The explosion tore through the perfume store, spreading from the storage rooms in the back, up toward the plate-glass shop windows that overlooked the elm-shaded avenue, and finally erupted onto the quiet street in a ball of rolling black smoke and glittering glass. It was over in an instant of pure destruction.

Had time been courteous enough to slow down in that instant, however, any viewer caught in that same time dilation would have observed that the explosion didn't tear through the perfume store so much as blossom, spreading among the gleaming aisles and polished display cases with the intricacy and determination of a summer rose spreading its petals to the sky. It rippled and rolled over the bright tile floor, churning the way an ocean wave might before crashing onto a warm beach. It explored the white plaster ceiling and sent emissaries scouting along the pale peach-colored walls, leaving black scorch marks in their wake. Flaming tendrils extended away from the central conflagration like children who have grown old and strive to leave their parents for a new life of their own.

The explosion grew in bursts as it spread through the perfume store. Each amber vial of Shalimar, each crystal bottle of Eternity by Calvin Klein, each plaid box of Burberry Brit - as the explosion reached them, the volatile oils inside combusted under the intense heat and they burst into miniature explosions of their own. Plaster moulding curled and dripped as the temperature rose to incinerator levels. Marble countertops turned smoky and opaque; one marble slab cracked along an ancient faultline which the stoneworkers had missed.

Inside the store, Michael Knight observed these phenomena with equal parts fascination and detachment. He'd heard the old wives' tale that your life flashes before your eyes before you die, of course - who hasn't? - but this wasn't quite what he was expecting. As the flames crept over the store in his direction, he found it easy enough to step backward, away from the blossoming fireball. The initial blast of heat was already wilting the fresh-cut flowers in his hand, so he dropped the bouquet and watched with interest as they seemed to freeze in freefall the instant they left his hand, the violet columbines and red tulips fading and cracking in the hot, dry air before they could even strike the floor.

The intended recipient of those flowers was frozen in the act of dropping behind a heavy display table near the front of the store. Her light blonde hair streamed outward from her face, which was slowly metamorphosing into a look of shock as the nanoseconds of real-time passed and her neurons began to sound the alarm. Her red lips, paler than the tulips but just as luscious, were slightly spread apart. Her normally warm blue eyes were open wide in an expression caught between gratitude and cold fear. The woman's daisy-patterned sundress had been pressed flat against her body by the rapid expansion of air, tightly forming to every curve and contour of her flesh.

Michael Knight walked through the exploding perfume store until he stood over the young woman. What did he know about her? Less than he'd hoped to learn. Her name was Nicole Fields, and her favorite food was apparently the loaded swiss-and-'shroom burger at Terry's Bar and Grill just up the street (the owner, whose name was actually Wendell, would be among the onlookers gaping at the ruins of the perfume store in just a few short minutes).

Nicole had ordered the swiss-and-'shroom burger on all three of their dates, paired with a glass of white wine, without fail. Michael also knew that she laughed at his jokes, and he knew that when she let her guard down, she had a habit of crossing her right arm across her chest, hooking it under her left elbow, and clasping the back of her neck with her left hand. It wasn't a pretty gesture, but Michael Knight found it endearing. He had a vision in his head of Nicole assuming the same gesture in the shower, when she was entirely alone and free to be herself.

Aside from those scattered details, Michael Knight knew next to nothing about the beautiful young woman dropping ever-so-slowly toward the floor in front of him while an explosion ripped - well, blossomed - through her perfume store. He certainly didn't know if his odd shower fantasy was true, because he'd never seen her in the shower, although he'd found himself wishing after their second date that maybe one day he would. He didn't know if she liked flowers, although he'd had a feeling she did when she stooped to smell a row of tulips as he walked her home through the cool night after their third date.

There was one final thing that Michael Knight knew about Nicole Fields. He knew that she was supposed to die. He knew that because that's what he'd been sent here to do. He'd honestly meant to kill her, too - on the night of their first date, he'd planned to slip a dose of cyanide into her wine glass while she left to plug a quarter into the old jukebox at Terry's Bar and Grill. He'd sat there and watched her slim figure weaving through the Friday-night crowd, hands below the wooden table, fingers deftly cracking the cyanide capsule in two...and then her song had come on, and he'd paused.

It was an old tune, nothing special: "Dead End Street," by some ancient band called The Kinks. Nothing you'd dance to, and in fact several of the bar patrons looked up from their bottles to drunkenly voice their disapproval, but it was a song Michael Knight dimly remembered from his childhood. As the dusty jukebox cranked out a tinny guitar riff, Michael Knight had a sudden forgotten memory. An old cassette tape sliding into a beat-up dashboard radio, a beautiful blonde woman looking down at him and smiling, the road rolling away beneath them as the peeling Pontiac Firefly carried them away to yet another motel room and another night in which he'd wake up to hear his mother softly weeping in the dark. Another dead end street.

When Nicole had come back to the table that night, it was to find Michael Knight shaking softly with a tear streaked down his cheek. He'd been too embarrassed to stay, even though she pleaded with him - this girl he barely knew - and tried to help him out to his car. Later that night, Wendell, owner of Terry's Bar and Grill, had been sweeping up after closing when he found a small blue capsule spilling white powder onto the floor boards, and he'd swept it into the trash with a shake of his head.

The explosion was more than halfway across the perfume store now, and still Michael Knight stood with his eyes fixed on Nicole. The strange angle of her fall had caused the hem of her sundress to hike up across her thigh. Michael Knight reached out to pull it back down to her knee, only to find that it wouldn't budge. Tentatively, he tugged at one of Nicole's thin, flailing arms, and it was like trying to nudge a boulder. Whatever was happening here, her path seemed locked on a set course. The idea worried him more than any of the other unexplainable events that had happened so far.

Around the same time Wendell had found the capsule of cyanide on the floor of Terry's Bar and Grill on the night of their first date, Michael Knight had been pulling into the driveway of his rented house across town. He caught himself humming the tune to "Dead End Street" as he switched off the ignition, and he caught himself thinking about Nicole Fields.

He had barely slipped the key into the lock of his front door when the door flung open and a pair of rough hands emerged from the dark interior of the house and pulled him violently inside. Michael Knight immediately countered, grabbing one of the hands and twisting it. A heavy blow landed on the side of his head, and Michael ducked the inevitable second blow, then thrust a fist forward. It missed his assailant's gut and glanced off a rib. Without pausing, he dropped onto his back and thrust out with both feet, impacting his attacker dead-center and sending them flying backward with a crash.

Michael Knight sprang to his feet and finally flipped on a light switch, then groaned.

"Reven," he'd said, speaking to the tall, lithe man sprawled on top of a splintered end table in his living room. With short-cropped black hair, a long, angular nose, and shrewd dark eyes, the man's appearance was a fitting match to his name - change one letter, and it it would be "Raven."

"Knight," the man replied by way of greeting, easily disentangling himself from the broken table legs and standing to face Michael. They didn't shake hands, and presently Reven continued.

"You failed to complete your mission."

"The opportunity didn't present itself," Michael replied.

"It did, and you failed to take it," was the man's response. Michael eyed him. Tall and disarmingly thin, Michael knew that Reven was nevertheless ferociously strong and well-trained in hand-to-hand combat. The fact that he was talking now with no apparent discomfort after Michael had just rammed two heavy boots into his solar plexus was a testament to the steel running through the man. Michael sometimes wondered if he was even human.

"You've probably guessed by now that I've reported your failure to Commissioner Slatterly," Reven had said. "He wasn't happy."

"Why her?" Michael had asked then, and instantly regretted it. Reven's eyes honed in on him like two needle-sharp daggers. It was a question he'd never asked. A question nobody asked. Ever. When they were given a mission, they carried it out without question, without hesitation. The target was always a name and a photo, and the only change from that format was when that target became a corpse.

"You've been ordered to go in," Reven finally said, ignoring Michael's question. "I'm taking over this assignment."

Without another word, the tall man had left through the front door, leaving Michael alone in his rented house with a shattered table and, for the first time in his service, conflicting feelings.

In the perfume store, Michael Knight crouched down beside Nicole. The heat from the ongoing explosion was now almost unbearable. The leather of his jacket was beginning to burn his skin. He looked at Nicole, studied her features. So beautiful and strange, and yet Michael was overwhelmed by the feeling that he'd known this young woman his whole life.

He removed his jacket and wrapped it tightly around Nicole's shoulders, then knelt so that his body shielded her from the blast. He waited for the blistering, searing heat to overtake them. He waited a long time.

---

Revan watched the crowd gathering outside the charred hole that had once been a perfume store, and after a few minutes, he lifted a slim cellular phone to his ear.

"It's done," he said, and pocketed the phone. A smile crossed his thin lips, then faded when he turned and found a handgun pressed between his eyes. It was held by a woman with dirty blonde hair and a charred, ruined sundress with a flower-print pattern.

"When will you people finally leave me alone?" the woman asked.

"We've been after you for thirty years, and we'll keep at it for a hundred more if we need to. There is no stopping this madness," Reven replied through gritted teeth.

"I know a way," Nicole Fields replied, shaking. "I knew as soon as you brought my son into this, and now...now I know how to stop this.

"How's that?" Reven sneered.

"One bullet at a time."

The gun discharged in an instant of pure destruction, but for Reven, it lasted forever.