Title: Killer Instinct

Author: Skye Firebane

Rating: PG-13, for now…

Chapter Summary: Artemis meets with the new threat with no prior information to negotiate, and instead ends up in a bloody mess. Literally.

Comments: Behold, the re-written version of Chapter One! As it says above, the rating is PG-13. There is gore and profane language and a whole bunch of nice stuff that little kiddies shouldn't see. Even though I'm a little kiddie and shouldn't even be writing this. But anyway; reviews here, flames go to hors_e@hotmail.com because then you'll clog up my Inbox and cause me a lot of grief.

Disclaimer: This disclaimer is here only to appease lawyers. I know that all of you lucid human beings know that I am not Eoin Colfer, and I do not own Artemis Fowl. I do, however, own what original characters there are, the plot points in this story, and my small fluffy dog, who, on the Internet, has been epitomised by an exceedingly large, terrible, rabid, vicious, Mary-Sue hating Alsatian named Cerberus. 

Chapter One: A Slight Hitch

The silver-grey barrel of the gun glinted in the dim, clouded moonlight and the distinct sound of the magazine being loaded into it echoed about the room. A trickle of sweat coursed down Artemis's face, trailing across his cheekbone before dropping onto the collar of his once white and crisply starched shirt. He rotated his neck uncomfortably, easing out the tension; it didn't hurt that his gag slipped slightly with each movement. The chair he had sat in for over seventy-two hours creaked as he pushed it harder against the wall, willing its rickety legs to snap beneath the pressure.

The cocking mechanism snapped as the gunman finally managed to load the gun in the dark. Artemis raised his head and recognised the gun as its silhouette was presented in the small square of moonlight on the floor. There was no mistaking it; he swore to himself. A Desert Eagle .50 could blow a fucking hole in a tank.

A crack of light appeared on the tiled floor as the only door opened and closed with a small click. The smell of beef casserole, strangely enough, permeated Artemis's nostrils as his heartbeat began to race. The man with the gun raised the weapon cautiously and pointed it at the figure entering with the smell of meat.

"Just me," a distinctly American voice echoed from the door, high-pitched and nasal. The gunman lowered his weapon and Artemis could almost see him shake his head in disbelief.

"I expected you an hour ago," the gunman said in an eloquent baritone voice, giving Artemis the impression that he was tall and heavyset. "Would you like people to see blood coming out of the drain?"

The other man cringed visibly – even in the dark, Artemis could see his reluctance – and set about clattering a bucket and mop, obviously not keen in upsetting the gunman any further. Disgruntled muttering was clearly audible over the racket he was making:

"Well, I'm sure that using the electric chair requires a little more brainpower than pulling the trigger."

The remark obviously did not have the desired effect; his comments were met only with a derisive snort from the other side of the room. Artemis paid no attention to the men; his face was numb with realisation. The smell emanating from the outside was not beef casserole, but the smell of scorching human flesh. His stomach churned – he had never gotten used to the smell of burnt skin – but he remained silent. He followed the gunman's faint silhouette around the room with his eyes, and pressed the chair against the wall cautiously. It groaned beneath his weight.

"What the hell was that?" said the American, dropping his mop in what was presumably fright. A ringing silence filled the room, and the seconds wore on as Artemis's captors strained their ears to once more hear the phantom noise. But there was nothing, only –

"Simpletons." Artemis's voice was muffled, but it did the trick. He pressed the chair against the wall harder and the resistance, ever-so-slowly, began to ease. He could feel the wood splintering beneath him. Both men made to rush forward, but the American held himself back. There wasn't much you could do with a bucket and a mop.

The gunman advanced on Artemis, holding the gun high above his head threateningly. Artemis glared defiantly at him, desperately absorbing facial features in his photographic memory. The gunman's arm swung down, loaded with momentum; the butt of the gun hit Artemis square in the temple. The world around him lurched forward and a painful spray of light invaded his vision.

"Shut the fuck up," the gunman said, ominous, "and you won't get another one of them." He paused for a moment. And smiled.

"But you'll get this, regardless."

Artemis's composure slipped just as the barrel of the gun was placed against his temple, the chrome finish icy cold against his pale skin. He ground his teeth; pure, primal instinct gripped him by the throat. In a split second, he shoved the chair against the wall – the wood gave a defeated creak as it splintered across the floor – and stepped out of the leg bonds he had broken. He swung the back of the chair into the gunman's hand, knocking gun to the floor with a clatter, and wheeled around viciously to strike the gunman in the jaw with the remnants of the chair legs. He was met with little resistance. He steadied himself as he looked with bemusement at the unconscious form at his feet. The sound of someone clearing their throat startled him; he turned. And froze.

"Not so smart now, are you, Mister Fowl?" The American was crouched, Western-style, holding the gun in trembling hands. Artemis breathed; regarded him with a raised eyebrow, before lashing out and kicking the gun from the other man's grip. He fumbled with the gun for a moment, and, with great difficulty, squeezed off a couple of rounds into his opponent's face. The crack of the bullets resonated on the tile walls, and he could feel the explosion of blood against his face, the liquid warm and silky. He smiled ever-so-slightly.

"Never settle for mindless bravado when there's a job to do."

"Fuckin' A'," grunted the gunman from the floor. His eyes were wide with terror, focused on the blood dripping off the muzzle of his own gun. The pair made eye contact – one set of eyes pleading, the other set apathetic and dangerous – and with a swift stomping motion, Artemis crushed the man's ribs and internal organs.

How primal, he mused. Survival of the fittest.

It took him perhaps fifteen seconds to gain his poise once more. With several awkward movements, he managed to free himself from the remnants of the chair, and checked the gun's magazine to make sure it was still loaded. Assured of a near-full arsenal, he gripped the doorknob tentatively, and, gun first, exited out into the deserted hallway.

Directly opposite the steel room was a formidable steel door. The room on the other side, given the particularly heady stench of meat, was presumably where one of his victims had been moments earlier. He had already formulated a theory as to who the stench belonged to, but was not quite sure whether he wanted to affirm or disprove it. Giving his churning stomach a warning, he opened the door cautiously and pointed the gun about in the dark. The room was definitely the source of the smell.

Artemis flicked on the light switch and shielded himself momentarily with the steel door, but there was not the slightest indication of anything afoot – save for the meaty smell, of course.

And it would be just his luck that his theory was, in fact, correct.

Situated at the far end of the room was an occupied electric chair. It seemed that traitors were held in more disgrace than rivals, given the condition of Artemis's informant at the very moment.

He regarded the cadaver with disgust for a few moments. It was definitely Andreas – his trusty Spanish compadre – although he wouldn't have known if it weren't for the personal effects folded on a nearby bench. The chair seemed to have done a far more effective job at mutilating him than any hired goon could have; parts of his skin were scorched, having received more amps than the average death row prisoner would have. His eyes were milky white – cooked to an egg-like dryness by the electricity – and blood oozed like molasses out of his mouth and nose. Not that a hired goon hadn't been utilised: his fingers were hacked off above the knuckles, and the tendons in his legs snipped with what could have only been a pair of pinking shears. Pre-mortem, he thought with a wince.

Finally dismissing Andreas as a lost cause (after a great deal of inspection), Artemis sifted through the informant's possessions in the hope that some of his own had been saved, and found his laptop and phone. Which was certainly a relief to him; they hadn't cost him six thousand pounds for nothing. He clipped the phone to his belt and tucked the laptop underneath his arm. He flicked the light off, shaking his head, and crept down the hall.

Much to his surprise, the building was deserted. A figurative ghost town. It was certainly a change from nearly three days before; when he had been led through to the steel room, he had heard snickers, talking and sneers as he had passed through the labyrinthine corridors, bound and blindfolded. Now, the 'abandoned' hotel seemed almost forlorn. Artemis supposed that a week later, the rival cartel's headquarters would be halfway across the world.

The humidity – and mosquitoes – of the night air almost knocked Artemis back as he opened the reinforced double doors. The Pantanal, one of the lesser-known South American rainforests, was certainly a world apart from the comforts of Ireland.

Artemis removed his coat to inspect his physical state. For the first time in what seemed an age, he considered his appearance. Avoiding damage to his suit had been impossible, and his white shirt was stained with something dark that could only be blood. Whether it was his or someone else's, he wasn't quite sure. He didn't need daylight to smell the gunpowder and blood on his hands.

And he definitely didn't need daylight to see that this entire affair had been one big cock-up.

The rival cartel was as close as something could get to James Bond. Shrouded in mystery, technology, and a great deal of rainforest, it was just about impenetrable. There had been a request for negotiations – Artemis only – some three weeks prior. There had been hope for partnership, friendship between the Fowl Cartel and these strangers. Until 'the top' of this new cartel judged Artemis expendable and not a threat. But they deemed him executable, anyway.

There was a sharp trill at Artemis's belt. He reached for his phone tiredly and flipped open the screen. It was still a secure, coded number, though there were many more people who had it. Unsurprisingly, it was Butler, inquiring as to whether negotiations had ceased.

"In a way, yes, the negotiations have ceased. Though they hardly started in the first place," Artemis said, scanning the horizon. There was a dirt road that snaked through the forest, but apart from that, no sign of civilisation whatsoever.

There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line. Artemis could almost see Butler, taking in his words with more than a spot of dread.

"You shouldn't have gone, sir."

Artemis found his lips curling into a tight smile at his bodyguard's concern.

"I was ensured I had complete and total safety on this excursion," he said offhandedly, "Unfortunately, they were not completely convinced I even was Artemis Fowl."

"Oh, really?" Butler couldn't help but smile. Too many people had gone into the field expecting to deal with Artemis Senior. There wasn't much difference between the two men; Artemis Junior just had the majority of his honour and decency bred out of him.

"Yes, really. It just goes to show that I need to stress, 'The Second' more." Artemis paused, "But it's all in the past now. For the time being, they believe I am dead."

"And that's a good thing, sir?"

"It is a wonderful thing. I have a chance at escaping the country in one piece. Although I can't say the same for Mister Jobim."

"Andreas? He's…"

"Yes. Mister Jobim is departed. Traitors are not thought highly of here, obviously. Whilst I'm not exactly sure as to how they acquired an electric chair, they certainly know how to use one to great effect," he said, somewhat delicately. Andreas had been a friend of Butler's, from when he had worked in France. When met with silence, he continued on.

 "Fortunately, the two imbeciles who had been asked to dispose of me were…" he paused, choosing his words, "disposed of."

Butler suppressed a chuckle. For someone who saw death every day, Artemis was particularly gentle with his language.

"Presumably you want a lift back to the Manor?" he asked, his voice light. May as well inject a bit of humour into a bad situation. Thankfully, Artemis warmed to the prospect. Even if it was much to his chagrin.

"I'd hate to have to trek across several continents in these clothes. Whatever would our Italian gli amici think?"

The bodyguard pulled a face that was somewhere between a wince and a smile at the mention of the mafia. He didn't doubt that whatever the state Artemis' clothes were in, the infamous Italian gangsters would put a bullet through his head.

"I think they would think they'd like to do you in."

Artemis smiled half-heartedly, changing the topic. "I don't suppose you could bring the jeep in through the access track?"

"Yep," Butler answered, groping about the motel coffee table for the keys. He stood, observing the state of the room. It was a makeshift command centre: computers, mobile phones and files were strewn around the room. "Would you like us to hightail out of town?"

"It seems like the best thing for us to do. I believe the motel bill has been catered for already. Your ETA?"

"Probably an hour and a half, give or take."

"Seems satisfactory," Artemis said, sighing and hanging up. He needed to get back to the Manor. The business with this rival cartel was getting way out of hand, and he needed it sorted out.

He wanted to make sure he was going to have the last laugh.

***