Falcon: Nox Custos
Chapter IV: Hunter
It was nearly the end of Detective Bryan Jones' working day, and he could definitely feel the strain. It had been a long, long day, and his eyes itched with tiredness. His desk was stacked with loose paper, and his coat lay crumpled on the floor beside him. The window was open, and Bryan felt the cool breeze occasionally brush his face.
"You okay there Bryan?"
Detective Jones shook himself, and looked up, to see his partner, Sarah Tyler, leaning in to his office.
"I'm okay Sarah," he said with a wry smile, "Just tired that's all."
"Just wanted to say that I'm heading home, see you tomorrow."
"You too Sarah," He replied absently.
"What?" She said, laughing, "That makes no sense."
Bryan shrugged, and grinned. Sarah shook her head ruefully and closed the door.
The detective spun his chair, and glanced at a mirror that hung on the wall a few feet away. This job had taken its toll on his looks. His face was lined in places that hadn't been a few years back, and his hair was greying and receding. His eyes looked sad and tired.
He heard the blinds close, and, a few moments later, the light snapped off. Two glowing red eyes blinked on in the darkness, and he could hear someone walking up to the desk.
His lamp clicked on, and the pool of light illuminated the hips and torso of a black suited figure. This close, the detective could make out the light armouring on the stomach and thighs, and the butt of a pistol that was strapped to the leg. The face was still buried deep in the shadows, and all he could see was the two red glowing tear drop shapes where the eyes should be.
"You had it all detective," the figure said quietly, picking up the picture of the detective's family from the desk, "A wife that adored you, children that idolized you, and a reputation in the force that commanded respect and admiration."
"What do you want?" Bryan demanded.
"A file," the figure replied, still speaking in a tone barely above a whisper, "On a woman named Chloe DeMariz."
"Why should I give it to you?" Bryan said.
The figure said nothing, they just laid a photo on the desk. Bryan leaned forward to study it. It was a warehouse, grimy and rusted, it could be any of a great number that stood down by the docks. He looked closer, and saw the number painted on the side of the building. 42A.
His stomach turned.
"What is this?" He said aggressively, although he felt the unease bubbling away in his stomach. "I don't know anything about that."
"The White Rose used this warehouse as a collection for their weapon's shipment," the figure said, "There had already been reports of suspicion, and you were sent to deal with the shipment."
"Of course though," he continued, laying another photo on the table, "You were paid to look the other way."
Bryan glanced at the photo, which showed him taking money from someone sat inside a black saloon car.
"I destroyed the warehouse," the figure said, placing a photo of the burned-out warehouse shell on the desk, "And everything, and everyone, inside."
A picture of a burnt corpse, on its knees and cradling its chest. Bryan felt bile rise in his throat, and he swallowed hard.
"A lot of officers died that night," the figure whispered, "All because you decided to ignore the problem, and take some easy money."
He took out one final photo, and put it on the desk, then slid it over to the detective with two fingers.
"I also know about your affair with Detective Tyler, your partner on the force."
Bryan felt the shame and anger rise, and he didn't even glance down at the final picture, he didn't want to see what it would show.
"I have enough evidence here to send you on quite the fall from grace," the figure breathed, "enough to destroy you. Get me that file."
With one lightning quick movement, the detective wrenched open a drawer in his desk and grabbed the pistol inside, pointing at the figure before him.
"What now huh?" Bryan said, standing slowly, keeping the gun level.
A pause.
"That pistol isn't loaded," The figure said calmly, "You keep it in your desk for intimidation purposes only, but you've never actually shot anyone. It's why you're so admired Detective."
The last word was emphasised, making it sound like Bryan was being mocked with his own job title.
"The gun I'm holding, however," the figure resumed coldly, "Is. And it's pointed right between your eyes. And I will pull the trigger if you don't sit down and get that file for me."
"Okay," Bryan said shakily, holding up his hands and letting the empty weapon drop to the floor, "Okay, I'll do it."
He lowered himself back into the chair, and reached for the phone on his desk. A single button press, and then he put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello?" Asked the voice on the other end.
"Hey, Chris," Bryan replied, keeping his eyes fixed in the figure before him, "Could you bring us a file? Chloe DeMariz?"
"Uuh, yeah, sure," Chris said, and Bryan could hear the rustling of papers through the phone, "Okay, got it, gimme a sec to run it up there."
"Okay, thanks Chris."
He put the phone back, and looked up into the office. The figure was gone. Then he heard a voice in his ear.
"Don't. Try. Anything." The figure hissed, "I'll be watching."
The door opened, and Chris entered. He was a small man, with choppy brown hair and big green eyes, so much so that he looked almost like a child.
"Here you go sir," he said, laying the file on the desk, covering the photos.
"Thank you Chris," Bryan smiled, "You may go now."
Looking a little perplexed, Chris left the room, closing the door behind him quietly.
"You got what you wanted," Bryan said, "Now would you please go?"
"No," The figure said, moving silently to he front of the desk. They could almost be a ghost, "You need to know your options."
"Options?" Bryan said weakly.
"Yes, you have two options," the figure said, still talking in that hoarse, hushed tone that made Bryan's skin crawl, "Option One: I leave, and take copies of these photos, of which I have many, to the press. They'll figure out what happened, and when the story breaks there'll be a scandal with you in the eye of the storm. Your name will be ridiculed among the force, your wife will hate you, you'll be stripped of your rank and your deeds will be tarnished forever."
"What's the second option?" Bryan whispered. The figure said nothing, they just cocked the pistol, and placed it on the desk. The detective's eyes widened. The figure scooped up the file and it disappeared into the shadows.
"No-one could know," the figure said softly.
"Is there any other way?" Bryan said hoarsely, his voice catching.
The figure had moved over to the open window, and stood, on hand on the frame. He turned for one last look at the trembling police officer.
"Think about what sort of legacy you want to leave behind, detective."
Then he was gone, and Bryan was left staring at an empty office. He stood, and slammed the window shut, drawing the curtains with sudden force. He could almost feel the items on is desk weighing down on his mind. It all seemed so futile now.
He felt the tears building in his eyes as he stared the pistol, and the photos on his desk. The figure's last words still rang in his ears.
"Think about what sort of legacy you want to leave behind, detective."
The sniper watched as the man made his final decision. All he could make out were indistinct shapes, but he knew what was about to happen. The detective stepped away from the window, disappearing from view. There was a few seconds silence, then a gunshot.
The sniper closed his eyes for a second, then stood. This wasn't over yet.
…
Jason
I was awake long before the dawn. Shadows still enveloped the room in a comforting blindness and silence. I was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and spinning a guitar pick across my fingers. It was all I'd been doing for the last hour or so.
With a sigh, I pushed myself up, and slid off the bed, crossing over to where a mirror hung, slightly lopsided on the wall. As I walked past, I caught a glimpse of myself, and I stopped. I was shocked. Christ, I looked like crap. My face looked gaunter, my eyes were buried by heavy black rings, and I was pale. Paler than usual, and I was hardly a radiant picture of good health at the best if times. School was going to be more of a pain in the arse than usual.
What was the time? I glanced at the clock. 5:15 AM. A good two or three hours before MJ would even think of getting up, even on a good day. It was clear I wasn't going to get to sleep now, but that was okay; I'd grown used to a lack of sleep. I pulled on a loose hoodie, and grabbed my phone and headphones, stuffing them into my pocket. I opened my bedroom door quietly, wincing slightly as the hinged creaked indignantly. The house was still, and silent. I crept across the landing and made my way downstairs, grabbing a discarded set of keys from a small table by the door. As quietly as I could, I unlocked the door, and slipped outside. The air was cold, but refreshing, and the sharp cosmopolitan taste to it helped clear my mind of any fuzziness. Before I set off, I fished a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. A bad habit, one of the few things I hadn't been able to run away from.
I lit it as I walked, not really knowing where I was going. The smoke from the cigarette curled into the air, and the sweet taste of tobacco rolled across my tongue. This felt like more of an obligation than something I enjoyed.
Whatever. I stuck my hands in my pocket, and slouched off into the darkness.
…
Amy
Too early. Waaay too early. My room was still dark as I rolled from the bed, and stood in the shadows. I stretched, and pulled a renegade strand of hair from my mouth.
It took a few moments for my eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. My radar was taking its time to boot up, but I didn't feel patient enough to wait. Even with my enhanced eyesight, everything was indistinct, and obviously I nearly tripped over my bag, dumped on the floor where I had left it yesterday. I cursed quietly, and kicked it under the bed.
I stared at the clock for a few seconds, trying to make out the time. Eventually I saw it.
5:35-ish. Definitely too early.
After a brief period of consideration, I grabbed a pair of jeans and a jacket. I needed some air, in here it felt claustrophobic, the air dry and stale.
Sweeping my foot around, I found a pair of sweatpants (slightly used) and a sports bra (clean laundry I didn't put away) on the floor, then grabbed my jacket, because I just remembered it's not September anymore. I changed into them before slipping into a pair of sneakers. I thought about putting my hair up, but in the hurricane disaster that was my room, it would be impossible to find a hair elastic in the dark.
I sighed. Christ on a bike, I hated mornings. No, I despised them. And yet, sleep was impossible. The Universe must really hate me.
Without looking, I drew up my hand, one finger extended. To my right, the window opened with a soundless grind. Climbing out, I swung down like a gymnast from metal platform to platform until I made it to the tarmac ten floors below.
A small plume of dust exploded around my feet as I landed, and I emerged from my crouch, stretching my back and legs. Outside it was refreshingly cold, and I sucked in the city aura greedily.
There was someone else here; a figure, wearing a loose hoodie, was leaning against the wall, caught on the fringes of the street lamp's pool of illumination. They were smoking, and I wrinkled my nose. I never liked the smell of nicotine before my powers, and having them now didn't make it any nicer.
I had been considering going out for a run, but at the unexpected presence of this stranger, I had second thoughts. Did they just see what I did? Did they care? This was New York, after all -see no evil, speak no evil, all that jazz. So instead I wanted to make myself appear as normal as possible (at five in the morning), and possibly get rid of the awkward feeling now bugging me.
But the figure made no notion that he had seen or heard me, and I figured he hadn't. I can be quiet when I want to be, after all. I sat myself down on a nearby, heavily graffiti'd bench, drawing my jacket tightly about me. I guess it wasn't that different from exercising - I still got to have private time to my thoughts while being outside.
But it wasn't the same sharing the space with this stranger. I didn't feel as alone as I should have. Still, they hadn't done anything, hadn't said a word, and I ignored him. It was easier to think when I pretended he wasn't there.
That turned out to be harder than I thought.
For whatever reason, my gaze kept wandering back to the smoking figure. Something about them seemed familiar. The way they stood with their face hidden as if they didn't want to be noticed, the slouch in their shoulders and bow of their head that resembled insecurity and weakness, but did nothing to hide the musculature of their body. This guy was fit, whoever he was, and I could see from his calloused hand holding the cigarette that he knew how to handle himself in a fight. Any foolish mugger who decided to pick this one would be in for a nice surprise.
They seemed to become aware of my presence and they looked around, and I caught their eye for a moment.
"Jason?" I asked. What the hell is he doing here? This was a long way from MJ's place.
"Oh, um, hi," he said nervously, eyes glancing this way and that like he didn't know where to look, or was possibly searching for a quick exit. Like that was anything new; the kid always seemed nervous around me.
"Dude," I said, raising a hand, "You mind putting that " I pointed to the cigarette between his fingers,"– Out? The smell makes me want to puke."
"What? Oh, right, yeah..." he seemed distracted, again, nothing really new, but right now he seemed... more so, "Sorry about... I've been meaning to quit for a while. Bad habit from England..."
His voice tailed away, and I looked at him. Like, really looked at him. Something was definitely up, I just didn't know what yet.
"You know," he continued, with a small, surprisingly bitter laugh, "It used to drive Lea-"
He stopped suddenly, and looked away.
"What? Used to drive who?" I asked curiously.
"It's nothing," he muttered, and the nervousness had dropped out of his tone to be replaced by a darker one. He flicked the still-lit cigarette butt into a drain, and it landed in the sewer below with a small plop.
"I'll see you round Amy," he said, and he walked away. I watched him as he disappeared into the darkness. What was he hiding?
…
Something was already kicking off as I arrived at school a few hours later. A crowd had gathered and people were jostling each other as they tried to get to the front for the best view. This was no trouble for me obviously; those people who didn't quickly step aside I simply shouldered past.
When I saw what people were all gathering to watch, I sighed internally. People were so depressingly predictable sometimes.
A furious-looking Flash had his face pressed right up close to Jason's, who, to his credit, stood his ground, arms folded, glaring at Flash from under his hood. Another fight? Are you kidding me? Where the hell were the teachers? Every time something like this happened, they mysteriously vanished. It must be a conspiracy.
"You ready for round two?" Flash snarled, ham-like fists balling. His back was rounded like a bull's ready to charge, only there was nowhere to go, and Jason was the matador, fearless and unmoving.
"Of course," Jason said coldly, not even flinching, "Are you?"
"Oh, no! Nuh-uh!" MJ snapped, suddenly appearing and shoving her way into the centre of the crowd, "Would you two knock it the fuck off?! You're acting like six year olds!"
Everyone, including Jason and Flash, looked shocked at MJ's sudden outburst. And, you know, the uncharacteristic swearing. If any teacher had been around (ahem), she'd be in detention for sure. Everyone took a visible step back. I felt faintly impressed, who knew she could get wound up so tight?
MJ cast a wide glare, as if daring anyone to step in. Seeing no opposition, she grabbed Jason's arm and dragged him back through the crowd, who parted with many a raised eyebrow.
Flash laughed derisively, and called out to them: "Good job your girlfriend was here to save you Jasey-boy, I wouldn't have been so kind this time."
For that incredibly dumb (and this was dumb-comment-connoisseur Flash Thompson we're talking about here, so pretty goddamn dumb) remark, Flash earned himself a round of high-fives and grunting laughter.
"Hey Flash," I said, walking up to him and smiling sweetly, as if that could ever convince anyone that I still had a nice side."Might not wanna piss the kid off, okay? Next time I might just forget to break it up. Got it?"
For the last two words I dropped the sugary tones and replaced it with my usual hard-up growl, the effect was pretty dramatic. The smile slid from Flash's face with speed of a very large rock down a well, and his face took on a sullen expression.
"Fine," he muttered, and he slouched away to join his brain-dead friends over by the lockers.
I turned away, pushing Flash to the back of my mind. God knows I have enough to be thinking about, what with a missing girl, the Rose being all cagey and quiet, and an impending sense of doom about that history project I hadn't done yet. Andmy little five o'clock jaunt this morning had done little to sate my mood.
Mrs. Murphy stood a few feet away, (tad late there miss, you missed all the fun. She must be getting slow in her old age.) arms folded and her expression cold. Jason stood under the full power of her glare, his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped forward and eyes downward cast. MJ bobbed awkwardly at his side, her expression a curious mix of resignation, annoyance and apprehension. Mrs. Murphy seemed to be lecturing Jason on something, or rather she was lecturing the top of his hood. I don't think Jason was listening. People smirked as they walked past on their way to their respective classes, and this did little to help Mrs. Murphy keep calm, rare occurrence as that was. She barked something to the surrounding students, and shooed everyone, including MJ, from the corridor.
Most sauntered away leisurely, taking their sweet time so they could see Jason getting roasted. Poor kid can't catch a break.
"Well, we have something in common now," I muttered, pulling my headphones from my pocket and inserting them into my ears. I didn't turn them on, it was just a useful way of stopping people from getting the idea that I could be spoken to.
I leaned against the lockers, keeping my head down, trying not to attract the wrath of Mrs. Murphy. That seemed to be her own superpower, always knowing where the troublemakers are (not that I mean to be, but still). I watched her and Jason out of the corner of my eye. I was wondering how much Murphy was gonna chew him up. Like, I felt a tiny bit sorry for him, and there was clearly stuff going on that I had no idea about, but he did break a kid's nose and he'd barely been here a month. Even I wasn't that bad (at least, I'm fairly, like 91%, sure I wasn't).
Mrs. Murphy watched the last student leave the hallway and turned back to Jason, who kept his head down. I listened hard, but the headphones made that difficult, the damn things were like earplugs.
I caught phrases like "totally unacceptable," and "Utterly disgraceful," so pretty standard stuff if I'm honest. Weird, I expected her to crush him like a ton of bricks, but there you are. The wonders of a British accent, I guess. It had a certain charm to it, at least in comparison to my own, which definitely had a Yankee inflection to it, and not nearly as classy.
I managed to retune into their conversation to hear, "Jason, you had a warning before-" (he did?)"-and the Principal did say that if you did this again you would be – Amelia!"
Aw, crap. I pulled the headphones from my ears and looked up, displaying my best expression of confused innocence. Needless to say, Mrs. Murphy saw right through my ploy.
"What are you doing in the hallway?" She demanded, bearing down on me like a vulture. Come to think of it, she could be the same age as the Vulture; ancient and already half-way to mummification.
"Nothin'," I said, jerking my chin out and shrugging.
"Nothing,ma'am," Mrs Murphy snapped, her eyes flashing, "and I specifically told everyone to leave and go to class, so go!"
I picked up my bag and swung it onto my shoulders. I couldn't bring up the will-power to start a scene, and I'm convinced Mrs. Murphy would actually murder me if I tried, so I dutifully left the hallway, and, after a few moments, I heard Mrs. Murphy begin yelling. I winced. There she goes, and, if I know her, which I unfortunately do, she could go on like this for a while. A long while.
I walked on, placing my headphones back in my ears. I'm sure Jason could handle it, and I was looking forward for a quick power nap during math. Feeble old Mr. Hastings wouldn't notice anyway. Even if he did, he was one of the few that liked me, since I understood the material, so hopefully he'd make an allowance. I paused for a moment, one foot on the stairs. Yep, Murphy was still going on. Surprisingly big lungs for such an old girl. For Jason's sake I just hoped that she let him go soon. I don't think any sane human could last much longer.
…
As it turned out, Jason didn't appear for the rest of the day, not that anyone really noticed. The kid was so quiet it was scary. He just sat at the back of most classes, head down, making eye contact with no-one. I wonder what happened to him, I thought idly, as I stared at the clock, the second hand taunting me by seeming to move extra slowly. I was half-tempted to make it move myself, but the effort would be fruitless – it wouldn't make the class go any faster.
At the moment the bell rang, I grabbed my bag and waited for the mad scramble for the door to pass. Gwen and MJ waited with me, whilst Peter and Harry had already left, both lost in the wild mêlée at the exit.
"So, do youknow what happened to Jase?" MJ asked, as she leaned against a wall and folded her arms.
"No," I said flatly, watching Mr. Hastings as he packed his things away with great care, his right hand shaking slightly. Poor guy, I've got no idea why he was still doing this after all these years, surely no-one can be that keen about math, right?
"Jason?" Gwen piped up, "he's the one that broke Flash's nose, right?"
MJ nodded, her expression tightening for a second. Gwen didn't seem to notice, and I decided not to bring it up. Whatever's happening between them, they can sort it out. No way in hell I'm getting involved.
"Oh, okay," Gwen said, "He seems nice, but quiet. Pretty cute though."
MJ smirked, "Honey, you have no idea. He's even nicer with his shirt off. "
Cue my exit. Not a conversation I really felt like engaging in. I left those two giggling away at the back of the room, and exited. I pulled my hood up, keeping my gaze on the ground. People tended to avoid me anyways, but that doesn't mean I had to try to be inviting.
I drifted into my own thoughts as I left the school, not really noticing where I was going. My feet ran, or walked, on auto-pilot, taking me down the familiar route to my house. The traffic was starting to pick up, as everyone rushed away from work at the same time; the shouts of angry taxi-drivers, in their various native languages, were beginning to fill the air.
I passed by a gym as I walked, the dusty windows plastered in posters of toned-looking women, who still managed to maintain perfect hairstyles and make up whilst "working out". I glanced through the glass absently, and sighed. I feel like I've been doing that a lot today.
To my surprise, I could see Jason at the back of the room. Even through the grime coating he window, the blue hair was unmissable.
"All right then, Captain Britain," I muttered, "Me and you are going to have words."
I pushed open the door, and nearly gagged as the acrid stench of way too much disinfectant filled my nose. Christ, how could Jason stand it here? The single doorman, sat with his feet on the battered-looking desk and a newspaper balanced on his enormous belly, didn't even throw me a cursory look; he just stared, apparently deep in thought, at the paper cup of coffee sat out just out of arm's reach. I waved. He didn't react. Is he ignoring me or is he just dumb? I took one step forward, and when he still failed to notice me, I just rolled my eyes and strode right past into the main room.
The smell was less intense here, and I could breathe in without my eyes watering. Other than that though, the room look just as dishevelled as the reception I had just left. The carpet as threadbare and covered in suspicious looking stains, the walls were discoloured by what looked like cigarette smoke, and the skylight above was so filthy that light barely filtered through it.
The room was nearly empty, save for a woman, who looked to be in her mid thirties, who was sat, dozing, back against the wall, drooling all over her bright-pink T-shirt; and Jason, who was at the far end of the room sparring against the punching bag that hung from a rickety looking scaffold.
I heard noise behind me, and looked back over my shoulder, to see that the desk-man was attempting to reach the cup, but couldn't get his pudgy arms past his gut. I smirked. His fat fingers brushed against the side of the cup. I twitched my index finger, and the cup wobbled precariously, before toppling from the desk onto the floor. The receptionist's face fell. He looked like a puppy who'd just lost its favourite ball in a river.
I turned away, leaving the man to continue to do battle with his coffee, and crossed the room to Jason, taking care to avoid the darker patches of carpet. I watched him as I approached, looking at the way he moved, and the way he punched. He was clearly very fit, and the black tank-top he was wearing revealed his quite slender, lean build, still muscled, but not in a Flash-Thompson-walking-square-of-meat sort of way. More like an Olympic swimmer, or maybe a basketball player, a physique much more flattering than the grotesque body-builder look I've been seeing everywhere.
It was bizarre though; today he was leading with his left hand, as you'd expect, or maybe you wouldn't, I mean, I didn't expect him to break Flash's nose, and neither did Flash. Or anyone there for that matter.
Something was wrong though, and it took a few seconds to realise. For some crazy reason, Jason wasn't wearing any gloves; he'd just wrapped a length of bandage across his knuckles, which was now torn and bloody, his knuckles scraped raw.
"Jason!" I called out, but he didn't hear me, or chose not to listen. I grabbed his wrists, and guided him away from the red bag, which I noticed had smears of blood on it, presumably from Jason's hand.
"Dude," I said, ignoring the weird tone of concern in my voice. Well, that's unusual. But I wasn't an apathetic sociopath, and I knew there was a problem when I saw one."Stop, all right? What the hell are you doing?"
He diverted his gaze to the floor, and let his hands loosen from the tight fists.
"I needed some place to think," he muttered, "And get rid of some frustration."
"Get rid of some frustration?" I repeated incredulously, staring down at his bleeding hands, which I still held onto with my own hands, to keep him from pulling away and ending this conversation before I got my answers,"How long have you been here?"
"I got a lot of things to be annoyed about," he said with a humourless laugh. I let go of his wrists, and he flexed his fingers, sending a rivulet of blood spiralling down his fingers.
"Fine, whatever, dude," I said. I didn't really care to get involved in whatever he was caught up in; I was just here to relay a message. "Seriously, stop picking fights, and don'tmake me defend Flash again. That's goes against, like, all my principles."
"I don't quite understand why you... well, care," he said, throwing me a look like I was the weird one. He was the one who decided to get all chatty all of a sudden, and he seemed more confident. Maybe crowds freaked him out, it wouldn't surprise me. Introverts were like that.
"What?"
"Well, you always come across as, like, distant," he said, "Like you couldn't give a toss about anything."
I opened my mouth to answer, then paused. He had a point. Why was I taking an interest here? Maybe I just didn't what to see Flash smash him into a little pile of finely ground bones on the floor, but then again Jason had shown he could handle himself.
"It doesn't matter," I replied, brushing away the question, "Just stop. Capisce?"
"All right," he said, with a slight, coy little smile, "I got it."
I went to walk away, but he called me back.
"Could you do us a favour?" he asked, gesturing at his bloodied fists "and notmention this to MJ?"
I nodded once, and spun on my heel. I could feel Jason's gaze on the back of my neck, but I refused to look around and meet his eyes. He was a strange one, and I had a rather sinking feeling that this wasn't going to be that last time we'd be having this talk.
…
The glow from the sniper's lenses burned bright against the shadows that enveloped the room. He was sat in the blackened, soot-stained shell of a house that had long since burned down. No-one had bothered to rebuild. The family that lived here had been shoved into another house on the other side of the city, and the remains had been left to rot. There were still pictures, singed and sat in shattered frames, lying discarded on the floor, amongst the broken glass and fallen timber. The single piece of furniture, a torn and tattered armchair, was where the sniper sat, unblinking and unmoving. The file was sat across the room, balanced on the window sill in a shaft on pale moonlight.
He got up silently, his footsteps punctuated by the crunch of glass underfoot. He picked up the file, and weighed it in his palm, reflecting on why he was doing this. It didn't help his cause against the Rose, it was little more than a meaningless distraction. And yet, here he was.
He flipped open the file, and skimmed throughout, sorting out the important information, and discarding the rest. She had priors; a few counts of shoplifting and, about year after, a two month spell into a juvenile detention centre for boosting some street racer's car. She had been 15 at the time. Interesting.
Since then she'd been a good little citizen, toeing the line and never stepping over it. Records stopped a few years ago, and the sniper's eyes narrowed. This had been a waste of his time.
There was the sound of a car outside and the sniper looked up, his suspicions alerted. This neighbourhood had been deserted for nearly a year, who could possibly have business here?
The sniper ducked out of sight, the file clasped in one hand, as the car swept past. He watched it, surveying it from a distance. It was expensive, too expensive for anyone who could have lived here.
His eyes narrowed, and he stared at the number plate for a few seconds. It seemed familiar. Yes, he did know it. But where from?
Oh yes, now he remembered. This was a golden opportunity, and not one he could afford to miss. He glanced down at the file in his hand, before dropping it to the floor and climbing onto the window sill. This was too important. The girl could wait.
...
The chauffeur of the car, a middle aged man with a neatly trimmed brown beard, cursed under his breath as he had to swerve to avoid another pothole, one of many that littered the asphalt. Why had the client taken him down this route? He hated driving at night at the best of times and neighbourhoods like this were always way too creepy. He heard a tap on the glass behind him and he put a finger to the Blue-Tooth headset in his ear.
"Yes Sir?" he said in a carefully measured down that masked his distaste for this particular client.
The man one the other end, a man with blond hair that was swept back of his forehead, and a curled moustache to match, spoke in the kind of voice you'd expect to hear on some daytime talk show.
"How long will it take to get back to my offices, driver?" he said in a brash, arrogant tone that sounded like he wanted more respect than he may have earned.
"About half an hour, sir," came the polite, but forced, reply.
"Excellent," replied the client, killing the connection and winking at the black haired beauty who sat, cat-like, across from him, "That means we have half an hour more of each other's company, my dear."
The woman giggled, and smiled seductively back. A shadow flickered across her face, and her expression changed to one of shock.
"What?"
"N-nothing," she said, regaining her composure, "I just thought saw something."
"Of course," he replied warmly, twirling one end of his moustache with one spider-like finger, "Now then, we have 30 minutes left, how about we... go to business?"
The woman leant forward, and the client had to suppress a grin as he got a look straight down the v-neck of her rose-red satin dress.
"I'd love to," she whispered, caressing his cheek.
That's when the roof of the car exploded.
The woman screamed, and the man swore, as dust and smoke poured into the brown leather interior. Two red lights blinked on, and, as the smoke cleared, the man registered the black suited figure crouched next to the hole where the roof had been. In the shadows of his hood, the figure's eyes glowed scarlet.
"Get out of the car," the figure growled, pointing to the woman, who scrambled for the door and sprinted as fast as her stiletto heels would allow.
"What the hell do you think-" the blond haired man started, but his angry outcry was silenced when the figure lifted him from the car by the lapels of his crisp black suit jacket.
"Travis David," the figure snarled, their eyes narrowed to poisonous slits, "Pharmaceutical millionaire, philanthropist. But you've also done deals with the White Rose, selling them the chemicals they use to spread their venom through the streets."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Travis said, pulling at that hands that held him so tightly.
"Liar," the figure spat. He dragged Travis up to the remains of the car's roof, and threw him into the road. He landed hard, coming down on one arm which landed heavily in the bottom of a pothole. He felt the bones in his wrist contort, then snap, and he cried out. The figure didn't relent. He grabbed Travis' other hand, and yanked him to his feet.
"Get up, scum," he hissed, and Travis felt him wrap something around his stomach.
"What are you doing?" Travis demanded, but his assailant silenced him with a cold glare.
"Going up," the figure said with cold malice, and Travis felt himself yanked into the air, by the cable tied around his stomach. He yelled, as the ground fell away from him. He rocketed into the air, pulled up and up until he came to a sudden, jarring halt. He was hanging, God knows how high in the air, and when he looked behind him he saw the he was suspended from a very thin and weak looking power cable.
"Ready to talk now?" Came to harsh grating of that voice, and Travis saw him, perfectly balanced on the cables above him.
"You can't do this!" Travis protested, "I have rights!"
The figure leaned forward, grabbing Travis' throat and putting their faces very close together.
"With me," the figure said in a venomous whisper, "You have one right: The right to talk, or the right to die. Take. Your. Pick."
Travis eyes widened, the sweat beading on his brow, gleaming in the glow of the figure's lenses. His mouth moved, but he couldn't get the words past the hand constricting his breath.
"What was that?" The figure said with sadistic sounding pleasure, "You'll have to speak up."
Travis tried, but the only noise that escaped his lips was a strangled squeak.
"Your choice," the figure said, and he pulled a knife from his leg, and with one quick motion, sliced open Travis' neck. The man took a second or two to die. How intriguing.
The figure leapt from the cable, landing on the road lightly. He stood, and moved around to the driver's side window. The driver was slumped over, hands still limply gripping the wheel. Killed in the blast. A casualty of war.
The figure turned to look at the body of Travis David which hung, silhouetted against the moon. That should send The Rose a nice message.
"No matter how deep you bury yourself, I will find you. You're all already dead."