Here it is! The big new story... Scary and exciting! I hope you enjoy. (Sorry about mistake in first edit!)
The chapters: some will be shorter than others, based on their content and my craziness of life at this moment.
I would like to say, first of all, I have never been to America or possibly quite a few places in this story. Please don't judge me too harshly on the descriptions I may write considering America and the rest of the world; if anything, some advice would be much appreciated.
This won't be a story completely about the relationship of Killian and Emma, though that will definitely be a huge part of it. This is going to include all of the characters that I could think about when planning this. I hope you like it.
A storm of eolian force is making it's way towards New York City, lashings of rain already punishing the window panes, with more yet to come. Clouds permeating the previously blue sky with darkness and imperfections. Panicked newspapers and magazines flap in the wind on their stands, equally scattered vendors desperately trying to hold onto their precious loads. Wooden shutters shuddering in the cold. Hurried New-Yorkers walk at a faster pace than usual, aiming for sanctuary of a Starbucks or their homes, burying chapped faces into jackets and scarves. Hoods, hats and umbrellas act as protection.
A few anomalous walkers - those without protection - rush around me in the streets, dripping hair plastered to their foreheads and necks, water clinging to their bodies.
With such a repertoire of characters in the Big City, I fit right in. Dressed in generic black jeans, soaked navy converse and a leather jacket thrown over my grey hoodie and deep blue shirt. Comfortable and means I can blend in very easily, especially now with the graying skies. The rain only slightly impairs my vision, water droplets clinging to my eyelashes and the sections of hair that occasionally brush into my eyesight. The cold and the wet and the miserable day is not even a tiny bit important. I don't mind the greatest of tempests because the cool metal memory stick in my left jacket-pocket is the reward I get. Despite being caught in the 'storm of the century' - which, by the way, is an astronomical exaggeration.
Pride is an important part of the job. In this case, it's the pride of bringing the information safely back to base and getting something more interesting to do than watching the movement across the Technological Infrastructure.
Plus, I do actually like rain. The scent of petrichor gliding with the breeze and the mist which rises, creating the dramatic effect on the surroundings. Not that my life isn't dramatic enough. But a misty veil on the world does make pretty much anything interesting. And it's far better to laugh at yourself and your life than to laugh at those of others.
Another thing I like about the rain is the clarity it provides. The freshness of the air and the cold both help me to think. The water acts as a constant refresher and keeps me awake, opposite to the drawling heat which occupies the city in mid-July. It reminds me of passed days which would be spent in the damp, roaming the hills of the moors and chasing the day, far from the path. It also helps me to notice things, which is imperative for my job. Especially in this unique situation.
There's a guy following behind me. He stops every so often, draws from his cigarette, adjusts his trousers, and then continues. Lucky I know the kind of guy Albert Spencer employs, otherwise I would not have known this man behind me from the next. It's also what leads me to spotting the man trailing, a street away from me. I glance his dark brown jacket every time I pass another block. Waiting for something to happen. Heavy-duty boots, large, rounded shoulders and hip-length leather jackets which make Old-Man Albert look like a stereotypical gang-leader.
Not that I've met many gangs recently. Also, Spence is part of new club in town. The Mafia Royale. Because they think of themselves as royals and legendary. God, do my superiors hate that. Unfortunately, it means that these guys are after what's in my pocket. Which means that I'm probably going to have to get a little creative, considering that there are probably more on their way. They're not afraid of being armed and letting loose to obtain some serious information.
This is why I don't wear any bloody earphones. Bloody distraction.
Think, Jones, think. I can't go anywhere public because I might as well be leading them to massacring a bunch of people. Spence is ruthless and he would rather not shoot down some civilians - it draws attention to him publicly. Well, his people, at least.
I grip the memory stick tightly in my hand to attempt at prompting myself into thinking something useful. The rain isn't holding back, so maybe I can simply blend into the crowds and hope they lose sight of my bland outfit for the day. Only problem with that is that the numbers of people has greatly decreased since the storm began it's attack on the rest of us innocents below.
Oh crap.
My mind and body notices this feeling before my eyes even see what's before me, merely 200 yards from me. The sinking feeling which tells me that something is wrong and I am probably going to go down a terrible path which will lead me to losing this information. This feelings stems from the car parked the 200 yards from where my feet have slowed. The Rolls Royce Phantom, customary to Albert Spencer. Blacked-out windows, matte black paint, a sliver of silver visible from the distance which I know to be the wheels and the rims of the windows.
Son of a bitch. Now I have to think faster than I really wanted to. I'm cold and I'm wet but at least I'm thinking.
One of the men appears ahead of me, rounding back, dressed in his dark brown jacket, the collar pulled up to fend the rain away from his neck where his hair has been gelled down to. In one slick sweep. I don't bother to look behind me to check on the second man. I know he must have ditched the cigarette and gaining on me. And looking back would look suspicious. These men shouldn't know me. I don't know them and I like to think I keep a low profile. But I knew they were Spence's men, so maybe they know a little about me and about the people of my profession.
A fight is inevitable. No one is going to help me and I really don't want to compromise anyone by calling for back-up. This is on me. I can't turn away from the fight but I cannot get myself killed. That would be very stupid indeed. I'm not going anywhere with Spence. I will not be getting in that car. I will not be beaten to the ground until I can take no more, handing over the information and myself. That is out of the question.
I need to take this fight away from the streets, at least.
To my right, two shops away, is an old bakery, aptly named 'Cakes and Coffee' from the last owner. It hasn't changed hands as such, the pale green splatter of paint on the front of the shop now covered in the grime that comes with being an inhabitant of New York City, especially here. The slightly worn bricks and the cracked window from some attempted heist. (A heist which clearly could not have gone very well, with the lack of money, provender, anything, in the shop.) I remember the woman who used to own it before it was shut down, following her death and a murder inquiry. A short, grey-haired woman of mid-forties, usually dressed in light brown brogues and a calf-length dress. The classic dinner lady kind of look. She was polite to all of her customers, except the ones who were generally exonerated by the piranhas of society.
She threatened any non-white, non-American, homosexual who entered her shop. It was quite unfortunate for my friend who happened to be very camp, but not in any way inclined to bat for his own team. His wife is a busty woman called Shannon.
One morning, Neil Rutherford of the NYPD came in for his morning bear-claw and found the shop empty of the woman and instead homing rats and some half eaten cupcakes. There was a brief murder inquiry but she was discovered at her sons home in New Orleans, cancelling her rent on the building. Hence, the 'For Rent' sign on the door. I know there is a back door which leads to the loading bays for many of the shops (most of which do not require loading bays, but use the space for parking) and also onto the roof.
I pause for effect at the door, pretending to read the sign, but instead reading my surroundings. There's a few stalls, a quiet cafe and a hairdressers. Not enough people. Not that it's a good idea to put on a show for the civilians, the ones who aren't supposed to know about us.
In my peripheral vision, the two men are walking at a slow pace, chatting amicably. They aren't looking at me, but I know exactly what they want. Spence isn't exactly my biggest fan. I think I would rather have him hunting me down than the Crocodile.
The bell barely rings upon my entry into the shop, cracked down one side and barely moving with the rust forming. The woman was strange, but she was good with detail. Not even a counter-top or poster remains, all taken back to New Orleans or stolen in the weeks it took for her to move back with her son. The whole shop is in desperate need of a new owner and a lick or two of paint - even if just to get rid of the grime and the sickly green color which makes the cafe comparable to a giant pistachio.
One remaining part of what it used to be are the saloon-like doors leading into the kitchen, painted a rose pink, hinges rusted but still there. Not my favorite color in the world, but I'm not actually intending to buy this place, obviously. Enough to hide me for a little while, on my near-to-useless pretense of inspecting the place.
I glance behind me for a moment, watching past the layer upon layer of rain, slapping against the large windows and run a hand through my hair, trying to get rid of some of the water. To no avail. I push against the doors into the kitchen, shuddering at the squeak the metal makes in protest to my request. With the other hand, I press a finger to my side where the gun rests in the holster. Hidden, but definitely still there. I sigh and turn into the kitchen, scanning the cupboards for a sign of anything out of the ordinary - the ordinary being 'abandoned'.
I don't bother to check the cupboards. The dust which rests here has not moved since the last break in, which can't have been less than two months ago. Dust is a strange thing. Smells weird and provides a bloody horrible time for asthmatics. Instead, I look around for anything. Any sign of an escape, should I desperately need one. Which I'm thinking that I will.
The bell rings. The cracked thing, rattling slightly. Heck if I'm wrong, but I think that means the bloody monsters are in.
As usual, I feel the sense of threat that seems to follow me wherever I go. I'm not scared, I am just aware of what could happen on this particular job. As it is with any kind of sensitive information, there is a large amount of threat and fear involved.
I don't dare to breath more than necessary, on the off chance that it's not them. Instead, I count the footsteps as they trudge through the door, and the hum of instruction from whoever is leading this particular attack. One, two, three sets of footsteps, in heavy boots, the clink of metal against the linoleum. And then the clicking off of the safety on the gun and the placing of bullets into the chamber. And all I can think is bollocks bollocks bollocks.
It's not that I'm into self-preservation, but I really don't feel like killing me at this moment is going to help anyone other than Spence and his men and maybe a few other terrorists. Yes, that's the majority, but I need to not die. And at the moment, this feels a little more like 'kill and obtain' as opposed to 'obtain'. Great. Bollocks bollocks bollocks.
Sure, I expected them to have firearms, but not to use them this early on in the mission. I don't know why I didn't expect as much, but clearly the rain has done me no favors with thinking clearly. Back in London I used to do well in the rain, clearly not anymore.
There's a window to my left, a little higher than the kitchen counter-top, but I would be able to make it out just about. I shove my hand into my pocket. It's still there. My heart rate slows a little in relief, but I stretch my fingers, anxious to be out of here. Why did I back myself into a bloody corner? This is ridiculous. Necessary, but ridiculous. And it looks like the rain has yet again disadvantaged me by soaking me. Hence, I have some squeaky converse, so this whole thing is going to be very difficult to be covert in any way at all.
I press the base of my palms against the plastic counter and push, stretching myself up above. I place a sodden foot onto the counter, then the other, and take a large breath, slowly. Relax, Killian, relax. My heart thumps hard in my chest and I want to warn it to be quieter, but I know it doesn't work like that. And I am ever so thankful. I haul myself up into a crouching position, my right shoulder facing the window. I close my eyes for a moment, envisioning it, finding a place in my mind where it won't hurt quite so much.
Shoulder first, protect the head, roll.
I test the glass and it wobbles under the slight amount of pressure. Single pane and loose. Somewhat to my advantage, I would say. Hurrah for that, I suppose. Although, the mission is not entirely looking-up-for-Jones. The world is a strange and cruel place.
Shoulder first, feet last.
I close my eyes again and pull my hood up to protect whatever I can. I pull my sleeves to cover my hand and back up a couple of inches before propelling myself towards the window, shoulder first, springing up from my crouch on the glass shatters around me and I almost forget to roll, at the last moment, turning my head beneath me as my arm hits the ground. I crouch down as the glass rains down around me, slicing tiny fragments of my jeans, but fortunately no major parts of my skin.
Unfortunately, my little stunt will definitely signify to those three men that I am definitely not hiding in the WC. Therefore, now is a good time to start running, Jones. And, as usual, my own thoughts push me to stretching up and not looking back, sprinting alongside the fence to another door, which I race through. I reach inside my pocket for a moment and brush my finger against the memory stick and smirk, I might get away, amazingly. I zip up the pocket and use my arms to push myself even further with each new step.
Then, bugger me, the gunshots start.
One, then two, then three. One fired by each gun, from each man. Obviously untalented shots given that one lands above me and the two others are directed at the floor, meters behind me now. In the metaphorical dust. Anyone could mistake them for thunder, which is definitely advantageous in this stage. My eyes whip around, searching for anything to help me. A ladder, no use. It would take too much time. Instead, I swing the ladder down as an act of disrupting their path. It clangs, but I don't look back. I turn around an opened door and grab a hold of a trembling pipe and haul myself up onto the roof. It's stable so I start to run. The chances are, these men aren't hugely athletic, they're just big and strong and could kill me with one hand.
But then of course I hear the thumping footsteps and another gunshot, and a brush of wind as the bullet takes of a piece of my hoodie. And damn them because I like this hoodie. I need to think of somewhere I can go without hurting them or me. I can't run forever. There's the base, safe houses, my apartment, any abandoned building.
Fuck fuck fuck. I'm going to have to take them out anyway. I can't go anywhere with this drive. I can't take it back to base and I can't take it to a safe house. Most of them have civilians in them at the moment and I really cannot break into that. The civilians would die, I would die, and the world would soon after go to crap.
And the base is a definite no-no. If I went there, followed by three gunmen - and crappy ones at that - the whole organization would be compromised and I would be fired, not only dead. I'm pretty sure Regina would tear me three new ones. That's what she says, anyway.
I slide down the side of the roof to the pavement again, in a full out sprint, to buy me some time. It's just about enough. The three of them are over a hundred yards away and I drop down to my knees, one hand in a surrender and the other pressing the pads of my fingers to the anklet beneath my jeans. Maybe back-up isn't needed, but an extra pair of hands is always handy in a hands-on fight. I have my gun, but I don't want to use it. That's how people really get hurt.
A cold metal circle presses into the back of my neck and I hear the deafening click of a bullet in place. I feel the vibration as the gun is clocked off safety mode. I always think it's odd that gangsters have their guns on safety mode.
"Stand up and get your hands away from that thing," says the male standing behind me, knee pressed firmly against my back, preventing me from much movement. I move my other hand away from the anklet, swallowing deeply. Fuck fuck fuck.
No need for Regina to tear me a new one, this guy is going to blow one right through my jugular.
The man behind me practically growls as I stand, eyes closed in what should look like defeat. Actually, I'm trying to desperately think of a way out of this. I tried the calling for back-up thing and I have no idea whether it's going to work. It's been tested in the lab, but not any long-range. I guess this is where we see how well the new technology works, and I can finally feedback to August and Jepedo, Head of Technology Development and Control.
"Hand it over," says the voice from behind me, pressing the gun harder against my neck. I try not to blanch at the feel of it, knowing too-well how that thing can feel if shot through your body. I swallow deeply, willing my brain to think of something that will not get me shot or the drive will remain in my possession.
A light, barely-there vibration tickles the hairs of my ankle, signifying a response from a unit member. I chant in my head, will myself not to show a reaction or hint or relief or recognition. Instead, I focus myself on a single point, to ground myself: The icy barrel of the gun and the fact that I could die - not positive, but realistic. The rain slamming against the dim world around me.
"Spence wants you alive," muses the man with the gun, almost laughing, despite the situation. The fact that Albert Spencer wants me alive is not a comforting one, so I try to be nonchalant about it and slightly roll my shoulders backwards, breathing in the petrichor. It reminds me a little of home. Spence's lair is one of the last places I would like to be, other than perhaps New York City on Black Friday. "I really don't want to kill you unless I have to." Which means he might if one wrong move is made.
There is a huge weight slammed in the backs of my calves, the heavy boot kicking into me. With a whoosh of breath, I sink to my knees, gravelly ground hard against my soaked jeans and the rain still lamenting. The gun in my waistband digs in uncomfortably.
"Not that I understand why," the man mutters, jabbing the barrel into my neck again and grabbing a fistful of my saturated hair so he can pull at it and shove my face forward onto the gravel. His words slightly reiterate what I have suspected about Spence's men, since none of them know of his motives - it's because they are expendable.
He crashes a boot into my back so I am prostrate on the ground, at his complete mercy. I take a chance, raise my hands in surrender and roll over, noting the features of the man before me. Broken, large nose. Pale but blotchy skin. Half an eyebrow missing on the left. Huge shoulder, made wider by the shoulder patches of his leather jacket. Thin lips. A small scar on his chin/ Harsh green-grey eyes that look too small his his large, square-shaped head. Bald. Done by choice. Mid-forties. Looking at me as though he hates that I am younger than him in this 'man's game'.
The thing closest to me is the firearm he holds to possessively. A silencer tipping the end of the Colt M1911A1. Powerful. Personally, I prefer a Glock 19. Easy concealment and gets the job done. I don't like to use it in anything other than an emergency.
Plus, we have a strict "no kill" policy which states that a situation must be "code red" before any fatal injury should be attempted. Code red as in, if he's not trying to kill me then I cannot engage in a fatal manner. Even if I shot him in the leg, I would guess that he'd still be a decent shot, especially from barely three feet away.
Thumping footsteps reach us and I know that I am, as some say, shit outta luck.
"Give us the drive," the bald one demands in his low voice, bristly, keeping his steely gaze and gun trained on me.
"Gentlemen," I begin, then one of them jabs a foot into my stomach and a few chokes escape me. I take in his appearance. Short, dark brown hair, bushy eyebrows and deep brown eyes, a slight tan to his skin. Scars from chickenpox dotting his forehead. "I am terribly sorry, but I simply do not have it." I speak as calmly and as politely as I can, even adding that sheepish British smile to my concerned expression. "Again, I profusely apologize." I lather on the charm and the concern. "I would love to help, but I am afraid that I cannot."
Another boot connects with my shoulder, stomach and thigh. Each of them bringing the burning ache and I urge my body to forget the pain and focus and ground myself once again. Bloody hell, it's difficult. I almost gasp with the new pains metastasizing.
Vibrations on my ankle make me focus.
One, two, three. Three short vibrations. That means three minutes before the back-up comes in. Three minutes I have to remain alive until I don't have to think much about what to do next and just focus on getting out. The reward of back-up.
One, two-three, four-five. The first is the ranking of my back-up partner, which means it is my first-choice partner. David Nolan. Thank God for David Nolan. The second and third short vibrations means there will be a squad, but no armed unit. The final two signify a get-away car. Probably some awfully corporate car, but I always hope for a Maserati.
"We know you got it, Jones," one of the blokes claim - the brunette. The incorrect grammar annoys me. I grin at him, knowing I shouldn't be cocky, but unable to help myself.
"Oh contrare, my friend, I do not." I shrug innocently. It ears my another boot to the side. It has been mentioned to me that perhaps it is not the best to behave this way when there is back-up on it's way, but it is oh so difficult to not think happy thoughts. Better for them to kick me for my arrogance than for having the information, and then promptly stealing it. "I really cannot express my apologies as much as I mean them." A crunching heal to my stomach. Then the unmistakable taste of grime as the bald man's shoe is pressed to my cheek, the liquid-muck running between my lips, the stench foul. My face rolls across the gravel as his foot pushes me along this path.
"Tell us where it is or I break your pretty face and every bone in your body."
Tad hostile.
With this statement comes a harsh kick and a stamp to the shoulder, almost dislocating it due to the position of my head and shoulders. Searing pain races through me, cursing every cell with it's disease. My vision runs white for a second and I clamp my eyes shut to try and control any nonsensical noise; to get a handle on myself.
The boot presses my cheek into the ground further, the tiny stones grazing into my face. Engraving their patterns upon it.
"Spit it out."
I don't say a word, fearing that both my silence and any words I say will end in my demise. I scour for David's figure against the dark skies, not wanting a dislocated shoulder, and certainly not wanting to lose the drive after I have come this far. Regina would kill me herself. Oh and she would do it in the most painful way possible. Probably burning off my skin, layer by layer. I loathe to think about that even for one moment.
"There is nothing for me to 'spit out', gentlemen," I say past the boot pressing heavily against me. Partly because of the dark figure I have seen, his head peeking out from the building a couple of meters away. I almost sigh with relief, but stop myself once again.
They don't even see it coming.
The first one is down within seconds of David approaching the group, and he kicks away the boot on my face. Mud scraps across me but I disregard it quickly, crouching and shaking out my body before punching the man to my left. The bald one holding the colt. He barely stumbles. Another hit goes to his face and he reels a little, but comes back with a look of distaste on his face.
A blast of pain greets my stomach. And not in a friendly way. I double over, but try to remain standing.
The man across from me smiles, and that kind of annoys me. I aim my palm to his diaphragm, which will make his breathing more difficult. I aim my palm at his face, knocking his jaw backwards as he stumbles, amazingly. Another whoosh of air escapes me as my feet disappear from underneath me, sending my body crashing to the ground. The man is bleeding, my hand having caught his nose in the cross-fire. I smile nervously at him, an attempt at feigning innocence. Not much point now though. I get up as quickly as I can, the gravel scraping skin where exposed.
The wind howls mercilessly and I spot the flashes of bright white light against the sky. Lightening. We can't be out in this weather. I glance over at David after sending another punch to the man's stomach. His face is marred by the slashes of rain and he is shouting something, something which I barely hear above the shouts of other men and the crashing and rumbling of thunder. The storm is very close now. On our heels, almost.
"Come on, we gotta go!" David yells above the uproar. I barely hear as a fist rams into my face, and then another to my stomach.
"Just give us the damn drive and this will all be over," croons the man before me, smiling as he holds his fists to his chest. Ready for me. Waiting for the next one. But not ready for reaching a gun. Too slow. Seconds too slow, he would be. I can't risk it. I can't shoot him. I can't. "Whatcha gonna do pretty boy?" I laugh mirthlessly and spit out onto the ground. I glance back at David, seeing one of the men is down, but the other stands, his palms protecting his face. David isn't going for the face. I know his moves. He will not go for the face. Only try to prevent attack.
Bloody charming.
"I don't have it." I convey the words in a monotonous tone. We have to move. We can't stay out here.
I see it happening immediately. Even in the dim light, sunlight masked by clouds, the rain splitting apart reality. I see him reaching for the gun, but he is a second too slow, as predicted. In the background I hear David's shout and the crack as he smacks a palm to the man's head.
The bald man doesn't reach for his gun in the end. Instead, he clutches his stomach, the inky liquid seeping from the wound and onto his staining hands. He shouts and screams profanities at me, telling me that he'll come after me, but I hear only a few scarce words. The world around me numbs and the gun feels like a stranger in my hands, still cocked in position, my feet planted.
David pulls at my arm, yelling at me. I see the back-up squad turning the corner, their vests glinting in the lightning seconds after the thunder which erupted from my firearm. The noise as loud as the thunder and the flash as bright as lightning. David is shouting still and I turn to him, unsure of what to do. Every bone in my body yearns to help the man, even though he is an enemy. I know why it does that.
The memories of other blood spilling onto pavements. Of another sinking to their knees, clutching at the life falling from their fingertips.
Pain rips through me. At first I think it's the aching of memories past, but then I feel the running of warmth from my shoulder, and touch a pad of a finger to the spot. Pain courses through me again and I hear David again, screaming at me to move.
Five men of the back-up squad surround them. The bald one, the one I shot, holds the Colt in one hand and presses the wound with the other to stop the bleeding. I turn to run and David is seven feet ahead of me already. I race towards the end of the alley, knowing I'll be fine. The bleeding will stop one way or another. Regina might just kick me out. I would deserve it. She could send me to Dr Whale to kill me; let me die in surgery.
As expected, there is a practical van parked at the end of the little gravel alley. I raise an eyebrow in mirth, unable to do much more, feeling numb.
The door slams shut. The van speeds off. At some point, my vision goes strange. Dark blots appear in my sight. I don't know where we are, but I know where we're going. I know David is beside me, but his voice slips in and out of hearing range. The pain is constant, but then it's not. I know I'm not making sense.
"We'll get you to Whale," David murmurs to me, a mobile pressed to his ear and a look of worry etched onto his features. He slips away for a second and I shake my head to get rid of the dull ache. "Then Regina wants to speak with you."
Her office is clinically clean, as it always has been. White walls, an enormous window looking out across the landscape, and the single mirror hanging on the left. Hardly a photo in sight. Two, mirrored frames, one holding a photo of her son. The other holding a photo of her father. His grey haired and smiling face is not directed at me today, but at Regina's empty desk.
Every detail of the room is precise.
The door clicks as Regina enters. I stand automatically.
Am I ready for this?
No. No, I am not ready for a complete bollocking.
Thanks for reading. Review please? Tell me what sort of chapter length and how I can improve, and whether I should just stop immediately?
I won't be able to post for a while due to the exams which are chasing me down and preparing to... Eat me alive. I have already partly prepared the next chapter, so hopefully it won't be too long until it comes out!
Thanks!