Disclaimer: I still don't own Red Eye or Batman Begins.
Don't fight it; just breathe," he said to her calmly.
She didn't listen to him; they never did. They would always hold their breath for as long as humanly possible, in a vain attempt at avoiding the inevitable. She reached for his face, weakly trying to scratch him, and pulled his wig off in the process.
Jackson saw her eyes widen in horror when she caught her first glimpse of his dark hair. Even with the contact lenses, she had to notice his resemblance to Crane. It sounded to him as though she cried out the word "No," as the air left her lungs.
"I'm not who you think I am. Play your cards right, and you won't get hurt," he told her.
At last, she took a deep breath. Her eyes closed, and she fell limply into his arms. He gently lowered her to the floor and went to work.
Time was of the essence; someone could come through the door at any minute, and it wouldn't be long before her two friends outside would wonder what was keeping her. Jackson loved working under this kind of pressure; thriving on the adrenaline that coursed through his veins.
He placed the 'Closed for Cleaning' sign outside the bathroom door and locked it. As he had expected, the window in the bathroom was not really a window, rather a pane of glass that allowed natural light to filter into the room. A store would never be so kind as to give potential thieves, or kidnappers for that matter, such an easy break. He had come prepared for that contingency; the tricky part would be getting her into his car without being seen. Jackson had known she would have to stop for a bathroom break at some point – he just hadn't been able to predict where. Every time she went out, she stopped at a different place.
He didn't have the privilege of working with a partner anymore, so he would have to do this entirely on his own. He glanced out the window, making sure the alley was deserted before he began. Slipping on a pair of thick gardening gloves, he used a glass cutter to carve out a two-by-two inch square in the center of the window. Jackson carefully covered the deeply etched glass with tape and used the adhesive to pull the loosened piece towards him. The hole he'd just created would serve as a handle when he removed the entire pane. Beginning again, on a larger scale, he cut around the entire edge of the window, gripping the handle as he worked. When he finished, he removed the glass and placed it quietly on the floor. As always, he had timed himself.
Thirty seconds – a personal best.
The woman still lay unconscious on the floor. Her sweater had been pushed up during the melee, exposing her mid-drift, and Jackson moved to cover her, taking notice of an angry scar on the left side of her abdomen, close to her navel. He couldn't help but touch his own battle scar and feel a certain kinship with her.
Remember what happened the last time you cared?
He hardened his heart and focused on his work, lifting her up and pushing her feet first through the newly opened window; he followed immediately after and was thankful to find the alley still deserted. There had been a four foot drop from the window, but she did not seem to have been harmed by it.
He placed her in one of the dumpsters, and slipped the wig on again before heading back to his car.
As Jackson crossed the street, he saw the two men still standing in front of the store entrance. They appeared to be getting anxious, and the younger of the two finally went inside. Jackson quickly got into the car and drove back to the alley to retrieve his quarry.
"Sorry about that," he said as he pulled her from the trash. From the smell of things, they would both need showers tonight.
He could hear someone pounding on the bathroom door; a voice was shouting "Vanessa." There was no time to lose. He placed her in the passenger seat of his car and drove away as nonchalantly as possible, resisting the urge to peel out and draw unneeded attention to his vehicle.
From what he could tell, no one was in pursuit of them; it was a clean getaway. What had his colleagues called him? A has-been. That was bull-shit.
Once they were a safe distance away, Jackson pulled off the wig. He absolutely hated wearing that contemptible thing; the contact lenses weren't much better, but he could not remove them and drive at the same time, not unless he wanted to crash into a telephone pole.
He turned his head and glanced at her again. She was a tiny little thing; just over five feet tall, with black hair and dark eyes. He knew her last name was Martinez, and she appeared to be South American. She was cute; he'd give her that, but she hardly took his breath away, and she certainly wasn't the type of girl commonly seen on the arm of billionaire. Jackson wondered what it was that had Crane and Bruce Wayne so enthralled. Well, they'd be spending a lot of time together; he'd find out soon enough.
She wore a light blue sweater and an ankle length, black wool skirt; a locket hung from around her neck and Jackson ripped it from her. Inside was a picture of her newborn child. It was the first time he had actually seen the infant; she was a spitting image of her mother, with the exception of her pale-blue eyes. Jackson smiled broadly; his question had been answered. Crane couldn't deny this child if he tried.
She stirred softly before her eyes flew open. She lifted her head, and stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers.
"Did you have a nice nap?" he asked sarcastically.
"Jonathan," she started to say before he interrupted.
"Believe me, I'm not Jon Crane - but you're going to help me find him, aren't you? My name's Jackson Rippner, and whatever you do, don't call me Jack."
"What makes you think I can help you?" she asked. Her stare was still unblinking. Clearly, she was having trouble believing her own eyes.
"Vanessa?" Jackson asked. "Have you ever heard of a silent auction?"