"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 6

Which V? Action V strikes again.

Rated R (violence)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

"Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily." Henry IV, part I, Act IV, Scene I


V pulled on his boots, smoothed the supple leather over his calves and tested the fit around his toes. There will be climbing tonight. The soles and heels must be firm. No cracks. No loose stitching around the toes. He was hard on his boots, always needed to be checking them for wear. One slip and I'm dead, and I mustn't die before the Fifth. These boots passed his test. He turned to the mirror, tightened the mask. He looked over his shoulder before opening the drawer and pulling out his knives. She will stay in there. She's been avoiding me. If she comes out I will hear her.

The drawer slid out of the table, each glittering slice of death lay nested in its own black velvet slot. V ran a gloved finger over the pommels, stroking each one like a lover. I must choose six of the long ones. He lifted one of the long knives, sighted along the blade, turning its bright sides to the lamp to check for nicks, anything that would throw off their delicate balance. This one is perfect. He slipped it into the leather belt. The next one, and the next. Each examined like a surgeon before finding a place in his arsenal. When the belt was full and fastened snugly around his waist, he turned around for the cape. Still nothing from the Surveillance room. Yards of black cashmere drifted over his shoulders and settled comfortably around his neck, the lower edges sweeping his boots. He reached for his hat.

"V?" He froze. He had not heard her come up.

She stood there, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. "Creedy has tripled the security force there. He has garrisoned troops in the Hospitality Room. Troops, V. Major Rumfries is actually living in the Museum. And the military is patrolling the perimeter with a tank. A tank."

"I've frightened them, haven't I?" I am pleased.

"You've more than frightened them! They are terrified! But I don't see how you can get in there and out again without…without being…without being… seen. I wish you wouldn't go."

"I have to go, Evey."

She lowered her reports, the pages of schematics, the lists of personnel, and the floorplan for security. "The Museum is like a war zone." She shook her head at him. "They will kill you. What will I do then?"

"Hmm," he set the hat on his head firmly. "I suppose you would be free, and in possession of a goodly amount of art."

She flashed her brown eyes at him. "You're impossible! I'm serious! You should wait until after the Fifth, after you blow up Parliament."

He sobered. "I don't mean to make light of your concerns, Evey. I assure you I have no intentions of letting the Major kill me, but no matter the danger, the Museum can't wait until November. As we speak it is hemorrhaging its lifeblood of art and sculpture. If I wait until after the Fifth there will be nothing to salvage". And I will not be here to salvage it. "The heart of the Museum will be silent, its beating stilled by the greed and avarice of the men who have sworn to protect it. It will be an empty carapace of culture. I must act now to stop them. I have to do this. I have to. Listen to me, Evey. You will be there with me every step I take. You will hear what is happening in real time."

"Right. And when that bullet takes you out I will hear your last breath in my ear," she said. "No thanks."

"You have so little faith in me."

She pounded his chest with her reports, angry and flushed. "I've been watching these screens for days. Creedy has that place locked down so tight his own people have trouble moving from floor to floor, and you want to criticize me for thinking you don't have a chance."

He grabbed her wrist, stopped the assault on his person. "Evey, stay in the Surveillance room, or don't. I don't care. But I am going. I'm going to stop Creedy from stealing that Dali. I assure you I have no intention of giving up my plans for November, but I can't let them do this to Britain." He released her. "I will tell you this: I am not going anywhere near that Museum tonight.

"I always evaluate my enemy, Evey, and strike at his weakest point. Right now Creedy still thinks like a thief, and not like a dictator. Being a thief he is he will have the Art Curator remove the painting from the gallery and take it to the preservation room. That is where he will have his own men remove it and take it into the city where they will exchange it for cash from the Indian Minister's men. That is their weak point. The exchange. If Creedy were smarter he would have driven the painting to Heathrow in the tank. That's what a dictator would have done. But he can't. He is still a thief, and he can't pay everyone off. He doesn't want Sutler to know what he's doing. His need for discretion is the weak link in the chain. Do you feel better now? Do you understand?"

She shook her head. "All this time, and you knew exactly what you were doing."

"Well. I haven't done it yet. Wait until I return with the Dali. I'm going to hang it right there." He pointed to an empty space among the paintings he had created to exactly fit.

The evening has a chill and promises to be frigid before he returns. He moves from building to building, alley to alley, concealed by his cape, dipping the brim of his hat whenever he feels the danger that a light might reflect off his mask. The government curfew keeps potential witnesses at bay after 10:30, but now there are enough pedestrians trudging home from their meaningless jobs to keep him confined to the shadows. South. Tonight my business takes me to the riverfront.

From the top of a nameless building he looks down at the street. He settles himself to wait, careful not to cramp his legs or twist his back. I shall need all my faculties tonight.

A damp fog moves in as the moon rises above him, obscuring his view of the street. He shifts on his ledge, tilts his head to listen. The cries of the gulls have been silenced by the moon, but still the slap of waves against the hulls of the boats makes it difficult to pinpoint his prey. Patience. He can wait for hours if he has to, crouched like a gargoyle above the docks. He thinks about Evey. She is no longer weepy, moping around the gallery. She seems to have taken his advice to heart. She looks at him now, doesn't avoid his eyes like before. She has become feisty, hasn't she? He smiles, thinking of her pounding his chest with her papers.

His ear turns to a sound below. This is not the wind on the water, or water against the dock. They have come. He brings himself up to his ready position, stretches his legs. There they are. Five men. Below him the men spread out in a commando pattern. He knows each is armed with a handgun. In addition, two have rifles slung over their shoulders. One has an Uzi. His eyes narrow behind the mask. The Uzi is a miscalculation. I didn't hear about an Uzi. Antique weapon. I had better not make any more mistakes. He fingers the Kevlar under his doublet.

The men stop, taking up their positions, waiting for their contact. V quickly descends along the opposite side of the building, hand over hand using the rough stones as toe holds until his boots touch the pavement. He pushes himself against the wall, listening. Two different men come striding around the corner, one carrying a satchel that weighs down his right shoulder. V presses himself harder against the rough brick. I am invisible. He has a clear view as the two groups meet not more than thirty feet away. Guns drawn and silent, the negotiations had taken place long before. There is no need for words during the exchange. The satchel changes hands. Something else is passed. The men nod to each other; V sets himself up for the pounce.

He waits until one of the men reaches for the treasure. There is a flash of steel and a dull, sickening thump as the blade strikes the man straight through the heart. He drops, the others snap to attention, their guns drawn, panning back and forth in the darkness. But the guns are pointing in the wrong direction. V has already swept behind them, silently, swiftly calculating the weight of the satchel. I will pass through them. My hand will seize the handle and whip the small case up and I will disappear. He goes through the motions in his mind with an eye to the Uzi. But he realizes with certainty that a wave of bullets will catch him before he can melt into the fog. He crouches lower. I have to take out the Uzi.

His hands shift beneath the cloak and another knife appears in his glove. The gunmen surround their package in a circle now, their guns point in all directions, ready for him. He waits. There. One of them is slowly, tentatively reaching for the satchel. V flashes, the cape whips up around his ears and the Uzi clanks to the ground, its owner collapsing on top of it, a glitter of steel protruding from the back of his head. The guns come around and fire, the bullets scream past him, popping great shards from the brick building behind him. He ducks low, waits for the bullets to stop. Has to face them face on. His armor is on his chest and face. No turning until the noise has ceased. There. The bullets stop. The men reach for their clips. The police will respond to shots fired. He has only minutes. The man with the satchel knows exactly where he is going and the gunmen are between V and his prey. Strike.

As the sound of gunfire fades to echoes, he pulls two more knives from his belt with a familiar tsing tsing. These knives he does not throw. With a leap he slashes through the neck of the man closest to him, his other arm raises, he turns, ready for an attack from the other. As the gun barrel comes up to eye level, V spins, catching the barrel on the edge of his blade, deflects the aim and rips it from the hands of its owner. Both knives glint in the feeble light of a distant street lamp, then darken as he slashes each man again for good measure. V has eyes only for the satchel, now flying away from him in the arms of the enemy.

He comes down from his attack running. The man with the satchel has only a few seconds on him. There is no time to think. All the pent up energy he had been hoarding on the rooftop comes at his command. He can see the satchel and its thief ahead, but the distance between them is shrinking second by second. Unlike the enemy, he is not burdened by its weight. One two three four he counts his own long strides on the pavement two for every one of his adversary.

Now he is upon him, the knife, dull with the blood of three men, does not flash in the dark as it sinks smoothly into the neck of his quarry. He pulls it out expertly in one smooth arc, ripping the muscles and severing the blood vessels. V kicks the man as he falls in order flip the body. He must not fall on the satchel. The man hits the ground and rolls as directed. V comes down on his chest with one knee, the knife makes another pass across the neck and it is over. One more slash. He has the satchel in his hand and pushes off as the sound of sirens scream behind him.

The Shadow Gallery. He touched the security code, let himself in. Evey must be downstairs. He was aware he is leaving a red trail on the immaculate flagstones, his cape wet with blood, dragged the ground, the wool stretched out with fog and gore. He stopped to untie it and drop it. Time to clean up later. He must find Evey. Make sure she is fine, reassure her that he is safe. How strange, that there is someone waiting for me when I return. How strange that someone cares that I have returned. He placed the satchel by the door, long strides took him to the stairwell, his boots announced his presence.

She lifted her hand to him, gestured for silence as he rounded the doorway to the Surveillance room. She is listening. She indicated the monitor and he took a seat beside her. He waited, resting. I am tired. It wasn't long before she pulled the headphones from her curls.

"I see you are not dead," she said, looking him up and down. "Though you look like death. Smell like it. Do you have the Dali?"

"I do."

"You will be pleased to know that every police channel in the city is humming with your latest exploit."

"I am."

"And their hands. You mutilated them. You cut off their right hands. How do you do that?" She shook her head at him, frowning.

"It's all in the wrists."

She burst out laughing, coughing, choked. "That's so not funny, V," and he smiled. He had not heard her laugh in a long time. Too long.