Frank had always been violent. Major choices were presented to him at an early age. His older brother had been killed at sixteen by a rival gang, kicked, beaten, and stabbed until he was only so much hamburger. Frank had avoided the gangs but he knew them. One by one the gang members who had killed his brother disappeared. Frank would torture them until they gave up the names of others who had participated in the beating. The police would receive a piece of shoulder skin with the gang tattoo on it and know that another gang member had been killed by some unknown vigilante. They were too stupid to connect the dots and never even considered that it might be Frank. After all, he was only twelve when he killed the last of them.

His future helpers had also lived a life of violence. Frank actually liked Jerry Rivera. He had suffered a childhood similar to his own, growing up in East LA, in and out of foster homes, keeping out of gangs and drugs only by sheer luck. The other one, Sam Crane, from Philly, just seemed like a black thug. Frank had nothing against blacks, but this one seemed to be a blustering bully.

"Wow, real strange," said Jerry, when he heard who their targets would be. "They seem like nice people. Too bad."

"Yeah, too bad," muttered Sam. "The woman's a raghead, you fool. Just a white doctor's bitch. Killing's too good for her."