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SPOILER ALERT:
Takes place directly after the assassination attempt in Scorpia.
Enjoy!
The sun shone brightly overhead, its merciless heat chasing all the more fortunate souls into the chilly embrace of air-conditioned buildings or shaded pavilions. It was the kind of day that induced lethargic behavior in every living creature big and small, and the entire community in La Villa de Sol, Jamaica seemed to be sleeping away the muggy afternoon.
One less fortunate soul sweated his way down the beach, carrying a heavy metal briefcase. His free hand flew up periodically to straighten his hopelessly wrinkled blue tie or run through his mussed black hair. He cursed his vanity for choosing to wear such uncomfortably hot formal clothing to their meeting, trying to kick the sand out of his expensive leather shoes.
Finally he stopped at the dock in the beach, dropping the briefcase and breathing an audible sigh of relief as he stepped out of the furiously baking beach and into the shelter of a cloth rest tent. He carefully smoothed down his suit as best as he could, adjusted his tie one more time (its fine silk material was utterly ruined by then) and began waiting, dark eyes scanning vigilantly for the one person who would brave such a brutally blistering day.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Andre Markl."
The lightly accented, somehow familiar voice came from behind him, and the man jerked around to stare at the speaker, startled. Where had he come from? How had he managed to sneak up so silently?
The speaker flashed him a brilliant, relaxed smile as he approached the tent, saluting the nervous Andre with a half-hearted little wave before tucking his hands into his pockets. This other individual wore a pair of dark, reflective sunglasses and a completely white suit that blazed blindingly under the touch of the sunlight, and Andre more heard than saw the man step into the shade of the tent.
"I presume you are the White Fox." Andre's words were harsh, clipped, compared to the easy, conversational speech of the other man.
The White Fox had been called wily. Unreliable. Treacherous, lying, backstabbing, smart-mouthed, odious. Brilliant, precise, streamlined, loyal. He'd been called a necessary threat and a valuable asset, a lazy liar and an honorable bringer of justice. Beyond opinions, over his career, the Fox had carried out five major arsons, stolen almost two million American dollars' worth of goods, garnered six separate identities in the U.S., England, and four other countries, collected innumerable unpaid debts, extorted, counterfeited, bribed, trafficked drugs, kidnapped, tortured, vandalized, aided and abetted in just about every crime in the book of law, and generally blown every national and international law to hopeless shards. The current number of bodies attributed to being his handiwork had been rumored to reach well over five hundred. And despite having closely monitored profiles in the CIA, FBI, INTERPOL, and MI6, the White Fox had yet to be caught.
But he was truly famous among his clients because he was the only one, the only professional that had completed every assignment he had accepted with perfect, 100% accuracy.
And that was why Andre called upon him over his competitors.
The White Fox grinned again, and Andre suddenly understood how apt his nickname was. Everything about the White Fox, from his languid movements to his unnerving smirk, felt eerily…predatory.
"Yes, yes, that I am," Fox murmured. "But enough about me. You told me you have need of my…ahh…how shall I say?"
The Fox grinned.
"…Special talents."
"Yes. I would like to employ you to take care of this matter," Andre replied shortly, pulling a file from the briefcase and offering it to Fox. Fox extended a white-gloved hand to take it and silently flipped through the pages appraisingly. Andre watched the other man closely. There was something definitely familiar about this Fox…but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.
"Hmm. Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to take care of a particularly…small problem." The Fox turned his mirrored gaze up to Andre, one eyebrow raised questioningly in search of an explanation.
Andre twitched irritably. If this…Fox persisted in asking so many questions, he would have to find someone else to take the contract.
"I can pay the fee. It's here, in the suitcase." Andre patted the briefcase.
Andre felt the Fox's stare sharpen abruptly beneath the darkened lenses.
"Really, then?" Fox mused, looking back down at his hands as he slowly closed the manila folder. "Well. You certainly seem to be dedicated enough. Almost more than the other one."
Other one? Andre was suddenly wary, and his hand inched backwards casually to rest on the gun holstered at his belt.
The Fox's eyes caught the movement, and an amused smile played on the man's face, as if he were remembering an old, fond memory.
"You plan on killing me for my silence?" The Fox shook his head disapprovingly. "Of all people, Mr. Andre, I would have expected better from you."
Andre's lip curled, and he pulled the gun out of its holster, pointing it directly at the Fox's heart.
"First of all," Andre snapped, "don't call me Andre. It's Mr. Markl to people like you." His voice made it clear that it was an insult. "Secondly, whoever you are, Mr. Fox, I highly doubt that you can dodge a bullet, so I suggest that you tell me who else called on you before I decide to pull the trigger."
The Fox's voice was heavy with oceans of regret. "Oh…Mr. Markl…I really would rather not have to…"
"Oh?" Andre sneered. "Well, it's a good thing that I don't have any such inhibitions. Take off those glasses. I want to see who it is that dared to cross swords with me."
The Fox contemplated silently for a moment. His fingers drummed idly on the folder, as if faintly bored by Andre's antics. He slowly curled a finger around the leg of his glasses. The dark lenses tilted forward, and Andre's eyes widened.
"What? You—?!"
Two shots rang out.
A burst of noise resonated in the quiet, steamy afternoon, and a child began to wail in La Villa de Sol, woken by the brief, sharp cacophony. His sleepy mother murmured soothingly to the infant, rising from her hammock under a palm tree to comfort her son.
She never noticed the small form lying facedown in the sand, two bullets in his skull, an eternally silenced scream resting on parted lips.
He sighed, sheathing his weapon. How onerous these men could be.
The Fox leaned down to inspect Mr. Markl's figure. How awkward he was, even in death. Limbs splayed like the tentacles of a beached jellyfish, eyes wide enough to pass for an anchovy's. How…unseemly.
The Fox closed Andre's eyes with a light touch of white-gloved fingers before straightening and strolling leisurely to the end of the deck. Not a bead of sweat gleamed on his fair skin despite the sun that beat down on him; not a wrinkle rumpled his immaculate white suit. He turned back to look one last time at Mr. Markl. He would not have to worry about cleaning up the body. The high tide would swallow up Mr. Markl's remains before the hour was out. There would be no evidence left to signify the crime had been committed, much less incriminate the culprit.
"Rider. Alex Rider…" His voice was thoughtful. Odd, that he had never heard the name before.
"Hmm…what is so intriguing about you, Mr. Rider, that you should have so many…delightful friends…?"
And the Fox vanished into thin air, a simple mirage conjured from the shimmering, scorching, and blindingly white dunes of sand.
Thanks for reading!
With All Due Respect,
Kitty XIII