A/N: All right, this time I'm getting serious. Seriously. Sorry it was a while to update, they should come faster after this.

Chapter 2

Two weeks later

Paris, France,

Near the Arc de Triumph

Nights in Paris always seemed to have a cliché look about them. Always with the romantic lights glistening off of the moonlit waters, the inspiring point of the Eiffel Tower reaching elegantly into the night sky, breaking through the swelling clouds that trundled freely through across the moon. Not to mention the couples that wandered the streets, open in their love for one another, whispering French to tickle each others' ears.

Two weeks of this. Two weeks of everything that had become nothing. Might as well have become nothing, because since familiarity bred contempt, and all Sly Cooper had been doing was keeping a close watch on the streets since their job with the gem back in London, he had a whole family tree of contempt to look back on. He spoke into the communicator on his shirt collar, stuffing his paws into the pockets of his aviator jacket (bought with their excessive surplus from recent thefts) to keep out the cold, his casual jeans zip-zopping quietly as he moseyed down the street.

"Still nothing, Murray. Keep the engine running, it's freezing tonight." He got only a yawn in response.

"Murray?"

"Oh, uh, right. Sorry. Engine is still hot... Bentley and me can't see a thing. Are you sure this is the place they said we would meet?"

"Have these magnificent specs ever led you astray?" Bentley now said, obviously in reference to his glasses. Sly sighed and leaned against the corner of a diamond shop, eyeing the merchandise. Now that was probably something they would get quite the good return on, unlike the shady deals they'd been haggling over Thiefnet. Sly shook himself quickly.

No... that wasn't what he was. He was not a thief. Well... he was a thief, but not the sort of thief that made violent break-ins on innocent diamond sellers. He only stole things from people that deserved it.

Sly shook his head once more. This wasn't working out.

"Bentley, let's call it a night. He's not coming."

"No, Sly! You know how important this is! We're staying until I can confirm he's not in the country."

"I'm freezing my tail off, Bentley."

"Are you saying you'd rather be stealing what we need?"

"Yes. One, it would be warmer than this. Two, it would be a lot more fun."

"You always think of risking your life as fun."

"C'mon Bentley, I'm not in the mood for this... I just- wait a minute."

"What? What is it?"

Sly didn't answer. He turned into the surprisingly clean alleyway next to the diamond shop in alert silence. He had smelled something. It smelled entirely natural, but the context in which he smelled it didn't seem too assuaging to his already heightening senses. The scent of blood didn't usually waft up from trash cans, anyway. Except maybe in New York.

Sly inched down into the alley, glancing from left to right, constantly scanning, looking for ways that would afford him a quick getaway. Fire escape. Leap up the dumpster over the fence at the end of the corridor. Back the way he came, of course. That broken window to the side, as well. Door into the kitchen of the restaurant next to him.

Stars above, that smell was just awful!

The expert thief looked cautiously at the trash can at his side. This had to just be something small. A tourniquet abandoned in a rush to the hospital, or something equally coincidental. But it was just too strong to ignore. Sly's paw inched outwards, grasping the lid. He paused. What if it was something he didn't want to see? Oh, stop it, he told himself. You saw your own parents... well, what difference does this make, anyway?

He threw it open, and yelled. Oh yeah. Definitely a big difference here.

"Sly! What is it?! What's wrong?" yelled Bentley rather painfully into his ears.

Sly was too busy grasping at his chest and gulping in air from the shock he had received. Thank goodness nobody had heard that... the last thing he needed was some poor chap jumping in to help and suddenly coming across... that thing in the garbage.

"Bentley?" said Sly, his voice rather shaken. "I, um... I found our contact."

"Oh. Well... why the big scare?"

"He's... in a trash can."

"Well I knew he enjoyed staying secretive and all that, but still-"

"Bentley... he's dead."

Silence for the moment. Bentley's voice came again. Murray hadn't said a word; he was more than likely looking to the turtle for inspiration or an explanation.

"Did you say..." said Bentley.

"Yes," replied Sly.

"In a trash can?" asked Bentley in a rather flat voice.

"Shot. Dead. It... isn't pretty."

"I wouldn't imagine... but... why?"

"I don't know. There's... did they know?"

"That's impossible Sly, they couldn't! I took every precaution! I would at least get a suspicion if someone was trailing us!"

"Well, apparently, they... wait. There's some paper. It's been stuffed in next to him..."

Bentley's acute mind quickly dissected the situation. His voice was a bit higher pitched than usual, and far faster; Sly could tell he was blanching. Speaking fast was Bentley's way of staying calm. "Well, then we were obviously meant to find it. They wouldn't just... do that... to a person and leave him there, especially if they knew we wanted to meet with him. You'd better take it, Sly. It might be a note of some sort."

Sly gulped quite audibly. He wasn't exactly a stranger to death, but he didn't like getting too familiar with it. Killing was the mark of an amateur in thievery, and he had avoided it wherever at all possible. Come to think of it, he couldn't recall a single instance where he had killed anyone, or at least wanted to remember it. Consequently it was something of a shock to see someone missing half of their head and stuffed ignobly into a trash can. At least the poor rat was dead... he wouldn't care if he was in a trash can anymore. Gingerly, Sly reached out, snatched the blood-spattered paper, and yanked his paw back like the body would come back to life demanding his brains. He opened the crumpled wad and saw a few letters scribbled in coherent order across the yellow surface.

"We have what you were looking for. Arc de Triumph, one hour from now. On the dot, or no deal."

"Well what the heck is that supposed to mean, 'no deal'?" said Murray after Sly related the simple message, obviously already fine with forgetting the incident with the body. Bentley and Sly were perfectly all right with that as well. Sly moved away from the alley, dropping the paper into a storm drain. The poor guy in the alley would have to wait for him to be recognized on the evening news. Sly would look for his name. No one deserved to die without at least someone knowing who he was.

"Bentley! What time is it?" said Sly, his voice clipped. Back to business as usual, for now.

"1:30 AM!"

59 minutes later

"2:29 AM!"

"On the dot, it said... this better be worth it," growled Sly. If this was just some sort of prank, he wasn't laughing. Then again, if they wanted what they were looking for, they had to take this chance. It was far too important to pass up. Sly dodged into the shadow under the Arc de Triumph, making nary a sound as he crossed the dew-laden grass. The traffic all around the area was congested as usual and Sly longed to observe the city from his beloved rooftops again. How else did a thief travel than by the renowned "Thief's Highway" of the rooftops? The name could be applied anywhere there were buildings close enough to be easily accessible from one to the other.

Sly crouched out of instinct. A shadow slipped out into the moonlight, but did not fade. The raccoon latched his gaze onto it and watched, remaining quiet as a wraith. Suddenly a voice came from within the folds of the walking shadow.

"I know you are there ringtail," it said with no small amount of confidence. It was a small voice that spoke like it was ten feet tall, with a hint of sibilance in its tone. It was most certainly a male of some sort, but Sly could see neither ears nor tail in the inky black patch he was standing in. "Come out of your hiding," he commanded sharply. Sly did not waste time with wondering how he had been seen. Technology allowed all the explanation he needed. He came out of his defensive crouch, tail twitching behind him.

"You're the one that left the note... and the murder," accused the raccoon.

"He was unnecessary. I've come to give you what you asked for."

Sly snorted loudly, in direct derision of the creature's enigmatic nature. "Drop it with all this speaking in riddles slop. I'm not in the mood for talking in shades of grey... so what now? You here to just kill me too?"

"I will give you what you asked for. Now." The male tossed a briefcase to the ground, and they both watched it clatter several feet away from Sly's feet. Sly did not move forward to take it. Murray and Bentley hadn't said a word. He couldn't even hear their breathing. They must have been waiting with bated breaths, just as he. Sly allowed his brown eyes to fall on the lustrous metal of the case. He took a single step forward, paw beginning to move forward.

"Careful Sly," said Murray suddenly, which stopped him in his tracks. "It could be a trap," agreed Bentley. Sly was rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the briefcase. His breathing had speeded up just slightly.

Give you what you asked for...

He took another step forward, eyes now on the male creature. His paw inched forward. A cold sweat began to bead on his skin, conflicting thoughts rushing through his head. He could hear his own heart beating against his chest as he heard himself argue with himself.

It's a bomb; I'll die the moment it opens...

But what if it's what we wanted? It could be our only chance...

Don't take it! A smart thief is a live thief!

A smart thief takes what he wants...

Being dead isn't very smart...

I should take it.

No!

What's stopping me? I'll take it now!

It's too risky.

I'm Sly Cooper! My middle name is risk!

If we die, it's all your fault.

Sly's paw was centimeters away, he could feel the blood rushing, the sweat soaking, the cold air blowing, the clock ticking...

Now!

Sly touched it, eyes clenched shut.

Nothing happened. Sly allowed the trapped breath to release. He glanced up at the other creature. He hadn't done a thing. Sly didn't know why, but he could tell he was smiling.

"You're awfully hesitant for a thief of your caliber."

"I've always worked on instinct," retorted Sly sharply, eyes locked on the creature. The other male chuckled, seeing the raccoon did not notice the squad cars pulling up in a semi-circle around the monument...

"And what do your instincts tell you?"

"They tell me-"

"FREEZE, COOPER!"

Sly whirled, grabbing up the briefcase and holding it tightly to his chest. The other male dashed off into the street, leaving only a trail of dust in its wake. Sly held up an arm across his brow to shield his eyes from the brightness of so many headlights pinning him in a fiery halo. There, laid in front of him, was every thief's worst nightmare... a flotilla of police and members of Interpol, all with stun guns (and a few real ones!) pointed directly between his squinting eyes.

And there, standing in the middle, was the silhouette of a fox that Sly would recognize anywhere, anytime. He grinned widely, his former shock now being overtaken in a flying tackle by his natural boldness and rash disposition.

"Why, Carmelita Fox!" he said jovially. "What's a spitfire like you doing out on a cold night like this?"