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few days..you know.. to look at my place and see what you think?”
    Cindy Kelt took the bait. “Definitely. Call me. I’ll be happy to take a look.”
    With that, The Artist smiled and left, making his way down Esplanade to his car. On the way, he thought of Cindy, and all the other Cindy’s to come, smiled, and felt the need building within.
     
     
    Wesling kept an office downtown in a nondescript building off Canal St. The sign on the door listed her name in gold letters and underneath the caption “Import – Export.” Nothing was ev er imported or exported or handled but no one asked either. It was from this space that Wesling intended to handle Cassie. Now, as she waited for the girl to arrive, Wesling thought back over the long road to this place.
    Three years ago she was an analyst for the US Government, an intelligence officer for an organization unknown to 99.99% of the population. Those who did know, or found out about it, did their best to forget it when they finished with whatever brought them into contact. In essence, it began as a military style intelligence gathering unit, run by an ex-general, Philip Archer, who handled only the most delicate of operations. During the course of his career, Archer stumbled upon Cassie Reynold and her boyfriend Ronnie Gilmore, a seemingly normal pair of children. They turned out to be anything but average.
    Both Cassie and Ronnie were born blessed, or cursed, with extraordinary psychic ability. That discovery touched off two distinct plays for power, separated by years. The original, handled by Archer, occurred when his agent attempted to abduct the pair and use them for his own personal power. Ronnie, and especially Cassie, fought back with deadly results. While the boy was formidable, it was Cassie who possessed the stronger personality and the deadliest instincts. Agents died in bundles before Archer was able to bring things under control and forge a bond with Cassie predicated on their personal freedom and his delicate touch.
    Three years later Archer died. His successor, an agent named Luke Fr ancis, lacked the finesse of Archer. He pursued both Ronnie and Cassie, who by this time were in college and planning marriage, with a determination that proved his undoing. Ronnie’s capture, and Cassie’s attempt to rescue him, ended in a tragedy that to this day made Wesling shudder. Cassie killed Luke Francis herself, but the bullet that tore out the heart of Francis also ended the life of Ronnie Gilmore, the only boy Cassie had ever loved and possibly the only person in the world who would ever understand the power and the weight of her ability. Wesling pulled Cassie from the carnage in Virginia, nursing her back to some form of mental health in the American Southwest. It took another three years. During that time, Cassie came to what she saw as an inevitable conclusion. She was born to kill. Wesling sensed an opportunity and set out to turn Cassie Reynold into the most potent weapon the intelligence community had ever seen. Now it was time for the real world.
     
     
     
    Viktor Watt took three days to find a suitable apartment, all the while reveling in his own madness. It wasn’t the raving, lunatic style madness of a gunman. There was no spontaneity to his urges, no impulsive action. Rather, Watt enjoyed the planning, the delicate operational style he created within his own mind. There was a certain joy his madness brought him, a perspective separating him from the masses. On any given day, he could sit back and see what others around him couldn’t see. The vulnerability of a housewife in a parking lot, the helplessness of a young coed too inexperienced to lock her window at night. He saw what others didn’t, a constant parade of potential victims, all tasty and young, vibrant with life, passing his door every day. He mingled among them, talked to them and counseled them. Most saw him as a mentor. He was a wolf among the sheep.
    Raised in Europe, the product of a