Moriarty managed to duck out of the way, just in time to dodge a bullet. A couple more shots rang out, slamming into the wall behind him, before they finally ceased. In silent anger, he stood and straightened his suit, brushing away imaginary dirt. Someone was in trouble.
Stepping out from behind the metal barrels, the consulting criminal found his personal guard panting over a couple of dead people. Moriarty scowled at him, discretely pulling out his phone. "What is your name?" he asked conversationally.
"Nate. Nate McCoy, sir. Sorry it took me so long to get here-"
"Oh, no," he interrupted cheerfully. "That doesn't matter." For the time being. "Take me home."
The guard nodded and followed him to the sleek black car outside. Moriarty settled into the back, playing on his phone until they reached their destination.
Up front. Nate McCoy. Now. -JM
As he mounted the steps to his headquarters, a guard in a black suit passed him. He heard a muffled shot, and knew the incompetent gunman had been dispatched. He couldn't stand idiots. Heading further into the house, he found Henry Doyle's office. Doyle was in charge of finding him protectors. James entered the room with his hands in his pockets, smiling happily. Doyle grinned back at him. "Evening, Sir. How can I help you?"
Shrugging, Moriarty pretended to think. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe you could find me a personal guard who isn't a complete and utter moron?!"
Doyle flinched back at the sudden, intense rage radiating out from his boss. His heart picked up, repeating danger danger danger. If he didn't want to end up at the bottom of the Thames, he had to work fast. "Y-yes, Sir," he promised, blanching. All the blood in his body had drained to his toes, retreating from the look the criminal was giving him. "I'll have you a new guard ASAP-by the end of the week at the latest. I-"
Moriarty cut him off. "I will personally overlook your training programmes."
"T-training programmes?" Dread settled into his stomach at the venomous look directed at him.
"You do train people before putting them in charge of my life, don't you?"
Desperately trying to save face, Doyle responded, "N-not really, sir. They come with proper training."
"Oh. I see." There was something about the tone of Moriarty's voice that had him praying. There was a big chance he wouldn't get out of the building alive at this point. "Do you run background checks?"
"O-of course!" he replied, a little guiltily. He did...mostly. Unfortunately for him, James Moriarty had an uncanny sense for when people were lying to him.
Nodding, he sauntered up to Doyle's desk, leaning his elbows on the top. "Very good. Now, why don't you pull up a list of candidates on your computer there?" he suggested good-naturedly, nodding at the laptop. With shaking fingers, Doyle did as he asked, trying to avoid those cold eyes.
"Do you have an assistant? Someone who helps you with all this?" Moriarty asked conversationally. Doyle's mistake was nodding. "What is their name?"
"Ethan Calhoun. He's just outside, if you'd rather he-"
"No, no. Just finish up my list."
Doyle knew. As soon as he pressed print, he knew. There was no way he was going to live. So he said a quick prayer to whoever was listening and glanced at the photo of his wife and son.
Moriarty's man entered shortly after he left.
He made it quick.