The Violinist.

The convoy of cars snaked across the stripe of asphalt, each one a decoy for the man who was already seated inside the Miami caf?. His printed shirt depicted a calm sea, while the surf lapped up the shore at an alarming rate given this time of year. He snapped an order to who he assumed was the waitress behind him as his eyes were focused on the ocean.

?Pilgrim.?

Immediately his blood froze at the moniker. The woman seemed oblivious of this and seated herself in his direct line of vision before the sunglasses were pulled from her eyes. Heavy lashes sank toward her cheeks as she sighed heavily and settled hands on the table in a prayer fold.

?What do you want hm? I don?t have nothing.? His English was severely marred by the Spanish accent that weighted his words.

?You do have something, you have an address of the baroness.?

?What you want with her, hm? She know nothing either.? He waved a hand at her and attempted to watch the ocean from around her.

?Tell me the address, or I will shoot you in front of all these people.?

He looked at her a moment before he felt the barrel pressed against his kneecap.

?I know your other leg is bad, so I will do you a favor and even it out.? She pulled the hammer back on the revolver until the chamber stuck into place. ?The address.?

---

?What do you want with her?? The baroness turned her unforgiving stare on the woman seated at her table and settled the cup of tea in front of her. ?She?s removed herself from everything.?

?She doesn?t get to choose when she?s removed Contessa. You of all people should know that.?

?Why her??

?Because, her family consists of a cousin in a coma.? Maria lifted her cup and took a tentative sip before her nose wrinkled. ?I told you I didn?t want sugar.?

?You?ve done your homework.? The woman leaned on the table and cast a smirk toward it. ?You don?t tell me anything Catholic.?

?I don?t have time to argue with you about this. I need to know where she is and if you don?t tell me, I?m going to make your life miserable.?

?This is for him isn?t it??

Maria stared at the woman for a long moment without saying anything. The information exchanged in the glance was enough to confirm Contessa?s suspicion. She nodded slowly and lifted herself from the table.

?You can tell that prick to fuck himself.?

?Tell me where the Violinist is.?

?Or what? You?re going to shoot me?? The woman scoffed and crossed her arms. ?Get out of my house. If she wants to get involved, she?ll come find you.?

?You?re making a big mistake.?

?I would be careful what kinds of threats you make, darling. I?m not the one with my neck on the chopping block.?

Through the urban labyrinth of corporate windows that rivaled Babylon, feet crashed hard against the ground as the lady in white wove through the bodies that swarmed from the gaping mouths of buildings. Her pace quickened as traffic lulled underneath a triad of blood red moons that reflected off of windshields -- fragmented premonitions of the Catholic were smeared together as the city erupted in noise. Contessa left a trail of ash and smoke in her wake, as the purse's strap was readjusted on her shoulder while she cut a sharp left around a corner that nearly broke her stride of seamless strategy.

The woman's pace was much slower -- hips ticked down to a moment of precision in a pendulum swing that rounded the same corner much smoother. Columns rose from dismal foundations and supported a thatched lattice that turned the sun into pieces of glass that shifted color and form under the slightest breeze. Sets of shoes echoed off of the wall like a war drum that brought their chapter closer to closing.

Like a camera flash, it was over -- a dance of clever footing had the women embracing like long lost friends, before Contessa was seated on the bench with glass eyes wide as her head lolled back. Fingers reached for her throat and snapped the fine chain that held her salvation close to her heart. As the Catholic walked away, the chain swung from her fingers like baptismal water as Contessa's chest blossomed scarlet over virgin white.

--

White roses spilled over the side of the casket as the priest began his final blessing for the woman known in some circles as the Baroness. Beneath that heavy lid lay a woman who was more malevolent than delicate, which was why those gathered merely held their breath as the casket began its descent into the dark earth.

One by one, they threw their bloody roses in and turned back to crunch gravel under their feet as sedan doors glared in the harsh light of a beautiful day. Underneath the deep blue awning, she remained as a statue -- a shadow that was an exaggerated form of a disappearing box. The priest applied pressure to her shoulder before he began his departure as well, leaving her alone amongst headstones and personal demons.

Her last goodbye was not the form of an unspoken will and a wilting flower, but that of a photograph -- one taken long ago that still held the same ferocity of the woman's eyes. Fingers pinched the corners before it was dropped into the gaping hole, but it was not as cinematic as she would have liked. Instead of floating like a feather, it shuddered and carved downward in the blink of an eye.

"Beautiful woman."

The voice made her tense, shoulders straightened as her spine was brought into proper alignment before she turned around to face the addresser. A dark haired woman, who wore a funeral veil pulled black gloves from her fingers as she looked toward the grave with a gentle shake of her head.

"Such a shame, no?"

"She benefited so many of us," cracked vocals lifted as she spoke.

"You most of all." The woman's voice was a slow taunt, poured like syrup from the back of her throat as her mouth curved into a slight smile. "Do you still play your violin, Anastasia?"

Just as Salzburg had emerged as a marvel out of ruin in baroque plaster, she had become a permanent fixture on the roof opposing the bank's double doors. The sight was adjusted with gloved fingers until its image was sharper than her eyesight alone. A finger braced itself on the trigger as she shifted in wait for the man of the hour to waltz his way from the building. She had only one shot.

One shot to put an end to this game.

The steady swarm of people in fluttering coats on cell phones or equipped with bags was nearly dizzying -- each face was examined and immediately filtered out as she held her position stone still on the roof. In the blink of an eye he could have been in and out, but she knew better. Minutes stretched toward an our before she watched the doors part like the Red Sea, but it was Lazarus that walked on dry land.

The man was tucking a ledger into the front pocket of his coat, over his heart when she caught him in the cross hair. Dark lenses shifted upward, and for a moment she hesitated before pulling the trigger. Within seconds, it was over. Immediately, she rolled from her place and fit pieces back in their position in her briefcase before she shot up toward the door. Feet made little noise on the stairs as she flew down flights until she shouldered the door open to the parking garage and threw the briefcase in the trunk of a white sedan, before she slid into the driver's side.

--

Maria watched the ships pass back and forth with a hand on her hip as the other pinched the bridge of her nose. Her rage rolled off of shoulders in slow waves as her mouth stuttered to make a sentence in coherent English.

"What did you do."

Ana kept her languid posture in the chair and cast a glance at the woman's back when she spoke. She drew in a breath and let it out as a sigh before bothering to answer the woman.

"I showed you the picture, Maria."

"Well I hope you had a good look at him then," Maria scoffed as her chin collided with a shoulder so that dark eyes could burn into the woman. "Because he sure as hell had a good look at you."

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"And what, do you call assassins who accuse assassins anyway, my friend?"

"Dead."

Arras, France.

The room had been overturned in a frenzy that she had not been a part of. Gunfire and explosions had been left on the street as she wound her way up the stairs and into the hotel room. The table had been the only thing left untouched, with a glass of red wine and a magazine rested atop it as if the turn down service had left it there. Gloved fingers brushed over its surface before tipping the curtain in order to see the street swarming with onlookers as the car crash was being assessed.

It had been arranged in an attempt to flush him out -- this man, this butcher who fled at the slightest sound of shrapnel. As she watched the crowd below, she shook her head. He was winding through their bodies now, hurrying away with his black coat trailing like loose ends of a kite. As she turned away from the window, she was met with the barrel of a gun squarely positioned between her eyes.

--

The smell of sulfur brought her eyes open again under heavy lids -- a match was shaken out after it lit the end of a cigarette which provided the only light to her surroundings. Smoke wafted forward like a ghost before a light was switched on overhead, causing her face to turn its sharply bruised features away from it. Her face was grasped and forced to face the light as her mouth was cut open by the hard edge of a glass that sent wine searing into the splits at the edge of her mouth. As soon as the glass was taken away, she spat the liquor at the figure before her as eyes opened wide in an attempt to focus.

"I thought the same thing. The French don't know how to make wine, they should stick to water."

The voice was clearly Italian -- caught on its edges with a metallic sound as the man leaned forward and kept his mouth close to her ear.

"Start from the beginning, Ana."

"You don't scare me." Ana's words were confident as she straightened her posture and ground molars together as her jaw worked.

"Then why," He spoke as he leaned forward under the light. A gloved hand slammed down hard on her fingers. "Is your hand shaking?"

Ana stilled and glared at him as he smiled slowly before he pulled away again.

"This is very simple. You tell me who you're working for, and I'll think about letting you live. If you don't, I'll slice you into cold cuts and feed you to your colleagues."

"You could always shoot me in the back."

"I prefer an easier clean up."

Ana laughed as her eyes rolled in their sockets before falling shut.

"You sick fuck."

"Answer the question."

"Fuck you!"

Her response was punctuated by the sound of a bullet leaving its chamber.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 09, 2005 04:36 PM: Message edited by: guerrilla literature ]</font>

Rain scathed like acid on open wounds as she was drug down an alleyway. France kept true to its architecture in assuring that one row of flats looked no different than another -- the game was set upon a makeshift chessboard. He waited until the dull hum of an engine quieted before he shoved her forward toward the spatter of light on wet concrete.

Anastasia was a mess -- the jungle of her hair was stained red as swollen lids attempted to keep brine eyes open. Her foot drug along the pavement, as if she were the last survivor of an unseen apocalypse, until she reached the light provided by twin headlamps. Illuminated, she looked like a dancer preparing for her last performance, but the mangled wreckage of her legs barely kept her upright.

It only took a moment -- the car leapt to life as wheels spun their treads off onto asphalt. In an instant, she felt her ribcage shatter as glass connected with metal in a shower of shrapnel. The echo she heard in her mind, however, was one of a hospital page. The bright white light she tried reaching for, became focused as a hospital. Wires and tubes shot out from her arms as a monitor regulated breathing while she stopped the room from spinning by focusing her eyes on the only solid figure in the room. He lifted a finger to his mouth and hissed for her to remain silent.

--

"Why is she still alive?"

"She's not, Jacob. He killed her."

"He blew up the car, yes, but he didn't kill her."

"How do you know?"

"Because I don't like the way this feels Maria."

"If he didn't kill her, I'll do it myself."

"Forget her, I want his head on a fucking platter."

Maria seethed under the Mexican sun as the phone was snapped to a close. The perfect day that was presented in the quiet town was suddenly overturned like the table she threw in her vault to a stand. This was her only act of violence before she crunched debris under her boots and opened the phone to dial another number -- her voice was unruffled despite the fact that she spoke through her teeth.

"I need someone. The best you have. Meet me at this address in two hours or I'll murder your son."

"You've healed well, considering the circumstances."

"David." The name was sighed out of her mouth as she smeared a hand over her face and shifted to sit up on the couch of the perpetually neurotic bachelor. "What have I told you about your fetish with my feet?"

David's hands lifted from her ankle as he nearly leapt from his seat beside her and stammered for an explanation. She produced a sleepy laugh in an attempt to jolt herself from that groggy state of first awakenings and the worn off feeling of barbiturates. A hand lifted to stop him before she planted feet against the floor.

"I was joking, darling. Don't worry, I'm nothing like my cousin. I actually have a sense of humor." An eyelid dropped in a wink as she struggled to stand and limped slightly in an attempt to make it to the kitchen counter. "Is that going to go away?"

"What?" David's voice regained its strength as he seemed put at ease by her words. "Oh, the limping? I don't know, your ankle was shattered pretty bad. You've improved so much so far, so I would say that it might be possible."

"Might be?" Ana turned a look over her shoulder. "I need it to happen."

"Ana, you're not thinking of..."

"Of what?"

"Of going back, are you? I mean everyone thinks you're--"

"I know what everyone thinks, but that doesn't make a damn bit of difference."

"It should, I mean. You're free in a sense."

Ana laughed. "Are you really that idealistic? This doesn't just magically end, because someone will find out that I'm still alive, and they'll try to murder me in my sleep or something equally as cliche. No, I can't have that at all, so I'll simply have to end this myself." Her logic was punctuated by a sip from the mug of coffee that had been left out for her. "This is really fantastic, you know."

"Really? It's Grim's, but I didn't think he'd mind if I took some I ju--wait." He silenced himself with hands held high and a deep breath before continuing, "Speaking of Grim, I need you to do me a favor."

"A favor for a favor, David. Tell me what you want done and consider it completed." Ana limped back past him and patted a hand on his shoulder. "You really are sweet, you know? I don't know how you manage to get along with him."

"I think it has something to do with his impeccable marksmanship."

The process had been lengthy ? spent under the fluorescent hum of laboratory lights which flickered like an erratic pulse. The stench of plaster and latex mingled with sour milk sterility that was common to hospitals. Gloved fingers were careful in maintaining a steady pulse in both patients that lay like separated twins on stretchers at either side of her.

This was not her work. Her work consisted of cleaning up the messes left behind by those who had a steadier hand than she, but now she watched her cousin come to life on a completely different person who had been hand selected due to the same state that he was in. Stuart Goodman had a life in Pennsylvania with a wife and a daughter, but a car accident had claimed his consciousness. His limbs were nearly as lanky and lean as the man he was in the process of becoming and Anastasia felt just a minute twinge of guilt as his fingerprints were shaved off in a meticulous manner.

David had given her all of the instructions necessary, but his stomach was too weak to finish this himself. What had been picked up on international static was universal ? Anika still held her grudge and people in certain places could easily find the walking dead. Ana rebuilt the structures of the man?s face beneath a cast of her cousin?s and within hours this man resembled the ghastly visage of Grim as he lay beside them both in an immobile state of awareness.

The words that Ana spoke into her cellphone, filtered through his thoughts but were nothing more than a drug-induced drone. Instead of seeing his cousin on the backs of heavy lids, he saw Goa in the beginning of twilight. Waves crashed against the shore and swept away sand castles that had been half abandoned earlier in the day. The pale haired woman to his right said something slowly through a smile and swept the hair that had fallen from her pony tail out of her face. He recognized Julia in a snapshot from the time before, when she was happy and her face lit like a thousand candles in the dark. Kate spun in circles through the house, but her music was unheard as he reached out his hand to rest it upon Julia?s shoulder. His speech caught in his throat as he felt her bones begin to shake beneath the weight of his palm and in a moment she crumbled like sand, washing over his feet until he was swept back into the black deep of dreamless sleep.

Ana watched his heart monitor jolt and level off with worried eyes while she listened to the crackle of David?s voice before the phone was snapped shut to sever the communication. Slowly fingers crawled over instruments in an attempt to attach the face at the notches of the man?s jaw in a seal that would be undetected. Every knick and every scar had been transferred to create a nearly exact duplicate of Grim Maxwell, the only thing that didn?t match were the blood types. That, she took care of by remaining as staff on the floor where the two men lay side by side in opposing rooms.

Carefully, she packed everything away and wheeled them both to their new rooms with little difficulty from the staff placed at the information desks. They watched curiously as the woman flashed a tired smile and placed their files back into their slots just outside the room doors. With the favor nearly returned, Ana only had to be patient. A virtue that no one in their family had ever really possessed.

Moscow

The State Medical University of Moscow shone stark white against the heavy blanket of sooty clouds that threatened to downpour rain to melt the fairytale of pre-World War I architecture before her very eyes. The face of her watch caught the glare from a break in the clouds as she attempted to read the time before feet sent legs in long strides toward the library.

The crowd surrounding Alexai Vermeil had dwindled down to nothing by the time she had made it across the courtyard. He smoothed aged hands down the lapels of the white lab coat that he wore everywhere as a sort of medal of honor. Much like a priest, he was less likely to be shot because of his contribution to society. The glare from his glasses hid nervous eyes as the blonde approached with fingers latched into her backpack and her head down, silently counting the steps until she made contact with the man's shoulder. The force was enough to send them both reeling backward, while he coughed faintly she turned red and held up hands.

" Comrade, I apologize. Do you speak English? That was very rude of me. Oh, my Russian is horrible." Anastasia plastered a palm to her forehead as she spoke and offered an apologetic smile.

Alexai was given a moment to compose himself and after he had checked to be certain that nothing had been lifted from the contact he let out a laugh that was less nervous and more relieved. He shook his head and held out a hand to her for her to stop before he looked at her. "No, no need. Your Russian is not really that bad miss, but I cannot make a good judgement on one word alone."

"Thank you, I mean. I'm still so sorry about... Hey," she slowed her frantic speech as a false jolt of recognition washed over her face. "Aren't you that doctor? The one that everyone's been raving about? With Red House?"

The man nodded and was about to speak before she cut him off.

"I've heard so much about your work! I mean, that is why I'm studying here. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to sign something for me?" Ana slung the backpack from her shoulder and began to rifle through it.

"Well, no. I am flattered that you would take an old man's work to such heart, miss. I am afraid though I am terribly busy, I have to catch a flight for business."

"This will only take a minute." She smiled broadly and offered him a notebook and a pen as she slung the back pack over her shoulder and stepped forward. "You and I have much to discuss." By the time he realized what was happening, the barrel of a gun was already pressed into his abdomen.

"What can I help you with?"

"One of your projects has a defect, Mr. Vermeil. I'd like you to clear your schedule and take care of it immediately."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, miss. This business cannot wait."

"It can wait if I shoot you right here."

"Yes, but then your project will not be taken care of either."

"Who is your business with."

"A client of mine. I have confidentiality."

"I'm going to count to three, and then I am going to shoot you in the leg Mr. Vermeil. I might not be able to kill you at the moment but make no mistake, I can make things very painful for you."

"I can't."

"One."

"I can't."

"Two." Her statement was punctuated by the gun cocking.

"Alright! Alright! I'll come with you, but only if you can guarantee me protection."

"No one will hurt you, Mr. Vermeil." With that, she aimed for his heart and pulled the trigger. The gunshot disrupted the pattern of pigeons in the square before sirens began to sound.

Berlin's metropolitan area was her landscape view from the wide window she kept open on the floor above her jewelry showroom. With the cellphone attached to her ear, she paced back and forth on hissing legs as her mouth turned to a frown. A flurry of German was let loose from her tongue before she broke into English.

"Who? Who took care of the arrangements? I made sure that I was the only recipient."

She waited as words were mumbled overseas in a static that nearly swallowed the name.

"Impossible. Say it again."

The name was repeated before she snapped the phone shut and stalked slowly toward the doorway where she bellowed into the hallway.

"Gustan, Ich will den Katholiken , jetzt. "

A meek man bowed his head when he got to the doorway with the phone offered out to her. His tangled mess of strawberry blonde hid his face from her eyes but not from the backhanded blow that she offered to him as she raised the phone to her ear and attempted to level her voice.

"I thought you handled the Violinist. No, I don't care for you explanation. The first flight to Moscow has been booked for you. No, I know she'll be there. That's where her father is."

Madrid

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Ana turned the letter over in her hand a few more times as the Plaza illuminated itself with the sun. She knew the scrawl as soon as she had seen it -- a romantic with a love of her birth city, Maria was a woman to be counted on for her predictability. Small dark haired children played with marbles in the center of the plaza while tourist and native alike, walked over the heated stones that played hide and seek with pillar shadows. Instead of funeral black, Anastasia had become a vision from the sea -- wrapped in blue, she walked with a purpose through the center of the plaza and down the stairs intent on walking through the market district where she could lose herself easily among the tourists.

Maria tipped her head toward the Spanish headlines but the copper of her eyes were trained on the people passing in front of her table. Centavos had already been left for the table space by the time Anastasia passed by her table. Slowly, Maria folded the paper against her leg and slipped from the table in order to shadow the movements of the woman in blue. In contrast to her, she wore white that bite at her tan skin and caused the women on the street to cross themselves and bow their heads when she passed: Santa Mar?a.

Streets turned to jagged stone that resembled the cobbled pavement of London as Ana kept a sharp eye on the colorful market stands and the women shouting in Spanish behind them. Maria lost herself in the crowd, keeping herself just steps ahead of Ana on a parallel street until both streets met in a turn. She smeared herself along the corner of the building until she saw Ana approach -- the result was a deafening crack from the butt of a revolver into Ana's nose. Maria's arm slung around Ana's throat before she had a chance to speak and pressed her mouth close to the woman's ear.

"I've never really been afraid of the dark, have you?"

Before Ana could struggle, Maria hit her in the back of the head again and drug her body back down the alley and into a doorway.