Title: Killer Instinct

Author: Skye Firebane

Rating: PG-13.

Chapter Summary: A polo match between Elias Tabbard's team and the South Bray Bucks turns bad when an unexpected visitor arrives, killing a Bucks player. Elias learns that the killing was ordered by his own cartel.

A little later, Caitlin wakes from an alcohol-induced slumber and closes the deal between her and Elias.

Comments: Not happy with chapter at all. It's OK in the first part, and from there on it goes downhill. Sorry. For those not familiar with the game of polo, a 'chukka' is a period of time into which the game is divided into. Thanks to the reviewers, specifically Blue Yeti, who trawled through my drivel and thought it was good.

Chapter Five: Polo and Poverty

The midday sun bore down on the backs of the polo players, the airborne dirt flung up by the hooves of the polo ponies catching the sunlight as it whirled about in the gentle breeze. Elias removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair, before dismounting and leading his pony, Bailey, to a cluster of dejected-looking team-mates.

He tapped his polo stick against his knee guards and grimaced as the rest of the team turned towards him. He breathed a sigh. As team captain it was his duty to boost the egos of the team, especially his prospective clients.

"OK, so it wasn't the greatest chukka in the world," he shrugged, "the South Bray Bucks have been top of the ladder since the start of the season. They're using their own ball and that's smaller than the one we use." It wasn't a lie. The Bucks were notoriously competitive and often went to great lengths to prevent the other team from winning. And, yes, Elias' team used a larger ball. To be exact, it had been a soccer ball – the club was seriously over budget – compared to the usual 8 centimetre diameter regulation ball, it was a big difference.

The referee blew his whistle and Elias' team remounted. Elias buckled his helmet and swung his leg over Bailey's back and into the stirrup. He spurred the horse into the middle of the field, and took off at an uncomfortable gallop as the small white ball was passed from the centre. He dodged a rather burly-looking Bucks player's polo stick, before hurtling into the knot of riders. There was a glimpse of white amongst the chestnut and bay legs, and he swung blindly with his stick. It connected with the ball with a slight thud and he pushed it up the field, leaning low in the saddle to lessen wind resistance. Bailey's body heaved beneath the saddle as the goals loomed before them. Elias grinned; there was absolutely no defence up the Bucks end. It would be his team's first goal in the entire game. Not exactly the most comforting thought, but at least it beat going down to the Bucks 0-37.

All of a sudden, Bailey reared up in fright, the white of his eyes showing and his nostrils flaring wildly. Elias' boots slipped out of the stirrups and he hung on to Bailey's neck tightly, cursing the horse for being particularly high-spirited. That was before he heard the second hail of gunshots course over his head, whistling slightly, and drilling into a Bucks player behind him, arterial blood squirting well over a foot from the slumped body on a terrified pony. It gave a quick buck and bolted over to the other side of the playing field, before clearing the fence and coming to a halt in a neighbouring meadow. The man fell to the ground with a sickening thud, blood spreading across the carefully manicured grass and staining it crimson.

There was the squeal of tires on dirt road as a beaten-up Ford Futura struggled to vacate the scene. Its tires spun on the gravel as it disappeared further up the road, the mirror used to mask the license number glinting in the sun. One of the Bucks players, Mackenzie, pulled a handgun from his polo vest and emptied a clip into the back windshield of the car, the sound of shattering glass echoing about the strange tranquillity.

The car swerved across the road, finally veering into a ditch that ran along the side of the road. Its bonnet crumpled partially, the radiator hissing with steam and hot water.

Mackenzie pocketed his gun and turned to Elias, glancing at him meaningfully. He and Elias had a business relationship of sorts; him being the contract killer hired by the older man. He dropped his helmet to the ground and ran his hands through his thick, brown, chin-length hair and smirked slightly.

"You gonna find out who that is, Mister Tabbard?" he asked impertinently, crossing his arms and looking very smug astride his pedigree bay mare. His voice barely broke the stunned silence that had descended upon the polo match. The majority of the players had gathered about the body of the Bucks player.

"Me?" Elias snapped, annoyed at Mackenzie's cheek. "You were the one who shot him."

"Are you sure?" Mackenzie's smirk grew wider, producing dimples either side of his mouth. "Maybe you should see who shot our star player."

Heaving a resigned sigh, he spurred Bailey down the pathway that lead to the road. The car had ceased hissing and spitting like an agitated cat, no movement detectable in the drivers seat – or anywhere else, for that matter. Elias suspected that Mackenzie knew exactly who the shooter was, and killed him in one of the most effective ways possible. Five rounds to the head and back, to be exact.

He dismounted, opened the car door and peered inside. And groaned. Mackenzie had certainly made a mess. Blood spattered the entire interior of the car; the impact of the bullets had forced blood and brain out of the entry and exit wounds. So, as one can imagine, the inside of the car was not a pretty sight.

On the carpeted floor lay a brand-new top-of-the-line leather suitcase, with ornate brass clasps. The letters stamped near the hinges suggested that the shooter had purchased the suitcase from D & R Hoffman's, a very prestigious string of shops that specialised in leather goods. Ignoring the mutilated body of the shooter, he hauled out the briefcase and placed it heavily on the boot, pushing away Bailey's inquisitive muzzle. Animals were notorious for ruining evidence, crime scenes and the like.

He released the clasps on the suitcase and opened it up, suppressing a small gasp. Folders and folders of information on the dead polo player – one William Clayton, 22, a dim-witted henchman belonging to the Fowl Cartel – were filed away neatly in alphabetical order. Elias had had a run-in or two with Clayton, one of which resulted in a busted spleen for the older man. The thing that amazed him even more was the insignia on the letterhead the information was printed on. In an elegant hand, one snake had been drawn entwining a heavy book, with the words 'Vita ac Mors' printed in gothic lettering. The letterhead was, like all things concerned with his employment, very familiar, seeing as though he wrote with the very same stationery more often than not. The instructions written were very simple: kill Clayton; the signature on the bottom of the paper belonged to Elias' own deputy. He frowned. He would have to have a word with her after he got out of the current mess.

He rifled through the files a little longer, and found an opened envelope adhered to a check for twenty thousand pounds. The check was blank, but a minute magnetic strip would reveal exactly who the proper recipient was, if the valuable piece of paper were to fall into the wrong person's hands. Elias placed it on top of the files and read the name on the envelope. He was hardly startled as the name registered in the back of his brain – the man in the car was a regular down at Headquarters.

Elias closed the suitcase with a snap and pulled up the unwilling head of Bailey, who had been happily grazing on the grassy verge. He crossed the road, leading the pony by the reins, and sidled up to Mackenzie.

"Called the police?" he inquired cautiously. More than half of the players had a criminal connection, so there was little chance of anyone wanting to call the police. Mackenzie shook his head and grinned.

"Bordeaux!" he yelled to one of his team mates, a sickly-looking man. "Ring the coppers!" Bordeaux hesitated slightly, a grimace on his pasty features. He nodded.

"Antoine Bordeaux is the cleanest guy on our team," remarked Matthews, "only one charge of Possession with Intent. Not bad, for a guy who's been passing cocaine since university, really."

Elias forced a smile and tied Bailey to the post, before settling down to wait. No doubt the policemen would want an official statement, and an identification of the two unfortunate bodies. Like all police business, it would be unnecessarily prolonged, not to mention, unfruitful. Little pieces of evidence, such as the shooter's briefcase, had a tendency to disappear.

***

It was a little after two o'clock in the afternoon when Caitlin crawled out of bed, miserable and aggravated. Her mouth tasted like stale whiskey, unsurprisingly, seeing as though she had spent the wee hours of the morning drinking it, attempting to solve the code on the back of the business card. Having not made any progress – most likely due to extreme intoxication – she had retreated to the sagging bed in the corner of her impressively large room, and fallen into a drunken sleep.

Her loft apartment, though scantily furnished, was particularly remarkable; she had bought it after completing a well-paid assignment; it was situated on the upmarket side of Ballsbridge, and had cost her almost fifty thousand pounds. Well-polished hardwood that should have been adorned with finely-woven rugs covered every floor, save for the bathroom and kitchen. The stark white walls were purely for the purpose of hanging expensive modern art, of which Caitlin had none, and the directed lighting was dimmed fashionably low, so if one was to walk to the bathroom late at night, they ran the risk of breaking a limb. Caitlin's décor – or lack thereof – reflected the down-on-her-luck aspect of her life; the only furniture in her possession was one circular dining table, a bed, two chairs and a sofa. She had to sell her TV for therapy, for Christ's sake! That was no way to live.

Seating herself at her table, Caitlin grumbled and scratched for the better half of five minutes, before opening her eyes fully and being confronted with the most unwelcome sight of the business card, code side up, taunting her. It was far too unsolved for her liking. Pushing it off the table, she stood unsteadily and made her way to the bar fridge, cursing the empty bottle of Jack Daniels in her wastepaper basket. She rummaged around the cold interior and found a piece of brie that was perhaps four months old. At least it wasn't the unidentified container of grey-green goo that sat at the back of the fridge. She sliced a piece off with a butter knife and ate it ravenously, rind and all, not even bothering to hold her breath. So the connoisseurs were right, cheese did taste better after it aged, even if it meant it grew white and fuzzy. Caitlin wasn't really a fan of cheese, but the bitter, salty tang of what probably was the mould appealed to her. She cut another piece, and returned to the table, drowsy once more.

She stared out the window momentarily, watching the cars move below at a sluggish pace. Considering the state of the brie, it was a wonder she didn't pass out immediately. However, the inevitable did eventually come.

It was the phone that startled her awake. It was very nearly dark, the sun receding behind clouds and dropping below the horizon. The shadows were long on the white walls, and she rubbed her head, rubbing off the print on her forehead that had transferred from the old newspapers onto her skin at some state in her unconsciousness. She rummaged around the piles of papers and found a cordless handset.

"Hello?" she asked, her syllables slurred. The line was bad, white noise echoing down the handset.

"You were right about shooting being the only thing you were skilled at," drawled an amused, masculine voice. It was the Tabbard man, grinning so widely that she could hear it on the phone.

"What?" Caitlin snapped; suddenly awake at the word shooting.

"You didn't solve the code," Elias stated simply. "You were drunk, I bet." He continued before she could express her surprise, "You're slurring your syllables. Believe me; I do that a lot, too."

Caitlin rested her head on her left hand and blinked the scunge out of her eyes. "What did it actually say?"

Elias laughed. "Not much. It only told you to call a specific number at 5:50 using reverse dial, and to do it or die. But considering your state at the moment, I'll spare you right now. Tell me, have you decided?"

She mumbled something unintelligible, before starting over. "Yeah, I think. Do you supply the equipment?"

"Due to budget cuts we can only give you a Kevlar vest," Elias stated in a matter of fact voice. "Although I recommend you use a magnum. Fast and powerful."

"But -,"

"Yes?" he asked quickly, and then continued when Caitlin did not finish her protest. "Good. I expect to see you outside your apartment in one weeks' time. Perhaps now you understand the letters D-I-O-D?"

And with that he hung up. Caitlin groaned, rested her head on the table, and slipped into the unconsciousness that had been so abruptly interrupted.

***