There was something about staring down the barrel of a gun, Dean thought, that could throw you. It was too easy to get caught in the finer details that adrenaline let him notice; the twists of the rifling as it trailed into the darkness, towards the bullet waiting to kill him. Or the flecks of silver in his assailant's dark blue eyes.

"This is Deutsche  territory now," the man said in deep-voiced German. "You made a mistake coming here."

Dean smiled defiantly. "The last I heard, this was Chicago. The Academy and Angels run the city."

The German's dark eyebrows narrowed, his large, calloused hands gripping tighter on the pistol.

"Not anymore. Dietrich Meier runs the city now," the man replied, just a hint of anger flaring in his voice. "In a few years, he'll own this entire country."

"I won't vote for him," Dean said, looking the man over. "That's for damn sure."

The gunman was a German man, his hair dark and flecked with salt and pepper despite his apparent youth. Even his mustache hadn't escaped, hints of gray coloring it. The way he stood, he favored his left ankle. An old war injury, probably.

"Thankfully you won't be alive to make a difference, then."

Dean smiled again. "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

He moved suddenly, his hand grabbing the German's wrist, pushing it away from him. A loud thunderclap echoed in the alley, and it felt like a mule kicked Dean in the shoulder. But still he moved, bringing his booted foot down hard on the man's ankle, the bone snapping with a sickening crunch. The man cursed loudly in German as Dean twisted bashed the man's hand on the wall, forcing him to drop the gun. With all the force he could muster, Dean shoved the man onto the concrete. He drew his .38 as the man landed. In one motion he aimed and fired three quick shots.

Dean breathed heavily, looking at the now-dead German laying on the ground, blood oozing out onto the pavement. The adrenaline started to fade, and pain quickly started seeping into his shoulder. He looked down, seeing blood trickle down the dark leather. With a curse, he reloaded his pistol, slipped it in his jacket, and went to find a phone - and hopefully, a bandage.

One week later...

The funeral was a somber affair. Dean stood grimly in the cemetery, his arm in a sling under his trench coat. A soft drizzle, barely more than a mist, fell on the mourners as the military chaplain read from his Bible. A squad of riflemen stood with guns in hand, waiting for the right moment. Funerals were always sad, especially for friends. But it seemed like military funerals were the saddest of all.

The retribution had come hard; harder than anybody had expected. The dead man was retired Sgt. John McEntire, a shopkeeper with a close relationship with the Angels. It was him and his wife that had kept Dean from being just a stain on the bottom of someone else's boot. John had taken him in when he was homeless, given him food and a job when he was starving. And Dean had gone and gotten him killed.

The bugler began to play Taps, the song drifting on the cool Chicago air. Those mournful notes were enough to wrench tears from even the strongest man, and Dean was no different. This man, practically his father, was dead. And it was his fault.

When the riflemen had fired their volleys, and people had started to make their way to their cars, Dean had lingered. He rested his hand on the polished wooden coffin, his throat tight as he spoke.

"I'll get those fuckers for you, John."

*It was long past 2 a.m.

Bort was on his way home from his Tuesday night lady. A German. You know, the kind who may ask for a premium, but never declines a wish. Deeply satisfied, the abstruse perversity of the night was going through his head once more.

Suddenly, Bort's dreamish thoughts were interrupted by a shout. The shout was in a foreign language. It had a sort of clarity and harshness to it that immediately appealed to Bort.*

"Hans, jetzt rück die Ami-Fotze rüber oder ich verpass Dir eine Über-Abreibung. Schnell schnell!"

*Bort turned his head and saw five large blond men standing in a circle. One of them held a small woman by the throat. Not the kind that Bort would have liked...to skinny.*

"Jürgen, du hast schon genug gefickt! Ich bring die Schlampe jetzt um!"

*Although Bort's German was far from good, his preference for German women brought some basic understanding of the language with it. "Schlampe", he recalled, was the German term for "lady", and "bring um", meant "kill".

"CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK"

*Bort's gun fired faster than they could even react. The bodies slammed to the floor. One, two, three, four... wait. Where was the fifth one? And where had the woman gone?*

"Iss zat ol"?

*The German accent was thick. The fact that Bort could not tell where it was coming from made it sound even more dangerous.*

"Zanks for killing my competition. I vill have fun wif zis American Schlampe. Now run, run and tell your friends zat Jürgen owns zis city now. Next time I see you, you vill not be so lucky."

*Bort could still not see his opponent. He had no choice but to withdraw into the adjacent street if he did not want to fall victim to a German gun.  When he returned a few minutes later, the street was silent. The bodies were gone. Even though he searched for hours, he found neither the girl, nor the mysterious German who called himself Jürgen.*