Prologue;

"Rage! Rage, at the dying of the light!" - Dylan Thomas

Austin, Texas - 1953 C.E.

The young boy huddled alone, kneeling before the simple grave, unmindful of the driving downpour which soaked him to the bone. Striving to see through the rain-streaked lenses of his glasses, he silently prayed; God, it's me again, and I'm trying really hard to understand why you took him away. I know he is special to you, because only one of your own would have taken in a runaway, nine year old boy, and treated him like his own son for two years.

I've even tried to believe that you took him because he was such a great war hero, and wanted to reward him for his bravery at the Anzio landing, where most of his Ranger buddies got sent to you. But, I'm only eleven, and I still needed him. He was so much better than that drunk bastard you stuck me with at first. He showed me what love, and honor, were all about. He still had so much to teach me, and I so desperately wanted to learn it all.

I know that I'm just a weed in your Rose Garden, and that's okay, because I figure that you need weeds so folks can appreciate the beauty of the roses. But I'm really pissed about you jerking me around again, so I'll just go my own way from now on, and not trouble you again.

The thin, shivering boy rose to his feet, and made his solitary way to the cemetery gate.

Palestinian border - 1956 C.E.

The great general clapped the boy on the shoulder, and exclaimed; "If I had a regiment like you, we'd push the enemy back to the Sahara in a few months. You might be a Gentile, but I wish I had a thousand more, just like you."

The awed boy gazed up at one of the world's greatest military heroes, speechless at the praise coming from this man's lips. As usual, he ignored the trademark eyepatch, and looked into the old warrior's good eye.

"Thank you, General," he said, "but I don't feel worthy of your gratitude. So many good men, and women, have shed their blood for this land, that my own contribution seems rather petty - by comparison."

"Nonsense, boy! They'd say the same thing, were they here today. Too much humility might be all right for priests and Rabbis, but a warrior should take pride in his skills."

Clapping him on the shoulder, again, the general turned and walked away.

Once Upon a Time - Israeli/Lebanese Border 1967 C.E.

"Would you two move your bloody arses!" Elf hissed, "I've no mind to spend all night carrying the two of you. Bloody Trolls!"

"Eat shit, and die, you fucking Demented Dwarf!" Rivka spat out, "Just try carrying your own load, for a change! We only slowed down, so you could keep up with us. You should be thankful that we feel sorry for the handicapped, else we'd have sold you to a circus freak show, when you were still cute enough to bring a price."

"Yeah, you half-pint reject," Sharon chortled, "Dad should have drowned you, while you were still a puppy, instead of inflicting you on the rest of us."

"Piss off, bitches!" Elf happily ragged.

Suddenly, the trio of, gleefully arguing, girls were pinned in place by a number of powerful spotlight beams.

"This is the IDF," an amplified voice came from somewhere in the darkness, "Throw down your weapons and surrender, or we'll be forced to open fire."

"Now you've done it!", Elf railed at her sisters, "Your bloody bleating's gone and gotten us in the stew-pot this time."

Throwing down their weapons, the girls raised their hands in surrender.

The loud sound of reverberating footsteps, and rattling keys, aroused the girls from an uneasy sleep. They had just risen to their feet, when their cell-door was unlocked, and a uniformed woman entered.

"You've got a visitor," she informed them, and motioned for them to proceed her down the dim hallway.

Casting confused glances at each other, the girls hastened to obey the woman's orders. This was no place for their usual banter. They followed directions till they eventually arrived at a small interrogation room. They stared at the large man who was waiting for them, and took the proffered chairs, sitting on the front edges in anxious anticipation of... they knew not what.

"Thank you Sergeant!" the man directed at their guard, "Could we have some privacy, please?"

Beaming at the handsome visitor, the woman backed out and shut the door.

Scrutinizing the girls closely, he rescanned the folders which lay on the table before him.

"Arms smuggling?" he inquired, "Aren't you three just a little young to be involved in politics?"

"Sod off, you bleeding great beast!" Elf snapped, "What we do is none of your fucking business, Yank! "We're old enough to kick your buggered ass!"

Jamie just smiled at the feisty little bantam hen, and turned his attention to her sisters.

"Does she speak for all three of you?" he asked, "Or do you two have something else to add?"

Refusing to speak, the other two just glared back at him.

"All right, have it your way," he said, gathering the folders into a neat stack, "If I didn't owe your parents a very big debt, I'd just wash my hands of you, and let you rot in prison. However, a debt is a debt, so I'm going to give you an opportunity to get out of here. You have two options - and only two. You can be released into my custody, with a chance to have your slate wiped clean - or, you can stay here and take your chances in court. Make no mistake, if you opt to go with me, I intend to work your asses off, and I don't give a fuck that you're girls. I'll make your lives totally miserable for about six months, but when I'm through with you, you can go back to whatever sort of larceny you choose.

"You've got one shot at this, so what's it going to be? Are you bad enough to walk my walk, or do I go back and tell your mother that you're too chicken to take the chance?"

"Now hold on for a minute!" Rivka exclaimed, "You haven't exactly told us what it is we'll be doing. How do we know that this isn't just some scam to get in our pants?"

"Don't flatter yourselves!" The Reaper sneered, "Do you actually think that I went to all this trouble to fuck three scrawny teenagers? Make that two and a half! Do you really think your mother would have asked for my help, just so I could bust her daughters' cherries? I had to call in several markers, just to give you this opportunity, so don't even think about giving me grief over my intentions.

"But you're right that I didn't give you much detail concerning what I'll be having you do. It speaks well for your intelligence, that you want to know more. Think of it as a six month sentence to Hell. I'll be doing my damnedest to turn the three of you into lean, mean killing machines. Sort of a military boot camp, but much worse than the normal benevolent kind. I intend to make you so bad, that you'll think smuggling arms is for Girl Scouts - or I'll break you from your felonious tendencies so thoroughly, that you'll run home to mama with your tails tucked between your legs.

"Either way, I will have fulfilled my promise to your mother. She wants you to either be completely competent in your criminal careers, or married off as soon as possible. There's no halfway compromise if you choose to take my offer. So, what's it going to be - my way, or several years as a guest in the cross-bar hotel?"

"Piss off Arsehole!" Elf snarled, "We don't need your fuckin..."

"Zip it up, Munchkin!" Rivka barked, "Nobody died and made you God! Keep it up and we'll leave you here to rot. We can always tell mama that you contracted Leprosy, and got shipped to a colony. Don't try me on this you little bitch, because I'm not going to blow this chance, just because you're on the rag."

It was all The Reaper could do, not to laugh. Little thirteen year old Tova was a true delight. The nickname, "Elf", suited her to a T. Her fifteen year old twin sisters were absolutely gorgeous, and were obviously a match for her fiery temper. He suddenly felt much better about having promised to try shaping them up - not that their shapes needed any help.

"Well, girls, what's it going to be?" he demanded.

Receiving nods from her sisters, Rivka nodded their acceptance.

"All right then," he concluded, "Let's see about getting you out of here."

The full moon glowed brightly, illuminating the camp and its occupants. The three disheveled teenaged girls seemed on the verge of collapse, as the big man barked at them;

"AGAIN! Do it again, and this time try to do better than a gaggle of pre-schoolers."

"Bloody Prick!" Elf hissed, "Why don't you bugger yourself, you bleeding great arsehole!"

He just smiled, and swatted her across her shapely ass with the swagger stick he carried.

"Sorry, Sweetheart," he grinned, "but I don't have time for sex just now. Now pick your sorry ass up, and run it again. This time I won't get you out, if you hang up in the wire again."

Moaning in pain, the three girls proceeded to run the gauntlet once more. The desert bore mute witness, as the urchins fought their way through the agonizing maze of barricades, barbed wire, and trenches - having no breath to spare for the expletives they longed to heap on The Reaper's head.

Grinning in exultation, the sisters presented the perfectly shot series of targets to their frowning taskmaster.

"Okay," he grudgingly praised, "so you're finally starting to shoot better than civilians. Now, do it again, with your off-hands. When you get this good with either hand, I might let you have a Coke. But, only one, as I don't want you to get spoiled."

Giving him middle-finger salutes, the girls proceeded to shoot the course again, this time with the pistols held in their weaker hands - silently wishing to be able to piss on his grave.

As the foursome approached the waiting aircraft, they drew stunned stares from bystanders. Gone were the soft, giddy teenagers of yore. In their place were three bad-assed self-assured Angels of Death, guaranteed to give any man a boner, and scare the shit out of him - all at the same time.

"Well Ladies, this is goodbye - for now. Try to stay out of jail, as I don't have time to come running back every time you stump your toes." the big man teased.

"Take us with you Jamie!" Elf pleaded, "We'll be so bored without you. Can't we come along to mind your six?"

Her sisters enthusiastically nodded their agreement.

"Sorry, kids," he smiled, "but you need to spend some time, deciding what you want to do with your lives. I'm not ruling out linking up later, but you need some space to sort out your priorities. You have the contacts I gave you, so if you want to stay in shape, you can try a few covert ops - just to get your feet wet. If you still feel the same, a year from now, give me a call and we'll work something out."

Tears running down their cheeks, the three watched silently, as their Icon boarded the plane and flew out of their lives - not knowing if they'd ever see him again.

An eye for an eye - 1981 C.E.

The young girl knelt in the mud, before her parents' grave, ignoring the pouring rain which soaked her to the skin. Her shoulders shaking with intense grief, she suddenly threw back her head, and screamed her rage to the weeping heavens.

So caught up was she, in venting her pain, that she failed to notice the silent man beneath the dripping boughs of a nearby Oak.

The patient watcher remained unmoving, giving her time to get her runaway emotions under control - not wishing to embarrass her in this, her time of mourning. He idly began to run his finger along the scar, which ran up his cheek to disappear beneath his hairline - a white streak giving evidence of its path across his scalp. Slowly dropping to a crouch, he prepared to wait for hours, if necessary.

As the morning passed, Moira Kennedy's grief began to transform into a leaden gloom. Exhausted by her passion, she haltingly rose to her feet and, for the first time, noted the large presence beneath the tree. Turning to flee, she was brought to an abrupt stop by the belovedly familiar Texas twang which reached her ears.

"Please don't be afraid, Darlin' - I know it's been a long time, but surely you haven't forgotten an old friend." he murmured.

Spinning about, she ran into the reassuring comfort of his arms.

"There, there, sweetheart." he crooned, "I'm here now, and you'll never be alone again. Whatever the problem is, we'll fix it - my word on it.

"I was passing through Chicago, when I got the word about your folks. It took me a while to get a seat on the flight to Boston, but I got here as soon as I could. Now, why don't we go get you something to eat, and you can tell me all about it."

Smiling through her tears, Moira nodded to the man who'd rescued her father from the living hell of a South American jail.

"All right now," he started, after the waitress cleared the empty dishes away, "just take your time, and tell me what happened. I've read the police report, and the newspaper articles, but I want to hear it from your perspective."

"Well," she began, "you know how Dad got, when he smelled a story, nothing was allowed to stand between him, and the dirty laundry."

He smiled at her, remembering the feisty Irish reporter who'd repeatedly accused him of being a fascist war monger, while he was trying to get both of them safely across the border into Mexico. He nodded at her to continue.

"Well, he came home all excited one day, bragging about having uncovered some sort of dirty savings and loan scam. Mom and I, both, tried to talk him into backing off. We knew that a lot of people can get really mean, if you threaten to mess with their money, but he wouldn't listen. Then, several weeks later, he suddenly announced that he was shipping me and Mom off for a couple of weeks, claiming that we'd both enjoy a vacation out West.

"Mom sided with him, and insisted that I go without her. She claimed that she couldn't get away, but I was certainly old enough to spread my wings a little. She claimed that I should experience the world a little, before I started college in the fall. I tried to talk them out of it, as I was starting to get scared, but they wouldn't give an inch and, before I could come up with a good reason for staying, I found myself on a plane to Colorado.

"If you read the police report, you probably know more about what happened, than I do. Neighbors heard gunshots, and called the police. By the time that the cops got there, the assailants were long gone, and Mom and Dad were already dead, lying in a pool of blood. Nothing was taken, but the police decided that my parents had interrupted a burglary in progress. I might have believed that myself, if it wasn't for that damned story Dad was working on, and the way they bundled me out of town."

"Did you tell the cops what you suspected?" he asked.

"No way, I wasn't about to bring those bastards down on me." she exclaimed, "I know it was cowardly of me, but I was afraid they'd kill me too!"

"No, it wasn't cowardly!" he insisted, "Never be ashamed of trying to save your neck, when there's nothing else you can do. Telling the police would have been tantamount to signing your own death warrant. They're mostly good guys, trying to do a rotten job, but there are always a few bad apples in the barrel. Let's get out of here, swing by your place to get your things, and then hole up for a few days, while I get my sources to work on it. If it was a story related hit, then my people will be able to find out who ordered it, and who pulled the triggers.

"Even if it was a burglary, which I seriously doubt, we'll still find out who did the deed. The pros don't carry weapons, as they seldom get caught, and amateurs always leave a big trail. Either way, we'll know who did it within the week.

"Now, it's crunch time. Do you want in on the action, or would you rather read about it in the papers? I know that you've been raised in a pacifist home, so if you'd rather not get involved, no one's going to think any less of you."

"Will you teach me to shoot a gun?" she demanded.

"If that's what you want, I'll teach you everything you need to know. I'll make you a killing machine, if it's the way you want to go."

"I want!" she exclaimed, "Look where being pacifists got my parents. I want blood for blood."

He nodded his agreement, and they took their leave.

"I'm talking about the real King of the Beasts, the only animal that is always dangerous, even when not hungry. The two-legged brute. Take a look around you!"

The instructor leaned forward. "I've said this nineteen dozen times but you still don't believe it. Man is the one animal that can't be tamed. He goes along for years as peaceful as a cow, when it suits him. Then, when it suits him not to be, he makes a leopard look like a pussycat. Which goes double for the female of the species." - Heinlein, "Tunnel In The Sky"

The two black-clad predators perched patiently at the edge of the roof. They'd been there for over two hours, quietly biding their time. They were fully prepared to wait for their prey, even if it took all night. It is foreign to human nature to look up, without good reason, so the two went unnoticed by the bustling crowds in the street below. Never moving, never speaking, they might have been decorative gargoyles - perched high above the street.

The door of the barroom across the street opened, and two large men stepped outside. They paused to light cigarettes, and carefully surveyed the passing crowd. The Fiarelo Brothers had a well deserved reputation for caution. It had kept them alive in an environment which was known to be hazardous to one's health.

Tapping his smaller companion on the wrist, the silent sentinel pointed to the two men. Thumbing his own chest, he held up his left hand, indicating which target was to be his. His companion nodded agreement, and reached for the cocked, loaded weapon at her side.

THWUNK! THWUNK! At a range of only fifty meters, the Mafiosos were thrown violently against the wall at their backs. They didn't even have time to react to the feathered shafts, which had apparently sprouted from their chests. Before the pain had time to claim their attention, the two corpses fell; face-forward into the gutter.

The two archers calmly disassembled the special crossbows, and packed them carefully away. Not deigning to pay attention to the resulting pandemonium beneath their feet, the pair melted silently into the night.

"Take a look at this!"

Tim "Paddy" O'Bannion, Detective Sergeant of Homicide, looked up from the report he was studying, as his partner slid a folder across the desk. Opening it, he started reading the coroner's report on the two scumbags who had interrupted his sleep, several hours earlier. Reading it over twice, he closed the file, and quirked one eyebrow at his partner.

"Fucking crossbows!" Mike Riley exclaimed, "Who in Hell uses shit like that to make a hit? And did you read that bit about the curare? You'd think making shish-kabob out of their hearts would be enough to satisfy anybody! Why on Earth would they coat the tips with curare? I didn't even know that you could get your hands on that shit - outside of a fucking hospital."

Paddy shrugged his shoulders, and calmly replied, "Guess they didn't want to take any chances. What if a sudden strong gust of wind had deflected the bolts? The curare would insure that any hit would be fatal, certainly before any medical help could be reached."

"You're taking this awfully well," Mike continued, "Why aren't you throwing your usual fit about crazed killers roaming our fair streets?"

"Because I don't see that here." Paddy reasoned, "This was much too clean for a Mob operation. No innocent bystanders got damaged. Nobody saw, or heard a thing. Dozens of eye witnesses, and we don't have a single clue as to the identities of the perps - except for the partial the lab boys lifted off that shaft. We've forwarded it to the Feds, but I don't hold out any hopes for an ID. Do I really care, that two of the city's nastiest low-lifers got their tickets punched tonight? No! Do I want the perps brought to justice? Not particularly, as this just doesn't feel like a standard hit. I think somebody's thrown down the glove, and we both know who'll be along to pick it up. As long as our mysterious benefactors keep it clean, like tonight - I'll be on the sidelines cheering them on."

Mike couldn't help grinning, as he envisioned his partner waving a pennant, and cheering for the home team.

"Sounds good to me, partner, but be careful who you sound off to. I'm too old to go back to pounding a beat, and you're getting too fat for your old uniform anyway."

"I got this in the mail this morning." the old man said, as he glared around the table.

Opening the jewelry box in front of him, he passed a newspaper clipping to the man on his right, then took out a short length of red, knotted rope, and passed it to his left.

"I want to know who's responsible, and then I want the bastard's head, capiche?"

"But, what's this all about Don Luigi?" one of the men asked.

"The article's about that newspaper snoop we greased awhile back," the old man replied, "The cord's an oldtime gesture from the Old Country, that you modern punks ain't never seen - it means vendetta! Somebody's going to war with us, over that fucking reporter."

"What you're about see, and hear, doesn't leave this room gentlemen - is that clear?"

Paddy and Mike nodded to the FBI's SAIC for the Boston area.

"That print you sent us belongs to a fucking ghost, but it's the first one we've ever gotten for him."

"If it's the first, how do you know who it belongs to?" Paddy asked.

"Because of the crossbows; and the curare." the agent continued, "He's sudden death with any weapon, or bare-handed for that matter, but the crossbow's his trademark. He's never been known to kill a cop or innocent bystander, but you don't want to be caught between him and whoever he's going after. You might get mauled, before you can flash your tin."

Taking a faded photograph from the folder before him, the agent slid it across the table to his two guests.

"We got this, compliments of Interpol. It's the only known picture of our man."

The two detectives uttered a surprised oath.

"Isn't that Moshe Dayan?" Paddy exclaimed.

"Yes, and believe me, I know just how you feel - but our perp's the young teenager standing beside the general." agent Matthews informed them, "This was taken by a photo journalist, during the last days of the war for the Suez Canal. Though young, the boy was apparently instrumental in several Israeli victories.

"He went by the name, Jamie Phoenix, but nobody knows if that's his real name or an alias, as he changes it so often. He disappeared, shortly after that picture was taken, and nobody knows where he went after that. Like I said, he's a fucking ghost who slips through the most elaborate security measures; like water through a sieve. He's referred to as The Grim Reaper, or just Reaper, and his clients have no way to contact him. Apparently he selects those who need his services, then gets in touch with them. He's as likely to work free for some poor soul, who can't afford professional help - as he is to take a contract for money. As a matter of fact, we have no evidence that he's ever charged anyone for his services, but he seems to have plenty to finance his operations.

"He's got friends everywhere, and he's as likely to pop up in Istanbul one day, then resurface in Mexico City the next. He's fluent in several languages, but is reputed to speak English with some sort of Southern accent.

"As to his recent activities in our fair city, the experts have come up with a probable motive."

Reaching into the folder, Matthews withdrew a newspaper clipping, and passed it over.

"Three years ago, The Reaper reputedly broke an American reporter out of a jail in one of those South American banana republics, and escorted him safely to Mexico. That same reporter was gunned down, along with his wife, in their home several months ago. Their daughter has subsequently disappeared, and now The Reaper is suddenly in our midst, doing what he does best, taking out the trash.

"Organized Crime reports that Don Luigi Manzoni is forting up, and offering a big bounty to whoever caps the bastard that wasted the Fiarelos."

"See," Paddy said to his partner, "I told you it wasn't no Mob hit!"

Deadly Divas

Moira felt the short hairs rise, at the back of her neck, as the knock once again sounded from the front door. Grabbing the cocked-and-locked.45 pistol from the table beside her chair, she hurried to stand against the wall beside the door.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

"Friends of The Man, Sweetcakes!" declared the feminine voice from outside the door.

"What man?" Moira questioned.

"The scar-faced Master of Mayhem that you're shacked-up with, Sugar!" came the dulcet tones of a second voice.

"Bloody Hell! Enough of this twenty questions shit!" came a third, British-accented, contralto, "Just kick the bleedin' door down, and let's teach the buggered bitch a lesson!"

"Hold on!" Moira pleaded, "I'll open up."

Holding the pistol behind her waist, Moira unlocked the door, and started to cautiously open it.

KWHAM! The knob flew from her stinging grasp, and the door rebounded from the wall.

Moira was totally amazed at the sight of the three, duffel-bag toting, women who marched across the threshold.

She'd never before seen a woman, and very few men, wearing a Mohawk hairstyle - and now she was confronted by three of them.

Their heads were clean-shaven along the sides, leaving a narrow four inch strip running front to back, where a thick braid dangled to their waists. Dressed in black-denim pants, with the legs bloused atop black combat-boots, and black safari shirts, the trio were enough to scare a man to death, and give him a boner - all at the same time.

The taller two were obviously Semitic, having the telltale olive complexion, sable-dark hair, and prominent noses. They were blessed with emerald-green eyes and wide, bee-stung lips.

The third woman was an enigma to Moira. Standing no more than 5' 2" tall, the slim Nubian beauty had remarkable dark-grey eyes, and soft, silky hair that was a perfect match to the taller heads flanking her.

The sound of three heavy bags thumping to the floor, jerked Moira from her temporary trance.

"Where the Bloody Hell is He?" demanded the ebon-skinned elf, "We didn't pack up, and come halfway around the Bloody planet, just to baby sit the likes of you - did we?"

"Ease off, you haywired Munchkin!" demanded one of the others, "Shut the fucking door, and give the poor girl a chance to recover from her first sight of a Demonic Dwarf."

"Piss off, you bleeding Troll!" smirked the designated midget, "You're just pissed, because Dad loved me the most!"

"Would you two knock it off?" said the third woman, "What if HE were to walk in the door, and find the two of you hissing like alley-cats in heat?"

Turning to Moira, she apologized; "Please forgive my sisters, as they've never been housebroken. Unlike myself, they have no concept of ladylike conduct."

Ignoring the resulting fingers, she continued; "We're the Steinwürgers - I'm Rivka, the tall ugly one is Sharon, and the refried halfpint is our baby sister, Tova. Before you ask, Tova is the product of our Father's second marriage, and the reason she talks so funny is because we stayed in Israel with Mother, and Dad moved to England with his new family. She came back to live with us after they were killed in an airplane crash - everybody calls her Elf. Are you Moira?"

Still trying to recover her wits, Moira just nodded.

"Good, now that we're all acquainted, would you mind telling us where He is?"

"I don't know," Moira replied, "He was gone when I woke up this morning, and I've been so worried that something has happened to him.!"

"Don't be!" Elf threw in, "He pulls this shit all the sodding time. Why don't you show us to our digs, so we can shit, shower, and sack out. Fucking jet-lag's a bloody pain in the arse."

"Wake us up when he gets back, please." Rivka added.

"What have you got for me ladies?" he began, as the three yawning women joined them at the kitchen table, "Were you able to fill my shopping list?"

"Bloody Hell!" Elf snapped, "That is just so bleeding typical of you Reaper. No hugs, no kisses, not even a fucking handshake. Should've stayed in North Africa - at least the natives were friendly."

"Pay her no mind, Love!" Rivka admonished, "She's been on the rag all week."

"She's right, though." he apologized, "Come on over here, girls, and let me make it up to you!"

After thoroughly fondling the delighted women, and giving them a masterful demonstration of tongue-play, he returned to the interrupted conversation.

"Now that we've dispensed with the formalities, it's show and tell time."