Zane Baxter took pleasure in reloading his .375 revolver. He felt more pleasure whilst firing it however, and it is because of this that his former friend and ally now lay dead on the hospital floor. The dead man's name was Noah Jenkins, a Ghanain refugee.
After he reloaded his revolver, he holstered his weapon and ran his fingers over the handle of his seven inch blade before removing it from its case on the side of his left boot. He carefully scraped a mark half way down his right boot, it was the thirty third, one mark for each man his revolver ended.
As Zane Baxter emerged from the abandoned hospital a wave of cool air engulfed him, He loved that feeling, he felt refreshed by it. However the sight of his heavily fortified Hummer H2 jeep always managed to knock the wind right out of him. Along side the black armoured vehicle were the remaining three members of his crew.
Two male, one female. Vincent Hoffman was the most noticable of the three, he was as tall as the jeep he stood beside, and he had the easiest voice to recognise, mainly because he spoke with an English accent, a trait that had died out long before. Michael - Abrams Bay, the second and last male member of the team, was the explosives man. He knew how to make anything from a sparkler to a bomb large enough to decimate a dozen city blocks. It could be said he has an obsession with anything that makes fire. The last devient under the instruction of Zane Baxter was Dejá Creed, a self named twenty two year old vigilante with a passion for percision weaponry.
Hoffman was the first to say anything. "How come you always toy with the Boss? Why can't you just kill'em and be done?" Zane looked at Hoffman, striaght into his green and blue eyes and said, without hesitation. "Its very simple Vincent, I love my job, and my job is to eradicate the disposible and dispose of the eradicatable." Zane grinned to himself when he noted the bewildered face of Hoffman. Dejá and Bay couldn't help but laugh a little.
Zane climbed into the drivers seat of his mounstrous ride. Bay sat beside him and Dejá occupied the backseat, whilst Hoffman manned the roof turret.
Zane Baxter would have been told by professionals he had 'road rage', if there was any professionals left, but none of his compatrients complained about his driving. They were usually preoccupied. Bay was playing with two pounds of C4, Dejá had decided to clean her G36C assault rifle and Hoffman decided to just open fire at the buildings, carcases of cars and the street in general, it was his way of releasing emotions.
When the H2 rolled to a stop, it was not because of a red light. Zane had driven into the remains of the criminal underworld. Except it was not really under anything, except years of decay and rot. The underworld had risen to the surface...
In the underworld Zane was God. His left and right hands were known as Hoffman and Bay, whilst Dejá was his devine intervention. No one messed with them, not since the situation with Dan Patterson a year ago.
Patterson was, what could only be described as, an understudy to Zane. If Zane was God, then Patterson could have been considered the Pope, and to make a long story short, the Pope believed he was God. God crucified him with eight broken bottles and a couple of packets of industrial staplers before leaving the ravens to do their bit.
Zane soon came back to reality when he noticed the silhoutte of a four and a half foot tall boy standing in his path....