AT A GUN RANGE GALLERY, Agent Wolfe was shooting targets, and most of the shots were hitting around the bull's-eye. Her memories fleeted to the time when she was nineteen as a Marine — fighting insurgent in Afghanistan during the pre-Medusa days...

The similar memories of the past resurfaced again later when she was alone in her hotel room — Agatha Wolfe bore the suffering of her arcane despondent — she drowned herself in more alcohol and snorted blows of cocaine.

Her pistol was on the table.

The Afghan war amplified inside her head of the cries of the dying which grew louder — they were pleading for their lives — before she fired bullets at point-blank into their faces...

She picked up her gun and removed the safety — before putting the pistol barrel under her chin, and took one last breath.

A loud clap of thunder in the firmament outside her window erupted.