A shap stab of pain returned causing the tall American to catch his breath, his hand moving quickly to the wound on his side. As the pain began to subside, he looked down at his shaking fingers, before wiping away the sweat from his eyes. His gray eyes had turned their attention to children playing on their imaginary horses. Horses...for a moment a smile lit his face. Ironically he had forgotten the horse's name...Mission Bay, and a bookie by the name of Buttermouth. A glint of hardness came into his eyes. One thing he would never forget...the dead men he had left behind in New York, or the killers sent to San Diego to silence him. Then, suddenly, a rush of blackness englfed him. With it, the persistent sound of a phone ringing.