Chuckles’ heart was firmly lodged in the upper part of his throat and beating faster than a human heart is supposed to beat. Blood pumped like oil through his veins, his ears turning red, jaw clenched and hands pumping. He couldn’t even tell what was happening at the moment as a swarm of Secret Service piled around, blocking his view. He saw Rooks at the center of it all, head whipping back and forth, eyes scanning intently on every face in the room. There was the low rumble of shock and unbelieving conversation bellowing throughout the hall, and a thin haze of gray smoke still waved through the air where The President had just been standing. Everything was moving in slow motion to Chuckles, the frantic voices slurred and incomprehensible, the movements of the many figures frustratingly halted and with no purpose. He found his weapon drawn without remembering drawing it, and he was almost across the stage in two long strides. Rooks was shouting to every man in the immediate area. Chuckles saw him glare at the upper left-hand exit door of the hall, and he pointed there quickly. Chuckles squinted and focused in on the door, but he could see nothing of interest.

"All men, suspect sighted heading towards the East Wing! Repeat: the East Wing! All Agents, converge on the East Wing!" He was shouting into his microphone, and Chuckles could hear the booming voice in his earpiece as well as over the stage. The undercover Joe forced himself to relax and take in the situation in with a clear head. Obviously, there had been a sniper in the left doorway, which led to the East Wing. Why didn’t anyone see him? He thought to himself. He looked around, his eyes scanning the stage, looking for more solid clues. Half of the agents present in the room had dashed off to the door, but about half a dozen still surrounded the fallen President. An EMT crew was now rushing from the left-hand backstage area, a stretcher and other equipment in tow. The President’s crumpled mass was slightly visible surrounded by the large men in black, and a spreading pool of red pretty much confirmed Chuckle’s fears. It was a lot of blood, and appeared to be spreading out around his head. Not a good sign. The parquet floor was spotless besides and the tiny metal objects stood out like sore thumbs. Chuckles bent and inspected the tiny things as the florescent lights glistened off of their silvery, metal skin. Shell casings. Three of them, right there, behind The President. The acoustics of the lecture hall had made it impossible for Chuckles to determine the location of the shooter. He had believed Rooks when he spotted someone heading down the East Hall. But no one had headed down the East Hall. Rooks had been mistaken. As Chuckles stood, the corner of his eye locked onto another thing. The curtain, leading to stage right swayed ever so slightly. It was a small, short wiggle, barely any movement at all, but someone had run through there. And recently. Chuckles jumped to his feet to warn Rooks of his error in judgement, but decided against it, stopping himself before he spoke. The squad leader was still kneeling by The President, who was still surrounded by other agents, and now was hovered over by Emergency Medical Technicians. Instead, Chuckles broke off and dashed out through the side curtain, his nine-millimeter gripped like a lifeline. He hoped Rooks was as absorbed with the drama on stage as he appeared to be, and didn’t see him leave. Chuckles wasn’t sure why, but Rooks had suddenly been cast in a most questionable light. He burst through the curtain with unintended dramatics, his weapon poised out in front of him, one hand cradled by the other to steady the aim. The long hallway was silent and empty, the red carpeting bare and undamaged. Chuckles lowered his pistol and stared down the hallway curiously. The shooting had only happened minutes ago. If the suspect was running down this hall, Chuckles had a good chance to catch up to him. If he were off in some other part of the building, then this chase down the hall would be a waste of time and could allow the man to escape. Like any good cop or soldier, Chuckles strongly believed in the theory of gut instinct. He’d seen it solve many a case and save many a life. His gut said to run down the hallway, so he drew in a breath to steady the nerves and bolted. His legs pumped with the trained physicality of a marathon runner, although his breath was much shorter, and his heart raced much faster, even threatening to blast from his chest as he reached twenty yards. Although, that was more due to the tenseness of the moment and less due to Chuckles’ physical condition. Chuckles tried to remember back to the briefing session with the building blueprints and descriptions of whom was posted where. In his mind he visualized this hallway, a long hallway with many turns on the west side of the lecture hall, leading to the parking garage underneath the neighboring Inn. Chuckles was quite suddenly certain that this was where the suspect was headed. He picked up his pace as he approached a right turn, dashing by other lecture rooms, classrooms, and professor’s offices. Chuckles recalled that there were about five agents posted at the entrance to the parking garage, so he was somewhat reassured, although Rooks bizarre behavior still weighed heavy on his mind. What if he rerouted all security? The parking garage could be empty right now with a clear exit to freedom. Chuckles didn’t like that thought even as it was processing, and struggled to pick up the pace. There were only a few more bends, then the garage would be within his reach. As he ran, he suddenly remembered something, and had to fight the urge to slap himself in the forehead for his own stupidity. The communicator in his ear. It tuned to a special channel that only the Joes could hear. Law! The undercover agent pulled his microphone from the collar of his suit coat and spoke frantically.

"Agent One to Agent Two…Agent One to Agent Two…Law, do you read me?" Chuckles barked frantically into the mouthpiece.

"Chuckles? This is Law, my man…where the heck are you?" Law’s voice was a hushed, excited whisper.

"I am in pursuit…of the suspect! Down the…west hallway, leading to the parking…garage! I need backup, man!" Chuckles spoke hurriedly through exploding bursts of air from his lungs, which struggled just to keep up with the sprinting.

"What? Rooks has been in constant contact. The suspect’s in the East Wing. Says he’s holed up in the cafeteria. We’re all heading there now."

"Law, listen! Something…something’s not right with Rooks! I…was right…there when it hap—happened. Don’t leave me hanging, Law!" Chuckles could barely speak, his breath almost gone from the running alone. He could see the door leading to the garage just ahead, the dark void behind showing through the small, square window. Law seemed to be considering his options.

"No worries, Hombre. I’ll be right there!" the line clicked dead, and Chuckles was slightly reassured. But he remembered the blueprints. The cafeteria was on the far east side of the large complex. Exactly opposite of the garage. Coincidence? My ass, it’s a coincidence! Chuckles slowed to a jog, then halted by the metal door, his breath shooting in rapid gasps. He looked through the window, and sure enough there was no security in sight. Lots of cars littered the garage, most of which were Government Issue. The whole block had been sequestered and The President and his staff took up the whole inn next door. Chuckles looked at his watch, trying to make a guess about when Law might arrive. It could take him as long as five or ten minutes, depending on whom he runs into, was Chuckles’ best guess. He didn’t have time to wait, and he knew it. With a short breath, he reached down and twisted the long, narrow knob, and it swung freely. The door was unlocked. He double checked his automatic for ammo and made sure his spare clips were accessible. Chuckles closed his eyes, lifted his gun with a slight bend in his arms and slammed into the metal door, shoulder first. The door swung wide and fast as Chuckles threw himself into the dark, concrete room. He spun skillfully and ended up in firing position with his pistol aimed into the garage, the exit ramp rising up into Main Street just behind and to his right. Several thick concrete pillars held up the sidewalk and buildings above, every wall also cement and the exit ramp plastered in the middle of the north wall with ten foot portions of concrete wall on each side. Chuckles’ trained eyes slowly scoped out the darkness, but revealed no signs and no movement. Slowly, he walked into the garage, turning at the waist, carefully judging each step and looking intently in between the numerous dark government sedans that occupied the area. He sniffed at the air lightly, but could smell no exhaust. If the suspect had escaped, he hadn’t driven away. The undercover man squinted, trying to get a clear view of the first row of cars, but they were about thirty feet away and he couldn’t quite see into them. Another row of cars sat behind them, with enough space to pull out and a wide path leading down the east side, left for a few yards, then out the exit, on to Main Street. Certainly he wouldn’t WALK out, would he? Secret Service outside would be on him in seconds. His mind raced, desperately trying to formulate some plan of action that the suspect might have taken, or that he might himself take. The garage was apparently a dead end. Chuckles began to lower his automatic when the engine roared to life, loud and long. It gunned suddenly and ferociously, a great metal beast awakened with a start from a quiet slumber. The engine noise rose to a pitch, whined piercingly, then dulled to a throbbing rumble. The headlights flashed on with the brightness of the sun against the dark background of the parking garage. Chuckles winced as if hit with a physical force, yellow light washing over him from the second car back and furthest on the left. He stepped back, but regained his balance and wrapped his hands together around the smooth handle of the pistol, holding it forward in a prefect shooter’s stance, one foot placed ahead of the other to steady the aim. The motor dipped to confirm the shifting to reverse and the sedan hurtled back quickly. The car stopped with a shuddering jolt and light squeal then lurched forward, rubber screeching and peeling from the tires, leaving dark patches on the pavement floor. With a skillful swerve, the car whipped around the similar sedan in front of it and bore down on the Joe, who still remained stock still in his stance. The light bathed the large man, as he stood with weapon drawn, his mouth a narrow snarl and his eyes two piercing slits boring into the very soul of the driver. He drew a breath and fired three quick, well-grouped shots into the driver’s side of the windshield. The pistol rocked in his tight fist, but the bullets hit their marks plowing into the safety glass with the force of three tiny freight trains. Gummy chunks of thick glass blasted into the air from the impact, which was not a crack, but merely a succession of rapid thumps barely audible underneath the nearly deafening echoes of gunfire in the tight confines of the parking garage. Three dents appeared in the windshield, but no holes, and only a minimal crack spread from the points of impact. The car continued it’s speedy forward progression, zooming towards the undercover agent. Chuckles cursed quietly and squeezed off four more shots, this group also well placed and slamming into the thick window right at the same level as the invisible driver’s head should be. The driver was now only a jagged silhouette behind the windshield, which was reminiscent of a torn, ravaged spider-web, each crack a long, winding strand. But still the windshield remained whole, no holes or easy entryways for wayward nine-millimeter slugs. The car didn’t even slow as the bullets struck, the driver evidently confident in the windshield’s bulletproof capabilities and determined to make an escape. The whole world suddenly shifted again to slow motion as the blue sedan plowed through the dark air of the dimly lit garage straight towards the Joe masquerading as a secret service agent. His broad shoulders tensed underneath the jet black suit coat, his white shirt underneath starting to soak with sweat from the activities of the evening. The dirty blonde Joe kept still in his firing stance, the four door hurtling closer still and the options zipped through his active mind like lightning-quick flash cards. Only these flash cards had no easy answer, and a wrong answer could mean the difference between life and death. Chuckles’ senses seemed heightened in the gray confines, his nostrils flooded with the putrid stench of exhaust and burning rubber. The large man choked down the urge to be sick, brought on by the smells or the situation; he was not sure which. Seconds crawled by like decades as the car pressed onward, treading dangerously close to the pistol wielding GI Joe undercover agent. The options continued their assault on Chuckles’ brain, and he settled on one with the dead certainty of a man’s last request. His brain fought the urge to run, dive for cover and throw himself from the path of the car. Now is not the time for self-preservation! His mind angrily barked at the unwilling extremities. Every muscle in his body tensed as the car approached him, now a mere ten feet away and gaining speed with no intention of stopping. But he maintained his firing stance. With angry determination he trained the pistol steadily on the windshield, his eyes following the long extension of the barrel and squinting just over the small triangle-shaped sight at the end. The aiming device was centered right in the center of where the driver’s shaded head was, just above the steering wheel, apparently ducking and glaring straight at the intended target. As the car hurled forward Chuckles snarled and yanked back on the trigger repeatedly, keeping the thrashing handgun directed in the precise spot on the driver’s side of the windshield. With more thuds and thumps, the window buckled in it’s frame and threatened to shatter inward, a hail of nine millimeter following it in to take out the hapless assassin contained therein. But it didn’t shatter or break, it held fast. C’mon! Chuckles pleaded. Just a few more shots…but the sedan was right on top of him, and he had run out of options. He sucked in a breath in nervous anticipation as he threw his large frame up into the air. He jumped higher than even he had expected and was practically launched into the cool March air that filtered into the garage from outside. I made it! His mind proudly exclaimed. Now I’ve just got to—the shattering pain in his right angle halted all thought processes. The car’s grill clipped his foot as he brought his knees up, desperately hoping to clear the hood and roll safely to the side, watching the car zip by. His Dukes Of Hazard dreams came slamming to a halt as the powerful impact completely wiped his momentum. The force of the grill threw his legs viciously backwards as he rose up through the air, and his body twisted awkwardly over the hood of the car. He came crashing suddenly down as his legs were blasted out from under him, his right hip striking the thick part of the Detroit iron hood, leaving a large round dent in the metal surface. He closed his eyes as his face was thrown forward with amazing force and plowed into the smashed windshield, his cheeks and flesh buckling under the abuse. Agony roared unhindered through his head and face as his cheekbone and jaw smashed underneath the red and split skin. The momentum would not stop there, though. The laws of physics unmercifully continued on, spinning his legs up and around in a bizarre contortionist somersault, his body twisting and thrashing out of his control. He winced in anticipation as his body flipped forward, slamming him down back first on the edge of the roof where it met with the windshield. He felt the wet snapping of his ribs as he twisted again, hitting the roof with his left side and denting it with his lower back. His feet pounded down on the roof as well, leaving small, circular dents in its thin blue metal. Chuckles tried feverishly to alter his trajectory, but his ravaged body refused to cooperate as he continued his forward momentum over the speeding automobile. As he hit the roof, he slid and rolled roughly along the metal surface, his arms and legs flailing as if boneless, and his body continually abused by the metal and plastic. With a grunt, Chuckles slipped off of the roof and down towards the trunk of the car. Amazingly, he regained his composure somewhat and dug his heels into the top of the trunk with strong determination. As the car whipped forward, he extended his legs like a spring and threw himself through the air behind the sedan. The concrete fast approached, but the undercover agent tucked his head and hit the ground shoulder first, already rolling with the skill of a gymnast, then rolled up onto one knee, completely shocking himself with this new found skill. Adrenaline and energy pumped powerfully though his veins, and forced the pain to halt it’s attack, if only for moments. Chuckles stared at the sedan as it sped away, it’s red taillights dimming as it approached the corner to turn and disappear into the night. His face was streaked with red, chips of safety glass embedded in his flesh, blood coursing over pale skin and through matted, dirty blonde hair.

"No..nobody…shoots The—The President on my…watch!" he mumbled through puffy, bloody lips. Before he even realized that his arms were extended in a skillful firing stance, he fired again and again and again, the loud barks of gunfire erupting throughout the dank air of the garage. Exhaust and gun smoke mixed in the air in a blue/gray swirl of noxious fumes as the yellow muzzle flashes illuminated the darkness. The shots were right on target and plowed into the rear right tire of the escaping sedan, blowing it out into shredded rubber and sending the metal hubcap spinning away over the rough concrete surface. The car lurched sickeningly to the right, and the driver tried to compensate, then lunged the other way. The brakes locked and the remaining three tires squealed harshly, then the car spun helplessly, flying past the left turn to heads towards freedom. With a massive crunch the car struck the cement wall, passenger-side first, tearing metal and shattering glass. Another tire blew, the windshield finally shattered inward and the car rocked slowly, smoke and exhaust billowing from end to end. Chuckles lowered his head and smiled to himself, then forced himself to stand and begin the long walk to the smashed car. The pure adrenaline was wearing thin already, and the agent’s walk soon became a lumbering, limping comedy act, desperately putting foot before foot, approaching the beaten and smashed sedan.

"Chuckles: One…stupid blue car: zero," Chuckles mumbled and laughed to himself as he stumbled towards the auto, his pistol slightly raised. He popped the clip out as he walked, barely even hearing the thin metal clunk as it struck the concrete floor. As an automatic reaction, he scooped another clip from his belt and slammed it home with a satisfying click. His suit jacket was torn and shredded, his blue and orange Hawaiian shirt showing underneath. Blood ran in streams down his now bare arm and over almost his entire face. His right eye was pretty much swollen shut from the impact with the windshield and he couldn’t honestly figure out how he possibly held onto the gun throughout the whole ordeal. It had happened quickly, a matter of seconds, but it seemed an eternity to Chuckles…one he would be paying for for quite some time. He was quickly approaching the car, and slowly he felt the rush returning. His pain eased a little bit and his pace quickened ever so slightly. In seconds he was at the driver’s side door, the window cracked into a series of ragged shards, erasing any visibility to the interior of the car. No way anybody’s walking from this wreck! He thought to himself, but just to be safe, he raised his weapon as he hooked the fingers on his left hand around the door handle. With a quick jerk, he lifted the handle and swung the door at the same time, quickly bringing his hand back to support the firing hand, his finger nestled snugly next to the warm embrace of the trigger. The driver’s seat was empty. His head whipped around reflexively and caught a quick glimpse of the small figure before it struck at him. Before his body was even completely around, the pistol was launched from his hand by a quick and hard chop, the arm more like a blur than an actual part of the body. The pistol arced through the air, over the car and clattered against the cement wall, then fell with a clank on the hood of the wreck. Chuckles squinted at the small person in front of him dressed in the familiar white and black of a Secret Service agent. His eyes grew somewhat wide.

"You’re a chick--?"

"Arrogant pig!" she shouted even before Chuckles could finish the sentence. She swung her leg like a thick, oak staff and plowed it into Chuckles’ midsection, sending his ribs searing with pain, and blasting the last bit of breath he had from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, coughing and gagging, barely supporting himself with trembling, red-soaked arms.

"Heh!" the woman laughed. She wore the black suit coat and pants, everything right down to the shoes and belt buckle. A dark black mask now covered her head, with only a slit for the eyes and the bridge of her nose. She stood at merely five foot six, but to Chuckles she seemed ten feet tall as he kneeled before her, struggling to breathe. "I am impressed," she said simply, then lashed out with a wicked right fist, slamming it hard into Chuckles’ broad jaw. His head whipped and spattered droplets of red on the gray floor, and he stumbled down to one elbow. "Even after being struck by the car, you continue the fight. Very brave," she said and lashed out again, this time with her left. Chuckles was thrown the other direction, stumbling clumsily back and resting uncomfortably against the smashed car. "Stupid, but brave." She laughed again and threw her left leg out like a gunshot, slamming her instep against the exposed side of Chuckles’ face. His head spun and whacked against the metal of the car door, and his eyes rolled slightly. Foamy blood dribbled from the corner of his lips. "Your will was carrying you. Now, your will is gone." She whipped her right leg out and around in a powerful roundhouse. It connected with a dull thud against Chuckles’ skull and he was thrown to the concrete floor like a two hundred and twenty-pound bag of potatoes. He lay there sprawled on the concrete, not moving. "And now, my over ambitious friend," she said, pulling a long, thin stiletto from a strap around her left wrist. "It is time for you to die." She twirled the thin blade and held it firm, blade down, her arm cocked and ready to fire.

"FREEZE!" the shout was overly loud in the empty garage, but served its purpose, causing the young girl to whirl, startled by the unexpected voice. Law stood in the open doorway, his legs locked in a shooters stance. His arms extended straight out, seemingly connected at the nerves to the cold hard steel Desert Eagle he held in his tight grip. The black .45 caliber glistened under the dim florescent lights of the garage, standing stock still, merely an extension of the shooter. Law’s finger sat poised just on the trigger, still and motionless, but anticipating trouble. He glared down over the barrel at the young girl with knife in hand.

"Drop the blade! NOW!" he shouted harshly, mostly to judge the opponent’s reaction. To Law’s surprise, she wasn’t the least bit fazed. Her mask turned slightly upward, almost as if she was smiling. Law’s eyes darted nervously back and forth from the woman to his partner, splayed unnaturally on the ground.

"I said drop the blade! Step away from the vehicle!" he reiterated. "This isn’t a game, little girl! Don’t think for one minute that I won’t shoot you!" His body remained still as he spoke, the weapon pointed at the center of her mass. She casually tossed the knife to one side, sending it skidding across the floor. Then as if being applauded by a cheerful audience, she bowed deeply, her left arm pointed out to her side. Law squinted. Suddenly, she crouched low, anticipating the path of Law’s bullets, which came fast and furious. He fired three times as she ducked, tucking her knees deeply into her chest. Her chin was mere inches above the ground as the shots rocked the garage and jacketed lead pounded into the metal surface of the car just above and behind her. Her eyes glared intently at Law, looking for even the slightest movement. His eyes gave him away and when he repositioned his weapon to point downward, she launched herself up into the air. Bullets chewed apart the ground where she was standing, chunks of concrete and bits of plastic and glass shooting into the air like little geysers. The young girl seemed to hover in the air, then curled into a tight ball and back flipped smoothly, landing in a graceful crouch on the hood of the car. Law raised his pistol quickly, but suddenly she had her own firearm as a small .20 caliber handgun almost appeared out of nowhere. She fired the three bullets in the weapon sending Law diving for cover, the woman deadly accurate, even with a shoddy pistol. He hit the concrete stomach first and skidded slightly, then raised his own weapon and fired. With unbelievable grace, the young lady leapt sideways into the air, flipped like a trained gymnast and hit the concrete ground in a low crouch. Try as he might, Law just could not get a bead on the girl. As soon as she stood she was off like a shot dashing up the exit ramp, and into the cold night. Law cursed himself harshly and picked himself up off the ground. He lurched forward into a dead run, skillfully shoving another clip into the automatic pistol. With a skid, he halted by his fallen friend and kneeled over him.

"Chuckles. You all right?" he asked, placing a pair of fingers on his neck to make sure.

"F—fine…" he mumbled. "Just get the…the girl." His pupils were floating like small brown rafts on a white pond, but Law agreed reluctantly. He leaped to his feet and was instantly up the ramp and out onto the sidewalk in front of the hall. News vans and reporters cluttered the street, which was blocked off to regular people and all gaped in wonder as he emerged from the garage, weapon in hand. They descended on him like a flock of vultures on carrion, microphones held out at arm’s length.

"Where did she go?" He demanded loudly to the oncoming crowd. "WHERE DID SHE GO?" he screamed it this time, but the blank faces told the story. This time, the reporters halted, taken aback by the sudden ferocity. Law shook his head and spun around, looking for escape routes. Then he saw one. The ramp led up to the road, concrete walls rising about six feet on each side. The elegant inn next to the center was situated directly next door, it’s sprawling white balcony practically touching the right hand wall. He could almost see her leap from the wall to the porch and be gone without a single reporter even seeing her. That meant Main Street! Law’s mind barked. She’s on Main Street. He lunged to his left and ran legs pumping and his heart racing. He finally acknowledged the lack of security on the street and made a mental note to check out Agent Rooks. Something was definitely not as it seemed. He rounded the corner, cutting close to the white, wooden porch, the nicely furnished rocking chairs still and unmoving. He waved his weapon back and forth, his eyes narrowing to slits as he took in the environment around him. Another "barricade" of news vans sat just beyond Allen Street, about one hundred yards straight ahead. Wooden sawhorses cut off access, but as with the garage and as with the street out front, no Secret Service. The stores were all closed and the street was vacant, almost like a fictional ghost town from an old Hollywood western. Law halfway expected a tumbleweed to blow aimlessly across the paved road, but shook that thought from his mind, trying desperately to concentrate on the task at hand.

Whisper leaned back, pressing her back against the side of the building, willing herself to be invisible. She thought she had outrun the Secret Service Agent, and was pretty sure none of the newsmen had spotted her, but she wasn’t certain. Uncertainty was an annoyance to her and the worst part about every job was the waiting. The tall buildings surrounded her, casting ink black shadows over the alley where she stood. She was breathing somewhat shortly, more from exhilaration than from exhaustion. She prided herself on being in good shape. With a deep breath she peeked out around the edge of the building and quickly jerked her head back in. The agent was rounding the white inn and was slowly walking across the street. Whisper cursed and tried to think of a way out of this. The other Secret Service could only be detained so long, and if she was spotted it was pretty much all over. She had no issues with sacrificing her life for the Cobra cause, but did want to live to see the plan in all of its glory. She squinted down the alleyway, pretty much the only alley on this section of street. It ended in a tall, lumbering brick building, and offered no escape. There was not even a fire escape or any other way to climb to the roof. Even if she made it to the roof, soon the snipers would return, and then she would have nowhere to go. She was trapped. Weaponless and defenseless, deep in enemy territory. She shut her eyes and tried to think of a plan. Any plan at all, just something so that she could see this wonderful plot to its conclusion.

"Come with me if you want to live," the raspy voice echoed from seemingly nowhere.

"What?" she asked suddenly, glancing around. The man emerged from what seemed like total darkness, as if a black curtain spread slowly and let him out. Whisper recognized the familiar gray camouflage pattern instantly. "Firefly!"

The tall man nodded. "Your father sent me. Come." He extended his gloved hand, and Whisper took it without hesitation. "I have a Claw on the roof. It will take us to the rendezvous, but we have no time to waste!"

"But what about him?" she asked, thrusting her head back towards the man walking slowly across the street. Firefly merely smiled behind his mask. He clutched her tight and pressed a button his belt buckle. She noticed for the first time the backpack on his back with a thin, black zip-line leading up to the roof. With that button press they launched into the air, carried smoothly on the thin cord until they reached the safety of the gravel rooftops.

Were those voices? Law wondered as he approached the dark alley just a dozen feet in front of him. The shadows draped from building to building and the thin passage between them was drowned in blackness. But still, Law thought he heard hushed whispers emanating from the alley. He dashed quickly to the brick building and flattened up against it, cocking his gun arm back and to his side. He turned his head to face the entrance and slowly stepped towards the alley, shuffling silently, step by step. Order, boy…I miss you, mutt! He thought, longing for the friendly German Shepherd by his side. His elbow dangled almost dangerously by the edge of the building, the alley almost beckoning him. Just asking to be entered. He drew in a deep breath and whipped around the corner, his pistol baring down on the dark alleyway. The shadows played across the walls, creating shapes and shadows, but completely blocking the end of the alley. Is this a dead end? Law asked himself.

"Come out with your hands above your head!" he shouted suddenly, just in case. The dark alley remained still. Keeping the pistol trained and level he stepped slowly into the alleyway, his eyes squinting in the darkness. He was concentrating on the back wall so much he didn’t even feel the slight tug of the tripwire against his dirty black dress pants. The black alley erupted suddenly into a too-brilliant flash of orange and yellow light, sending Law stumbling. The explosion followed directly afterwards, a flare of yellow, a thunderous blast, and the force hurtling Law backwards like an old, mistreated doll. Huge, broken slabs of concrete and mortar blasted out into the darkness, smoke billowing and roaring through Main Street, sending reporters diving for cover and falling back in surprise. Law felt like he was suspended in midair, which was because he was suspended in midair, almost floating backwards, end over end. The flame, light and smoke washed over him and he could feel his skin beginning to blister as he struck Main Street hard on his back. He flopped over ungracefully and landed in a heap amidst a shower of flame, smoke and crumbling debris. Lifting his head he glared through a blood-red haze at the crushed building and the fire and smoke which now surrounded him.

"S…sorry, Chuckles…" he grunted through the pain, and then there was blackness.