Stalemate
The only sound that fills her ears is her heartbeat and the howling wind. With careful steps, a dance of sorts, she manages to move a little closer. The knife in her hand molds itself into her clenched fist, the fine muscles in her wrist poised.
So close, she thinks, her heart beating a little faster.
They are locked, a draw of wills. Stalemate. The minute, the second either one of them moves a hairsbreadth, chaos will inevitably ensue.
She silently swears at herself. How had she gotten to this moment? How had they gotten to this moment?
Her knuckles turn white around the knife. They have been waiting for a while now, she's lost track of how long, but she can't feel any of her digits anymore. Cold puffs expel in front of her, and she shivers.
Three mil, she remembers with disdain. Who wouldn't turn down a payday like that one? Certainly not her, certainly not the crew.
But the problem isn't the job itself, but who the job is. She's been too cocky, thinking that if she knew him, maybe she'd get the big payday.
So this is how she's landed on this frozen tundra of a godforsaken planet playing hide-n-seek with one of the biggest assholes in history.
Asshole Hall of Fame, if she recalls correctly.
She thinks she almost hears him shift, but there is no one way to tell without moving herself, so she stays put, crouching lower to the ground.
"Five years."
For a second, she considers that she had accidently spilled her thoughts out loud, but it wasn't her voice. It's too coarse and too deep.
She refuses to acknowledge him with a reply. Instead she inches her foot forward soundlessly.
"Did you come here to kill me, kid?"
She bristles at the word 'kid', and had to clamp her mouth shut so she didn't blurt out a retort. She slides her hand down her calf to her boot.
"Never thought you'd run with these pussies."
He's trying to goad her, she realizes, albeit slowly. He's trying to distract her. The revelation feeds the burning anger in her, and she frees the cold metal shape from her shit-kicker boots.
"Why don't you come out and play." He's taunting her, now, using a playful tone.
Fuck, she really wants to jam a bullet into his brain and a knife in his gut.
The impersonal metal of the gun is smooth in her palm. She's never been a big fan of guns and bullets. It made everything too cold. If there's one thing that he's taught her, it's that real killers use their hands and a shiv.
Funny, after five years of hating him, they have more in common than ever. A pair of killers.
As if reading her mind, he speaks again. "You into killin' now, kid? Guess the holy man was right."
Swallowing at the mention of Imam, she loads the gun and it makes an audible click. Unless he's lost his touch, there's no way didn't recognize that noise.
And he did. "A gun, Jack? Come on, where's the fun in that?"
He used her name. Her old name. It shouldn't bother her so much, but it does and she feels her throat tighten, an odd spasm she hasn't had in years.
A silence coats the air again, dropping the temperature further if possible. So close…she thinks again, and wonders how much longer he will drag this sad charade on. And how much longer she'll let him.
Inhaling softly, she edges another inch, her toe nearing the end of the cave. She has to act soon, she thinks feverishly, before this game drives her insane.
"How many, huh Jackie?"
Gritting her teeth, she tries to stop her reply, but it tumbles out. "Kyra. My name is Kyra."
He laughs this time, a rumble of thunder. "Finally got bored of being a boy, Jack?"
She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. All the years of training to keep calm and in control are rapidly disappearing into the cold, cold air. She desperately whishes she could take back her words, because now she's given him a crumb and he'll never let go.
"Jack? You still there?" He calls out, mocking her. It's another chance to use the name of a dead girl.
"Shit, kid, ya gotta come out some time."
She welcomes the nickname, anything over Jack. It helps her regain her control, and she lifts the gun slowly. This has to end, she thinks grimly. Another step, so cautiously placed, and she turns her body and aims the gun.
A whirl of muscle and leather slams into her, knocking the breath out of her lungs. A hand pins her wrists forcefully onto the rock, and the gun—her only hope—falls to the snow.
His other hand curls around her neck, squeezing tight.
"Not bad," he comments casually, yanking her up so her feet dangle above the ground.
A sputtering choke escapes her lips as she twists and bucks to get away. How could she have been so stupid?
"But," he continues, removing his hand from her throat to quickly run it over her coat and down her thigh. "You need a little more practice." He easily finds the knife in her other boot and tosses it aside.
"You asshole," she spits out, her throat rough, "this isn't some goddamn game—" He squeezes her neck again, cutting off her words and breath.
She gasps, inhaling precious air when his hand relaxes a fraction, then releases.
"What's the bounty?" He questions, now checking under her coat, under her—
"Hey!" She snarls, "Fuck off!" She wrenches her body away, flailing her legs.
He captures them between his, a rock-hard vise. "Don't make me fuckin' ask again, Jackie." His hand slides to the small of her back, to the tiny knife tucked in her waistband. Instead of dropping it, he holds it to her neck, pressed along her jugular.
"Thought you liked the sweet spot," she hisses at him. "Fourth lumbar down—"
He applies a little more pressure, drawing a thin ribbon of blood. "Answer me." He pulls back, just enough for her to speak.
"Three mil," she grumbles, twisting her legs as a test. They barely twitch.
"Interesting." The knife nicks her skin again and a drop of blood trickles down the curve of her neck. "Who're you runnin' with?"
"Nobody you know," she replies, evading names and details.
There is a pregnant pause before he asks, "Will anyone come for you?"
"No," she answers quickly. Too quickly, she figures out with a cringe as his lips form a thin line.
"So that's a yes," he says pensively. The goggles block her from reading his eyes, but she can tell he's thinking. He did it a lot on the ship they used to escape the horrible planet, and hero worship means paying attention to the minutiae.
In the distance, she suddenly hears the echoes of name being shouted across the icy terrain. Relief seeps through her like a shot of whiskey.
"How soon do you think they'll be here?" He asks, sounding vaguely amused. "Soon enough?"
She gulps. Hard. Her name sounds out again, louder this time. It's now or never, she thinks.
His head is moving closer and his hands grip her aching hands tighter.
Her heart is racing painfully in her chest. Dying is not really what she had on her mind when she took the job. She wonders if she can yank her wrists out or distract him with something temporarily. A single mistake and she could try and escape.
His lips are now at her ear, and it takes her a moment to realize he's whispering something. "…next time, Jack."
He steps back, releasing her from his captivity. Before she can grab the gun or at least give him a well-deserved kick in the groin, he runs and leaps off the edge of the cliff.
She can hear her crew shouting her name along with a few choice expletives. Her breath is coming in harsh pants, her heart like a jackhammer. Her wrists will be encircled with bruises, along with her thighs, and there will be a thin line on her neck for a long time.
But she's alive.
And for all the gold in the universe, she can't figure out why.
(A/N: A little different than my other two, so let me know what you think. Maybe I'll continue this one, but I dont' know...I seem to favor the one-shots.)