"We have no idea.

"He disappears for a year or more after each hit; we assume it's to undergo plastic surgery. He's... reborn, if you will, after each killing.

"He leaves this as a calling card."

The agent held aloft a tiny stickpin; on its tip was a small figurine of a bird.

"He calls himself il Fenice," the agent intoned sternly. "The Pheonix."

Americana raised an eyebrow. Great - the mystery man had a codename. But the FBI hadn't called her in because the assassin chose a funny name.

They did it because they were scared.

"We don't know who his target is, but it's always someone big.

Since he's in Washington, it could be the Secretary of State. Speaker of the House. Maybe even the President."

"So you're saying that a perpetrator, ID unknown, description unknown, is going to attack a target, unknown, at a time and place, unknown - and we're supposed to stop him?"

A wave of nervous laughter passed through the room.

The head agent smiled slightly. "Yes, actually."

"Well it's a good thing we have Miss Stars Almighty here," muttered a man in the third row.

"Yeah. She's just gonna snap her fingers and nail this guy."

Americana froze. The men had voiced their opinions loud enough for the room to hear. Now most of the room had fallen uncomfortably quiet awaiting her response.

"Look," a young Special Agent said as he stepped forward.

"Americana's here - "

"It's all right, Roswell," Americana said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I've been hearing grumbling since I got here. I should answer them."

She stepped forward, taking a moment to steady her nerves.

"It's true I don't have your training," she said, looking at each of the assemblage in turn. "Your education. Your expertise. My chances of nabbing this guy on my own are probably nil. But I'd be willing to bet I was called down here today because your chances aren't much better.

"We have very little to go on and very little time in which to do so. I would think that you'd accept any help you could get."

There was some fidgeting amongst the assembled agents.

"Especially," she added, "Help that's bulletproof."

An older gentleman cleared his throat.

"That's just it, miss," he said hesitantly. "Some of us, well... we don't buy it."

Americana blinked. "Don't buy... what?"

"That you are bulletproof. And ridiculously strong. And all."

Americana ran her finger behind her ear. She wasn't too surprised - she had barely gotten used to the idea herself.

"You're looking for some sort of... proof, I take it? Can't really blame you.

"So. Shoot me."

"What?!" The room erupted in consternation.

"Shoot me," she repeated, placing her hands on her hips. "Come on!"

"Now, just a goddamn minute!" Roswell interjected. "You can't - "

"We're wasting time," Americana replied pleasantly. "Roswell. Just shoot me, okay?"

"I am not gonna shoot you!"

"Come on, shoot me! It's not going to hurt me or anything."

"I am not gonna shoot you!" Roswell repeated adamantly. "For chrissakes!"

Those agents nearest to Americana began, nervously, to back away.

"Look, will one of you guys just shoot me already?"

Roswell looked to his superior. The senior agent shrugged and gestured that it was his call.

"A-all right. O-kay." Roswell drew his gun. "Now, you all understand that this is a training exercise only..."

Americana rolled her eyes.

Everyone leaned forward, scarcely believing their fellow agent was about to fire on an unarmed civilian. And their supervisor was seemingly okay with this?

Suddenly, Roswell fired.

For the briefest of moments Americana considered falling flat on her back, but quickly surmised that this was neither the time nor the place for humor.

Roswell emptied his weapon at point blank range; the roar inside the closed room was deafening.

Then, silence.

"Well," Americana coughed lightly as she waved the smoke away from her face. "Any more questions?"

Thirty FBI agents stood in shock, mouths hanging open. It was one thing to hear someone was tough, but this - this was impossible!

Even if she - somehow - had managed to wear a bulletproof vest under her costume, she should have at least fallen from the impact.

Americana grinned.

Some days this job was truly enjoyable.

" 'Shoot me' ?"

Americana sighed. "Knock it off, Roswell."

She spoke into one of the stars on her sleeve, the one Dr. Archer had rigged up with a radio. Despite the cold and the rain the radio functioned perfectly.

Roswell laughed - a soft, gentle laugh. "Any luck on il Fenice?"

"No," Americana sniffled. "Do you have any idea how many important people there are in Washington? Senators, publishers, sports stars! I have the White House staked out, but there's Congress, the Supreme Court! I- I need something to go on."

"Understood. You can skip the White House, incidentally. President's in Ohio tonight."

"Great."

"Listen, why don't you get some sleep? Leave the line open, though."

Americana paused.

"That's not going to do much good, Roswell," she said testily. "I doubt he's going to just wait for me to get there."

"I appreciate the effort, really I do. But you're no good to us running on fumes. Get some rest, okay? We have nearly fifty agents working while the others sleep - anything so much as looks out of place, we'll call you."

"...yeah. Americana out."

Americana slid down from her hiding place and hurled herself into the sky. Normally she would have leapt along the rooftops, but it was nearly two in the morning. Not only did she need sleep - she needed to "recharge".

She was still unclear as to exactly how her powers worked. She was aware that it seemed to cost her more of her available power to fly, for instance, than simply running and leaping. Other abilities, such as her ability to see perfectly well at night, didn't seem to count against her power reserves at all.

Trouble was, she didn't really know just how long those reserves could last. Only by using educated guesswork, and heeding the waves of weakness that served as a warning system, could she tell that her that her powers were running out.

Such as that last one, she thought uneasily as she entered her apartment through the back window. She was running dangerously low; flying probably didn't help.

She stood with her legs a little more than shoulder width apart, and raised her arms out to her sides. A star-shaped burst of energy appeared in the center of her chest, then it flashed outward to envelop her. When it retracted again it left behind the much smaller Astrea Starr.

"What a night," she muttered as she closed the window. It had been some time since she felt so cold and wet and utterly useless.

She turned back toward the darkened room and gingerly made her way down the hall; her night sight had vanished along with her other powers. Right now, the only thing she wanted was a few hours' sleep.

"I want Americana!"

The derelict held his pistol to the head of a small boy, his hands shaking as he clutched his terrified hostage. The man was disheveled, wild-eyed, and hadn't bathed in quite some time.

He was also, Lucas Krill noted, rather smart.

He had staked out a spot in the center of the intersection, where he could see the police and the news cameras could see him. He didn't appear to actually want to harm the boy, but Krill knew from his years as a negotiator that that could change in seconds.

Squad cars blocked off all entrances to the intersection in which the man stood; the man wasn't going anywhere. All it seemed he wanted was a podium, and the city's five news operations were providing that.

So... what did he want?

"I want Americana!"

"Easy, friend. We have a call in to her, but she's a little difficult to reach."

As in, impossible to reach.

"You've got the whole city watching," Krill gestured to the news cameras. "Why don't you say what you've got to say and - "

"I. Want. Americana."

"Okay," a voice said from above. "You got me."

Voices gasped and cameras rolled as a tall African-American woman slowly descended into the circle of camera crews and cops.

"Goddamn," Krill whispered. "She really does exist."

Americana landed lightly about fifteen yards from the gunman. Il Fenice would have to wait - here, at least, was someone she could deal with.

The gunman backed up a step and shoved the gun hard against the boy's temple.

"I'm here now," the heroine said softly. "Why don't you let the boy go?"

"You - you're not afraid of me."

"Not really, no," Americana admitted.

The man paused for a moment - then he released his hold on the boy.

The lad looked at him in surprise, and he gestured towards his right side. The boy scampered off, into the waiting arms of the police.

Well! Americana thought. That was fast.

The man waved his gun, as if to show he was still in charge. "Oh, you're not afraid - even though I have a gun?"

Americana raised an eyebrow, but didn't move.

"Think of it - armor-piercing, spent-uranium core, .70 caliber, rocket- propelled..."

"Umm, it's just a .22," she corrected him. Non-descript, probably one of those "Saturday night specials" her dad was always going on about -

BLAM!

Americana's head snapped backwards as her body went limp. Screams began as she crumpled to the pavement and lay still.

Mission accompli, grinned a man far above the panic-stricken crowd.

He broke down his weapon with consummate skill - in half a minute he was on his way to the door of his rented room.

The man was dressed as a Washington police officer, though he wasn't one; in the hotel room he had left a tiny stickpin topped with the sculpture of a bird.

He quickly strode past the elevator to the stairs, the back stairs that nobody seemed to use. Moving at an almost casual pace, he descended the staircase and stepped out into the hotel lobby.

The faux policeman did not slow his pace, despite the two patrolmen blocking the door.

"You have to stay inside, ma'am," one officer was patiently explaining to a hotel guest. "There's been a shooting..."

"Good work, officer," said the disguised assassin, nodding as he strode past.

"Uh, thank you, Captain," the policeman said, noting the bars on his uniform.

The false captain halted and leaned close to the officers. "Keep the victim's name quiet, for now." They nodded, and the "captain" continued on his way.

People were running up and down the street, some seeking shelter, others seeking the shooter, still others hoping to get out of the way. TV crews were swinging their cameras wildly about, trying to piece together what was happening. The police were dashing between buildings, searching for the shooter while trying desperately to keep order.

The man smiled to himself as he strode through the chaos. This job had been the finest ever - certainly the most lucrative. With what he had been paid, he could retire to that island he'd bought just for this -

"Urrrk!"

Suddenly his smile vanished as he was lifted off the ground by the throat!

Gasping, he managed to turn his head downward - and his eyes widened in shock.

A shaking Americana held him aloft in one hand, the other held back ready to unleash a punch. A large, ugly bruise lay in the center of her forehead.

"Nice... shot," she hissed. "My turn... Il Fenice."

The man's eyes were wide with panic. "H-how - ?"

"She's got the Captain!"

"Freeze, Americana!"

Four officers stormed her, guns drawn.

"Put him down! Now!"

"Let him go!"

Americana looked at her captive, who was now grinning.

"Better listen to them," he choked out.

"Nice to see you guys... protect your own," Americana said evenly.

"Put him down!"

The heroine shook her head. "His coat... it's an older model, but the insignias... are brand new. And the department logo... wrong side."

The policemen looked at each other.

"Get her!" the assassin cried.

"Before you do that," Americana said, regaining her strength and her composure, "Check the case."

Without taking her eye off of her captive, she kicked the man's fallen case over to the officers.

Slowly one of the officers put down his gun, and popped open the case.

"...Ohmigod."

He looked up. "He's the shooter!"

Americana nodded. "Il Fenice - the Phoenix. Wanted by the FBI, Interpol and half the Western world.

"And I - " she said slowly as it dawned on her. "I was the target!"

She glared at the man in her grasp. "You tried to kill me!"

"Now let's not," Il Fenice choked, "do anything hasty..."

Americana clobbered him in the jaw.

The assassin sagged, unconscious in her grip. Then she let him crumble to the pavement.

"Poison in his tooth," she lied, turning away. "He's all yours."

She sat, heavily, on a low stone fence, and put her head in her hands. It still hurt.

My God - she, she was the target all along! And -and she just stood there like a dope while he set her up! God!

Sorry, sorry! She knew she shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain...

"How's the head?"

She grimaced. "Hurts a little... Mr. Krill."

The negotiator did a double take. "You... know me?"

Aw, dammit. More secret identity stuff.

"I watch the TV. Sorry for messing up your negotiations."

Krill chuckled. "Just so long as you don't make a habit out of it.

I've gotta tell you, I've never seen anything like that. I thought you were dead!"

Americana half-smiled. So had she.

"But you were just knocked out for a minute or two; next thing I know you're up and facing down the killer!"

He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

The heroine gingerly felt her forehead. The negotiator had evidently never been "just" knocked out for a minute or two; she was only now regaining her strength.

"How in the world you even knew where to look - "

"That was pretty easy, actually. I was facing the northeast when I got shot. There were only so many buildings with the height he'd need - the others were only two stories. And he messed up on the uniform."

Americana paused. "Guess I didn't have time to think much on it, really."

She stiffened. Il Fenice didn't just suddenly decide to kill her.

He had been paid to do it.

Somebody wanted her dead - enough to hire one of the world's best assassins.

And that somebody was still out there.

"Americana?"

She stood slowly. On the plus side she had survived the attempt on her life with little more than a headache - and she had captured a killer the FBI had been after for almost twelve years.

That had to count for something.

"Americana!"

She suddenly realized she was surrounded by a half-dozen TV cameras and microphones. Cameras flashed and reporters all shouted questions at once.

The heroine lunged skyward - then stopped.

She wasn't just in the middle of the story this time, she knew. She was the story. They had all seen her get shot, so fleeing wasn't going to help this time.

Americana relaxed and turned to the reporters.

They all shouted questions at her; she just half-smiled.

"One at a time, please," she said.

"I have a rotten headache."