Kicking his legs up on his desk, Moriarty reviewed the list. There were fifteen names. Using his phone, he quickly ran their names and eliminated three of them straightaway. That left twelve.

"Let the games begin," he murmured eagerly, sending a mass message.

Interested in a job? $1,ooo,ooo for showing up for the interview.

Details about where to show up were hidden in code underneath. If they were smart, they could decode it and show up. They had to be intelligent-well, intelligent for an ordinary person-to be around him. What if he wanted to have a conversation?

He was actually looking forward to this. Whittling twelve candidates down to the best? The one suited to protect him.

Now he just had to wait for them to arrive. He hated waiting.

One Week Later

James watched from an upper balcony as the men gathered below. So far, nine had arrived. Letting half an hour more pass, he made his way down to the crowd. They were all eyeing each other suspiciously, if not hostilely. Standing before the front doors, Moriarty clapped his hands together to draw attention to himself.

"Now, I don't usually attend these sort of get-togethers," he announced. "So I'll just get down to it. All of you are going to go through a training programme that will choose the best. And I will only accept the best. So if you don't feel up to it, get out." He spoke so intensely that a couple glanced at the doors, but no one actually moved. "Alright. Let's get this show on the road!"

Bounding through them, he made sure they followed him to the back doors and out into a courtyard. Targets were set up along the fence surrounding the clearing. Best to get the simple tests out of the way first. Motioning to his men, Moriarty announced, "This is a test of your shooting. If you're going to work for me, you're going to need to be able to shoot. These are your guns." His men handed out cheap handguns. Only the best would be able to hit the target with them. "This is the first elimination trial. The man ranked last will be sent home. You will get paid though, so don't worry. This is the first phase-hit the target."

The men lined up and started shooting. Jim wandered among them, watching carefully. His attention was drawn especially to three younger men. Two blonds and a brunette. The youngest blond, only a few years older than him, was hitting the target straight on each and every time.

He was cute. His hair was long and floppy on the top, hanging over his right eye, close-cropped and darker on the sides. He wore simple black cargo pants and a black jacket, with finger-less black riding gloves. He seemed unaware of Moriarty's presence as he emptied his clip into the wooden board. He turned and caught sight of the shorter, dark-haired man. He nodded his head before pulling out a cigarette and lighting up.

"You smoke?"

His eyebrow rose. "Obviously," he said, exhaling. Thankfully, he made sure to blow to the side, not in Jim's face.

The consulting criminal's mouth twitched in amusement. "What's your name?"

"Lyle Matthews."

That name did ring a bell. There hadn't been a picture of him, but his reputation was amazing. Never failed a job, loyal to his employer, always covered his tracks. So far, he was the highest on the list. Lyle was handed another clip, and Moriarty went to observe the other two. Each missed a couple of shots, but they were far better than the others. Now he just had to decide who to cut.

"Phase two!" he shouted. His men stepped up to the candidates and pulled out blindfolds. James went to Lyle and took the cloth from his man. "So," he asked conversationally as he tied the cloth around Lyle's head, "why do you want this job?"

He took a second to answer. "There are a couple of reasons. The pay, the adventure...But I really just want to have a steady job. Settle down. Y'know?"

Moriarty nodded thoughtfully before turning the other man to face the target. "Alright, everyone! Same thing. Hit the target. Anyone caught cheating will be shot in the foot."

The shooting began again. The three he had his eye on were far better than the others at this. Lyle was still the best, mostly hitting the ring just outside the centre. Proudly he watched, then called for them to stop. He gestured to his men to escort the loser away. He would be paid, knocked out, and dumped somewhere in the city.

"Good job, numbers One through Eight!" Excitedly, he darted around, marking their new number on their hand. Lyle ended up being six, Jim's favourite number. "Now, we're going to inject you with a sedative so we can go to a second location. Please don't struggle."

He left ahead of the pack, wondering about a tear-shaped scar on the back of Lyle's hand.