If he was not busy trying to staunch Chris' life-threatening wound, he'd have let his senses take leave and allow himself to go wild—wild enough to end another life. How should he respond when he was constantly knocked down when he finally found a way to stand up? A bomb had frozen his heart, but it had thawed. Did it take a bullet to permanently dismember it? How partly satisfying it would be to slowly drain the life out of the wickedly handsome fiend.

Richard sauntered forward and stopped in front of his victims two feet away. He openly seemed to enjoy the sight. The once breathtaking dress of the so-called Kristal Thompson was ruined, the crimson color of her blood spreading on the silver background. He fought to keep a blank expression, the hand of "Joey Grey" bathed in it too as he fought to staunch the flow. His lips turned up in a smirk as he monitored "Kristal's" labored gasps for breath and the drawing vacancy of her truly beautiful eyes. But what he relished in was the anger of torment etched in the deep blue locked on him.

It had been his main intention to shoot her vertebrae but his mediocre rookie pilot was a nervous wreck, dipping and tilting ever so often. But fate was on his side, the bullet's aim enough to kill her. How long would she live seeing that he was not there to offer a ride to the hospital? She'd live long enough to suffer for all the messes she had done to him. There was no telling what else she'd done that he had not found out yet. This was the least he could do.

It was undeniably entertaining to observe how the twosome had made it out the building. But now it was time to get back to his main intention for landing. Deep blue orbs had turned lifeless into a glassy murderous hue. Richard wet his lips in pleasure. He was in control. And it felt good. He brought out his Glock—his aim perfectly between the blues. The couple would die together. What a perfect way to end it all! Things might have gone wrong at the museum of music, but he always got back up on his two feet. He'll be back. But they won't—just like Pauline.

Maybe he'll say something now—before the funeral. "Kristal, it would've been fun if it lasted. Grey, it really is too bad."

Unable to resist the force pushing it out, a single bullet exploded out of its barrel, shattering the air—shattering life.

...........................................................

Lisa lowered the weapon, a weapon she'd never dreamed of using. Her body trembled, adrenaline coursing through.

She'd done it.

Greenwood lay still—so still. With her perfect aim to the back of his cranium, there was only one answer to the inevitable question. He was dead. Blood started to ooze onto the concrete, pooling underneath his head. Arms tucked underneath his body, his hands still clutched his Glock. Suit without a single crease and expensive dress shoes had no choice but to hold onto the dead.

She'd killed Richard Greenwood. She'd taken a life.

For whom?

Her head came up to see a distraught Stevens with a half-conscious Christina Hopper. The shock produced by her ghastly deed faded as she focused on rescuing her fellow agents. Helping Stevens put Hopper on the chopper in the least medically-risky way; she fought the urge to shudder. Blood trailed the way to the vehicle to which she was a pilot. Without wasting a second, they were in the air on the way to the hospital. She took an assessing glace or two to the back of the helicopter at her passengers. Stevens whispered gently spoken words into the hair of the unconscious.

To her it was worth it—although Chris. . .well, she had no idea what she would have said.

.......................................................

William huffed out a breath in the heart of the foundation of the Greenwood mansion. Just like the report Hopper had written, there it was—the corpse of Pauline Carlson. She'd been listed as missing from the agency. But William had always had the feeling she was deceased too. True, forensics would be done first to confirm the find but there was little doubt it was her.

William stayed behind in the dungeon as the corpse was taken away in a body bag. MI5 plus the police force had completely swarmed the Greenwood estate. Employees of the Greenwood family were all being questioned—including Thomas Greenwood. His aunt had come out as they arrived. He'd "interviewed" her, but as he had suspected, she knew absolutely nothing of what went on around her.

Everything was going wonderfully. Greenwood hadn't gotten through with his plans. And he was reportedly dead.

The case was closed.

...........................................................

Austere brown eyes gazed analytically at the body of the young woman, around the age of his own daughter. They had done their best medically for her. A severe loss of blood, a lung punctured by a bullet, a struck artery, and shock were the perfect combination. It was a wonder she was still living. Dr. Carlson sighed heavily. She had apparent bruises too—from a beating. What his patients got themselves into! The bullet having been surgically removed did nothing to improve his patient's chances. Things had only worsened once she instantly fell into a coma for some reason after the operation.

Things looked fatally grim. It was a true pity. She was so young.

The worst part of his job was informing those with relations to the patient about the realities. Dr. Carson, with his clipboard hanging limply from his hand, he turned the knob of the door of the private waiting room. The room was completely empty—except for a young man. Evening had arrived. Deep blue, haunted eyes stilled on him. The young man shot up to his full height, making Carson take a step or two back to lessen the feeling of being shorter. His appearance was more noticeable than even his height. He'd brought the woman in, hands and shirt stained in crimson of blood and bruising from a couple of punches to the face. The intensity of his gaze pierced through his soot-blackened face. With his absurd haircut and piercings, he looked the complete opposite of the young woman he brought in.

But all his judgments were not even apparent on his expressions. Under the knowledge that K.T. was a part of an undercover operation kept him from asking too many questions. "Am I right to assume you're not a relative?"

"Doc, just tell me how she's doing."

He almost flinched at the harsh tone. Maybe the other reason for his recessing and graying hair was due to wiping the hope out of so many eyes and replacing it with shock, fear, grief, and disappointment. He sighed. He motioned for him to sit. "We've made her as comfortable as we can," he said in the most calming tone.

Levi's eyes smarted as he felt the hesitance in the doctor's words. This isn't what he wanted. "How is she?" He didn't care if he was sounding demanding. He was.

"She is currently in a coma."

Levi grabbed a fistful of his own hair, rocking slightly. "And what else?" he bit out.

"Well, we're not ready to disclose that. All I can say is she's not in the best state in health."

So many words—yet they all meant one thing. Chris was dying. No matter how hard he'd tried to protect her and make sure she made it alive, she was dying. Levi's jaw clenched, a warm hand settling on his shoulder. His heartbeat shuddered in his ears, every other word spoken by the doctor drowned.

Once alone, Levi rose to his feet and began to pace the room like a caged lion. Above his grief rose anger, anger against himself and anger against the One who'd allowed it to happen. This had all been out of his control. And just like it had happened in the past, God had seen it fit to snatch a life he cared for away from him. Chest constricting, he sank back into his seat. Was that God's specialty on him? Breaking him?

Clouds moved in to cover the glowing full moon. There was something sinister about it. Levi's heart turning dark and cold as he gazed up at the skies, his mind brought back to life memories—memories of her. As if she had already died, his mind was storing inventory. Maybe it was destiny. The wind whispered through the trees as he sat under the same tree he'd sat under with Chris. His eyes shut, he could picture her perfectly—even to the slope of her nose.

He gazed at his hands. These same hands had been bathed in the blood of Christopher Rodriguez. These same hands had been bathed in the blood of Christina Hopper. His chest constricted, grief grabbing him by the throat. What a wretch he was! The embodiment of good had stood before him. Yet when had he ever seen it? She'd proven herself to be unlike all the other women he'd fallen for. Shame sliced at him, the memory of his shameful deed of kissing her against her will plaguing his mind.

"I forgive you, Levi." Her sweet voice echoed in his mind. His hands clenched into fists, the pain turning physical. When had he ever deserved forgiveness? As far as he could remember, his thoughts had been stormy, murder raging in his tumult of anger. When had he ever been deserving?

Empty.

Just when he felt his spaces filling up, she was taken away. He needed her. But what was the need of one man against the Grim Reaper? He wished to turn hard—freeze from all feeling—for the pain of a tearing heart was too much to bear.

"God allows us to break. But His healing leaves us better than we were before."

The memory of Chris' soft-spoken words sailed in the arms of the wind.

He'd grown cold the first time he'd heard those words. He'd been okay with her believing whatever she wanted to believe—even though he had issues with it. But now, he wanted the answer. What sort of healing did God want to give him from this?

Levi rose stiffly to his feet; the icy night air already numbed his face. If God were to strike him dead for daring Him, then it was no less than what he'd ever deserved. He raised his head to the skies. "Show Yourself to me," his voice rose.

Nothing.

No lightning zapped across the clouds.

No voice was heard from Heaven.

Maybe he wasn't even worthy for God to waste His breath on. Levi gave in. Pride broken, he sank to his knees. A growl of distress rose from the depths of his soul. A single drop of cold rain kissed the nape of his neck. Tears of grief from life departing spilled. He didn't want to live. Not with the guilt he held. Not with these hands! Not without life!

Unashamed sobs wracked his body, his forehead to the earth. "God, You've done it!" he whispered brokenly amongst the rain mercilessly beating on him, "I'm broken."

Levi, come!

It didn't have the boom of thunder, yet it possessed greater power than any voltage any could own. It didn't shake the earth, nor did it reach any great decibels, but it shook Levi's heart and spoke with great audibility he could not deny.

God had spoken—in a still, small voice.

Levi, come!

He'd rejected the call for so long.

Come!

Was he ready? He knew what accepting the call meant. Was it all worth it?

Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy laden. I will give you rest.

Heart open, nothing hidden, Levi was ready. The cool rain drummed on his uplifted face. "If You'll take me as I am—with all the garbage, the messes, the wretchedness, God I'll take You. Change me. I don't deserve it. But please!"

Heaven opened in his heart, eternal life flowering into existence. Guilt, shame, anger, rage—God had wiped it away into nonexistence.

Prostrate before God, Levi's arms stretched out to heaven, receiving the gift. "I believe," he whispered reverently into the rainy night air. An emotion he'd never known manifested itself—joy.

Chris was in critical condition. God knew his grieving heart. But it was under His divine control. His compassionate, infinite control. Levi knew—there was nothing better.

In humility of heart and full awareness of God's heart toward His own, he cried out. "God, I ask that You heal her. I know You're more than able. But above all, let your perfect will be done."

He heard.

Author's note: Yeah, it took ages. But things happen in life that demand more of your attention. Then writer's block kicks in. I know it isn't these aren't the best chapters I've ever written, but hey! It's all a part of learning! Thanks a stack for stickin' with me. *swallows emotion*