1

Obtrusive

He fired a final bullet into the man's skull. It wasn't pleasant; none of it would ever be pleasant, but it was necessary. He, of all people, knew this. Unfortunately some people had to die, that was the way of it. Some people could no longer be allowed to live on this earth. If they chose to kill, rape, embezzle, cart in and sell drugs or weapons or try to oppress others unnecessarily, he would kill them. All of the agents would; at least the ones on his end.

Paul wondered how horrible of a man he really was, as he stared blankly at the dead man in front of him; just an empty shell now, the face, while having a still regretful and frightened look frozen in place, was empty as the blood rushed from the hole in his head and down his expression in thick dark ripples. Paul had known this man, he'd worked with him on a few occasions and he'd laughed with him too. In the end, however, this man—this Agent—had become just as heartless and as self-important as the Agency and did his kills for sport.

Paul didn't approve of killing for sport.

He sighed heavily as he returned his gun to his shoulder holster, letting his partner Riley haul the dead man away. He glanced down at his deep gray suit and black shirt, wondering if any blood had splattered onto him. He'd hat to ruin the suit; he rather liked it. He found no trace of blood on his clothes, nodding appreciatively at this.

He then frowned, wondering now if he too was heartless; caring more if he'd stained his suit, than about the man he'd just killed. Firing a gun was so easy for him. So simple. It never bothered him that he took lives; didn't bother him that he'd just murdered a man he knew and used to like—that was the disquieting fact: that none of it caused him grief.

Just how horrible of a man was he? He couldn't count the number of times he'd asked himself that very question. Anytime he found himself alone in a quiet and uncrowded atmosphere, his mind wandered and he'd question himself; his motives. Sometimes he thought himself a monster for what he did, other times he waved it off and found something to occupy his thoughts, the rest of the time he was proud of his work. It was necessary after all.

It's not that he enjoyed killing, because he didn't; it wasn't something that was fun to do and he didn't look forward to it, but he had a job to do. This was necessary; these people were a detriment to society and Paul wanted to protect that society from them. Paul had a goal: show the Agency what their work was before they got too big for themselves.

He would try to take care of it in other ways first, of course. He'd warn, threaten and even anonymously turn them over to the authorities, but if these people got away with their crimes or started their work again in being a societal problem, Paul would have them killed. He was the one that gave the order to do so. He had discussions, of course, with a few people he trusted on his team, about what steps were to be taken; ultimately, however, he handed out the verdict.

It bothered him, unnerved him sometimes, to know that he was so heartless in his judgment and that he could kill so easily, so calmly. Yet again he'd wave it off, call it necessary.

Paul wasn't what one would call a violent man, by any means and he certainly didn't profess to be so. In his opinion he was rather personable, lively and fun to be around—he was also a self-professed pain in the ass. All in all he was a good man; never violent in his actions; at least he didn't think so, he'd long moved past that hurdle.

He hoped so at least.

His younger years were a blur of anger directed at his ruthless father, his spineless uncle and scrutinizing aunt. He'd been rebellious and troublesome; never doing what was asked of him, always pushing boundaries to prove he wouldn't be controlled.

He was raised by his maternal uncle and his wife in a household that was completely void of affection and understanding. Never mind that his father had killed his mother in front of him; his aunt, his new mother, treated him like a criminal, ordering him around and sending him to therapy, but it was never for his benefit. To them he was a broken object, they wanted to treat him because they felt he would be every bit as bad as his father and they wanted to program it out of him. To them he was just some horrible disease that wouldn't go away and tried to mold him into something he wasn't, refusing to give him the one thing he wanted—and needed: love.

He'd rebelled fiercely against them, shouting and purposely making them angry in order to break free of their tyranny, but over the years he changed. He quietly fumed through High School and then stumbled into the Agency after hearing that his father had been murdered. He wasn't angry anymore; he'd learned to temper that and his line of work made him indifferent. Now it took a lot to upset him.

There was, however, that ever looming doubt—but now was no time to think on it, he had work to oversee.

Paul watched quietly as Riley cleaned up the mess in the room, wiping up the blood and scrubbing the floor. This was normally Paul's job and though others might have viewed it as shitty work, Paul was the absolute best and he was proud of it. Everyone used to be responsible for their own clean up; Paul had started off as an assassin, but when they saw that he excelled in covering tracks and cleaning up, they asked him lead that particular division. Now it was his profession. He was still an exceptional killer, but his cleaning detail was second to none and he'd instructed Riley on the proper execution of this task.

He still remained unaffected by what had happened here in this dusty warehouse in a seedy part of San Antonio. He thought back over the conversation he'd had with the man before he'd shot him, trying to decipher anything useful out of it. They'd tried to get some information from the Agent about the Agency and their plans, but unfortunately he had little to offer. Paul found himself disappointed by the news; he needed more information on his former employers, he needed to know what they were up to. There was rumor that they were sticking their fingers into different projects, but no one seemed to know what.

Paul pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, put one filtered tip to his lips and lit it. He always smoked while thinking, it kept him calm, otherwise he'd become edgy; he made it a point to never let it show, especially not in front of people—even people he trusted.

Always, Paul had to remain in control. People looked to him, all of the agents who'd left the Agency did, anyway. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that, however; he didn't want to be a leader, even if he was heading this little demonstration against the Agency. Paul just wanted to continue his work, keeping the original ideals of the Agency intact. Those ideals were quite proper, in his opinion, but they'd long since been forgotten.

Paul watched as Riley wiped sweat from his brow. It was excruciatingly hot today, even if it was October. Perhaps it hadn't been their best idea to date, coming to this empty warehouse, but it was perfect for interrogation.

He'd gotten this idea from James: a truly gifted assassin who, unfortunately, like the Agency, got too big for himself. His ideals may have been in the right place: wanting everyone to be stronger for their own sakes, but he became a detriment, not only to society, but the Agency and even himself. He eventually got himself blown up in his determination to win out against his brother.

"That's about it." Said Riley, breaking Paul's concentration.

"Hmm?" Paul looked over the scene that was once a mass of blood spattered across the floor, but from the look of it now, if he hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have thought anything of interest had occurred here. He nodded in approval. "And the body?" He asked.

"Anna and Joe drove off with it." Riley replied with a smile.

Paul nodded and started for the exit, Riley keeping in stride behind him. "Need a ride?"

Paul shook his head, pulling the cigarette from his lips; he breathed out slowly, smoke escaped mouth and quickly dissipated. "No, I'll walk, it's best if we aren't seen in public together, even in a car. The Agency is suspicious of you already; we don't need to give them any proof. I need you to remain in their employ."

Riley nodded in agreement, but eyed at Paul curiously. "Just how far is your place from here, anyway?"

Paul inhaled and then puffed out a small ring of smoke before smiling slightly, "Walking distance…albeit a long one. It wouldn't kill me to get a little more exercise." He then laughed a little, "I may have been spoiling myself over the year." He patted his stomach, "I think I even gained a few pounds."

Riley shook his head, Paul never revealed much to anyone, not even those he claimed to trust. He wasn't offended, in fact he laughed as a realization came to him. "You're still barging in on them, aren't you?"

Riley was referring to the only other people Paul truly trusted: John and Kate. John was like Paul: he'd worked for the Agency, trying to keep the original ideals alive—that is until they started chasing after good people like Kate. Kate had unknowingly documented some of the Agency's work and they'd been out to kill her, when John stepped in to protect her and eventually love her. Then, through this act, the Agency went after him, sending his destructive brother James after him. He nearly died when James set off a series of bombs.

That was a year ago, and after healing and finally pulling himself together, John reunited with Kate. However, for the year that John spent rehabilitating himself in mind and body, Paul had acted as protector, friend and brother to Kate. In thanks, she often treated him to wonderful meals. Much to John's dismay, Paul still dropped by for those meals.

Paul's smile widened, "She thinks of me as a brother, she can't seem to deny me a good meal."

"And John?" Riley asked shrewdly, eyebrow cocked.

Paul grinned pleasantly. "He can't seem to argue with her."

Riley laughed. That statement explained it all, it meant John was irritated with Paul's constant unwarranted appearances at their house.

Just outside the exit, Paul parted from Riley, heading towards downtown San Antonio while Riley went to his old brown Buick and drove off in the opposite direction.

Paul enjoyed these long walks home, he found them refreshing; he wasn't the least bit worried about being attacked on his way home. He had a very large price on his head, the biggest price of all of those who had taken up and gone against the Agency, but that meant that they wouldn't kill him outright. They wouldn't snipe him, oh no, he knew too much and he had all that extra information; he was heading the whole operation against them, they would want answers, they'd want to drag him in.

Paul huffed out a laugh at this, he hadn't made it easy for them. They attacked when he was alone and he always won against them. He had contacts everywhere and tabs on everyone; they were only attacking when he found it suitable for himself. When he needed information from them, he made it possible for them to get closer, otherwise he was everywhere they weren't. He had no reason to hide; out in the open was the safest place he could possibly be.

He made it into downtown San Antonio. It was busy and noisy, not very many tourists this time of year, but the place still buzzed with activity and Paul like it. He enjoyed being around people. The noise was soothing, even if they hardly acknowledged him; he enjoyed watching them and listening to them. He listened to the distant music from the Riverwalk and smiled.

Paul had always been so busy that he had little time for being around others, especially now that he was running this little demonstration against the Agency. People were looking to him, but he made sure to run this as a group effort; he didn't want to be boss, as tempting of a title as that was, he knew that he'd become no better than the man who ran the Agency now. He had to keep his ego in check.

He made his way through the crowded streets, watching those swarms of people rush about, hitting all the historical places, the Riverwalk and the many small shops that lined the streets. It was truly a great place; he could call no other city 'home'.

"AGH! GODDAMMIT!"

The sudden shout had Paul halting mid stride and looking up as a woman exited an art shop. She appeared to have dropped one of her several bags; she had to have been carrying at least seven bags worth of different supplies, each bag looped over her arms and a very large canvas tucked underneath one arm. One bag looked to contain paint; another contained several different brushes and a few smaller canvases. One bag was strangely containing fake flowers and leaves. The other three bags seemed to be filled with sketchpads and pencils and pens, threads and fabric. The woman was either a very busy artist and clothes designer, or she was scattering her energies into too many projects. Something told Paul it was the latter; the overly aggressive and determined look on her face was the prime indication. She also appeared to be quite frustrated, but he knew that it to be because she had attempted to carry so much all at once.

The short mousy-haired woman struggled, trying to not drop anything, trying to make it to the street where she could try to catch a cab. Catching a cab in San Antonio was a bit harder to do than in New York. You didn't simply hail a cab, though it proved only slightly easier to do downtown; the cab to car ratio was much smaller here.

Paul watched her a moment before smiling and approaching her. As comical as it was, he didn't want to be rude. "Would you like some help?" He asked. He'd thought she'd be glad for the assistance, but what happened next wasn't quite what he'd expected.

"Back off buddy!" The woman snapped, a fierce glare in her sharp blue eyes. "I can do this by myself, I don't need anyone's help, I can do it just fine on my own…" She growled and tried to make a few more steps toward the road after amazingly managing to retrieve the dropped bag

Paul just stared after her as she waddled ever so slowly to the side of the road. A stubborn woman if he ever met one.

She tried to hail for a cab, but the only one on the street rocketed past. The woman began cursing loudly, shouting obscenities after the driver of the cab. She went to raise her fist to shake it at the man, but she soon was pulled backwards by the weight and bulk of her bags. She fell under the weight of her supplies and was soon buried by them.

Paul stared blankly at her a moment as the woman's face started turning all shades of red and purple, her face contorting in frustration. She was about to explode with a whole new set of slurs but before she opened her mouth to cuss colorfully, Paul burst out laughing.

He threw his arms over his stomach as he laughed. He couldn't remember a time he'd laughed this hard. Never before had he seen anyone turn so many colors, nor had he ever heard such profanities come from such a small woman. When she had cursed out after the cab driver, she'd been very creative in her wording, she cursed more than any woman he'd ever met and even more than the men on his team. Even hot-headed John.

"Hey!" The woman shouted angrily, glaring in his direction. "Hey! Guy! Stop laughing dammit! It ain't funny!" The woman shouted at him, struggling to get out from under the pile of art supplies.

Paul stopped laughing loudly but stared over at her with a wide smile on his face. The woman looked ready to swat him, but he couldn't help himself, she was just so dang amusing. He enjoyed pushing people's buttons, it helped them eventually get over their insecurities, but really—he found it damned hilarious. "Of course it is. If you'd seen the same thing, you would have laughed just as hard at me." He replied with a grin.

The woman's face turned scarlet, "That's not…" She stopped herself from shouting that it wasn't true, because she knew it to be a lie. She would have laughed; even so, it was down right rude of him to laugh at her like that. What the hell happened to chivalry and common courtesy?

She pushed herself off the ground, dusting off her black dress-like shirt with the gold and red swirls and butterfly print. The shirt went well past her hips and down to her mid-thigh, loosely hugging her dark tan skinny jeans.

Paul looked over her outfit curiously; it was interesting, to say the least. She wore knee high black boots over the jeans and had a tan under shirt that went to her elbows, the black sleeves of the dress-like shirt flowed loosely over the undershirt. She also sported several necklaces, all of different lengths: two black chokers, one above the other, both with stars on them. Two others were longer, one with an ornate cross and skull at the center and another with a claw-shaped hematite rock pendant. Very artsy.

The woman continued to glower in Paul's direction, running a hand through her short shoulder-length hair done up with several butterfly pins on one side. How dare he smile like that at her? She grumbled to herself about that tall man in front of her, smiling pleasantly at her and still shaking slightly from laughter, his eyes concealed by his black and silver rimmed sunglasses; a high quality set, no doubt. She didn't know what to make of him. The way he dressed in that crisp dark gray suit with an untucked black shirt but no tie suggested that he was comfortably well off, but the way he acted just now made her wonder what kind of man he really was. In any case, she wasn't about to trust him.

"Would you like me to at least call a cab for you?" Paul asked, finally managing to calm himself.

The woman glared sharply at Paul, "I didn't ask for your help, buddy; must you insist on being an obtrusive wise-ass?"

He huffed another little laugh at her attempt at slander; she certainly had a way with words. He smiled at her again, making her roll her eyes at him. He laughed once more before calling a taxi and helped her load things into its trunk.

Paul couldn't help but find the young woman amusing; people like her and John had a great deal of insecurity and were always getting mad at the world, when they were really just mad at themselves over all their shortcomings. John, though always working for the good, had regretted things and doubted himself, denying himself a life. Paul messed with John, sometimes, pushing at his buttons, but never enough to send him off the deep end; John would be relentless in his retaliation.

Paul gazed over at the woman beside him, wondering what she was blaming herself for. No one was perfect, not even himself. He smiled at the woman as he opened the cab door for her. He could be a gentleman when he wanted to be.

The woman started to get in the back seat but hesitated, one leg in the cab, one foot on the pavement. She looked up at the auburn-haired annoyance, eying him carefully. "Well…I guess I should thank you… so… yeah." She paused a moment, but stared at him with a scowl on her face, she was never good about accepting help from anyone. She then grumbled a thanks and slid into the cab, closing the door sharply.

She leant with her back against the seat, thankful to get away from the man. He was strange and she really didn't know what to make of him. She sighed heavily and then leant forward and gave the address to the driver. Just as she was leaning back into her seat, the other door was pulled open and the auburn-headed man slid in beside her.

He smiled at her again; her eyes narrowed in his direction, "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" She asked him.

"Sharing a cab; I have places to go, too." He grinned, waving his hand to the side idly.

She glowered, "You could take your own cab, ya know?"

He stared blankly at her a moment, "You don't think you'll be able to carry all that stuff in to your place alone, do you? I thought we'd already proven that it wasn't possible. Plus if you do try to carry it all by yourself… that's a show I don't mind seeing twice."

She gawked, "RUDE!"

His smile remained intact as he lifted up his hand and pointed in her direction, "Honest." He corrected her.

She glared and shook her head as the cab began rolling along the street. "It's still rude…"

"It's okay to accept help from others; although you may try not being a pain in the ass about it." Paul explained kindly.

She eyed him a moment, in disbelief of this man. He was right, of course, she just hated that he had to go and point it out. "Who are you, anyway?"

He smiled kindly, holding out his hand to her. "Paul Shepard."

She continued to eye him carefully, still not sure what to make of the man. She glanced at his hand, but didn't take it. "You're rude to me and then you act friendly…what's wrong with you?"

He laughed at her comment, retracting his hand and returning it to his lap. She didn't trust him and didn't look to any time soon. He understood. Paul had a knack for angering people easily; he usually avoided the temptation because he knew his ego could out of hand and go too far. He usually had it under control, not wanting to offend he managed to get close to—a rare few it was, too. The lure was so strong, though, when he happened to be around people like John or this woman.

"Several things, but that's neither here nor there. We're all a little damaged. Didn't mean to annoy you this much." He smiled winningly at her.

She raised her eyebrows at him, "…but you had planned to annoy me at some level?" She asked.

He grinned and nodded at her, "You are so amusing that I couldn't pass up the opportunity."

She turned away from him, amazed by his attitude, "So blatantly honest…have you no shame?"

"What a ridiculous question!" He announced, but said no more; no need to elaborate. He was having far too much fun; bless his ego...

The woman just stared sourly at him; he was just too damn weird. "So…Paul Shepard, is it? What do you do for a living?" She asked, now knowing she couldn't very well ignore him. Her probably wouldn't let her. Might as well make small talk on the way to he apartment.

He relaxed in his seat, getting comfortable before he answered, "I kill people for a living."

She swiveled her head around to stare at him, an eyebrow arching in confusion. He continued to smile in an unassuming manner. Was it supposed to be a joke? If it was, then she didn't quite get it; how was that supposed to be funny? She didn't know what to make oh him. This Paul character made no sense whatsoever. If he wasn't joking the he was definitely out of his mind.

She laughed awkwardly, "No, seriously, what do you do?"

Paul's face remained the same, smiling as he leant forward, peering over the top of his sunglasses, his deep green eyes sparkling charmingly. "Seriously? Seriously, I'm an online news journalist and reporter…"

She was about to answer that it sounded like a neat job, but he cut her off with his finishing words, "…and I kill people for a living." He set a finger to his lips in a hushing motion and winked at her, nodding.

She blinked a few times at him in disbelief, raising her eyebrows, 'Okay… yeah…he's nuts…'

He refrained from laughing at her expression, "You haven't told me your name yet."

She huffed a sigh through her nose and looked out the window, "Evie Cohen."

"Pretty; I like the name Evelyn."

"Ugh…"she groaned, "Don't ever call me that…my name isn't short for anything, it's just Evie."

"Okay, Evie it is; but I still like the name Evelyn." He laughed lightly as they arrived at her apartment: a shabby little complex on the edge of the city. It was clean but much older than most of the others with its fading brown paint and seventies style roofing.

Paul followed Evie out of the cab, picking up a few of the bags letting her carry one more than him as she simply refused to be treated like some weak and helpless woman. He followed her to the second floor of the second row of complexes, Apartment 26 B. She unlocked the door and was greeted by a big, fluffy white, slightly floppy-eared dog. The dog licked Evie's hand, but then bolted back inside the apartment at the sight of Paul. They both heard the scuffling of claws on tile and then a light thud.

Paul paused a moment, but the woman turned back to look at him, albeit not too apologetically. "Don't be offended, she's a scaredy-dog; freaks out if I wear a hat."

"Not much of a watch dog, I take it?" He asked.

She shook her head, "No, but I just had to buy Sam; poor girl was caked in fleas so badly that she was anemic; I couldn't just leave her. Took me forty five minutes to get rid of all the fleas and then she passed out afterward."

Paul nodded, "What breed is she?"

"They said pure German Shepard, but I think there was a Lab somewhere in there, her nose is shorter, and her ears flop over. Her parents looked pure, though, so I have no idea."

Paul smiled as he followed Evie into the small apartment, that was only lightly furnished and certainly not neat. The door led straight into the small living room, which contained a second or possibly even third-hand lumpy looking blue couch with a few shirts tossed haphazardly over the arm and a few stained moss-colored pillows. In front of the couch was an even older looking mahogany coffee-table that looked to be from the seventies, all the edges rubbed down to reveal the lighter color of the wood, the top littered with a few empty glasses and a plate.

The rug at the center of the room was caked in a thin layer of white fur. The entertainment center was just a cheap black stand with glass cabinets at the bottom where a VCR/DVD player and a Playstation 3 sat with a few games. The TV was a nice digital one and the wall was lined with those put-together shelves you can buy at any place that sold movies, each one filled.

Past the living room and off to the side, was an excruciatingly narrow kitchen, one that it would only be advisable to have one person in it at a time. A cheap wood table sat between the living room and kitchen with two folding metal chairs, a pile of mail sat on the corner. Then past the kitchen to the side was a hallway that led to, what Paul could only assume was the bedrooms and bathroom.

"Here…" Evie approached Paul, practically ripping the bags from him to set them against the wall. "I guess I should thank you again." She said stiffly as she eyed him.

He just grinned at her. "So…yeah?" He asked.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Paul was an odd man, but she had to admit that he was interesting. She watched him a moment as he smiled expectantly at her. "Please tell me you aren't waiting on an invitation to dinner here…"

He laughed, "Well, I did help cart your stuff here."

She rolled her eyes again, "Forget it, guy…it's not gonna happen. I'm not the domestic sort…you want that, look elsewhere; besides I don't think my boyfriend would like it if I let another man join us for pizza. He's the jealous type."

She shook her head at this as if she found it childish and pathetic. It was, but she found it hard to find any man to go steady with her; all of them got tired of her lack of ambition. She hated it too, honestly; she had a lot of things that she wanted to do, but in the end she lost confidence and feared finishing her projects. There were so many of them; there was so much she wanted to do, but she feared no one would like her work. She mentally slapped herself. She was going to finish one, damn it, and she was going to get her work recognized and in the mean time, she'd work at the antique shop.

As for the guy, he had similar issues; he wasn't the brightest bulb in the pack and he certainly wasn't the best at anything, but he was good in bed. Right now, that's all she needed, as long as he didn't get her knocked up, she'd keep him around.

She groaned inwardly at the thought. It was down right pathetic that she only kept him around because he could satisfy her in bed, it sounded down right shallow. She hated it, in all honesty, she wanted more; she just never had good luck when it came to relationships. Right now, she just needed to be pleased and try to figure out what to do with her life. She was hardly stable enough to be in a real relationship.

So she had a boyfriend. Paul had to admit that he was slightly disappointed; he'd have enjoyed bugging her more. Paul watched her face a moment, for a minute there she seemed vacant, lost in little her own little world, not paying Paul any mind.

"Well, I'll get going then. If you aren't going to treat me I'll have to go to that little place I know on the way back." And by little place, he meant John and Kate's.

Evie focused on Paul again, shaking herself mentally; what a time to wander off for a pity party. "Alright and thanks, I guess." She hesitated a moment, feeling bad for snapping at him earlier when he'd only wanted to help, "I do appreciate it…your helping me…" She amended, glancing to the side in embarrassment, sighing at herself.

Paul smiled "Anytime…Evelyn…"

She stared blankly back at him. 'So he just enjoys this sort of game…' She made a sour face and then shook her head. "Just call me Evie…"

He nodded and turned away, walking back down the hall, waving a backwards good-bye at her.

He continued to smile to himself as he left her apartment complex, heading back towards the road. It was starting to get dark already. Paul glanced at his watch. "6:02…if I call a cab I can make it in time for dinner…"

He reached in his pocket to call for a cab when a man in a black hoodie swiftly approached him. "Okay, hand over the wallet, buddy… and there won't be any trouble."

Paul glanced askance at him and grinned darkly. "Get home kid, and I'll let you off the hook, there are better ways to make money."

The hooded man shook his hand in his pocket indicating that he had a gun. "Shut up…give me your wallet or I'll shoot…" He glanced around nervously.

Paul huffed a laugh through his nostrils, which upset the young hooded male, having him charge at Paul; Paul grabbed the kid's arm without hesitation, wrenching his hand loose from his pocket, proving that he was without a weapon. Paul held sharply to the young man's arm pulling his hood back so he could see the kid's face.

He couldn't have been more than sixteen with black hair and even darker eyes. They kid stared up both angry and worried into Paul's face. Paul smiled at the boy menacingly. "Don't use empty threats, boy. Go home to your mother; things can't be so terrible that you can't stick together and work through it."

The kid spat at him, but Paul remained calm; it was nothing more than the irrationality of youth, "Run on home, boy…I know your face, so this is a warning. If I find you doing this again, rest assured that I will make sure you pay for your crimes. Juvvie isn't a cake-walk…" He let the teenager go and watched as he ran as fast as he could away from Paul.

Paul shook his head, pulled out his phone and calmly dialed the cab company.