Chapter 1: A Spider's Web Begins to Weave
I blew wisps of honey hair from my face as I sat at the bar of a small English pub, sipping a dry ale that warmed in the pit of my stomach and thawed out the chill that had accumulated in my limbs from the fall outside. It was fairly busy, a football match was underway and men were shouting at the televisions around me as I sat quietly at the bar. I relished in the loud as it gave me time to myself. Alone, quiet in the noise. One man stood out from the rest and I could feel my skin crawl the instant he entered the bar.
Too clean, too greasy, too something; I just couldn't put my finger on but I had to watch him, my brain forced my eyes to watch like an animal's senses heightened when probable predators were around. He moved closer and ordered some sort of mixed drink or maybe something straight up. I couldn't tell because the men nearby started shouting about some 'bollocks' call the ref had made and booing drunkenly at the television. In that split second of being off focus the man turned to me and smiled, eerily and what I suspect was supposed to be charming.
"Buy you a drink." He didn't really ask, more like stated a fact but I had gathered too much information to be comfortable in a crowded room with this guy.
"I don't accept drinks from men who have just shot someone." I don't know what compelled me to say it but it was the truth. He had just shot someone. The evidence was all over him. He didn't falter except for his eyes darkening and for some reason his smile became more genuine, then he prompted me for an explanation.
"You smell like gun powder. You had to have shot a gun fairly recently, I'd say within 10 minutes for the smell to still be strong enough in a bar like this, plus I can even see some powder burn on your right hand. You're not a cop; the suit is way too nice. Expensive. Very expensive. Couldn't afford that if you were a cop. You cleaned off most of the blood but some is still on your ear, high velocity blood splatter. You're waiting for someone. Surveying the door every minute, a client? So… Hit man?"
I was thinking out loud and that last part made me stand up and shut up. I turned on my heel and headed towards the door as fast as I could, pushing through the groups of people and relishing in the small fact he was meeting someone so maybe just maybe he was staying put so I could disappear and cover my tracks.
I'm half way to the door when he grabbed my wrist but I yanked it free. He paused seeing the man he is supposed to meet and I make my exit. I slipped on my bomber jacket as I moved through the doorway and slipped my hands into the pockets. I felt a small card in the left one and pulled it out; a business card reading: J. Moriarty Consultant. and on the back scrawled in cursive 'I want you. I always get what I want.'
I laughed a little hesitantly and threw the card into a puddle at my feet, quickly moving into the evening air and putting as much distance between this Moriarty character and myself as I could. What I didn't know was that he had told his client to wait and followed me out the door watching me drop the card. He didn't follow me further; he had already copied my cell phone data before I had left the pub.