Chevy Chase, Maryland, March, 2078, Wednesday…

Sergio Battaglia was enjoying a vodka on the rocks in his leather wing chair when the man with a gun stepped out of the shadows of his hallway. He quickly put down both his drink and his copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.

"Who the hell are you?"

Frank Suarez looked at Sergio with loathing. He had shed the disguise that had kept him out of the hands of the FBI for three days. He was simply dressed in blue jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers. A San Diego Padres baseball hat sat jauntily on his head. The craggy face was solemn, the expression intense. The lethal weapon in his large hand almost seemed to be a toy.

Deep down he felt betrayed, paranoid, and depressed. His world was falling apart. He had known it might end this way when he began to take revenge on his brother's killers. Now his only consolation was that he was going to take a lot of bad people with him. And this time he was sure they would all deserve it.

No more collateral damage. No more clandestine missions. But one more kill. A quiet peace seemed to flow over him, soothe his mind, and quiet his pulse. He now knew his mission was a holy one.

"This is one time that you're not going to win, Mr. Battaglia."

Sergio was coldly calculating whether he had enough time to pull out the gun in his drawer and shoot the intruder. He decided against it. The man was a hired assassin. Sergio was old. Not feeble, but no match for the quick and muscular Suarez. His only chance was to talk his way out of this one.