"Er, fifteen minutes ago," he responds with a frown. It had only been an hour since he'd spoken with the young man on the phone, and he'd been more than eager to meet them at the diner near his apartment. They'd been waiting for over thirty minutes now, and he hadn't shown up. 

"Think something's up?" she asks, squinting at something outside of the diner window. "Or you think this is a joke after all?" 

"If I had to pick one of the two," Martin admits, eyeing the remains of the french fries in front of Tran speculatively, "I'd really rather it have been a false lead. I could do without a blazing gun battle before lunch." Taking advantage of her distraction, he snakes a hand out to score a pair of Tran's remaining fries.
 

A butter knife lands squarely between Martin's thumb and forefinger before Tran bothers to turn her head around. "Did you want some of my fries?" she asks sweetly, blinking large eyes at Martin. "All you have to do is ask, sweetie." She stands up, and says, voice back to normal, "Either your buddy MacIntosh is a flake or a dead man. Either way, I'm going to kick someone's butt for four hours on a cramped commuter flight. You have this guy's address?"
 

"Yes," Martin replies, "to both questions." Picking up the folder on the table next to him, he tosses it into the aluminum-sided briefcase in the chair with his coat draped over it and stands up. Picking up the coat, and closing the case, he adds, "Try and leave something for me - I'm the one this guy sold on his story."

"Sure -- age before beauty, and all that." She snorts. "I knew this wasn't going to be easy."

"If it was easy," Martin says, picking up his briefcase and a pair of fries at the same time, "then somebody else would have gotten the job."

She looks thoughtful. "True. Then we'd have given it to Anabelle."

Russ MacIntosh's address is a fourth story walk-up near the campus; like most student housing, it's old and there are unidentified smells in the stairwell. Tran gets a blank-faced look on her face and stops moving, just as they round the steps past the third floor. "There are four of them in there," she says. "Russ is on the ground, bleeding. Can't tell if he's dead or not. One guy's watching the door, the others are inside. We can take the lookout pretty easy -- you hit high, I'll go low. How does that sound, coach?"
 

Martin blinks, then sighs, "Like I ought to call Dispatch for backup. Two-to-one odds aren't all that good." Pausing for a moment, he slips out of his jacket and reaches for his empty hip reflexively. "You know," he observes conversationally, "I've been in more situations where I wanted a sidearm and didn't have one in the last three weeks than I have the sixteen years prior to now?"

"Guns require no technique," Tran sniffs with some disdain.

"I wouldn't say that," Martin notes, "but they do make things like this a bit easier if you've got one and the bad guys don't. Of course," he adds, "I haven't been in one of these things where the other guys didn't have one either..."

Hefting the jacket, he eyes Tran, "I'll get the jacket over his head - that ought to buy us a couple of seconds to take him out." He pauses, "Unless you've got a better plan?"

She shrugs. "I hit pretty hard for a girl. The door to the apartment is closed -- you slip the jacket over his head, I'll pound him as hard as I can, and hopefully that'll shut him up long enough for you to pull him back in here and beat the snot out of him." 

"Sounds like a better plan that the old staple 'Get 'em!' that these things always seem to devolve into," he nods. "Let's get it done."

Tran follows Martin up the remainder of the stairs, whistling tunelessly. At the top of the stairs, Martin pauses to shift his grip on the jacket, nods once to Tran, and steps forward suddenly, looping the jacket over the lookout's head with a quick flip and pulling back sharply to throw him off balance.

As soon as the jacket is over the lookout's head, Tran drops to a crouch, one leg extended, and spins around, sweeping the man's legs out from under him deftly. He falls to the ground with a groan, momentarily limp in Martin's grasp.

Clapping a hand over the lookout's mouth to forestall any further sounds, Martin drags him back into the stairwell quickly, eyeing the man's hands in case of an attempt to draw a weapon. Once under the cover of the stairwell, he pauses to glance around, shrugs, and calmly bounces the man's head several times off of the support bar for the handrail on the stairs leading up. Slipping the jacket back enough to check the sman's condition, he frowns when the lookout stirs and groans through the hand covering his mouth, and repeats his actions with a tad more force.

This time, the lookout sags limply in Martin's hands. Checking the man again, Martin nods and looks up at Tran, "That should hold him for a while. Give me a hand with him, will you?" he continues as he begins to go through the man's pockets professionally, "There's a couple of wrist-ties in the back of the briefcase, let's make sure he isn't going anywhere while we're occupied with his friends."

She nods, and opens the briefcase. "I might be able to learn more, if you give me a minute or two," she says nonchalantly. "Think we have the time?"

"If it won't take too long, sure," Martin agrees. "I'm all for finding out what kind of grinder I'm about to stick delicate parts of my anatomy into...." He pauses, then adds, "Just don't take too long - our boy might still be alive in there and I'd kind of like to keep him that way considering someone wants him quiet bad enough for a play like this."

Tran's eyes glaze over, and Martin examines what he found inside the lookout's jacket pockets: lighter, keys to an Alamo rental car, and a Best Western card-key for an unspecified room.

 A few moments later, and she shakes her head to clear it. "I'm not getting too much," she says. "This guy's as dumb as a box of rocks, and all he knows is that he's supposed to help out the guys inside if they need him. The most important thing on this guy's mind is taking advantage of some woman they've got locked up in a hotel room."

Martin holds up the Best Western key-card, "That'd be this room no doubt." Shaking his head he secures the lookout to the stairwell railing with the ties stands up to critically examine his work. "This guy's either a pro, or he was coached by one," Martin observes. "There's nothing in his pockets to work with - not even cigarettes to go with his lighter."

Glancing over at Tran he continues, "We can do something about the girl after we take care of this mess. Did you..." he shakes his head, as if answering a silent question to himself," Did you learn anything about the guys inside?"

She shakes her head. "Not really, just vague feelings of fear from a couple of them." She coughs. "Three of them versus the two of us? They don't have a chance." Sharp canines show when she smiles, and she punches him on the arm. "Let's go get 'em, tiger."

The door to MacIntosh's apartment is closed, and little can be heard from inside. "You're the cop," Tran whispers. "Don't you know some special way of kicking the door down?"

Taking a breath, Martin leans forward and softly tests the doorknob, "We usually tried it to see if it was locked first...."

Tran has the grace to look embarrassed as the door softly opens. "Neat trick," she whispers dryly.

"What can I say?" Martin whispers, "Sometimes God likes me." Just not often enough lately, he adds silently.

Inside, it looks like a student's apartment; brick and board shelves support hundreds of books, a computer desk is piled with library books and bound theses. Voices coming from deeper in the apartment; next to the couch, however, a man lies, bleeding from his nose. His breathing is loud and labored, but he doesn't appear to be in any danger of immanently death. "Found it!" a man's voice proclaims. "Let's get out of here before the cops show." Tran darts across the hallway, ready to strike at anyone coming down the hall.

You just can't let me have anything the easy way, can you God? Martin thinks sourly, as he moves into position to back up Tran. If this is payback for the door being unlocked, I think you're overcompensating a bit.

Footsteps hurriedly tramp down the hallway, towards the living room where Tran and Martin are lying in wait. "Is this all we need here?" a high-pitched voice asks. "I mean, are we sure that --"

"Shut up Barnabas!" the first voice growls. "Just keep your mouth shut and you'll have your goddamn --"
 

Tran crouches down, nodding to Martin. The first man to emerge from the hall receives Tran's Ked in his mouth, as she leaps up and spins into him. There's a crunching sound as he moans and clutches his face. "Crap!" Barnabas shrieks. "Get her! Get her!" From the dark hallway, there is a curious groan and a popping sound.
 
As the second man steps up to the doorway. Martin reaches out suddenly, grasping one outstretched arm and using it to yank the man forward and off balance. At the same time, he expertly kicks the man's legs out from underneath him, and, using his grip on the man's arm as a lever, drives him into the floor. Grunting at the impact, the victim rolls over, trying to get his other arm in position to break Martin's hold.

"Hey, hey, you really don't want to hurt me, do you?" the man who'd been referred to as Barnabas whines from underneath Martin. "Icantellyouwhat'sgoingon!" he rushes. "I can make him stop!"

"I'm listening," Martin says curtly, making sure he has a firm grip on the man as he cuts his eyes at the hallway for the third man. What is he talking about? What's this 'him’ stuff? he thinks. Looking back down at Barnabas, he adds, "I'm not emotionally attached to the idea of hospitalizing you - but the faster you start talking, the less likely I am to turn you over to my friend... she likes to hurt people...."

Tran gives him a menacing look, not quite as imposing given her current collegiate look, and grins her pointy-canine smile. Since no one steps through the doorway immediately, she sidles across the room to look down the hall as Martin speaks to his prisoner. "Well, you see," Barnabas begins. "This asshole here," he gestures towards MacIntosh, "Took something that didn't belong to him, and belonged to our boss. We had to, uh, get it back. "Didn't know youse guys were friends or nothing. No offense intended."

"Holy Jesus," Tran breathes uncharacteristically, her eyes widening slightly as she checks down the hallway and suddenly backs up.

A man of over six feet emerges through the doorway. His face is covered in scar tissue, and he looks as though he'd lost most of it to burns. His nose consists of two puckered holes in the middle of his face, and he has no eyes, only smoothed scars where they once were. His arms end in sharp points, and appear to be made of steel. The expression on his face is wrathful, and he tenses, ready to attack.

Martin looks up, startled, at her exclamation. In an oddly detached manner, he thinks, Now that is overcompensation.

"L-look! That's HIM!" Barnabas pronounces. "It's too late -- we have to get out of here! Once he's changed like this, nothing stops him!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Barnabas shrieks, taking advantage of Martin's distraction and scrambling to his feet, he sprints for the door. Tran's leg moves to trip him, but before she does, the figure in the doorway acts. One sharpened arm snaps forward, and stabs through Barnabas' throat, its point emerging inches from Tran's eyes. The small man goes limp, and slides off the point to the ground.

For a moment, Tran, now wearing Barnabas' blood, remains expressionless. "Well, who wants to live forever?" she then mutters. Dropping down to sweep him again, there is a dangerous glint in her eyes that Martin's never seen before. The burned man lands with a thud, though he seems barely phased by the attack that snapped the lookout's fibia.

Martin frantically looks around the room for something to use as a weapon. C'mon, c'mon, there's gotta be something here - didn't you play baseball or hockey or something useful? he thinks frantically at MacIntosh.

Sweeping his eyes across the room, he almost misses the baseball bat in the corner behind the bag of dirty laundry. Stepping over to it, he quickly snags the bat and turns back towards the fight. C'mon Tran, just stay away from this guy and let me get a good shot in... he thinks, shying away from the idea of her not being quick enough to dodge the criminal's attacks.

 
A memory tickles the back of his mind as he gets a better look at the man struggling to get to his feet, I've seen paper on this monster before, where was it? Yeah, that's it! This guy's been sent up before - by the Golden Avenger! Some kind of homicidal pedophile or something... A dull spark flares somewhere in the back of Martin's mind, and he sets his jaw tightly, shifting his grip on the bat a trifle. Well he's not going to be molesting any little girls today...

While the figure on the floor struggles to his feet, Tran recovers from her legsweep and straightens to attack again. Seizing his chance, Martin takes a step closer and unloads a powerful swing at the downed paranormal's leg as he braces on it to rise. Let's see you do and fancy footwork without a right knee pal! he snarls to himself.

Martin's swing catches the man in the leg; with a loud crack! The paranormal falls back to the ground. He groans something unintelligible, and begins to struggle to his feet. Before he rights himself, Tran sees her opportunity, and snaps a kick to his head. This time he manages to duck his head out of the way of her attack, and instead, stabs at her with one of his spiked "hands."

"Shit!" she exclaims, throwing her body back. The blade catches on her sweater, tearing the wool easily.

Attempting to take advantage of the paranormals poor positioning after lunging at Tran, Martin switches angles and cuts another swing loose at the same knee. Gonna have to limp after any kids from now on buddy! he thinks, grinning mirthlessly.

Martin swings the bat down on the prone paranormal's knee and connects again with a cracking sound, this time a much stronger hit than the last. He howls in pain, and slices up Martin's midsection with one of its spiked "hands," connecting and ripping through clothing and flesh in a neat line from navel to sternum. Through the haze of pain, as he stumbles backwards, Martin sees Tran's face pale with shock. "Martin!" she shouts.

As the line of fire runs up his chest, Martin has time for a single, absurd thought before the pain robs him of the ability to think, But the good guys don't lose! Staggering back, he trips over the edge of the carpet and falls to lie against the wall, blood staining his clothes as the hideous wound gapes open. Everything dims for a second, as if the lights had been turned down, or a cloud had passed in front of the sun, and he hears Tran’s cry as if from a great distance.

"Oh, fuck," Tran says bleakly, watching as Martin collapses, then as the figure rears to its feet and lunges towards her. "Fuck." She blinks twice, quickly, and then crouches, ready to strike again.

Gunshots explode from the corner of the room; two of them knock the disfigured man back against the front door. Seeing her opportunity, Tran pivots and slams her foot into his mouth. He slumps against the door and slides down. More shots fly past Tran and imbed into his chest.

"God damn son of a bitch," Russ MacIntosh says from where he's seated, leaning against the couch.

"Nice to meet you, too," Tran says sarcastically, moving over to Martin. "Mind emptying the rest of the clip in him, just to make sure?"

"Hey, DuQuense, wake up!" Tran says gruffly, carefully shaking Martin's shoulders. "You going to lie there all day or what?" She sighs and mutters as shots explode behind them, "Damn file said something about a healing factor."

For a moment longer Martin lies there, still, then he twitches once. A shudder wracks his body, and his eyes snap open as a gasping cry escapes his lips. "Ah... Jesus this hurts." The movement does awful things to the wound marring his chest, the edges flapping in time to the words like an unspeakable second mouth. Unaccountably, there is no more blood flowing from the wound to stain the floor and the remains of Martin's clothes.

A moment passes, then another, and the edges of the wound move again - this time under their own power - creeping visibly closer together. The flesh between them, glistening slickly with blood, begins to swell up, filling in the emptiness between the wound's edges at an appalling rate as the injury begins to seal itself.

Worst of all, Martin's eyes swivel to look up at Tran as the process continues, obviously aware of what is happening to him. "Does..." he gasps, "Does this look as bad as it feels?"

Tran's face has turned a curious shade of green to match her altered eyes. "Probably worse," she says in a queasy voice, untying the "Army" sweatshirt from around her waist and handing it to him. "Why don't you put this on?" she says. "I'm sure Mr. MacIntosh wouldn't mind being spared the sight of you."

"We've gotta get out of here," he says from behind Tran, moving over towards her as he reloads the gun. He looks over at Martin. "Holy shit, he's alive?!" he exclaims. Looking closer, he grimaces. "Ugh..." he backs away, holding his hand over his mouth.

Martin winces, "I think I'd really rather not know what it looks like," he offers weakly as the edges of the wound finally grow together and knit closed seamlessly. "It feels..." he pauses for a second, and says a bit more firmly, "Felt pretty bad."

 Craning his head forward, Martin eyes the unbroken expanse of skin exposed by his ruined shirt and sighs, "I liked that tie."

Martin struggles to a sitting position and stretches, gingerly at first, then with greater confidence. Turning a bitter eye towards Tran, he answers in a slow, pained voice, "I think so. It wasn't quite as unpleasant as being shot by my wife's lover, but I've always suspected that the physical injury wasn't the real problem there." Jesus, what the hell did I say that for? he chastises himself silently.

Tran is speechless at Martin's blunt comment about something so personal, and stutters for a moment before helping him up. "We do need to get out of here," she says. "What have you touched in here? My fingerprints are different, but yours we need to consider."

Pausing for a moment to consider, Martin says, " The doorknob in the hall, the baseball bat, and a spot on the floor next to where I dropped the man he, " he nods towards the still form of the paranormal, "killed."

 Russ emerges again, this time with a small duffel. "I can't stay here and try to explain this," he comments. "Who the hell is going to believe that a nice bunch of Christian men who want to spend more time with their families sent a goon squad to my apartment?"

Martin sighs, and nods his thanks to Tran. "I suppose you're both right - even if it does go against my first choice." He glances over at Russ, "Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I don't think I need to go out dressed like this," he finishes by indicating the blood-stained ruins of his shirt and tie. A plastic garbage bag would be nice too - don't want to leave the shirt here."

Russ dashes down the hall, and emerges a few moments later while Tran is cleaning up the areas Martin touched. "Here," he says, tossing Martin a denim shirt -- judging by the apartment, it's probably Russ' best. "We really have to get out of here now," he says. "The cops will be here any minute!"

 Keep your pants on," Tran snaps. "I'll be done in a sec. Are there any more bullets in that gun?" Russ shakes his head. "Are there any more clips in what’s-his-face's pocket?" Russ goes over, rummages through Barnabas' pockets and comes up with one as Tran finishes up. She takes the gun and clip from Russ, wipes it off with a rag, and gently places it into Barnabas' hand. She squeezes the trigger one more time, and drops his hand down. "Well, hopefully that will confuse them for a little while," Tran says. "I'm ready now. Martin?"

Wiping the blood off his chest with a damp paper towel from the kitchenette, Martin looks up, "Put some fingerprints on the clip too - and take the gun out of his hand and drop it near him. He clutched for his throat and would have dropped it then." Tilting his head to one side he examines the scene critically, "You probably ought to give the baseball bat to the guy you took care of Tran, they'll find the impact injuries to Spike there's knee in the autopsy and they ought to have a convenient cause to prevent them from looking too hard."

 Tran nods, and does as Martin suggests. "Good plan," she comments. "Usually I was never very careful with clean up," she adds cryptically. "Never had to worry much about it."

Slipping the shirt on after disposing of his former shirt, tie, and the bloody paper towels in a plastic garbage bag and tied it off, Martin looks up, "What was it that they got out of the back room that precipitated this insanity? Whatever it is - get it. I'm not looking at jail time for nothing."

Russ holds up a bag. "Got it. Holding the door open, he says. "Let's go."

Martin takes one last look at the bodies in the room, sighs, and slips out the door. "I'll be right there," he says to Tran and Russ, "I just want to check the guy in the stairwell and clean up there. Meet you at the car." As he slips into the stairwell, he berates himself, I can't believe I just deliberately obscured a homicide scene - what the hell is next?