The cocked rifle lets out a peculiar metallic groan. Music to the ears of a sniper expert who enjoys stroking the barrel of a gun so cold and formidable, which might just buckle under his masterful touch, the precision with which placed her body in the right way, the angle of the viewfinder carefully calculated, breathing and pulse synchronized superbly.
One deep breath, excessive control on his heartbeats, second exhalation and he focuses all his attention on the target. The sky has just marked the farewell of the sun, so that will surround the dark night and the cold weather will penetrate in him to the bone. The clothes he wears it's now stuck to the muscles between transpiration and the warm blood stream crossing the veins full of adrenaline.
The second hand of his watch advances solemnly, every move is part of the plan and the beam takes shape on a spot, in the trajectory that rests on an object at distance, it is not time yet. Because his boss, his employer, the puppeteer has not yet given the signal. Because the owner of the circus, the lion tamer; the director of the orchestra has not moved the baton. The Beethoven deafened by his own ego and infinite vanity has not set the compass and he was the pawn at the other side of the firearm, the puppet whose indomitable nature could be subjugated by all the great expression that housed a demential criminal name: James Moriarty.
Sebastian Moran only reacts to the movement of the hands of one man with dark and overwhelming deep eyes, as if his soul had been the wager to lose in a bid to make a pact with the devil himself. But not just any demon, as his grandfather had told him when he was still a child and between the pages of a book he had heard of Mephistopheles with the same "M" of Moriarty.
-Jim. - Whispered in a cloud at the condensing of his exhalation. In the distance the individual looked tiny, insignificant, and even negligible. The blond weapons expert snapped a boasted laugh when he finds out himself thinking that the criminal consultant, the same that a couple of years ago had proposed to him to be part of his bloody team and had given him which was now his favorite weapon for always accompany him, was an insignificant point in life. Not for him.
He returned to stroke the gun before putting on the leather mittens and this time got into position again as he felt the vibration of short messages sent to his pager, it seemed that his boss had an obsession with always knowing where he was. His gray-blue eyes were fixed exactly on the figure full of selfishness that walked with elegant steps, sliding his fingers by the trigger while directing the beam to the victim's head.
He blinked and every time he closed his eyes images of the night before came to his memory. Jim Moriarty's naked body lying on the bed, with an irregular breathing and delicious abdomen moving up and down , another flash of memories and now it was him, over his boss totally aroused, defeating him when nailing his fingertips in the snowy skin of the hip. He breathed hardly and even a few drops of sweat began to appear on his temples. A insistent pumping of his heart shrank the interest on the labor carried out at that crucial moment to indulge him to recall that series of events, the coronel licked his own lips and almost was able to perceive the taste of the poisonous saliva of his leader when he introduced the viperish tongue down his throat; like a drug, it was addictive and it was urgent to consume a little more each night to endure the daytime abstinence.
He gulped and returned to reality, his hands holding the elongated object before him, he haven't moved an inch his limbs, they were ecstatic about their favorite toy, but the rifle was far from being the best. His maximum entertainment was to manipulate the member of the unhealthy criminal genius when after inserting it into his mouth; he reached to stir it up, he managed to make it stand up proudly in front of his lustful eyes and it was at this time when its owner gave this false sense of control. After that, his boss punished him in revenge, with bruises made by his incisors on the neck and shoulders, with scratches on his torso and back, until get to tinge the fine sheets with bright crimson yarns of lust and sick desire.
Desire for power, possession, supremacy, carnal desire and at the same time dissatisfaction, longing for love, affection, caresses that will fill him inside, that could wrap his vulnerable soul. When they are fully exposed, the older is dedicated to search for the younger's inside, needing to merge with the other, pointing with his fingers each side of the rough map of that diabolically perfect being. Breaking any absurd law imposed by the other's selfishness; but in bed, on the floor or against the wall that didn't matter at all, nothing else was important except James Moriarty. Moran's hands are free to explore thoroughly until they get to be tied in a sadistic appetite of fetishism. The youngest used to ask for more and his subordinate kept no pore intact, no loose ends left, he goes over every inch of printed skin with cardinals that the next day would be covered by an expensive suit and would burn at being soaked by the finest lotion.
That was not important when the former soldier was engaged in bending his pride, in hurting it as he buried himself into the Irish with a bestial force that made both to curse simultaneously. The youngest was threatening him; he even was able to wield a knife near his neck while he was asking for more, speed, depth, passion and more brutality, there was no madness enough. The aroma of devotion, the eagerness was devouring every trace of arrogance and cynicism to become the musky scent of lust and lewdness. Jim was only his, he thought.
The weapons expert sighed heavy and concentrated all his determination on the man who was about to attack his only reason to exist, the reason to continue every morning when the vestiges of that chaotic utopia are the only things to remain with him in bed and while he was gathering enough courage to face his master, who acts with indifference and without emotion most of the time. He held the cold air in his lungs and pulled the trigger, the bullet broke into a burst every meter until get embedded into the skull of his target, which has no time to know of his death before the projectile went through. James Moriarty takes a step back and settles the tie with disdain to the corpse at his feet dripping with fresh blood.
Sebastian Moran continues observing the criminal consultant through the lens, his eye is catch by the other, enigmatic, monochromatic, raw, and he remains this way for a few seconds when a fatuous smile it's drawn into the mouth that he kissed the night before until he was fed up with it; it was a petulant gesture, so shocking that could ruffle the hairs on his neck. The master criminal knew perfectly what he could do with the senses of the Colonel, especially at that moment when both arch their backs, high guttural sounds are uttered, the cramps, this lightning, some echoes, the shortness of breath because his thumbs pressed hard against the blond's trachea. Ecstasy as a light that burned everything else at the end and then the last thing the highest sees, before plunge into unconsciousness; are the distant steps of his damn owner vanishing into the darkness.
James Moriarty was upset because his shoes were stained, because the shot came a second too late, and that night he would probably take revenge in the most obscene way possible. Sebastian was blind, addicted to the heat of the fire ignited by a demon that eases the pain of his libido in exchange for his soul, his body, in exchange of his devotion and the demon makes him believe falsely that he is the owner of his satisfaction. But he quietly accepts the deal, in order to get some night the reward for his loyalty, he was doomed, cursed. He loved his Mephistopheles.