AN: This is a re-upload of an old story. I'm re-uploading my stories here after a long absence.
It was a slow night. The road was dark and glistering with light night-time rain, and the windows and windshield of the car shone with golden threads whenever a car passed, headlights picking the rivulets of water out in brilliant gilt.
Devcon reclined in the driver's seat, seat pushed back, one leg drawn up. He hadn't been dozing – boring and long as nights like these might be, he had more self-control than that.
He'd been watching the club since before it opened. Four hours now. People had come and gone, trade heating up as the night wore on, until now there was a queue stretching half way down the rain slicked street. There was an awning over the door, but the punters further down the line had to put up with the drizzle, the men holding jackets over the heads of their dates. He was there for a very particular reason – a particular mark. He knew it was only a matter of time before his quarry appeared.
At precisely one twenty-three in the morning, a sleek red Maserati growled up to the kerb, its engine aggressive and loud. Everything about the vehicle was flashy and screaming for attention. Devcon's eyes narrowed, flashing icy blue, and he leaned forward with his arms on the steering wheel. The Maserati's engine idled for a moment, then cut off. Every eye in the crowd was watching that car, waiting hungrily to catch a glimpse of the driver.
When he did emerge, Devcon actually let out a small growl. It was him.
A slim, young man dressed in black jeans and a red leather jacket, tightly fitted to his waspish little waist, the driver exited the car with the grace of a dancer. He turned away from Devcon, so the cop couldn't see his face, but he could see the shock of jet black hair and the spike-toed, high-heeled black cowboy boots. He was surprised the boy didn't wear spurs.
Keeping his eyes on his target, Devcon got out of his own car – a large blue hulk of a thing that almost blended into the street-side parked row – quietly closed the door, and began to stalk toward the entrance to the club. Toward his prey.
He flashed his badge to the doormen and they let him pass without a word, their stony faces revealing nothing.
Once inside, he lost his target for a moment. The place was packed and dark, smoky, and he could feel the deep bass beat of the music vibrating in his heart. He weaved through the crowd to an elevated spot – a wiry spiral staircase leading up to the network of catwalks above that held the large coloured lights that swivelled and shone down upon the mass of glistening bodies. He drew a few looks – challenging or wary from men, interested from women. He wasn't in his uniform tonight, obviously, but he still drew the eye. With his broad shoulders and strong jaw, he cut an impressive, if somewhat threatening figure, and the sharp, straight lines of his cheeks and the coldness of his eyes gave him a hungry, shark-like air. When he moved through the crowd, people moved out of his way.
He scanned the room, picking out likely faces. Then he saw him.: the slim, black haired youth, in the centre of a gaggle of admirers, male and female alike, just ascending the staircase at the far end of the room toward the VIP area. Devcon gave a small, frustrated sigh, then composed himself and then continued the chase. Got you now, he thought, as he prowled toward the stairs. There were men stationed here as well, but such was the give-and-take nature of the relationship between syndicate and law in this city that all they did was give him a cold once-over and a grim nod before letting him pass. Checks and balances, Devcon thought.
The VIP room was less crowded, and the ambience calmer, cosier. Devcon scanned the booths, eyes flicking to the plush corner one, currently playing home to a large group of women, but no prey in the middle. He frowned, until he turned his gaze to the intimate, small dance-floor.
There he was. His target, his quarry. His prey. Still surrounded by admirers, but so dazzling they seemed to fade to grey in his presence.
The crown prince of the city's premier crime syndicate, Starscream was a bratty, self-centred dandy who dressed and lived like a rock-star, yet was known to kill like a pro. Devcon knew a lot about this prey and the sordid organisation that had grown him. He knew that Megatron, the boss, had taken Starscream under his wing when the boy was just a child, and had groomed him to become his successor, training him in how to run the impressive operation Megatron himself had built. He currently acted as a seemingly surprisingly competent consigliere, despite his recklessness and overt decadence. Right now he was dancing, arms above his head and thin, gently curved hips swaying and circling. He'd shed the jacket, revealing a plain, form-fitting black tee underneath. Scum, Devcon thought, even as his eyes followed the young man's sinewy movements. He was dancing by himself, the centre of a circle, like a star with adoring satellites orbiting around him.
The cop made his way to the bar and ordered a drink, then leaned against the counter and observed his quarry, deciding how best to proceed.
At some point he must have taken his eyes off him, though, because the next thing he knew there was a warm presence behind him, and warmer breath against his ear. "I saw you watching me."
Devcon did very well not to jump. He did tense, and his strong jaw tightened. A hand on his shoulder, that purring voice-... He turned his head, blue eyes hard. Starscream, of course. He was smirking like a Cheshire cat, and Devcon got the horrible, topsy-turvy feeling of the hunter becoming the hunted. No, he thought. Not possible.
He grunted a negative, and gruffly replied, "That so?"
Starscream's smirk only grew, and he stepped around the older man to stand facing him. Devcon could see him up close now, could see the shine to his forehead, made damp from dancing, see the artful dishevelment of his hair. The ruddy, reddish brown of his eyes, and the way his canines were a bit more pointed than most people's.
Starscream reached out and took Devcon's glass from his hand and knocked it back, swallowing the remainder of the drink. Devcon watched him, bemused, his expression a mixture of barely concealed indignation and slowly growing amusement. As the young man tipped back his head to drink he exposed his pale throat, and Devcon watched the muscles work as he swallowed.
Starscream licked his lips as he passed the empty glass back, and Devcon took it, eyes watching that pink tongue. The pistol in Devcon's shoulder holster felt warm and heavy against his chest.
"It's okay," Starscream said. He was standing far too close. "I like to be watched."
Devcon slowly set the glass on the counter behind him. He kept his eyes on Starscream, his expression calculating and hungry. He was... curious. Somehow this man had managed to blind-side him; there was something about him he didn't quite get. Something in his aura, if Devcon believed in such things.
The young man leaned in, smiling still, and slipped an elegant hand under Devcon's jacket, feeling for the gun he knew was there. Starscream's eyes held a challenge. Devcon held his gaze steadily.
Gauntlet thrown. Challenge accepted.
"I'd be careful, carrying that thing around," Starscream breathed. He leaned closer still, lips a breath away from Devcon's. "It might go off." An obvious tease. He was making fun of him.
Devcon's lips twisted into a smirk of his own. "You should be the one worrying, Starscream." The name felt good on his tongue. "I'm an excellent shot."
Starscream only snickered and moved in to kiss-
Devcon took him by the collar and pushed him away and held him. His face was like ice, his grip like iron. Starscream actually looked startled – as if he'd never been refused before.
"I won't be hunted. Understand?"
Starscream seemed to regain some of his composure, but he didn't try to pull free. "Won't you, copper? So what... you're going to hunt me instead?"
Devcon only nodded, his smirk fixed and almost grim. "...Right. Exactly."
He caught sight of some of the syndicate's heavies watching their little scene, as well as some of the regular guests. Hardly cowed, but knowing how to pick his battles, Devcon released Starscream's collar and let the young man move back.
He nodded, straightened, and stepped past Starscream. Starscream let him go, ruffled but clearly not scared one bit by Devcon's little warning. That was okay.
"We'll meet again."
"Oh, I'm sure we will. My friends can show you out."
"No." Devcon raised his hands, palms out, to show the thugs he meant no harm. "I'll make my own way."
The rain was heavier when Devcon got back outside. He hurried to his car and got in, taking off his jacket and throwing it onto the backseat, next to his shotgun. Checks and balances, he thought, as he sat in the driver's seat and watched the rain. Gauntlet thrown. We'll meet again.