Outside:
New York: Greenwich Village

	Since the era of World War I, the image of Greenwich Village has
been that of a bastion of urban bohemianism, a place where anything goes
in terms of music, clothing, thought, and behavior. Indeed, its reputation
for tolerance is well-established, having been a center of counterculture
activity since the Beat era of the late 1950s. But the Village defies easy
categorization, and a walk down Bleecker Street today, past the legendary
coffee houses where Bob Dylan used to play, will probably only kindle
nostalgia for a world not totally overrun with tourists.
	Once a magnet for every manner of starving artist, poet, and
anarchist, the Village is now such an in-demand place that most would-be
world-shakers simply can't afford to live there. Greenwich Village is the
center of New York's gay community, especially in the area around
Christopher Street, which, like San Francisco's Castro Street, has become
synonymous with gay life.

Inside:
New York: Radu's

	As you step inside the brightly lit shop, the pleasant mix of
aromas from coffee blends and baked goods alike waft under your nose. The
place is decorated in a very homey atmosphere that seems a combination of
Fifties' Malt Shop and Mom's Kitchen. The counter encloses the coffee
machines and several glass-encased muffins and pastries are displayed
aside the cash register. The main picture window is emblazoned with a logo
of a coffee pot with a smiling mustached face and the word "RADU'S" below
it in European styled calligraphy. For those who want to stay a while and
have a cup of the finest java in the Village, or just simply soak up some
of the local color, there are a wide array of tables, booths, and stools
surrounding the counter.

The small sign outside of the coffee shop displays the words "Book
Signing: Greg Saunders, author of Riding The Radio Range." A black and
white picture of the aforementioned Mr. Saunders in his younger days and
wearing a sequined cowboy getup is placed beneath the heading along with
the date and time of the special event.
	Inside, a modest crowd has formed. Most of them appear to be older
persons, but there's a gamut of ages represented in the gathering. A table
with a red cloth laid over it has been laid out off to one side and it is
here that most of the crowd seems to be clustered. A flashbulb clicks
somewhere as the guest of honor meets the two or three reporters who
showed up for the event.
	"...so Bergen turns to me and says 'Why didn't I think of that?'
And I said, 'Edgar, I wish to hell I knew.'" There's some chuckles from
the media persons as Saunders finishes his little story.

The crowd inside has begun to build up some by the time Sandy arrives. The
low murmur of respectfully quiet conversation takes on the job of white
noise, almost entirely obfuscating the old Vigilante's voice - that is, if
you're still in the back and trying to make your way to the front, like
Sandy is. Politely, civilly, the golden-haired ex-Golden Boy elbows his
way through the gathering; the people here are good-natured, for New
Yorkers. It's probably because Saunders' fans tend to /be/ nicer, on the
whole, from your average joe. They give way for the tallish blond man with
a minimum of fuss, and it's not long before Sandy Hawkins is able to
approach the table at which Greg is seated. He grins wryly, reaching over
to shake the older man's hand. "Sorry I'm late." . o O (Man...I hope he
recognises me. It's...been a few years.)

Greg Saunders is about to head over to the table to get to the signing
proper. He then regards Sandy curiously for a second, shaking the
proferred hand. "Howdy." His eyes register a sense of doubt for a second,
then he says "Well, I'll be dog. Sandy. Sandy Hawkins!"

Sandy Hawkins:

	Reasonably tall, but nonthreatening at first and second glances,
this young blond man with touseled curls has an easygoing demeanor about
him. His - Sand's - eyes are a bright cornflower blue, guarded yet
friendly; his nose is straight and his clean-shaven jaw a bit pointed. The
man's build is that of an adventurer, with powerful shoulders tapering
down to a fit waist and stomach; for those that look more than twice, you
can see that for all his apparent relaxation, he's extremely alert and
aware of his surroundings.
	Sanderson's wearing a classic double-breasted suit, older than the
hills, but gloriously retro in keeping with the times. There's irony for
you. It's black. If you got it new now, it'd be ridiculously
expensive...but this one's just really well preserved.

Greg Saunders:

	 Overweight and showing signs of the strain of years, this man
looks to be in his late 50's or early 60's. He has a friendly and likable
face that was probably a bit more square jawed in his youth. His gray hair
is cut in a fashion that was in style about a decade ago, but it somehow
fits him.
	He's dressed in a powder blue suit with a wide flat lapel and a
western style bolo tie clasped at his neck with a silver Native American
pendant. You note that he wears a pair of white crocodile skin cowboy
boots that peak out from under his pants cuffs.
	He has a rich and charming voice, lilting with a strong Texas
twang. In spite of his evident problems losing weight and keeping fit,
he's spry and has an active spark in his eye.

Sandy Hawkins grins widely. "Got it in one, Mr. Saunders!" replies Sandy,
starting to laugh. He disengages his hand, then puts them both in his
pockets. "Still as sharp as ever. I hope you don't mind if I loiter - but
I don't want to keep your fans waiting."

A skinny nebbish looking man with a rumpled T-Shirt emblazoned with an
image of the JSA logo waits impatiently by the table. First in line, from
the looks of it. He shoots a slight snarl at Sand. He absently fiddles
with the Vigilante action figure with matching base in his hands -
presumably to be signed.

Greg Saunders throws a friendly arm around Sandy's shoulder. "Heck no,
pardner. You and me got a lot of catching up to do. After the signin'
though." He glances at the passel of fanboys and devotees. " I'd introduce
you but I reckon you wouldn't want to get caught dead by our 'fans',
anyways."

Shaking his head and laughing, Sandy claps Greg on the back. "No worries -
I'm sure no one cares who I am. You're the star of the show, here - I'm
still in awe of your book." He tosses off a mock salute to the snarly
fanboi, then inclines his head. "I'm gonna go get me some coffee. Want
any, or are you all stocked up?"

"No, thank you kindly. Got a little somethin' in a flask." He meaningfully
thumps his jacket and winks. He heads over to the table and sits down,
adjusting his cuffs and wrists like a piano imprassario preparing for a
concert. FirstInLine Lad eyes Sand sidelong but shrinks noticably in the
presence of the Golden Ager that he can recognize. And so it begins -
gushing enthusiasts and socially inept collectors asking question after
question about the former Soldier of Victory's time in the crimefighting
racket. While he seems to want to steer the conversations more towards the
radio days...
	"Well, some of those boys had a lot of problems, but weren't what
I'd call an 'evil' bunch. Some folks just sort of fall from a high place
and take it hard. Like Orson, of course. That man deserved a hell of a lot
better than he got dealt," Greg anecdotilizes. "You young fellas don't
know what you missed. He showed me some of the scripts he was workin' on
once after I did a guest spot on that digest program a'his..." As he talks
to the fascinated fan, a black van pulls up across the street.

As Sandy patiently explains to the kid behind the coffee bar that yes, he
actually -does- just want straight coffee, with nothing in it but coffee,
and some coffee added for flavor, he frowns slightly and pauses
mid-exposition, glancing toward the door. Can't quite see it for all the
people, so he glances over them to see if there's anyone questionable
there -- no. All just radio buffs and history and superhero enthusiasts.
"Fine, fine," he says absently to the barista, waving a hand vaguely and
paying, just dropping the argument. He picks up his needlessly fancy
caffeine product and wanders back over to the signing table, leaning
against the counter to the side of and a little behind Greg. Watching,
tense, guarded.

"Well folks, thank y'all for coming. This troubadour's got to git on back
on the trail" Greg says, finally, standing and waving. There's some more
shaking of hands, signing of autographs, and snapping photos. A severe
looking woman with red hair in a power suit that screams 'publicity agent'
walks over and begins to mutter to him and he nods a few times. He then
turns to Sandy and says "Looks like they've got me all booked up all the
way to the plane ride back. I tell you, sometimes I almost wish I'd just
faded into the background like some of the other fellas..." Across the
street, the van's panel doors open. FirstInLine stands by the front glass
window of Radus and absently sets the Vigilante action figure on the
window sill.

Sandy Hawkins frowns, looking preoccupied. Finally, his attention snaps
back to Greg, and he shakes his head. "I'm...not sure that's such a good
idea, actually, Mr. Saunders." He finishes off his coffee, then tosses the
paper cup into the trash; his hands go back to his sides - thumbs only
hooked lightly in his pockets. "I...do you mind terribly if I follow you
around like the most ridiculous groupie in the world? Something..." he
trails off, starting to look a little out there again. His gaze turns to
the door and the picture window, and the crowd's thinned enough that he
can see the van. "I won't interfere with your schedule," he offers.

Greg Saunders's smile strains a tad. "You got bad feelin', Sandy?" He
shrugs a little and checks his watch. "Well, I've got a limo waitin'
outside. You can ride with if you want. But I really don't know what's got
you so durned concerned."

Over his shoulder, Sand can see a quintet of figures in black drapecoats
and sunglasses split up from the direction of the van. One stands by the
van, one by a newsstand across the street, and the other three disappear
into the exiting crowd of Radu's patrons and autograph seekers.
FirstInLine idly turns the Vigilante action figure in the window, raising
one of its little arms. Then, Sandy suddenly sees it...a glint of a light
reflecting off of a lens in a second story across the street.

"Yeah," says Sand a little wryly, giving Greg a look that fully
acknowledges the older man's crimefighting mojo but asks that he 'humor
the blond'. "I'd appreciate that. And - just call it an allergy to ominous
black vans." His attention drifts back to the van and its.../exiting and
approaching occupants/? Then the glint..! "Mr. Saunders," he says calmly,
"I think you'd better take cover. -Now-." He starts moving for the door,
drawing his wirepoon and watching the men in black very closely.

Greg turns and starts to lower his head, saying "Whu- !?" There's a sudden
'clink' as a single bullethole pops through the front window as a silenced
sniper rifle takes a potshot. It misses the ex-All-Star and breaks a
perfectly good piece of designer china sitting on the countertop,
spattering the floor with hot cappuccino. Sandy sees the drapecoat by the
newstand grimace and tilt his head to mutter covertly into his lapel.

Okay - close quarters. Indoors. Perfectly good coffeeshop, too. The 'poon
may /look/ great, but it's eminently useless in a situation like this; he
quickly and silently puts it back and approaches the guy by the newsstand
- if the fellow's not watching him (and therefore presumably aiming for
him), Sandy'll take a crack at his neck with a swift chop of his arm. He
trusts Greg to take it seriously and find cover.

As Sandy steps outside, the drapecoat turns to try and signal the one by
the van. He emits an "Unf!" as the blow sends him reeling into a slump
against a stack of Time magazines and then down to the sidewalk.

Greg Saunders stands back up and pushes his agent and a young couple down
behind one of the tables, kicking it over. His posture changes, as if he's
a young man again; the Vigilante taking care of business. "Get yer fanny
down. Looks like somebody's tryin' to -" He's cut off as a sniper round
slams into his chest, emitting a small puff of torn fabric and sending him
flat on his back. A few of the ducking customers and the agent emit
screams.

Sandy Hawkins looks back in horror, hearing Greg's words cut off through
the open door; he curses loudly when he sees the man fallen. "Someone call
911!" he bellows, then draws the wirepoon again and aims for the roof of
the building across the street. His movements are agile and lack
hesitation, as well - he fires and hits, then flicks on the retract almost
in the same motion. As soon as the wire begins to pull him up, he draws
his legs up underneath him and lets it swing him through the air - and my,
my, that is a -very- heavy looking boot aimed at the head of the mook by
the van.

Sandy turns and sees the other three drapecoats moving to try and flank
the entrance to the shop. The one by the van sees Greg go down and raps
the side of the panel van twice. He then says "Mission accomp...what the
****!?" as the swinging adventurer's foot squares with his jaw. He spins
around once and drops onto the pavement.

Greg Saunders stands up. He looks for a moment down at his chest with an
oddly unimpressed expression and reaches into his jacket. Suddenly, a
chrome 9mm is in his hand, pointed upwards at the window where the last
shot came from. The gun speaks three times. The bullet-worried Radu's
window finally shatters and cascades to the sidewalk. Greg says "Ain't you
boys ever seen 'Fistful of Dollars'?"

Well, the gasgun-toting hero's outside, so the three MiBs flanking the
door aren't his immediate problem - the guy still in the van is. So's the
guy in the upstairs window, but botching the getaway plan is a more
accessible form of action. Sandy wordlessly slams the butt of his wirepoon
through the driver's side window, shattering it - he can wince later. It's
a fierce one-two punch, as the initial slam is followed by a vicious left
jab to the head of the occupant.

The driver starts to shout a warning over his communicator but is startled
into unconciousness by the brutal pummeling his face receives from Sandy.
Sandy hears a smattering of pistol shots from behind him and hears more
screaming coming from inside of Radu's.

Whoever thinks Golden Agers are incapable of uttering obscenities would be
horribly shocked by Sandy's language today. The guy in the building can
wait or get away - screaming and gunfire can't be a good thing at all,
especially with that many innocents still over there. The smartly-suited
man swiftly retracts the rest of his line and sprints across the road,
shoving the wirepoon back in its holster as he goes.

As Sandy returns to the Radu's front, he sees the three drapecoats lying
in pools of their own blood. One appears to have been thrown backwards
onto the hood of the limousine that was waiting to escort Greg Saunders
from the scene. Picking through the debris by the door he sees Greg
standing in the middle of the coffee shop, his still smoking pistol
leveled at the forehead of FirstInLine. FirstInLine sweats nervously.
"Looks like we got ourselves a snake in the grass," the stranger with
Greg's face and voice says. "Wonder how much the Terror King was payin'
you, young feller. Not enough, I reckon, you're thinkin'." The man nods,
gulping.

Around this time, the sound of police sirens can be heard.

Sandy Hawkins looks distinctly nonplussed, eyeing the bleeding
lackey-types and the quite healthy Vigilante. They'd better not be dead,
he's thinking; his eyes narrow as he watches the older man question the
fanboy. He leans in the doorway casually, lighting up a cigarette. "Who
are you?" he asks, outwardly calm - his voice has an edge to it, though.
Angry. Nervous. Anxious. "I'm willing to consider that you might have
killed while you were in the old west, but you know the rules here. So I'm
thinking you're not Greg."

Greg Saunders spins the pistol in a faux gunslinger mannerism and
reholsters in his shoulder rig. Sandy can see the signs of a kevlar vest
beneath the tear where the rifle slug hit him in his paunchy midsection.
His voice changes utterly - shifting from twang to clipped and very
vaguely Bostonian overtones. "I'm afraid you're right." A pair of anxious
patrol men approach the scene of carnage as the bystanders inside of the
place are escorted out for medical attention and counseling. "I'll send
you my bill, Miss DeVries..." he says to the passing PR agent as she
unsteadily makes her way out.

Well, that was certainly unexpected. Sandy looks mildly taken aback for a
second, then a twisted grin flits across his features and he takes a drag
of his cigarette, waiting a moment before replying. He flicks ash to the
sidewalk, moving out of the doorway as the woman passes. "You're very
good," he says simply, inferring a good lot of the actual situation from
the abrupt voice and personality shift and the comment to the PR agent.
Not all, naturally, but enough for his sensibilities. The blond-haired man
gives the impostor Vigilante an appreciative, approving nod, then begins
to turn and head down the sidewalk. Letting this.../professional/ see his
hands shake would never do.

The Human Target purses his prosthetically altered lips, feeling a modest
twinge of guilt. He walks to the exit, an eyebrow slanted upwards as he
watches Sandy depart the scene and then turns to speak to the police,
slipping back into the ease western accent and mannerisms of the real Greg
Saunders.