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.

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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.