In-Side-Out
39 Clues AU
Ian Kabra
As the cell door opened, all Ian Kabra did was yawn. "Good morning, Vincent," he smiled at the warden, who was less jovial. "What a pleasant surprise! If I had known you were coming for a visit, I would have cleaned up."
"Do the world a favor, and cut the sarcasm Kabra," the man growled, rubbing his temples "You know good and well why I'm here."
"Do I?" Ian pretended to be confused "Pretend I don't, Warden Spaulding. Why are you here?"
"The government has agreed to release you," Spaulding gritted his teeth as he said this. "You are going to be released into the custody of the CIA for the remainder of your sentence."
"Ah, it's the 18th already, then?" Ian stood, "Splendid. Now, if you'll excuse me-"he tried to push past the man, but, Spaulding stopped him.
"Not so fast, Kabra." He said "You may not be staying here for much longer, but, your ass is mine until you walk out of this building."
Ian shrugged. "Very well, if you insist." He held out his wrists, and Spaulding attached the manacles that were used any time any of the prisoners were being taken out of their cell. This protocol was used at any given prison, but, this wasn't an ordanary prison, just as Ian Kabra was no ordanary criminal (and, he would most likely rip out yout tounge if you thought otherwise, just to prove his point). At age eighteen, he had stolen a Monet from the Lourve, a theft that went unnoticed for a year, sine he had replecated the stolen peice almost perfectly. I the art heist world, if you "pull a Kabra", you have commited almost the perfect crime.
Almost being the operative word. He had always been at least a half a step a head of the police (most of the time, literally) but, he had been caught two years ago in Nice, sipping a latee with a nice pair of French twins. Obviously, they never called him back.
But, now, he was out. Or, partially, at least. He was going to be working for the CIA, which was not the most savory way to spend the rest of his ten yeart sentance, but, it was better than where he was. Honestly, what place, prison or otherwise, didn't have Earl Grey?
He walked down the damp hallway, ignoring the other inmates jeers and taunts. Honestly, they were all a bunch of uncivilized behemoths, and he was glad to be rid of them. He wished that he had been put into the solitary confinment block, like the other criminals of his kind. But, the sadists on the prison borad had thought that to be too much of a luxuary for him, and had placed him with common bandits and cons. How apalling!
He closed his eyes when he reached the exit, letting the warmpth of the sun wash over him. Usually, he didn't get much of the stuff, since he refused to go outside with the rest of the prisoners (after the first time, he discovered that if you looked weak, you were going to get unspeakable things done to you.) When he was no longer blinded, he took in the sights surrounding him- a barren courtyard, lined with a barbed wire fence (no doubt electrified), and a black van waiting at the enterance. "Cliché much," he muttered to himself.
"Always," Ian looked up at the man that some how materialized in front of him, opening the door of the van. "After you, convict," The man wore a crisp black suit that didn't suit him at all (pun unintended), muscles rippiling and begging to be left forth. Stark blonde hair stuck up in a mohawk of sorts, and black shades covered his eyes from sight.
"Glad to know that American forces live up to my expectations," Ian remarked snarkily, looking the man up and down disdainfully.
"And, those woulod be..."
"A tad stupid with galling fashion, easily identified, and all-around muscle bound buffons."
The man laughed. "I'd watch it, Girly-Man, 'cause you'll be dealing with a lot of us muscle-bound buffons for awhile."
Ian snorted. "How... wonderful," he said. "Now, Mr. Spaulding, if you will, remove these cuffs. They're chaffing my skin." Spaulding looked to the agent, who nodded. Begrudgingly, he did as Ian asked. The Brit smiled charmingly, and walked over to the agent. "Pardon me," he pushed past the man, and, into the van. Rolling unseen eyes, the agent followed, starting the car, and driving away.
Looking in the rearview mirror at Spaulding's irrate figure getting smaller and smaller, Ian offhandedly asked: "So, Mr. Super Special Agent Man, what's your name?"
"Holt," the blonde replied, taking off his sunglasses to reveal striking blue eyes "Hamilton Holt."