". . . from several eyewitnesses. The suspect has been identified as Benjamin James Gagner. Gagner is thirty-five years old, six-foot-two, and weighs one-hundred-eighty-five pounds. He has shoulder-length dark blond hair and brown eyes. Gagner sometimes goes by the alias 'John van Vleck,' and also answers to 'B.J.' Benjamin Gagner was last seen driving a gray 1988 Buick LeSabre, Virginia license plate AXF-452.

If you come in contact with Benjamin Gagner, do not approach him. Federal authorities have listed him as armed and dangerous."

"You're fuckin' right I am," Ben Gagner grunted at the television, taking a swig of his Coors and laughing derisively. He picked up the .45 lying next to him on the bed and aimed it at the prim woman reporter on the flickering screen.

"Pow, bitch," he whispered. He finished off the can, crumpled it, and hurled it at the T.V. It clanged noisily and sent drops of undrunk beer hurtling across the carpet.

A whimper drew his attention to the other bed in the motel room, and he raised an eyebrow. "I thought I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut!"

The sixteen-year-old girl in the other bed whimpered again, her tear-streaked and bruised face filled with abject terror. Her mouth was covered with duct tape, and her hands were handcuffed to the headboard behind her. She was wearing nothing more than an oversized Washington Redskins football t-shirt and a pair of panties.

Gagner got up and walked over to her, malice evident in his every move. "Shut the fuck up! I don't wanna hear another peep outta you, you understand?"

The girl simply sat there, unresponsive, quaking in fear. Gagner struck her across the face with the back of his hand and shouted "Do you understand?!?"

She whimpered again and began to nod frantically. Tears flowed uncontrollably, and her shoulders heaved with the effort of holding in the scream that was trying to get out with ever breath she took, but she managed to comply.

Gagner turned away from her and walked back over to the bed. "Damn cunt," he grunted. "This is all your fault anyhow." He grabbed another beer, viciously opened it, and drained half of it at a draught.

Samantha Bridge had been living a perfectly normal life of late English essays, cheerleading practice, and dates with various members of the football team before Ben Gagner walked into her life out of nowhere and shattered her entire world. She had been stuck with this maniac for six days now, and there seemed to be no end in sight to the new hell her life had become . . . all she wanted was to go home, and crawl under her covers, and wake up from this nightmare.

She watched Gagner out of the corner of her eye. The man had cut his hair short and dyed it black, and was also sporting a week's worth of beard on his face. The "disguise" had obviously been enough to fool the motel clerk.

He had already raped her five times. After each time he'd told her it was only a matter of time before he got tired of her . . . and she wasn't so naive that she didn't know what that meant. Unless some sort of miracle happened, Sam knew she was going to die.

God, please get me out of here, she thought desperately.


*******

Josephine hurtled down the highway at a brisk ninety miles per hour, totally disregarding the Tennessee downpour that had turned the road into a nightmare of poor traction. The highway lights flashed by at a dizzying rate, and her headlights were barely far enough in front of her to allow her to see the road.

She didn't need the headlights, of course. Like most things about her they were merely an affectation, a convenient window dressing that made doing her job that much easier.

The BMW's engine moaned loudly, but preservered under her expert ministrations. She'd chosen the car for its durability as much as its speed; there was no telling whether or not she'd have to pursue the target using the car itself. Contingency planning was everything in an operation like this.

She glanced at the radio's clockface: 11:07 P.M. She had thirteen minutes until target acquisition became a moot point.

Some quick mental calculation showed her to be ten minutes from the target. That margin of safety was unacceptable. She applied more pressure to the accelerator, and the speedometer's needle steadily climbed forward . . . past 100, past 110, on up to 120 miles per hour. Prolonged driving at this speed would ruin the engine, but if Josephine's analysis of the target's fight-or-flight probability was correct (and she was 92% sure it was) then the target was far more likely to underestimate her own abilities and choose to stand and fight rather than flee.

She smiled grimly. It's his funeral.

It was rare for orders from above to come down in favor of termination, but apparently this situation merited exception. Search and rescue wasn't her usual modus operandi, but this particular mission seemed to call for her special talents. She hadn't experienced surprise at being tapped for this; instead, she'd felt the usual rush of exhilaration at the opportunity to do what she had been born to do.

Six minutes to target acquisition.

Her long, black hair was tied behind her, carefully arranged so as not to be a distraction in a possible conflict. Her gray eyes flicked over the instrument panel, alert for any sign of mechanical problems with the BMW; the car, for its part, was holding up admirably.

She was dressed in blue jeans and a plain black blouse. There hadn't been time for a more appropriate outfitting.

Josephine was an engagingly beautiful woman, the kind about whom starry-eyed poets have composed wistful love sonnets throughout the whole of human history . . . but this did not concern her in the slightest.

"Josephine" wasn't even her real name . . . and no man or woman knew her real name, or could even pronounce it if they did.

A highway sign blurred by: MOTEL NEXT EXIT.

Three minutes to target acquisition.


*******

Ben was on his fourth beer of the night when he began to feel the urge to cause the little bitch some more pain. Look at her, all smug. Probably thinks the cops'll be here any minute to save her worthless little ass. Yeah, right. Think I'll have me one last go at her, then . . . good night.

He walked over to her and poked her with the barrel of the .45. Samantha cringed and tried to back away from it, but she had nowhere to go.

"End of the road for you, honey," Ben grinned. "One last roll in the hay for ol' time's sake, and then . . ." he let the hammer fall on the gun's empty chamber, and it clicked with a grim-sounding finality. She began to weep uncontrollably, and Ben laughed sadistically at her weakness.

He put the magazine back in the .45 and chambered in a round, leaving it cocked and ready on the other bed. Ben grabbed his buck knife and made his way over to Samantha. "Now just hold still and I promise this won't hurt. Much," he added, revelling in her fear.

He began to unbuckle his belt-

-white light flashed outside the windows of his motel room-

The door flew off its hinges and crashed into the still-babbling television set, shattering the screen and sending both T.V. and door hurtling to the floor. Ben spun around, knife in hand, looking supremely ridiculous with his belt unbuckled and the comical expression of surprise on his face.

Josephine stood in the ruined doorway, all six feet of her, and stared at Ben with an expression that medieval torture victims were usually spared . . . because their executioners wore masks.

Ben was granted no such grace.

He recovered from his surprise quickly enough, though, and snatched the .45 from his bed. He didn't bother with niceties or even a bellowed "Who the hell are you?" He simply began firing.

And then, something happened which would haunt Ben Gagner to the end of his days (which was coming a lot sooner than he'd have guessed only five minutes ago) - Josephine rapidly and fluidly drew a katana sword from her belt and blocked the bullets.

The .45 only had ten shots. One after another, he sent the bullets hurtling after this dark apparition of a woman who had stepped out of the night, and one after another her sword deflected them away with as much effort as she might have expended at swatting away a fly.

He dry-fired a few times after the magazine was spent, and the next thing he saw caused his bladder muscles to completely loosen. He didn't feel the warmth spreading at his crotch, though . . . he didn't feel much of anything other than awe, fear, and the silent mental mantra oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh FUCK!

Josephine's feathery black wings unfurled behind her and stretched to their full eight-foot span, blocking the door and spanning almost from wall to wall of the room. Her eyes began to glow bright white, and her sword ignited with dazzling orange flames, flickering wildly and sending waves of heat across the room.

Target acquired.

"Benjamin James Gagner," she intoned in a voice that echoed with wrath and unfathomable power, "Your deeds have drawn notice that it would have been better for you to avoid. You have been given the chance to mend your ways, and you have squandered it. Now, you face righteous and due punishment for your crimes against your fellow man."

Gagner, wild-eyed and hyperventilating, did not even have time to scream before Josephine's sword sailed threw the air and impaled him through the chest. His body instantly began to burn, the heat drawing out the breath in his lungs and any possibility of a scream. His face twisted in pure agony, and he tried to force the sword out of his chest, gripping it desperately and writhing in horror.

Josephine watched him emotionlessly, locking her eyes with his for all the fourteen seconds it took for him to burn down to ash and dust.

"Make a big show," they'd said. She hoped that would satisfy them.

She started to leave the room then when a whimper drew her attention. Josephine turned and regarded Samantha. The girl was warring between disbelief, terror, and relief.

"The police will be here in four minutes," Josephine said. "They will untie you, take you to the hospital, and reunite you with your family. Your life will go on, and you will be free as always to choose what course it will take.

"But I was never here," she added, the deliberate tone of her voice making clear the implication of disobedience.

Samantha nodded, relief finally winning out over all other emotions. She began to weep again, but this time with gratitude.

Josephine sheathed her sword and drew her wings back in, walked nonchalantly to her BMW and got in. She started it, backed out of the parking lot, and sped off into the night in the opposite direction from the approaching sirens.