"Seven minutes past nine o'clock...whats keeping you, Leese?" Jackson murmured impatiently before gulping down the remains of his gray goose martini, nibbing at the olive as he kept the look out at the entrance doors. The dim lighting of the Mynt Lounge in Miami was the perfect place to reunite with his "beloved" accomplice, and while the slow, ambient music droned on in the background, Jackson allowed himself to muse.

About a year has passed since our little incident on the red eye to Miami. No, I take that back...its been eleven months, fourteen days, and oh, I'm guessing twelve hours? To say that I am still pissed is an understatement, but then again what's the use of getting worked over the past? Forgive and forget is what the experts on life keep drilling us emotionally challenged folk. I don't even have to ask if Dr. Phil hasn't quoted that motherly proverb shit. Whatever the case, perhaps a night of civil conversation will do us both some good, that is if you're up for it Leese.

Oh I bet you are.

I bet your wanting to find out how I managed to escape a federal prison, leaving Keefe and his little political minions frantic and biting their nails, wondering what went wrong. I was more than amused when I watched national headlines glam up that pathetic attempt of a determined but fruitless search party. "Terrorist From Keefe Assassination Escapes Federal Prison." Oh please, how original can you get. It was comical though as I watched CNN the following night of my escape; shots of brave CIA agents talking in head sets, that typical air of false confidence that gives the general public a sense of security. Oh no...I was out all right, and somewhat proud once I heard security on all general hotels had gone up.

While I was safely tucked away from the clutches of our government, I could only imagine your face once Keefe jarred in the bad news. I hope you clung on to daddy dear and bought some mace, because I assure you that on several occasions I felt like paying you an old visit to wrap up our unfinished business.

But I had a little more dignity and patience than that. Besides, I had a few things to take care of first.

Believe me, it wasn't what you call 'simple', being able to escape prison, but fortunately I had a few old friends lodged in the government system who were able to squeeze me out of the prison's perimeter. But, like most things in life, it wasn't free and I had to slice out a big chunk out of my life's earnings to give to these contacts, and soon I was able to 'disappear', vanish from the constraints of Keefe and his government goons.

Thus, I loitered around in a country whose name I doubt you could pronounce, took a few weeks off to gloat and tend to my wounded ego and career, both of which are still undeniably scarred, and I have yet to find myself a respectable position in the field. Thanks to you, I'm now hated by my own kind, reduced to a pariah who lives off his deteriorating savings and whose reputation is permanently crippled. There is a whole social caste system in the underground world that I am acquainted with, and I went from enjoying nobility to scooping shit. Luckily, another company was willing to take me in and give me limited protection, but I am regarded as a salvaged good, a cripple who got bashed in by his last job. Petty, pathetic jobs that could be handled by mere thugs are now handed down to me, and I can no longer say I am a part of dignified, sophisticated organized crime.

...and whose fault is that? Even better, when did it all screw up?

Pity. Thats when it all crumbled Leese, when the discover of your 'incident' seemed to dawn in, finally giving everything a valid explanation. The realization that some piece of worthless shit had scarred you mind and body struck a chord within me, namely sympathy. That's something I don't feel often Leese...in fact your the first mark that, for the briefest moment, I felt almost sorry for. Even the usual self-proverb that it wasn't personal in my part didn't quite justify it all.

Then, you stabbed me.

With hell to pity after that little action.

Honestly Leese, I was bored out of my mind watching you for those painful eight weeks, bored and alarmingly puzzled. Even with all those hours of assessing, note taking, and grueling examinations, I couldn't find an exact conclusion, nor a satisfying thesis on your dissociative behavior. Hell, it was like a flash back to my psychology course in college.

As days passed, I realized that I was beginning to actually grow somewhat concerned for your well being. Here you are, an attractive, successful young business woman locking herself to the confides of her own apartment, and for what? To let the world pass you by? How long could you have stayed in the quarters of your living room couch, huddled with a plate of cold eggs, murmuring in unison with Audrey Hepburn in that oh-so-classic movie Sabrina? Hell, you watched that film too many times, right to the point where even I practically memorized some quotes. "I might as well be reaching for the moon..." was one quote I remember you seemed to chant religiously.

You could have been one of those women in those movies, aspiring their dreams and notching out a happy ending...but instead you seemed to prefer rotting in your apartment, channel surfing when your insomnia strikes.

Something was very wrong, and once I saw that scar in the lavatory, all chaos broke out and I became desperate for an answer. No, I was determined get that answer, even if I had to squeeze the life out of you.

But you mocked me. You lied. And I almost did squeeze the life out of you.

It seemed that every time I tried to be reasonable or humane, you did everything in your will to go against me. Soapy messages, the message in the book, hell, I wouldn't be surprised if you attempted to blink morse code to the stewardess. And I had interfered and kept the upper hand successfully; I hammered in each crooked nail until the very end. But yet I slipped up, and now I live with a very dented and bruised ego, all thanks you and your impromptu weaponry.

Perhaps what really stripped me of my pride was simply lying there sprawled in your father's house. At least my associate had some dignity; he was dead and wasn't lying there with two bullet holes in his chest, wheezing and gurgling on his own blood. Then the sickening shimmer of both triumph and reluctant pity that your eyes directed towards me as I vaguely heard the sirens of the ambulance come closer. If I had had the strength I would have stabbed you, dad or no dad, but I was helpless, weak, unable to even get on my own knees. All I could do was roll my eyes, swallow the agonizing lump of anger in my throat, and plot out what was to come.

So here I am. I plotted well enough to get back into American soil uncharted, and even more secure with myself that I contacted you from an phone whose number cannot be traced. I have yet to ask your opinion on the sound of my voice; I was more than happy after recovery to find that my vocals didn't suffer any permanent damage. We had no introduction, just a simple address and time and the phone clicked. I am sure you probably ran to your bathroom and coughed up whatever dinner you had, then laid in your sofa, crying and deciphering what to do.

Still, even if you'll admit it or not, you want to come see me. Whatever reasons are irrelevant, but you don't want that figure lying in your dad's entryway to vanish forever. Thus, I am sure with that newfound female heroine act, you'll swallow your fears, and venture on a secret pilgrimage to face me, yes me, your arch nemesis. I expect you will be dolled up more than usual, and you'll stride in here with false petty confidence, your makeup a bit bolder than usual. Hell knows what will be in that small purse you'll have...mace and pepper spray seems mandatory, but with that paranoia we both know you have, I wouldn't be surprised if there was a gun or a taser in there. Even a grenade.

How predictable you are Leese, even after the time we spent away from each other. I'd be disappointed if you didn't wear stilettos.

"Anything else you need sir?" The sun-kissed bartender eyed him curiously, a sheen of clear interest evident in her fake blue contacts. Jackson grinned, flashing a content smile as he immediately became aware of the world around him.

"Yeah, another grey goose martini would be great."

The woman winked, letting her fingers trail slowly away from the table and resumed to the bar to tend to his drink. Jackson's attention returned to the doorway, waiting for that petite, doe-like figure to come in.

After two minutes drained by, she finally arrived. Immediately Jackson felt a wave of mixed emotions pulsate through him, but he fought them off, determined to retain his cool composure. Conservative white blouse, an even more conservative tweed skirt, she seemed to empower the essence of professionalism, and went against everything Jackson had hoped she would do.

"Why Leese? Why do you always seem to oppose me?" He muttered lowly, examining her frantic figure scanning the crowd, her eyes alarmed and frantic. She kept posted at the entrance of the lounge, biting her bottom lip as her fingers nervously dug into her white Chanel clutch.

"Why Leese, did you get a raise? Congrats." Jackson said dryly. No doubt she did receive some benefits after the Keefe incident.

She finally took one step forwards, her eyes going down the bar until finally she caught sight of him. They widened slightly, her fingers stopped fumbling with her clutch, and her mouth subtly parted. Jackson simply stared back, letting a false smile tug the corners of his lips. Her whole body was stiff, but her eyes were brazen and bold, a bit angered by the casual grin he was flaunting. She murmured two words, then suddenly spun around and stalked out the door, leaving Jackson both surprised and immediately enraged. He got up by impulse to pursue her, but stopped dead in his tracks as the legendary skirmish in her father's house flashed by. Cursing, he plopped down onto the stool, hearing the clank of a martini glass settle in front of him as the bartender smirked at him.

"Girl trouble?" She said, obviously referring to Lisa's swift and unexpected exit.

"Like you wouldn't believe," He said in a light-hearted tone. "But don't get me wrong, she'll be back."

"Are you sure?" She questioned, her over-tweezed eyebrow raised knowingly.

Jackson nodded, examining his martini, watching the olive tumble to the bottom as he released it from its toothpick. "Very sure."

The finality in his tone made the bartender shrug, and as she made her way to serve a group of after-work socials, Jackson ran his hands through his hair and sighed. He had read what she had murmured under her breathe, and it irritated him to no end.

Go away...

No I won't go away Leese...not now. Not when your the key to my promotion.