<div class="floatleft">(http://img818.imageshack.us/img818/2395/samatclashofthetitanslo.jpg)</div><br/><br/><strong>Name:</strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;">Sam Washington</span><br/><strong>Age:</strong>28<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Beat his senior officer to death with a heavy duty stapler from the L.A.P.D.'s copy room while singing the national anthem.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>From alleyway to parkinglot<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Group 1 (mentioning Natalie)<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/>Sam cursed out loud as he realized his plan to escape had indeed proved impossible from the start. Zig zagging didn't help a whole lot in a narrow alleyway, a stray bullet grazing his thigh. Falling face first into the cold dirt and grime which covered the ground of the dark and dank corridor when one of the policemen tackled him, his thoughts actually wandered somewhere other than his own current situation. His thoughts went out to young Natalie and how he had failed her as a protector, a (former) lawman. She had easily been the most innocent soul of the whole bunch present in the parking lot minutes ago, judging by first impressions anyway, and thus the one who needed him the most. It would have been a small opportunity to receive a little redemption for killing his senior officer, no matter how rotten the man's soul might or might not have been in the end.<br/><br/>...But he had screwed up, clean and simple, losing sight of the brunette when the explosion happened. Was she alright? Was she alive? Sam should've never let go of that small, tender, warm hand, he thought as he was held down by almost half a dozen New York police officers, cuffed securely before being yanked onto his feet and dragged back the way he had ran so hard from. His head hung low in defeat and his fleshwound stung like a bitch, his spirit faltering as the realisation washed over him; it was over. He was going to die now. End of the line. Game over. No way out. Time to fry in the chair.<br/><br/>Arriving at the parking lot, most of the smoke and dust from the explosion had been cleared by the cold winter breeze. The scene before still resembled a warzone. He was lead over to one of the largely unharmed NYPD squadcars, pushed into the back and properly secured. He wasn't wearing that puke orange jumpsuit because it was the latest fashion, after all. Staring out the vehicle's window, he wondered again if Natalie was safe.