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Smith and Wesson having little value when his target went unseen—a target Arruti wanted alive. In feline motion he went for the nearest point of salvation, a recess steeped in gloom, and hunkered down. He was now in his element, he thought—that of Stygian darkness. And because of this he felt the advantage now belonged to him.
    He waited and listened. 
    And then he began to level his weapon, the point coming up slowly.
    And then something ripped through the darkness.
    A three-bladed star slice through the air, point over point, like a wheel rolling, the edges so sharp they could be heard cutting a swath through the air as it made its way towards the target point. With marked precision the star hit the barrel of Grenier’s weapon and knocked it from his hand, the weapon skating off into darkness.
    Grenier looked at his open hand in astonishment, fingers flexing, undamaged. And then he turned toward the darkness, the absolute darkness, his one-time friend and ally now holding something far more dangerous.
    From its depth something came forward, a figure that was blacker than black.
    “Not so tough without your gun, are you?” The Caucasian’s voice was mild.
    “Tough enough,” he answered, and then he withdrew a long-bladed knife from his sheath and drew back toward the mouth of the alleyway, toward the light. 
    The Caucasian moved closer, his features marginally visible in the feeble lighting.
    Grenier held the knife tight. “Who are you?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “You think you can take me?”
    “What I’m going to take, Mr. Grenier, is your life.” The Caucasian removed the silver cylinder from his pocket, held it up in display, and then depressed the button, the pick shooting upward.
    “You’re kidding, right? You plan to take me out with an ice pick?”
    “What I plan to do, Mr. Grenier, is to kill you with this. And then I’m going to use it to leave a message for the remaining members of the Pieces of Eight.”
     Grenier nodded as the sudden enlightenment of the assassin’s presence became all too clear. “So that’s what this is all about, the Pieces of Eight. You’re here as the mop-up man for the government to cover up past political transgressions, is that it? After all this time?” 
     The Caucasian began to spin the cylinder skilfully between his fingers as easily as a majorette spins a baton, the motion truly aesthetic in its performance. “Mr. Grenier, this will be a quick kill. I promise.”
    The corners of Grenier’s lips curled slightly into the beginnings of malicious amusement. “You’re cocky, kid. I’ll give you that much. Maybe even a little overconfident thinking you can take me down.”  The former assassin began to move his blade in circular motions. “You have no clue as to what I can do to you with this KA-BAR, do you?”
    “Your skills, Mr. Grenier, don’t even begin to parallel mine.”
    “You are cocky. But I like that in a soldier, even if you are a green-ear compared to me.”
    “Please, Mr. Grenier, I will make this quick and painless.”
    “Yeah, well, unlike you, kid, I’m going to make this quite painful for you . . . But not before you tell me what I want to know.”
    Both men began to circle one other, both grossly intent as they drew a bead on the other while waiting for the opportune moment to make the kill strike.
    “So tell me, whose little boy are you?”  
    The Caucasian did not answer.
    Talk was over.  
    And the time to kill was now. 
    In a move so deft, so swift and so clean, the Shape advanced on Grenier with the speed of a wraith, the point of the pick zeroing in.
    And as promised, the former assassin’s death was quick and painless as the pick found its mark with a single piercing.
     
    #
    At the mouth of the alleyway a crowd gathered.
    Filipinos spoke in agitated tones, pointing, Arruti cutting his way through the crowd while stuffing his firearm in his waistband, then pulling out the tail of his shirt to conceal the weapon.
    When