Once again a character has latched onto my writing brain and just won't let go. I absolutely loved Wesley, so here I am writing another fic. This one will be moving a little faster than the others I have written. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
And Today Was Her Birthday
January 12th, 8:35 am
"Are you certain?"
Under the formidable shadow of the Manhattan Bridge sat a large car. Only here could it's hulking, sleek frame be well shielded from the prying eyes of witless passersby.
Behind it, the East River roared; its waters stirred by raging winds. Clouds peppered the sapphire skyline, keeping the sun partially hidden from view. They moved with surprising speed, pushed along by powerful winds high above. The last of the winter storms was finally winding down.
The streets were awash with slush and sleet. It would still be weeks before warmth descended on the city streets. But the end of the chill was finally in sight.
Already the masses had begun another morning commute into the heart of the city. The roads here, on a trivial block of city suburbia, all was silent.
Three individuals occupied the car. The first was a driver. He sat, hands firmly planted on the steering wheel, vigilantly waiting. As he listened to the hushed conversation taking place in the back seat, he trained his eyes on the street, watching for suspect pedestrians. On occasion his eyelids would droop shut and he would come close to drifting off. It had been a long night and he was desperate to get home and fall into bed.
"I'm afraid so." The second man said, adjusting the thinly framed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. He pulled a single photo from a slim, leather bound folder. "As you can see, the evidence is fairly damning."
The third man looked briefly at the image, and then turned away with a labored sigh.
It was another set back. A small setback, but a setback none the less. First the man in the mask had appeared. Like a tick sucking at an open wound, the bastard was bleeding the Russians of their efficiency and worth with alarming efficiency.
And now this.
So far, the New Year had brought them nothing but trouble.
His eyes travelled to the window and he peered out the tinted glass. The clouds flew swiftly by, as if chased by a higher purpose.
"Such a disappointment." The third man said, finally. "He was a valuable asset."
"I agree," His second said, "He was discrete...practically invisible."
"What do you think we should do?" Wilson Fisk said, rubbing his eyes.
"Sir?" James Wesley questioned.
"I'm asking." Fisk said, his hands wringing into agitated fists.
Wesley regard his boss with a cautious eye. Morning had come quickly. The night had flown by; a whirlwind of neon lights and letdowns. They both needed sleep. But what sleep could come if the matter that now plagued them remained unsolved?
"I think there is only one viable option." He said, finally.
Fisk nodded. "It will be difficult to find a suitable replacement."
"Yes." Wesley agreed, reaching into his breast pocket. He pulled out a phone.
"It will have to be staged." Fisk said.
"Suicide?"
"No," Fisk said, bluntly. "This one, we leave with some dignity."
"Sir, he stole from you." Wesley responded, aghast. "Almost 100k. Shouldn't we-"
"I take no pleasure in this kind of work." Wilson said, halting Wesley's dissent. "He was a skilled contractor. Without his help we would not be as close as we are."
"...Understood." Wesley said, unable to argue.
"It will need to be handled right away." Fisk said. "This should be settled before word gets out."
"It can be done within the hour." Wesley assured.
"This is...a problematic time for us." Fisk warned.
"Of course," Wesley said gently. It was an obvious, but appreciated attempt to buoy the spirits of his superior. "I'll take Francis and Damon."
"And Beckett." Fisk added. "We can't afford another error."
Wesley nodded, his fingers racing across the screen of his phone.
"I'll inform you when the job is finished." He said. "You should go home. Rest."
He pocketed the phone and opened the passenger side door.
"Wesley," Fisk called, before the man had a chance to step out. "Thank you."
Wesley nodded as he exited the car, shutting the door behind him. Another car, an exact copy of the one he had just exited, pulled up next to him.
The door was pushed opened from the inside. Wesley stepped in and before shutting the door and cast a knowing looking at the dark tinted window he had only just been sitting behind.
With a curt nod, he pulled the door shut.
"The Docks." He said.
"Yes, sir." Damon answered.
9:02 am. North Harbor. Lot 3.
"I'm afraid there's nothing to be done, Raymond."
Wesley stood, phone in hand, a look of annoyance etched on his stony face. It wasn't, however, his current task that caused him dismay. He was sifting through the data that Leland had send him. The Russians were behind again. Far behind.
He was flanked by Damon and Francis. Several feet in front of him a man lay crumpled on the floor. His breath came in deep, battered shudders. Beckett, the largest and dimmest of Wesley's men still had a fist tangled in the man's collar. The hulking guard shook his other hand, splatters of blood flew free and stained the floor.
"Look, it was a mistake." Raymond Bankhead said, raising his head hesitantly. "I admit it, okay? If he would just reconsider-"
"Reconsider?" Wesley repeated scornfully. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"What kind of man would my employer be...if he allowed the people who stole from him to go without reparations?"
"I can give it all back!" Bankhead sputtered manically. A thin stream of fresh blood slipped from the corner of his mouth. No doubt Beckett had liberated several of the man's yellowing teeth from his gums.
"We are far past-" Wesley started.
"-No harm, no foul, no-"
"No harm?" Wesley repeated. He was no longer amused. He loathed being interrupted, especially by a man of such low standing. "You deceived him. Betrayed his trust. Sullied his reputation. Disrespected him. A man that took you in, gave you the tools to-"
"I'm good dammit." Raymond yelped, trying to shake himself free of Beckett's grip. "He needs me-"
"I'm afraid not, Raymond." Wesley interjected. He looked over his shoulder and signaled to Francis. The dutiful guard approached while pulling his gun from his side holster.
"Please, please." The man howled. "You can't-"
Staring down the barrel of a gun, Raymond Bankhead found his second wind. Beckett almost lost his grip and looked to Damon to help him hold them man. Damon obliged.
"I've got-" Bankhead panted, his throat constricting. "A daughter. I've got a daughter! I'm all she has left, you can't take me away from her. You have to reconsider. I'll work for free. Just tell me who you need taken care of. I'll do it!"
Francis looked to Wesley; his face as always, was nothing more than a muted question.
Wesley simply nodded. "The left shoulder, I think."
"What?" Bankhead choked.
He understood far too late. Without a moment's hesitation, Francis approached the marked man and took aim. The shot rang around the abandoned floor, loud in its finality.
"Shit!" Bankhead yelped as he was wrestled to the ground. The bullet had hit it's target. The caliber was enough to send it careening through flesh, scrape bone and plunge through to more vital organs. Beckett and Damon held steady, letting the blood seep from the wound and spill over Bankhead's chest in a small flood.
Wesley returned his attention to his phone.
"Is it done?" Wesley asked, his eyes trained on the screen.
"Yeah." Francis said, eyeing the body. Raymond Bankhead had passed on.
"Put him in his truck then." Wesley said, "It won't take long for him to be found."
Francis pocketed his gun and motioned to the other two men. "Yes, sir."
"I'll be in the car." Wesley said. He left them to deal with the messy clean up and set the stage for the few honest policemen that would be made to find him.
Wesley was relieved to be back in the car. The stench of rotting blood was not something he enjoyed. It had been a messy killing, but messy would work in their favor. He preferred easier kills. Clean kills. Simple kills. He flipped through his messages, waiting none too patiently for Francis to return.
Finally, he did.
"Did you find the money?" Wesley asked, when the side door was opened.
"I think so." Francis said. He handed Wesley a large black bag.
"Good," Wesley took the bag.
"Anything else, sir?" Francis asked, dutifully.
"Just make sure those get the job done right. We can't leave any trace behind."
"Yes, sir." Francis obliged. He shut the door behind him and returned to the scene.
Wesley shifted his attention to the bag. It smelled strongly of loud, cheap deodorant. It looked to be a gym bag. Under no circumstances did Wesley believe the portly Raymond Bankhead used it for its manufactured purpose.
With a ginger hand, he pulled at the zipper and began to funnel through the contents. An empty wallet, a forged passport, a change of clothes, two boxes of cigarettes, a phone charger, swiss army knife, a hammer for some ungodly reason and-
There.
Wrapped tightly in tissue and twine was a large roll of bills. Wesley removed his find and placed it in a small leather messenger bag.
He was relieved to have found the money so easily. Exhausted as he was, Wesley had no desire to comb the city for stolen bills.
He paused. Tied to the back of the roll was a small red envelope.
He turned it over and read the scrawled cursive: Birdy.
Francis returned. "It's done sir. Damon is notifying Unit 38."
He regarded his boss with worry. It seemed his words had gone unheard.
"Sir?" Francis called. "Is something wrong?"
Wesley looked up at him. Francis was a quiet, oftentimes naive man, but he was perceptive in ways the other men weren't.
"Did you know he had a daughter?" Wesley asked, returning his attention to the envelope.
"I didn't." Francis answered.
"Hm," Wesley said, chewing on the thought. "It's a shame to lose a contract killer like Bankhead. For years, he was able to successfully hide information of such...value. Even from us."
"Yes, sir." Francis agreed, though he wasn't sure he understood. "Should we go?"
"Yes," Wesley said, "There is still work to be done."
Wesley slipped the envelope into his breast pocket and pushed the bag to the floor of the car.
As Francis directed the car away from the curb, Wesley's phone lit up.
He answered it immediately.
"Sir?" Wesley answered.
"Is it done?" Fisk asked.
"Yes." Wesley said. "Although, there are a few...loose ends I would like to attend to."
"Very well."
With a click, the call ended as abruptly as it had come.
It did not take long to track down the dead man's daughter.
Raymond Bankhead had kept his personal life well hidden from his professional channels.
Fortunately, he had kept a rather detailed agenda. Francis had found it. It was a small, thrashed notebook. Inside, Raymond Bankhead had kept a careful account of both the worlds he had occupied.
Under the day's date, he had scrawled: Birdy's Birthday. 1:30 Lunch. Studio 27.
With only a few moments of research. Wesley had found all the information he needed.
Studio 27 was the moniker of a local woodworks shop. While most of their business was run through several online outlets, the studio had a small storefront on 53rd. The owner kept a blog open with various updates on sales and custom jobs.
The storefront was small, sandwiched between aging brownstone and a twee little bistro. The floor of the entrance was covered in small octangular tiles. A smattering of black tiles spelled out: No. 27.
After instructing Francis to circle the block, Wesley stepped inside.
The walls were painted a deep flint gray. To the left, a register sat on a white stone countertop. Behind it, sat a tall, broad shouldered boy, flipping through the sports section of the daily newspaper.
His presence having gone unnoticed, Wesley cleared his throat loudly.
The boy started. "Oh, hey man. Can I help you?"
"Yes," Wesley said, flashing a lopsided grin. "I'm looking for a Ms. Bankhead? I believe she works-"
The brute of a boy nodded before he could finish and bellowed- "Birdy! Someone's here to see you."
Wesley cringed at such an unnecessary ruckus, but managed to keep his expression placid.
After a few seconds of silence, the boy rolled his eyes. "I'll get her."
Wesley watched him go.
Left alone in the small store space, he stepped up to the counter. Next to the register, two small cherry wood blocks held a collection of business cards.
The cards were minimalist in style. Each was printed on thick, ragged paper. A small typeface conveyed the name of the company (Studio 27), it's purpose (Woodwork - Custom Designs) and the name, position and phone number of the card's representative.
The first belonged to a John Graham. Owner.
The second to his target. Not Birdy, but Hannah.
Hannah Bankhead. Lead Designer.
As the sound of heavy footsteps grew closer, Wesley swiftly slipped one of the cards from it's holder and slipped it into his pocket.
The boy returned. "She's on her way."
"Great." Wesley said, flashing a smile.
The boy didn't react, simply turned back to his reading.
"Hurry up, Birdy!" He shouted after only four seconds had passed.
"I'm coming!" A new voice snapped. It rang clear like a bell, dripping with annoyance.
As she turned the corner, she ran a hand through her hair. Then, she lifted her hand to her lower lip, swiping at the burgundy lipstick she must have only just refreshed.
She looked almost nothing like her father. She was taller than he had been. She had a lithe figure with few curves. Her face was a mixture of a sharp angled chin and more rounded facial features. Half of her bronzed brown hair had been piled into a loose bun at the back of her head.
It was only in her eyes that traces of her father's heritage could be found. They were sharp and slightly slanted; framed by thick but well groomed brows. It was in those eyes that signs of a keen intelligence could be seen; a glaring contrast to her obviously work-a-day existence. The same trait could be- or rather had been apparent in her father.
She wore a thin, slightly wrinkled, white button up shirt. The collar had been upturned to accommodate the straps of her sage green apron and the sleeves had been rolled up past her elbows.
"Ah," He said, with a cordial smile. "You must be...Birdy-"
"Hannah" She interjected.
"Sorry?"
"My name is Hannah." She said, placing both of her hands on the counter. "Birdy is just a...silly nickname."
She cast a wry grin at the boy who had called to her. He sniggered.
A shrill ringing came from the back room. Hannah looked to the boy expectantly and he exited with a nod.
"I'll get it."
"Ms. Bankhead, then." Wesley said.
"Yes. How can help you, Mr…"
"Wesley." He said, with an easy eloquence. "James Wesley."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Wesley." She said. Her voice too was reminiscent of her father's. It had a rich, throat quality to it.
She smiled politely, but it was small and impatient. Clearly he had interrupted her work.
Wesley began, "I'm afraid I don't quite know how to begin."
With a practiced sigh, he stopped and reached into his pocket.
"Why don't I just…" He trailed off, placing the envelope on the smooth quartz countertop.
The girl looked at it, brow furrowed. After a moment, she picked it up with the same air of caution one would give if presented with a live snake.
She turned it over. Her eyes darted quickly across the envelope. The frown she wore deepened.
Unceremoniously, she tucked her index finger under the crease and tore the envelope open. She pulled from it a crumpled piece of paper. She read it quickly.
"This is from my father." She said. It wasn't a question.
"Ah, yes I believe it is."
"And you had it…" She said. She directed a calculating glance in his direction before returning her attention to the letter.
"Why?"
"Well...That is, I'm afraid, difficult to say." Wesley said. He crossed his arms over his chest and feigned a look of concern.
"Do you know my father?" She asked. "I've never seen you before."
"Ms. Bankhead," He said, after a moment of thought. "Have the police been to see you today?"
"The police?" She repeated, not understanding.
With a natural flare that would leave actors on broadway envious, Wesley began to spin the tale he had concocted in the short ride to the studio.
"My employer owns several of the buildings in this area and-"
He paused, lifting his hand as though he would need to defend himself. "Let me go back...we were quite fond of your father's work-"
"You mean his moving business." She interjected again.
Wesley sniffed, peeved at the interruption. Clearly, this was another paternal inheritance she had been cursed with.
"Yes, he was a reliable man. We recommended his services to many of our tenants…"
Wesley trailed off again. It seemed she had truly heard him this time. Her almond eyes went wide. Wesley could see the cogs in her mind pick up speed. She was beginning to understand. His subtle hints at her father current state, or in this case, lack of state. Was. Were.
He started again. "He was actually expected to make a delivery this morning, one of our tenants found him-"
"Wait, wait." She stopped again, raising her hand. She cast an accusatory glance in his direction. "What exactly are you saying?"
"I was on site for an inspection, the police said that it looked as though he had been robbed."
She cast another glance at the envelope in her head. As realization careened into her, she dropped it as though it had burst into flames.
"Oh god." She said. "Is he...is he dead?!"
Wesley said nothing.
"He's dead. " She repeated.
"Dead?" The boy had returned from the back room. "Who's dead?"
"Ray." She said, near breathless.
"What?! Ray's dead?" The boy yelped. "What are you talking about?"
As if on cue, a streak of red and blue light shone through the glass windows at the front and reflected dimly on the polished countertop. The police had finally arrived.
An officer, one Wesley recognized but did not know by name, entered. He removed his cap and approached the desk.
Wesley stepped back, cursing their untimely arrival. He had yet to procure the information he needed.
"Ms. Bankhead?" The officer asked, eyes downcast.
"I-uh, yes?" The girl said, clutching her head with one hand.
"My name is Officer Walker. I'm afraid I have some bad news."
"Oh my god." She said, nearly dropping to the floor.
Wesley shook his head. There was no use in him trying now. He bowed his head and turned to leave.
He could see Francis parked across the street.
With one look back he eyed the young woman. Though her face was a picture of shock, he could not see a single tear dotting her dark eyes.
He sighed, thoroughly annoyed.
After all, the job wouldn't be done until the girl had been properly dealt with.
He would have to return another day soon.
Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this intro. I would love to hear what you thought.