A/N: This is my first non-Teen Titans story released, and while I had always intended to write stories beyond Teen Titans, I did not expect to start with Hitman, one of my favorite video game series.

This story is actually a sort of cross-over medley, with characters from many other franchises completely unrelated to Hitman making prominent appearances. This story is not in the crossover section because there are simply too many franchises being crossed over to put it there. All of the characters found in this story are living in the same world, although obviously some things that happened in their respective franchises have not happened in this continuity in order for them to occupy the same world as each other and Agent 47. I warn you now that you will see many characters that you probably know and love being assassinated by 47. One chapter of this story, however, is a fictionalized version of an actual real-world event that I have altered to suit the course of my fiction.

I do not own Hitman or any of its related characters. I also do not own any of the other franchises mentioned in this story, or their related characters. So, without further ado…

The Burning of Saints

Agent 47 sat on the edge of the bed, coffee table in front of him, alternately turning his attention to the soccer game on the TV and to the task at hand. It was the late evening and he was in his studio apartment stripped down to only his nightshirt and boxers. The bald assassin was having a peaceful weekend; he had been given no assignments for several weeks, he had just relocated to his new hideout only a few days ago and had finally settled down after making sure he had taken all necessary precautions.

Mr. 47 never liked to stay in any location longer than six months if he could avoid it. While he had once stayed in an abandoned warehouse for almost two years when he first moved to the United States, that had mainly been at the request of the Agency. Times had been difficult then, since their rival, the Franchise, had been attempting to rub them out by taking out their contractors, and so the Agency had requested the assassin to remain at his current hideout for easier contact until the matter was resolved. That had been the only exception to his habitual practice of never remaining in one place too long.

So after arriving at his current hideout, he had taken the next few days to familiarize himself with the medium-sized city ten miles outside of Denver in which he now resided, memorizing the locations of restaurants, grocery stores, car lots, gun shops, and discreet ways of getting out of town if necessary. After being on alert for several days to make sure he had not been followed by any assailants, 47 was as close to making himself at home as he was capable of doing.

He was performing his regular maintenance on his two trusted AMT Hardballers. He himself called them his Silverballers, due to the pearl handles and the obvious silver color of the pistols. He was making sure they were cleaned and well oiled, and also making sure that the silencers were in prime condition as well. In his line of work, it was not enough to always be prepared by having a weapon handy; the weapon itself needed to be in top working condition.

Mr. 47 occasionally looked up from his work to the TV screen to check the progress of the game. He did not really care about the game one way or another, but it was a means to pass the time. It was also the closest connection that he could have to "normal" people; he knew that thousands of people across the country and perhaps even around the world, were watching this same game at this very same moment. It was interesting to be part of average human society once in a while, even in such a limited fashion.

Wiping excess cleaning oil from his pistols, the assassin lifted them both in his hands, held them up in the air and sighted down them, testing their intimately familiar weight. These two weapons were the only things in the world that he had complete trust in, aside from himself. While there had been some people and even a few pets that he had allowed himself to grow attached to over the years, his Silverballers and his fiber wire garrote were his only real friends.

It was a lonely life but it was the only one he knew; it was literally what he had been made for. It was who he was and if sometimes it felt empty and unfulfilling, he merely disregarded the emotions that led him to think such thoughts. He knew that everyone questioned who they were and what they did with their life at some point, and although he was superior to a normal human in many ways, he was no exception to this rule. Agent 47 was a professional above all else and the only pride he had was in his taste in clothing and in his work. People wanted something messy and nasty done, he could do it. He could do it better than anyone else and he knew it, and he charged a high price for it. While 47 did not care about the money beyond what he needed for food, weapons, clothing, transportation and shelter, it would not do to simply give out his services for any chump who asked. He was the best in the business and if someone wanted him to use his superior skills to do a job and risk his own safety while doing so, they had better be willing to pay his demand. Mr. 47 did not tolerate having his time wasted and those who were willing and able to pay his price never did; anyone willing to pay what he asked for was serious about what they wanted done.

Mr. 47 set one of the Silverballers inside the custom carrying case he had made for them. The case, much like the pistol itself and all of his other equipment, had the fleur de lis symbol on it, which he had adopted as his own personal insignia as remembrance and respect for his origins. He locked it up and slid it under his bed. He kept the other Silverballer with him at all times when not on a mission, in case of an attack. With the silencer in place, he slid the pistol under his pillow and lay down upon the squeaky spring bed, hands behind his head. He looked at his laptop, sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, before turning to stare at the TV screen.

There had not been any work for him since he had taken out one of the Agency's former management members, Benjamin Travis, many weeks ago. After he and Diana had ensured Victoria was safe and they had been welcomed back to the Agency following the event, they had both been lying low and relaxing, enjoying a well-earned rest until a new client came along. The only thing of significance Mr. 47 had done since then, aside from relocating, was to renew the barcode tattoo on the back of his head. He had attempted to cut it off after the mission to assassinate Diana. After rescuing Victoria from Diana's mansion and realizing that his profession was bringing too much uncertainty and chaos into his life, 47 had tried, not for the first time, to leave his career as a contract-killer behind him. He had taken a straight razor to the tattoo on the back of his skull, in a vain attempt to finally sever his past. However, once the whole ordeal was over, 47 had to once again come to terms with the reality that he could not simply leave the world he had built around himself behind, because it was who he was. After parting from Diana and Victoria, he had taken the money he had built up from past jobs and had paid for some minor surgery to get rid of the scar where he had cut himself, and then renewed the barcode with a tattoo artist who was a contact for the Agency. So now here he was, cooling his heels until the next hit came along. Considering their line of work and the usual amount of time to pass between clients, Agent 47 expected to hear from Diana about a new job offer any time now.

As if on cue, his cell phone began to beep and he looked over to where it rested on the night stand, next to his laptop. He could count the number of people who knew the number to his phone outside of the Agency on one hand, and he knew that none of them had good reason to be trying to call him on it, nor were any of them foolish enough to do so. Well, Smith might be foolish enough, but 47's last encounter with the incompetent CIA agent in Las Vegas should have been educational enough for Smith to know better than to try contacting him directly. That meant the caller was most likely from the Agency.

For an instant, Mr. 47 considered not answering it. The assassin was actually enjoying his time off, even though he was spending it in this shitty little apartment room in what was more or less the middle of Piss-Ant Nowhere, Colorado. But he knew from experience that his feeling of contentment would fade fairly quickly, just like it had every other time he had tried to retire his profession. Besides, he didn't want to start going soft in his time off; even a short amount of time away from work could make it more difficult to get back into the swing of things. With these thoughts crossing his mind within seconds, 47 reached over, picked up the cell phone and looked at the screen to see who it was. Just as he had suspected, the caller ID showed him the encrypted number that he knew was from the Agency. He opened the phone and put it to his ear.

"Speak." he said into it.

"Hello, 47. It's Diana." As if he needed to be told. He could recognize Diana's smooth voice with its proper British accent anywhere.

"What's up, Diana?" he asked, casual but direct, making it clear that he was not making small talk but wanted to know what the situation was that she was calling about.

"I'm in my office at the Agency right now. We were wondering if you were feeling up to a job." Diana stated. Mr. 47 blinked, thinking for a moment about what answer he wanted to give. He didn't keep her waiting longer than a few seconds.

"I am." He said plainly.

"Splendid, 47. Management will be happy to hear that you're willing to return to work. The Agency has been getting very busy in the last several weeks, mostly low to medium-level orders, and the new-hires we've added to payroll have been handling their assignments just as well as our former employees." Diana wanted 47 to be aware of how smoothly things were going at the Agency again, after so many years of uncertainty and mistrust. "However, we have been expecting some high-level orders to arrive at any time, and it seems that the wait is over. A contract has just come in that meets with your asking price and level of difficulty, and I've been asked to offer it to you."

"What's the job?" 47 asked.

"I'm forwarding the information to your laptop now." she answered. "Will you need any assistance with travel arrangements?" 47 sat up on the bed and grabbed his laptop off the nightstand with his free hand and set it in his lap.

"No, I have all the funds I'll need for travel."

"Excellent." Diana said, enthusiastically. "I'm looking forward to working with you again, 47. It has been too long since we've worked on an assignment together."

With that, 47 agreed completely. It had been quite some time since the two of them had worked together to organize and execute a hit, and it felt right to go through it again, as if his life were finally getting back to what constituted "normal" for him.

"Likewise. I'll contact you when I'm ready to get started." he said into the phone and then closed it, setting it on the nightstand again.

He had wanted to ask her about Victoria. Was she doing well? Was she adjusting, coming to terms with who and what she was? Had anyone attempted to come after her? These were questions to which he sorely wanted to know the answers, but knew it was unsafe for the three of them to talk about it over a phone line, even one as secure as the Agency's. 47 was not sure how many members of upper management knew and understood the situation with Victoria and how 47 and Diana were involved, or if any of them knew how familiar he and Diana had become outside of carrying out their assignments. There was nothing so cliché as a romantic interest between them- he and Diana could both damn-near be deemed asexual- but there was a personal respect between them as well as a professional one, and to speak on friendly or familiar terms over a line could let that fact leak out and have 47 assigned to another handler. Neither 47 nor Diana wanted that.

He opened his laptop and input his security clearance code to link his computer with the Agency's system. His screen's fleur de lis desktop design was replaced with the insignia for the International Contract Agency- a triangle with a skull and crossbones inside it, a crown perched atop the skull. From the left-hand corner of the triangle, to the top corner, to the right-hand corner were the letters I, O, and I, which 47 still did not know the significance of. To the left of the skull was the letter D and on the right was the letter K, which was also a mystery. Below the O in the triangle's top corner but above the crown on the skull was an open eye, probably referencing the open eye atop the pyramid on the back of American paper currency. Finally, below the crossbones were the Latin words Merces Letifer which, when literally translated to English, meant Lethal Trade. If 47 hadn't already adopted the fleur de lis as his personal insignia, he would probably have the Agency's insignia on his equipment instead.

47 logged into his email that the Agency provided. The Agency's email service, like its phone line, was encrypted and untraceable to all but the most highly advanced code-breaking supercomputers. Only three supercomputers that were up to the task existed in the entire world, respectively owned by the U.S.A., China and Germany, but the Agency was not worried about any of them trying to intercept their data. The countries in questions were too busy constantly using their code-breakers to the max- by keeping tabs on their own citizens, to spend time trying to figure out which communications came from the Agency and which did not. In addition, each of those countries' governments knew of and had done business with the Agency in the past, and it would be quite embarrassing for their administrations if data were decoded that implicated them in utilizing the Agency's services. As such, Mr. 47 knew that he had nothing to worry about when downloading the information forwarded to him about a hit.

Opening up the latest email in his inbox, 47 began to scan the information contained within. Diana typically provided both a written copy of the terms of the contract, the target, and the location, as well as a word-for-word vocal recording. There was usually at least one recent picture of the target, typically a close-up to help him identify the target once he was in place to make the hit. For this new assignment, he noticed that there were three pictures available and began to look them over as Diana's voice began to play through the laptop speakers via her audio recording.

"Hello, 47. Glad to have you back in the fold. We're sending you to Boston for your latest assignment –you have three targets. The primary targets are the MacManus brothers, Connor and Murphy. They are a pair of vigilantes who, along with their father and other allies, were responsible for the killing of dozens of Boston's criminals several years back, including members of the Italian and Russian crime syndicates. Due to their tendency to prey upon only those whom they considered to be evildoers, the local media dubbed the brothers and their father 'The Saints'- no relation to the Agency's team of fetishist, psychopathic nuns you encountered a while back. The brothers returned to the States a few years back to continue their work, were arrested, and are currently serving sentences in the Hoag Maximum Security Prison just outside of town.

"The third target is former FBI Special Agent Paul Smecker, who was head of the local FBI office's Organized Crime Division during the MacManus brothers' initial run. He was reported to have been killed in the line of duty some years ago, but our client has provided us with intel showing that Smecker faked his own death to his subordinates. He is now deep in the FBI hierarchy and is plotting to spring the Saints from prison. The client wants the targets taken out before this can happen. Smecker is likely going to be your pass to get into the prison in order to deal with the MacManus brothers, so you'll probably want to target him first. Smecker is openly homosexual and this may provide you an opportunity when dealing with him.

"Our client has also requested that, if possible, the MacManus brothers be immolated as their method of execution. Due to their being inside a federal prison, this may prove problematic, but the client has emphasized that this is only a personal preference and not an official requirement to the contract. However, the client is willing to pay an additional twenty-five thousand dollars if it is able to be done. We'll leave that up to you to determine if it can be pulled off, 47. Good luck, and once again, welcome back."

47 looked at the pictures of the three men who were his targets. He clicked on the pictures and expanded them, showing the two MacManus brothers' photos next to each other with intel listed below, and under that Paul Smecker's photo and intel was listed. The brothers, while not identical, were clearly twins. He could see a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on the left side of each of their necks. They had blonde hair and blue eyes. Although the intel below the picture gave their age to be in their mid-forties, they both looked rather boyish, as if they were still in their twenties. Some slight wrinkles around their eyes were the only tell-tale signs of their correct age. Because the two brothers were inexorably linked to one another, the intel summary for both was provided as if for a single target.

"Connor and Murphy MacManus are the twin sons of Noah McManus, A.K.A. Il Duce/The Duke, the most feared hitman to ever operate on the east coast of America who was not employed by the Agency. The brothers were raised on Irish Catholic values and typically adorn themselves with crucifixes and religious tattoos. Connor has a tattoo on his left hand which reads VERITAS, which is Latin for Truth, while Murphy has a tattoo on his right hand that reads AEQUITAS, meaning Justice. The brothers are well educated, being able to speak multiple languages. They are polite and friendly, and are often described by friends and neighbors as 'angels.' They will, however, fight and kill viciously for their ideals of justice and to protect one another. It is said that when executing their primary target during a hit, the Saints will say a family prayer:

'And Shepards we shall be,
For Thee, my Lord, for Thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand,
That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee,
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In Nomine Patris, Et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti.'

Below that was a picture and intel on former agent Paul Smecker. He had a rugged face and his longish hair was combed back fashionably from it. His eyes appeared intense but scrutinizing, as if he were carefully appraising whatever he had been looking at when the picture was taken.

"Paul Smecker was the head of the FBI's Organized Crime task force in the Boston area throughout the 90s. He is believed to have become involved with the Saints when they first began to target the city's criminal underworld. Rumors have circulated that he and the crew of local police detectives that were assigned to assist him actively aided the Saints in entering the courtroom where the head of the local mafia was being put on trial. The incident ended with the Saints executing the Don, with the entire court being deliberately left unharmed as witnesses. Following this incident, Smecker severed contact with the MacManus brothers, who were believed to have fled to Ireland. Smecker was reported killed while on duty a few years following the incident, but it has recently come to light that he staged his own death in order to disappear and avoid the enemies he had made in the mafia for his alleged involvement. Only high-level officials within the government know that he is still alive and working behind the scenes on behalf of the FBI. He is currently working out a plan to break the MacManus brothers out of prison, so that they may continue their quest. Smecker is condescending to those whose intelligence he feels are inferior to his own, and is known to be fond of opera music. He is homosexual, and will often flaunt his sexual orientation when among other men, in an effort to both make straight men uncomfortable and to flirt with any prospective partners. He has been known among gay bars to be insulting and abusive to men who are being 'too faggoty.'

47 read over the intel three more times each and spent five minutes carefully examining each picture. Finally, he closed the window and severed his connection with the Agency's satellite network. He then connected with the slower but sufficient internet service used by his apartment complex and booked a first-class flight to Boston, as well as a rental car and a hotel room. His flight would leave at 3:50 PM MST tomorrow, giving him plenty of time to get a good rest, eat breakfast, do his morning workout, shower, pack the luggage he would be taking with him and then head to the airport in Denver, stopping to get some lunch along the way. With a non-stop flight time of four hours and ten minutes, and taking the change to an earlier time zone into account, he would arrive in Boston at around 10:00 PM EST. Dinner would be served on the flight, so he would not need to stop for a meal on the way to the hotel, and he could always order late room service if the in-flight meal turned out to be less than appetizing, which it often did.

With his schedule for the next day settled, the assassin closed his laptop and set it back on the nightstand. He turned off the lamp next to the bed and lay back down to watch the rest of the soccer game, which did not have much time left. Once the game had ended, with Brazil victorious over India, he turned off the TV, got underneath the covers on the squeaky spring bed, and within ten minutes, Agent 47 was in peaceful sleep.

xxxXXXxxx

Twelve nights had passed since 47 accepted his latest assignment, and the assassin was finally ready to enact phase three. The bald clone had always considered his assignments to be divided up into five different phases; the briefing, the recon, the infiltration, the hit, and the exit. The briefing was always the easiest part and had been out of the way the very night Diana called him. For the last ten days, Agent 47 had been carrying out the recon phase of the operation, and a certain amount of preliminary infiltration. He had obtained some false documentation, provided by the Agency's forgery department. He had paid the fee for the service himself; essentially no financial loss, as he had hundreds of thousands of dollars saved in his account with the Agency. The documents he had been provided with had allowed him to pose as a federal inspector and granted him access to the Hoag Maximum Security Prison just outside the Boston city limit. He had been able to go as himself without requiring any sort of disguise, and after making a few rounds of the prison inside and out, he now had an idea of how he could eliminate his two targets and what he needed to do to pull it off.

He had also been able to locate the whereabouts of the third target, Paul Smecker , and had followed him carefully for the last eight nights in a row. The assassin had learned where the man went, what he did and who he did it with. Tonight, 47 would make the hit on Smecker, and then go after the MacManus brothers tomorrow.

He finished setting his tie, which was striped with both light and dark red, and pulled on his black gloves. After securing his belongings in their protective case and making sure his two silenced Silverballers were holstered and his fiber wire set in place, 47 opened his cell phone and dialed the number for the Agency office. Diana picked up on the second ring.

"Good to hear from you, 47. Is everything going well?" she asked him.

"It is." he answered back, "I'm about to collect Smecker. I will make my move on the MacManus brothers tomorrow. I will call you back once the objective is complete." Diana was pleased.

"Very good, 47. I will stand by and await your call. Let me know if you were able to fulfill the client's special request. I will have the money wired to your account immediately if you are successful. The funds for the official contract, as you are likely aware, have already been transferred. Happy hunting, 47."

Without saying goodbye, the killer closed his phone and placing it in his pants pocket. He checked his watch. It was 10:13 at night. By the time he had walked to his destination, he would be arriving right around the time his target began to be affected by alcohol consumption. Although he'd been across the street with binoculars each time, Agent 47 knew that Smecker went to the bar at exactly 10:00 PM every other night and began to show signs of drunkenness after about forty minutes, which was shortly followed by attempts to pick up some of the more handsome men who frequented the bar. 47 intended to take advantage of this as a tactic to get Smecker into an enclosed area alone and execute him. Having finished all preparation, Agent 47 left his hotel room and began his walk through Boston toward the target's preferred gay bar, the Open Closet.

Within a half hour, 47 walked into the Open Closet and went straight to the bar. He could see Paul Smecker down at the end, the bartender pouring him a drink. 47 could tell that Smecker had already been consuming, just as he had counted on, and the man was well on his way to a strong buzz. The assassin did not want to pull up a barstool too close to the target; that could seem to obvious for an investigator should any of the bar's current patrons be questioned in the days to come, which they likely would be. Sitting down, 47 waited for the bartender to serve him.

"I'll have a scotch, on the rocks." he said.

The bartender put some ice cubes in a glass, poured the drink and slid it across the counter to 47, who picked it up and took a sip. He never drank much, as alcohol tended to cloud the mind to an intolerable degree for someone of his profession… that, and alcohol made every drink it was put in taste like processed moose piss. But the burn on the throat and stomach as the drink went down was somewhat pleasant, and so 47 indulged from time to time, especially if his assignment required it, such as now.

After a minute or two of simply sipping and staring at the wall behind the bar, 47 chanced a look over at Smecker. He saw a young man who was standing over the FBI agent's shoulder, a big smile on his face, talking to the man. He was speaking quietly, so 47 could not hear what he said, but Smecker's reply was so loud that everyone in the room heard it.

"I told you before, no! Now back the fuck up, you fuckin' queer-ass fruit!" he shouted. Every man in the room turned his head to look, frowns clear on their faces, but a resigned look in their eyes, as if they knew such offensive language from someone who was supposed to be like them was expected from this particular patron. Diana's data had been accurate, as usual. For a homosexual, Smecker seemed to enjoy gay-bashing.

The young man Smecker shouted at took a few steps back, his hand going to his mouth, startled at the response he had evoked. Pouting, he skulked away and Smecker returned to his drink. After another minute or two, 47 stood up and walked over to Smecker. The FBI agent did not even acknowledge his presence, so 47 needed to get his attention.

"You look like you're having a bad day."

Smecker turned his head and looked up at him, seeming as if he were about to make another outburst, but then stopped and looked 47 up and down, appraisingly. He seemed to like what he saw, for he smirked and nodded, then looked his assassin in the eyes.

"You could say that." he responded to the tall, bald man. Smecker knew a player when he saw one. He did not know what business the handsome guy in the suit was into, but it was clear to the agent that he was well built and capable of extreme grace in a fight, possibly a martial artist. With his fancy suit and penetrating eyes, Smecker guessed that he was either some sort of government secret agent or was likely involved in some kind of shady business. A member of a mafia family perhaps, or an enforcer for a politician, possibly even the owner of a powerful company of some kind. Something like that.

"Want to talk about it?" Mr. 47 asked. Smecker made a scoffing sound and took another drink from his glass.

"I don't like to talk about work. Nothing personal." he said, trying to sound apologetic enough to make it clear that he was not trying to drive the man off. Getting into the act he knew he needed to put on, 47 raise an eyebrow slightly and tilted his head to the side.

"Well we don't have to talk about that, if you don't want to. Or about anything… tough guy." he added for emphasis. Smecker could read the signs and gave a small grin, his eyes narrowed in a predatory fashion. He stood up from the barstool and stumbled- perhaps deliberately, perhaps not- into 47's chest, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders to keep from falling down. Standing up straight again, Smecker began to rub his hand down 47's chest.

"Oops, messed up your tie there, buddy." he said, smoothing the red fabric out with his hand. On the last stroke, he let his hand wander down past the end of the tie and subtly brushed it against 47's crotch. This was the part 47 hated, and he felt sickened and dirty. It was not that it was another man who was touching him that he had a problem with- that was incidental. 47 did not care one way or another about anyone's sexual orientation, being completely uninterested in any form of sex himself. He hated it when anybody touched him like this, man or woman. It was even worse when they were drunk, where the smell of alcohol was nauseating and the behavior of his lust-filled violator would be almost overbearing. Still, this was a job and although Mr. 47 had no knowledge of or interest in social interaction on a sexual level personally, he could act the part in a way that was absolutely convincing when needed, such as now.

"Don't worry about it. Just make sure you don't fall down." he said with a suggestive tone to his voice, as he reached around with his non-drinking hand and lightly squeezed Smecker's ass. The FBI agent's eyebrows went up a bit and he grinned again.

"You know, if you don't want to hang around with this fruity crowd, my apartment has got an excellent view of the Boston skyline. It's rather… breathtaking at this time of night." 47 took one last drink from his glass, set it on the bar next to him, reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash which would cover the drink as well as a very generous tip. Then he looked back at Smecker.

"That would be fine." he said plainly. Smiling, Smecker grabbed his coat off the barstool next to where he had sat, and walked to the exit, Mr. 47 right behind him.

xxxXXXxxx

The two walked a few blocks to Smecker's apartment, the FBI agent holding onto 47's arm a good deal of the way, more to keep himself steady than anything else. Mr. 47 preferred taking the scenic route to using a cab. Being in a car with a driver who could get a good look at his two passengers and possibly ID them to authorities later was too great a risk for the minor convenience of arriving at their destination sooner. While there would be more people able to see them on the streets, such witnesses were not likely to get a good look or remember a lot of details. The mostly-Irish population of this part of town would also mean a far less chance that anything seen would be told to the authorities, as the Irish kept to themselves as much as possible.

So as they arrived at Paul Smecker's apartment complex and took the elevator to the upper floors, 47 was fairly confident that, up to this point, there were very few loose ends for tonight's hit. Smecker let him into the apartment and Mr. 47 immediately set about looking around with his eyes. It was significantly larger than his own apartment, but other than having more space, there was very little decoration or hominess to the place. Smecker was clearly only using it as a temporary retreat while he attempted to come up with a plan to get the MacManus brothers out of prison. He did see a collection of both CDs and old fashioned records lying on top of a shelf against the far wall and a stereo set that seemed designed for both. The titles revealed the music collection to be composed mostly of Italian opera. Remembering the intel he had received with the briefing, 47 saw possibility. Shutting and locking the door, Smecker turned around and smirked as he saw 47 looking around the place.

"Would you like a drink?" he offered, flopping down on a couch set against the wall. He sat as far on the end as he could, making the invitation to use the ample remaining space and sit down with him clear.

"No thanks, I'm a light drinker." he answered, then turned his head back to look at the music collection. "You like operas?"

Smecker smiled in response and hopped up off the couch, strutting over to the shelf.

"I love 'em. They help me focus." he said, eyeing the collection fondly. Even standing still, he was having difficulty keeping his body from tilting in his intoxication.

"I'd like to hear some. If that's alright." he suggested, with just a small amount of hesitancy in his voice. Smecker nodded, smirking back at him again.

"Absolutely, I'd like to listen to some myself. Any requests?" he asked. Mr. 47 thought for a moment, figuring that if he was going to use the music to his advantage for the task at hand, it might as well be something he liked.

"Ave Maria is a personal favorite." Smecker's grin widened at this.

"A man with excellent taste. So be it." The FBI agent looked through the selection briefly before locating the CD that contained the classic song on one of its tracks. He took the disk out of its case, put it in the stereo CD player and skipped to the appropriate track, while behind him, Mr. 47's hand slipped inside the jacket of his suit. The music began to play, and Smecker closed his eyes and began to sway along, his hands moving back and forth in a flowing patter, as if he were imagining that he himself were conducting the orchestra that played the soothing tune.

"You know, I've long thought that most people are sorely missing out on something special here. If you listen to the garbage they call music these days, it just seems a sacrilege to- gughhh!" Smecker gurgled, as his speech was suddenly and permanently hindered by 47's fiber wire looping around his neck and pulling taunt. Smecker was a highly trained government agent with years of experience and had even killed a few men himself, both in the line of duty and out of it. However, with the complete surprise of the attack as well as his brain being heavily affected by his earlier alcohol consumption, he completely forgot in the moment all of his training and instinctively set about the completely useless tactic of reaching for the wire around his neck and attempting to pull it loose.

Mr. 47 pulled on the two shiny black wooden handles of his garrote, each only three inches long and easily concealable along with the wire that connected them. He had strangled so many targets in the past, indeed his very first kill had been by means of strangulation very much like this one, and he was intimately familiar with the sensation of choking the life from a victim and knew exactly how to do it, quickly, efficiently and silently. The music playing in the background as he and Smecker did a macabre dance in the living room added a surreal element to the situation, and served 47's purpose of further blocking out any sound that might be made in the act. 47 was not certain how much of a fight Smecker could put up even while drunk and in the midst of being strangled to death- he was a high-ranking FBI agent- and so knew that the advantage of having music playing while performing the hit would help filter out the sound of a fight if Smecker were more resistant than expected. The assassin so rarely had the option of triggering further cover for his hits when on a mission, he knew it would have been foolhardy to pass up the opportunity to use it now, even if it seemed to not be necessary after all.

The non-metallic fiber wire was so smooth and Mr. 47's grip pulled so tight that it was more than mere oxygen depravation robbing Smecker of his life. Without breaking through his skin, the garrote had already crushed his windpipe, put a complete stop to the flow of blood to his brain from the arteries being so tightly constricted, and had even partially dislocated his cervical vertebrae. Within seconds, the shock of the constriction alone had reduced Smecker's already ineffective attempts at prolonging his life to completely feeble infant-like arm movements. His knees buckled and only 47's strong grip kept him on his feet.

Less than twenty seconds after 47 tightened the wire's loop around his victim's throat, Smecker's eyes glazed over and became distant and he no longer moved or attempted to pull air into his lungs. Knowing that even now it was theoretically possible for the man to recover if he were to let go of the wire and simply leave him where he fell, 47 continued to pull tight for another full minute after all signs of life stopped. It would not do to have Smecker come back from apparent death and be hungry for revenge on his almost-killer. Finally satisfied that the job was done, 47 slackened his pull and the body crumpled to the floor. The upper body was still held erect long enough for 47 to slip the loop off and then slumped over entirely with a muted thud onto the dull gray carpet. FBI agent Paul Smecker was dead.

Rolling his fiber wire up and placing it back in his pocket, Mr. 47 set about the task of clean-up and preparation for the next part of the assignment. One target was down with two more to go, and he would take care of them tomorrow afternoon. With the preparations he had already set in place during his initial infiltration of the prison facility as the supposed "inspector", 47 only needed a few more items that Smecker already had ready for him, without ever having known it. He dragged the body into the bedroom and hid it in the closet, closing the door on the corpse only after taking out Smecker's best suit and trench coat from within, as well as a matching fedora hat the agent had as well, which would come in handy in hiding his bald head. 47 then took Smecker's FBI ID card and his wallet, making sure his driver's license was inside as expected.

Once 47 had gathered these materials and liberated Smecker's keys from his pocket, he turned off the stereo, which had begun playing a new song by this point, and exited, locking the door behind him. He then headed down to the apartment complex parking garage where Smecker had left his car, as 47 knew he would. His recon on the man had shown him that Smecker always took a cab to the bar or walked if there was one close enough, so as to not end up driving after drinking and blowing his cover as a "dead agent" with the authorities. Mr. 47 got into the car, started it up, and drove out of the apartment complex and back to his hotel. After a decent night's rest, he would be ready to finish his assignment soon enough.

xxxXXXxxx

Having been let in through the prison's main gate and escorted inside the walls, 47, in the guise of Paul Smecker, was led to the administration wing of the complex. Once inside, 47 was asked to show his ID, then log and check his weapon in at the front security desk. Having taken Smecker's identification documents, once 47 got back to his hotel room, he was able to provide the Agency with the information necessary to forge a false ID with his picture in place of Smecker's and have it dropped off by a courier this morning. The front end security guard, used to the standard procedure of checking in visitors and important guests on a daily basis, looked at the ID and then at 47 and accepted it, handing it back after confirming, along with a temporary badge that indicated he was a visitor. He clearly did not recognize the prison's latest guess as the same man who claimed to be an inspector who had visited over a week ago.

Having turned over Smecker's service pistol, he followed the guard's order to walk through the metal detector. He did so and the detector sensed nothing metallic on him, as he knew would be the case. Other than Smecker's pistol, which he had brought solely to go with his cover, 47 had only brought his fiber wire and plastic syringe filled with tranquilizer fluid, neither of which were able to be identified by the metal detector and carefully concealed enough to evade discover during a pat-down, which came immediately after he passed through the detector. He did not believe he would need either of them, but it was always best to be prepared.

After passing security screening, 47 was shown through into the administration office, where he met with a clerk sitting behind a desk, typing on his computer when 47 walked in. He stopped and looked up at the man who had entered.

"Can I help you, sir" he asked. 47 nodded and pulled out his ID.

"Paul Smecker, FBI. I'm here to see the MacManus brothers. You should have orders and authorization on file for my visit." he told the clerk. The man typed into his computer and presumably pulled up the file in question. Like the security guards out front, the man did not recognize 47 from his previous visit as the inspector, due to the grey suit, trench coat, fedora hat and a slightly edgier tone in his voice. He had just infiltrated a maximum security federal prison in less than two weeks time, under two different identities that had only the flimsiest superficial differences, and no suspicious had been raised. As a federal facility in a city heavily manipulated by organized crime, Hoag Prison had bored, grumpy, inept employees working within its walls, but if it had been a competently staffed prison, such a feat would have been impressive even to 47 himself.

The clerk saw the order in question on his screen, with a note to contact the warden upon the arrival of agent Smecker, and so he picked up a nearby phone and called to the warden's office, requesting that he come down. After placing the phone back in its cradle, the clerk looked back up at 47.

"The warden is on his way and will discuss the requested arrangement with you. I also see here that you have a Red Level clearance tag assigned to you. Do you have with you?"

47 nodded and reached into his pocket, removing the clearance tag he had used on his previous visit to the prison. The false orders in the system had said that Smecker had one and was to be granted full access to any and all areas of the complex due to the sensitive nature of his scheduled meeting with Connor and Murphy MacManus. He showed it to the clerk.

"Very good, sir. You should go ahead and put that on now." he recommended.

"Of course." 47 said, doing so. The door on the wall behind the clerk's desk opened and the warden walked in. He shook hands with Mr. 47 and got right to it.

"Welcome, Agent Smecker. I've read the order regarding your meeting with the MacManus brothers. Although it's a little unusual, there should be no problem in following along with it. I know that those guys are targets to the mob right now and that the less contact that they have, the better for them." the warden explained.

"Everything will be taken care of then?" 47 asked. The warden nodded.

"Oh yes. Those guys are practically this prison's mascots. Respectful and cooperative to all the guards who don't give them any trouble, and even some of the inmates. The other inmates steer clear of them completely though.

"They've already killed two of our highest security inmates since being brought here. They claimed it was self-defense and nobody around here was going to question it. I mean, they're the Saints, for God's sake! Everyone knows that they killed those two scum-suckers because of what they did to get in here in the first place. None of the violent inmates want to be within a hundred yards of them if they can help it, and the guards allow them all kinds of favors. Unofficially of course, but we know it goes down.

"This place has run three times more smoothly than ever since those two came in; they're treated like royalty. So your requests regarding your meeting with them will be no problem. We want to keep them safe as we can when they're out of their cell, and they have the same full privileges an incarcerated mafia Don would have, so what you're asking, while unusual, isn't really a surprise."

"Good." 47 said. "Then I'll go over to the private meeting room and wait for them there. One thing that isn't in the orders you receive; I want them both to be showered before they are brought to me." The warden's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You want them showered?" he repeated.

"Yes." 47 confirmed. "A pet peeve of mine. I can't stand being in a room with felons who haven't been washed."

The warden starred at him a moment longer, processing this, but then shrugged and told him that it would be done. He would have to wait a little bit, as the private shower chamber reserved for inmates that were segregated from the general prison population was currently in use, but the MacManus brothers would be moved to top of the list and be next in line to use the chamber. Mr. 47 then asked the warden to notify the surveillance room to evacuate already, even though the order for the meeting only specified to do so when the MacManus brothers were actually brought to Smecker. 47 explained that he did not want the operators in surveillance to even see which room he was waiting for the brothers in, as a further security measure. Knowing the targets that the brothers were, the warden accepted this as well. 47 thanked the warden, shook his hand, and headed out of the administration room and down the hall, headed for the private guest meeting rooms. After he left, the warden put in the call to surveillance, telling them to leave the room until further notice.

With the Red Level security badge on his chest, 47 was not stopped or questioned by any patrolling guards. Most did not even acknowledge him once they saw that he had the badge, although a few nodded as he walked passed, to which he nodded in return to avoid suspicion. A few inmates being escorted by guards called out to him, wondering who let Dick Tracey in and other such meaningless alpha male drivel. Knowing he had to act quickly, 47 fast walked until he came to the hallway that he knew would take him to the surveillance center room. Keeping his head down and the fedora pulled low over his eyes to avoid any further contact, he soon arrived at his destination and entered.

Sure enough, the room had been cleared of all personnel. The orders sent to the prison had informed them that an important meeting regarding possible States Evidence was to take place between the visiting FBI agents and the Saints. This meeting had to be kept off the record and unknown to any except those needed to be involved in making it possible. The information that Smecker was even scheduled to arrive at the prison had to be removed immediately after his departure and all surveillance video that he had been inside Hoag and had met with the MacManus brothers had to be destroyed.

In reality, the FBI would never give such an order via email, as that could be easily traced, but that was another level of the government entirely that the employees in the prison knew nothing of, and so did not question it. The proper authorization had been received and confirmed, or so they thought, and so it was being carried out. Mr. 47 did not care if the order for the meeting and the log that showed Paul Smecker had visited the prison were destroyed or not, he only cared about the surveillance video, which could clearly identify a different individual than Paul Smecker, and would provide a clear view of his face for the authorities to put into their records. He would have none of that.

Moving to the equipment set up in front of him, it took him only a moment or two to locate the digital recorder of the footage the security cameras captured throughout the day. He stopped the recording process and ejected the disk that today's surveillance had been recorded on. He then opened a large metal, two door locker along the wall and pulled out the boxes containing the disks of records for the last ninety days. He located the day he had first visited the prison as an inspector and removed that disk from the box. Putting everything back where it was, he then looked at the row of monitors and located the private showering chamber. He saw a naked man dripping with water being thrown a towel by the guards outside the chamber and begin drying himself down.

He did not have a great deal of time left, but he was fairly confident that it would be enough. He knew the MacManus brothers would not be moved from their cell until the current occupant was placed back in his, and from his mental layout of the prison from his recon phase, he knew the brothers were located at the other end of the wing, and would be escorted cautiously to the private chamber. With only two steps to accomplish before everything was ready, he exited the surveillance room.

xxxXXXxxx

"Ok boys, let's go, you're being taken to the private showering chamber." the guard said, opening the cell. The brothers Connor and Murphy looked at each other from their separate cots, then back at the guard.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Murphy asked in his sharp Irish accent.

"Some FBI big-wig is here to meet with you. Wants you guys to be kept away from anyone else while he's here and wants you to have a shower before you meet with him, so we're taking you to the one reserved for those mafia dickheads. Come on guys, this is special VIP treatment you're getting here!" the guard said, enthusiastically.

"If you want to give us VIP treatment," Connor began, pulling on his prison issue shoes, "why not bring us some fuckin' beer. Then I'd feel like a very important fuckin' person."

xxxXXXxxx

Up to this point, Mr. 47 had needed to rely on several special aid services that the Agency provided for its agents when the situations deemed it necessary for them to request such assistance. This was against 47's practice and he disliked needing to get assistance in any aspect of the job save for the initial information provided in the briefing. His reputation required he do everything himself as much as possible. However, the current job had required the use of said services due to the involvement of a high-ranking FBI agent and a federal prison, and so 47 had needed to resort to what he considered to be "extreme measures." Now, however, he had performed all tasks that had required intervention from the Agency to accomplish the mission, and from this point forward he could complete the job on his own merits. That was just the way he liked it.

Fast walking again to his destination, 47 made a quick stop in a small janitorial room, little more than a closet, set off from the main hallway. On his previous visit to the prison, 47 had pulled the main janitor aside and bribed him an extremely generous amount of cash to bring him a handful of items and perform a few small chores. 47 had known immediately by the man's delight over the cash that he would follow 47's request to the letter. Looking into the room, he saw that the janitor had come through in fine style. Although 47 could have obtained the items on his own, it helped to have someone else involved for the heat to fall on, should any of it be traced back to a source. 47 lifted the blanket covering a large cardboard box in the corner. Underneath was a fully supplied toolbox, a zippo lighter, a spare guard uniform, an empty duffel bag, and two five gallon Justrite gasoline canisters, the H-1851R model type II, complete with hoses and air ventilation design. There was also a small cart next to the box, which 47 placed the two canisters and toolbox on and then covered with the blanket.

He pushed the cart out of the janitor's room and down the hallway to where he knew the water control operations room was located. Looking into the room to first make sure nobody was around, 47 pushed the cart into the room and located the inflow pipes to the showering areas. After confirming which led to the private showering chamber, Mr. 47 turned the valve that shut off the water to that pipe, then took the two gas canisters from the cart and over to the purifying mechanism for that pipe. Using the tools from the toolbox, it only took 47 a minute to hook the two gas canisters up to the system. Some fresh water was still in the pipe at the time it had stopped, so when the shower in the private chamber was turned on, it would be a minute or two before the gasoline started to come through. By that time, he would be in place.

Exiting the room, 47 then pushed the cart down to where the electrical systems hub was located. Again checking that no maintenance workers were present, Mr. 47 then set about removing some panels from the walls in the electrical room until he located the fire alarm for the wing that the private shower was located in. After disabling it, he replaced the panels on the walls, placed the zippo lighter in his pocket, stuffed the guard uniform into the duffel bag and put the bag strap over his shoulder. He pushed the cart into the corner, no longer needing it, and exited the room, heading back to surveillance as quickly as he could without arousing unwanted attention.

He walked into the surveillance room and looked at the monitors. He could see that the MacManus brothers and the guards who escorted them were right outside the private chamber. The brothers were beginning to strip down. Knowing that he was right on time, 47 left surveillance once more and jogged to the private shower chamber. He slowed down before he walked through the door that let into the room where the chamber was located. The brothers were already inside, and while there were glass windows set at eye-level in the double doors leading inside, they were otherwise isolated from those in the room outside the chamber.

When 47 entered the room, the four guards turned to look at him, some tensing their hands around their weapons slightly. Then they noticed the Red Level tag he was wearing and relaxed a little.

"I'm Agent Smecker. I'm going to be escorting these two to the meeting room myself for security reasons. I'd like you four to proceed to meeting room three and wait outside it for me to arrive with them." he ordered, full confidence of authority in his voice.

"Is the warden aware that this is taking place?" One guard asked. 47 looked at him and frowned slightly.

"Of course he does, I didn't get this badge for nothing." he said sternly, flicking the badge. "If you're still concerned about it, you can call him up and ask him to confirm it."

The guard seemed to think about doing that very thing for a moment, then decided against it.

"Won't be necessary. Let's go." he said to the other four, and the guards exited the room. 47 waited thirty seconds before looking outside to make sure the guards had not lingered, but the coast was clear. He walked up to the door to the shower chamber, keeping as low as he could while allowing himself to see in. The two brothers stood inside, their faces turned upward to the water spouts. Although it was a private room intended for one occupant at a time, it still possessed multiple spouts arranged around a single primary faucet like all prison showers, allowing the brothers to be cleansed at once. 47 could see various religious tattoos in various locations on their bodies, and for a moment was reminded of his time in Sicily, working as Father Vittorio's gardener.

The assassin knew he could take the brothers out now, if he wanted to. He had brought the fiber wire and tranquilizer in case something went wrong, but he could use the garrote to get the job done right here and now. Just throw the loop around one brother's neck and pull with one hand, not killing the target but pulling him to the ground for a moment, while wrapping the other arm around the other brother's neck and twisting, snapping the neck completely, let the body drop and use both hands to pull the wire taunt, strangling the remaining target in seconds. Or he could even walk in right now and just smash their heads together hard enough inflict fatal injury, and he could then snap both of their necks or stomp their heads into paste once they fell to the ground, finishing them both. However, the client wanted them eliminated in a particular fashion and as long as he was able to pull it off, his reputation and pride in his work dictated that he carry it out exactly as requested.

Knowing that the gasoline would be coming through the spouts any moment now, 47 set down the duffel bag and took out the guard uniform. He quickly removed the zippo lighter, fiber wire and syringe from his person and placed them in the pockets of the uniform, stripped out of Smecker's suit and put on the guard uniform, stuffing Smecker's clothing articles into the bag, including the hat and coat. He also slipped in the visitor and security clearance tags and the surveillance disks he had taken.

"You smell that?" he heard one of the brothers say inside the room. The time was now. He took out the zippo lighter.

"Yeah, what the fuck is that?" the other brother said. He flipped the top of the lighter open.

"That smells like gas. It's fuckin' gasoline!" the first brother exclaimed. He spun the wheel and a small flame flicked into being.

"What the fuck!" the second brother shouted in confusion.

47 flung open the door, tossed the duffel bag inside, where it splashed onto the floor between the two brothers, immediately getting soaked in the water-gasoline mixture within. He threw the lighter into the room, where it landed on the wet tiled floor right in front of the bag. He saw a bright flicker and heard a fwhump sound as the gasoline fumes within the chamber ignited, but before the whole chamber burst into flames, 47 slammed the double doors shut and locked them from the outside.

"Motherfuckaaaaaaahhh!"

"Shiiiiiiiiiaaaaahhhhhh"

The Saints' curses turned into screams of instant agony as their gas-covered bodies were instantly consumed in dripping liquid flame. 47 watched as the brothers rushed at the doors and pounded against them, trying desperately to get out, shrieking in pain the entire time. One of the two actually punched through the window at the top of one of the doors, clearly trying beyond all reason to climb through it and get out of the shower chamber. Some smoke from the flames and the burning flesh of the brothers began to waft out of the broken window, but with the fire alarm disable, no one would become aware of the fire in time to do anything about it. By the time anyone was aware that fire had broken out inside the prison, all of the fuel inside the room would have been consumed. In another two minutes all of the gasoline in the two canisters would be drained, and the two human bodies in the room, while covered in a flammable substance, would not continue to burn due to the low ability of active flame to burn away a human body without an independent source of fuel surrounding said body.

The smell of burning flesh also began to fill the room. 47 had experienced that smell a few times in his life, and it truly was the most awful stench that existed, but he would endure until he was certain the job was done.

After a minute or two, whether from the pain, the injuries inflicted by the fire or from smoke inhalation, the two men ceased screaming and both dropped to the ground. 47 stayed where he was for another two minutes, making sure that the brothers did not move again and watching the duffel bag burn along with its contents. He knew the fire produced by the gasoline did not produce enough heat to completely melt away the disks and plastic tags into plastic puddles before the fuel ran out, but they would be damaged enough beyond all possibility of recognition or usage.

Finally convinced that the MacManus brothers were in fact dead, Mr. 47 turned on his heels and exited the room, heading down the hall and straight toward the front exit to the prison. He did not see anyone coming down the hall, a sign that nobody had been in this part of the wing near enough to hear the death cries of the two dying men.

47 walked through the door into the front security room. Seeing that he was one of their own, the guards within only looked up enough to see who had walked in and then went back to their business. The assassin exited the front door out into the courtyard, marched straight past the guards patrolling the main gate and left the prison behind. He continued until he got to Smecker's car, got in and started it up. Pulling out of the visitor parking lot of Hoag Maximum Security Prison, 47 got onto the main road and drove back into Boston.

He parked the car in a public parking garage, climbed into the back seat and took his regular suit out of a plastic bag he had hidden under the floor mat. He quickly changed out of the guard uniform, placed it into the bag and slid it under the floor mat before exiting the vehicle. He opened the driver's side door again and pushed the button for the automatic lock, threw the keys onto the dashboard, then shut the door. The assassin then calmly walked the five blocks to his hotel, taking in the sites and sounds of Boston on the way. He was not impressed, over all.

Once he arrived back at his hotel, he packed away his fiber wire and syringe, then opened his laptop to log onto the Agency's network. While he did that, he dialed the Agency office number on his cell phone. Diana picked up after three rings.

"Hello, 47. I take it that the mission has been completed?"

"Yes." he responded. "The client's request was carried out; the targets were eliminated through live burning."

"Well done, 47, as always. I'm forwarding the bonus money to your account right now." Diana said.

"Mmhmm. And I'm uploading the completion information to the system. I'll be leaving town soon." he told her.

"Very well, 47. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Boston. Until next time."

"Next time." he said plainly before ending the call.

After changing the status of the assignment to COMPLETED, 47 disconnected from the Agency network, then went online and booked a return flight to Colorado for the following day. After that was completed, he ordered a room service dinner of fried Alaskan salmon with mashed potatoes and a side of tomato soup, some red wine to wash it down, and a chocolate milkshake for a dessert drink. After the food was delivered, Agent 47 sat down at the dinning table and turned on the television set, flipping through channels while he ate his meal, until he finally settled on some silly cartoon show called Family Guy.

xxxXXXxxx

The Boston Globe

SILENT ASSASSIN STRIKES IN BOSTON. SAINTS AND FBI AGENT FOUND DEAD. POLICE SUSPECT BLOOD MONEY IS INVOLVED.

The Boston Police Department released a statement this morning that brothers Connor and Murphy Macmanus, more widely known as "The Saints", were confirmed dead yesterday at Hoag Maximum Security Prison. According to reliable sources, the two men were burned alive in the prison showers, and the Boston Police have confirmed that this was the cause of the MacManus brothers' deaths.

Police have stated that the lack of witnesses is making the case very difficult to investigate. The police have absolutely no idea of the killer's identity, as nobody claims to have seen him or her.

In addition to the MacManus brothers, an FBI agent who was previously thought to have already been killed in the line of duty, Paul Smecker, was also found dead at an apartment complex yesterday. Police have stated that an individual impersonating Agent Smecker had arrived at the Hoag Maximum Security Prison yesterday, shortly before the event occurred that took the lives of the infamous Saints. Through investigation and the assistance of the Boston local office of the FBI, detectives traced Agent Smecker's residence to an apartment in the southern district of town. Investigators were startled to find that the real Paul Smecker had also been murdered, apparently though strangulation. Crime scene investigators have stated that Smecker's death likely took place between twelve to twenty four hours before the MacManus brothers were killed.

"Obviously, the person who entered our facility yesterday is being sought for questioning about these events." states the spokesperson for the Boston authorities. "We do not know for certain that this person is responsible for the deaths of these men, but that is the obvious conclusion that we have drawn at this time. Any information the public can provide may be useful in this case."

The MacManus brothers became Boston celebrities over night nearly ten years ago, when- continued on page A6.

NEW YORK CITY POLICE DETECTIVE TO BE INDUCTED INTO THE AMERICAN POLICE HALL OF FAME.

New York City detective John McClane is finally getting the recognition he deserves for his outstanding service to the badge, to New York, and to America as a whole. Detective McClane first gained public renown in December 1988, when he single-handedly stopped a terrorist/hostage/robbery situation that developed at Nakatomi Plaza in Los Angeles. One year later, McClane stopped a rouge group of U.S. Marines from taking over Washington Dulles International Airport and extricating General Ramon Esperanza from government custody. Five years later, McClane would be instrumental in stopping another terrorist from planting bombs all around New York City as a distraction for raiding the vaults beneath Wall Street. McClane then became a house-hold name just a few short years ago, when he personally stopped the virtual highjacking of the entire American infrastructure during the Independence Day Blackout. With all of these achievements to his record, Detective McClane at last being give his dues for- continued on page C2

UNITED STATES SENATOR ACCUSED OF INSIDER TRADING.

Senator Ron Davis has recently been thrown into the limelight over the controversy arrisng from the Harvardville Airport Outbreak incident. Senator Davis was recently accused of insider trading within the pharmaceutical conglomerate, WilPharma Corporation. As most Americans are aware, WilPharma has become entangled in its own controversy in recent years, due to reports that the company has been performing illegal tests of the deadly T-virus in India. Senator Ron Davis is a primary stockholder with WilPharma, and was one of the strongest voices in congress to be in favor of the nuclear strike that sterilized Raccoon City in October 1998, following an outbreak of the T-virus perpetuated by WilPharma's rival, the infamous Umbrella Corporation. Some critics of the congressional decision have stated that Davis's personal commitment to the WilPharma Corporation was his main reason for supporting the decision, knowing that the subsequent drop in public support for Umbrella would boost WilPharma's standing in the pharmaceutical market. However, with WilPharma now firmly set at the top following the dismantlement of Umbrella, Senator Davis's own massive profit increase is being called into question by- continued on page D3

WORLD FAMOUS DOCTOR PRONOUNCED DEAD IN NEW JERSEY FIRE.

Doctor Gregory House, well known in medical circles around the world for his eccentric and outlandish approach to medicine, was pronounced dead yesterday in Plainsboro New Jersey, following an explosion caused by fire at an apartment complex of one of his patients. Dr. House was known throughout the field of medicine for his unorthodox methods to curing patients deemed incurable to the common physician. His unique approach did have a dark side, however, with some critics of House calling his methods "legally questionable at best, morally reprehensible at worst." Dr. House was also a known abuser of the pain medication Vicodin, as well as other recreational drugs. This is currently believed to be the reason for his presence at the apartment building when it caught fire, as House's latest patient had also had a history of drug abuse, which included freebasing, possibly explaining the cause of the fire. Dr. House was employed at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital for nearly fifteen years a the time of his death. He is survived by his mother, whom- continued on page D3

VICE CITY DRUG BUSINESS DECLINING, TOURISTS CAUTIONED TO LOOK ELSEWHERE.

When people decide to travel to Vice City for a vacation, they typically have one thing in mind- illegal drug use in an environment so loaded with it, nobody will care. This may be a trend that is coming to a close, however. The popular Florida city, often referred to as Miami's Twin, is seeing a decline in drug traffic from its major players. VCPD spokespeople are stating that the decline in drug trafficking is making it easier to track what drug business is still taking place in town, increasing arrests and confiscation of product. Those who are planning to follow the Vice City dream may need to make alternative plans, as the increased likelihood of being apprehended while in possession of illegal drugs may- continued on page E2.

Well, there it is, the first long chapter of this story. As you can see, I wasn't kidding when I said that there would be familiar faces from other franchises that have nothing to do with Hitman. As you can also see, I tried as best I could to copy the newspaper report ending of chapters from Hitman: Blood Money as much as I could, throwing in side stories that show what else is happening in this whacky world, and possibly some hints of things to come. The crossover for this first chapter is with the film series The Boondock Saints, although if any of you could not tell or have not even seen either movie… really, what have you been doing with your life? I do not own The Boondock Saints any more than I own Hitman

Some may have noticed the lack of realistic details to the prison setting of this story. Having never been in a prison before, I have no idea what it's like there, so I used a great deal of artistic license. Fans of Hitman will probably understand this, as the games do similar things with some levels, such as the White House mission in Blood Money. We all know it's not anywhere near that easy to sneak around the real White House, and it's layout is not like in the game at all. So same thing happened here.

I have no idea when new chapters for this story will posted, as they are long and are difficult to write in a way that is believable, considering who 47 is targeting and how. I hope you all enjoyed it and will stick around for future chapters when they arrive. The news reports at the end of this chapter are only a small taste of what is to come. See you around!