I made it through the vents without making a sound. Gloves muffled my nails. My dress was too tight to rustle or swish. I calculated every shift of weight, every swallow, every blink. I was silent.
I fell from the ceiling in one swift movement. The thick Oriental rug muffled my impact. I straightened, bringing my gun up to chest level. Everything was still.
The study was messier than I remembered it, like a cross between the inside of a surveillance van and the hold of a pirate ship. He's getting worse. Wires tangled around golden figurines. Guns poked out of strands of pearls and emeralds. Stacks of money from all around the world were strewn across the floor. His lair.
He sat at the far end of the room, his back to me. The boarded windows let in strips of bloody light. Some striped him. Some striped me. The sun was setting. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were on the screens before him, a whole bank of them. Twelve screens. Five were security cameras. The other seven were comfortingly familiar. The front pages of newspapers. Brief television clips playing over and over. The blog. I recognized the face on every single one of them.
"You're just as obsessed with him as I am."
He turned around. That cold, sleek face mocked me.
"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"When was the last time I did what I was supposed to?" I replied, stepping closer.
"I saw you come in, you know. Not very clever. The vents. You're getting cliché."
"I notice you didn't stop me."
"No, I didn't. I wonder why?" A smirk.
The hand holding my gun shook. I lifted my other hand to steady it. "Did you miss me?"
He made a face.
"I can't say I did. Sorry, darling. I've been far too busy," he waved a hand, "arranging things like this."
Someone grabbed me from behind, forcing my arms down. I kicked one foot backward. Made contact. Stepped down. The bones of a thick foot cracked like the surface of a frozen lake. A yelp of pain. I spun and shot. Precise. Right between the eyes.
"A henchman?" I gasped. The gasp was part theatrics, part to get air back into my constricted lungs. "And I'm the cliché?"
"Sorry," he said. He wasn't. "I had to give it a try."
"What would you have done with me, anyway?" I said, catching my breath. "I've given you everything."
"Yes. You have, haven't you? You've been very, very useful. But now you're not! At least not to me." He pulled a sad face, pantomiming emotion worse than a clown. "So what are you doing here?"
I steeled myself. He was a bit much to take sometimes. I never knew whether to laugh or scream, to shoot him in the face or throw my gun away. "I have a request."
"Oh, this should be fantastic. What do you want, darling? If you of all people need help getting something, it must be good."
"Don't call me darling."
"What, then? Lovely? Pretty? Sweetheart isn't really you, but I learn to love it."
"I have a name."
"So do I. It's rather famous."
"Moriarty? It's not famous; it's notorious. And then only in the underworld."
"And what other world do you know, Irene, dearest?" He stood. I clenched my gun tighter.
"I get around."
"Oh, yes you do. Where was it last? Pakistan?"
"Karachi."
"So how is he?"
"Better than you'd think."
"I think he'd be rather fantastic, actually."
"Better."
He stood directly in front of me now. My gun was leveled at his gut.
"And how are you, Ms. Adler?"
"You tell me."
He bent slowly, smiling. With his eyes locked on mine he sank to the floor. On his knees, he pressed the center of his forehead into the barrel of my gun.
"You're bad enough for me."
"What are you doing?" I snapped. The confusion hurt.
"Oh, you know. I'm doing what I do best."
"And what's that?"
"Giving bad people…"
He paused and then lunged forward. One hand knocked my feet out from under me. The other grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the ground. I landed on top of him, my gun clattering off the carpet onto the hard wood floor. My face was inches from his. I could see every fleck of spit. His chest heaved up and down beneath me.
"…what they want," he finished, whispering, his voice hoarse and cloying. "So, what is it you want?"
"I know what you're doing," I spat back. "I know what you're planning to do. To him."
"Ooo, good for you," he sneered. I could smell him. Expensive cologne. Sweat. It was a smell I was used to, but missing a key ingredient. He didn't smell afraid.
"Don't. Please."
"What?"
"Don't do it. Not to him."
He stared at me, properly surprised for once.
"That's it? That's your wish? You get one wish, and that's what you pick? You're worse than King Midas, darling! You're worse than that idiot and his wife who asked for sausages!"
He was babbling.
"What are you talking about?"
"Old fairy tales. I've been brushing up on my storytelling skills. But never mind silly old me. Tell me again why you want to save his precious little life."
"I owe him that."
"You? Owing someone something? Owing anyone anything?"
"He saved my life. That's a debt for anyone. Even me."
"Get off me."
"What?"
"Get off me, I said!" he screamed. My gun was suddenly in his hand, pressed to my waist. I leapt up, pushing his body down, and scrambled across the room, away from him.
"Don't you dare get in the way of this!" he screamed. "Don't you dare!"
I shrank backwards. The door was firm against my back. I reached for the knob.
"That's right, go!" He throbbed with anger. He pulled out the sad face again, but this time it almost seemed real. "You've disappointed me, darling. You've really, really let me down."
He paused, breathing heavily. Still facing him, I opened the door and felt the cold evening air against my skin. I realized then that I was burning. Hot. On fire.
"You tell anyone anything…." His smooth voice hardened. "…and he won't be the only one falling."
I felt my heels connect with the smooth, solid pavement of the alley behind me. His voice echoed into the darkness as I slammed the door.
"That's what you get for caring."
I closed my eyes. I took a breath. I let the cold rush back through me. I knew he was right.
Then in the silence of the coming night, I walked away.