agent with the cross in his pocket had told him to keep an eye on the younger man.

"You drink more I gotta call you a cab", he said firmly, his eyes glowing with triumph. Whatcha doin now, Welshman?

Mick saw the message in the barkeeper's eyes, and every other night he would have taken the challenge and pulled the man over the counter. But not this night. Maybe he'd need his strength later on. On his persecutor maybe, or on the brunette at his right side. She too had been staring at him for a time, but there was no familiarity – and no threat – in her eyes. Mick pulled on a wry smile. "Thanks for your concern", he said sarcastically, "but I'll rather walk home. Now do I get another one? Big one?" He could almost see the barkeeper's brain working for a witty answer, but it didn't come. Grudgingly the older poured him some more alcohol.

Still smiling, Mick took the glass and turned to the woman beside him. "So, pretty girl", he smiled, "what brings someone like you somewhere like here?" The woman – she couldn't be older than twenty – obviously had drunk more than was good for her. "Waiting to be asked out by jerks", she said, her voice not as even as she probably wished. Mick laughed. "Then it's your luck you found me, ain't it? Hey, mate! You get my girl here something to drink?" If looks could kill, the barkeeper would've been trialed for murdering a federal agent. As they didn't, it was all he could do to drive his elbow in Mick's ribs as he moved past him, causing him to cough over his whiskey. As he lifted his head again he shot a quick glance over to the corner.

The other wasn't there anymore.

Elise stretched pleasurably, her long legs dangling under the blanket and meeting, almost as if by chance, Mick's foot. "You really gotta go right now?" The Welsh smiled, his usual ever-so-slightly-ironical smirk, but his voice was soft as he said, "sorry, baby, gotta save the world!" Elise moaned, half with pleasure from the last hours, half with disappointment. "I guess I won't see you again…?" Mick didn't answer as he dressed up. It had been nice with the girl, and the sex actually had been great – she wasn't shy at all. But inside his head, the alarm bell had kept on ringing all the time. Someone was chasing him, and he had no idea who it was or why he did it. He didn't even know what the other's goal was. Mick's death? He played with his victim, then. His money? That would have been even easier to take. Any information Mick had that nobody else had? He had thought about it while riding Elise, but he hadn't found the answer yet. All he knew was that he had lost the first round. He had to turn the tables now. "Hey, Mick!" Finally, Elise had got up. Wrapped in the dark blue blanket, her skin shone in the moonlight. For the first time this night, Mick looked at her. "You're beautiful, honey", he said, meaning it this time, "trust me, you don't want to see me again." She caught his glance, and the bitterness in his eyes sent shivers down her spine. Maybe she really didn't want to see him again – yet on the other hand she knew that she did, did want to see this broken, sexy, secretive and dangerous man again. While lost in thoughts, Elise hadn't noticed Mick coming near her. It was only as he kissed her that she reacted, pulling him close, breathing in the perfume of her very first night in Washington. Mick's lips tasted like Whiskey, and hunger, adventure, death, love, passion…oh yes, Washington was so much more vivid than home!

After a too short moment Mick pulled away, turned around and left without a word. Elise stood there for a long time, her body bathed in moonlight, her mind following the Welsh.

He was there again. This time, Mick knew it instantly. The night sounded differently now that not all footsteps were made by drunken people. At least two pairs of feet moved swiftly, directly, without having to think about where was left and right. He was there, right behind Mick but not close enough to simply turn around and grab him. Mick steadied his breath, his heart pounding slower and slower with every second. He was good at this. Whoever that guy was – and whatever he had done with his eyes – this was Mick's area of expertise. Three blocks away from his apartment, however, he still hadn't shaken his persecutor. Fastening his pace, Mick moved around a dark corner. Nobody was there. Mick grinned. He could wait, twenty hours and more if he had to. The other might be good, but he was better. And he was going to prove it.

Two hours later, Mick gave up. The other one hadn't tried to do anything. He seemed content just to be behind him, following his every step. Mick cursed under his breath. The picture of him sitting home waiting for whoever might made him more than uncomfortable.

He woke up twice this night, hoarsely screaming long forgotten names. Nightmares. He had so hoped he'd be over them, but here they were, bloody and hot and cruel. Dark shadows pulled him back, through the time to stations of his life he had had long forgotten – and had forgotten, he realized. It was only a dizzy memory, and he hated it. All he knew was that he hated it. And he feared it. Bathed in sweat, Mick made his way to the fridge. "Someone's gonna buy me new beer", he murmured quietly.

Elise stood still as the crosshair found her chest. She still stood next to the door, thinking about Mick Rawson, his passion, his laughter, the earnest in his eyes, the pleasure she had felt. Life was good. Maybe – hopefully - even for Rawson. Maybe there was a chance for her. There was always a chance…

The shot fell – and Elise fell also and never raised up again.

Morning sun found Mick Rawson at the kitchen table, glasses and bottles down on the earth. It had been one of those nights. Mick closed his eyes as the alarm clock rang. Now he probably would have found sleep. Cautiously, Mick looked through the window. Nobody was there.

Will the ghost go away?

Will she will them to stay?

Either way there's no way to win.

All I know is I'm lost,

And I'm counting the cost,

My emotions are in a spin.

It's a dangerous game, Jekyll & Hyde