Chapter Eight: Love Thy Enemy

Dylan didn't want to think.

Thoughts, feelings, emotions, they all came at her, flooding her brain, and speeding her pulse with the urge to panic.

She bottled them down. If she slowed down, even for a second, the ramifications of what she had done would drown her.

Alex... Natalie... Charlie...

In the darkest corner, ten blocks from his flat, he finally came at her.

He wasn't winded like she was from the sprint. When she collapsed against the brick wall, and finally fell to her knees in an angered sob, he gave her no mercy.

Instead the Thin Man glared at her with crystal blue eyes, mouth creased in a thin, angry line.

Leaning forward, face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably, Dylan's world came down around her. Flashes of her life, of what it had been, and how it would never be again consumed her, and her reality now existed in nothing but a silent killer whose cold, calculating eyes simmered her blood.

Fingers closed around her biceps too quickly for her to be ready, and with an iron grip, he slammed her against the wall. Her head pounded against the brick, sending a jolt of pain that spread from her skull.

Dizzy from the pain, she focused only on the face, passive, bewildered, angry. His fingers dug in further, cutting into her skin, almost as if they were blades attached to each.

Anthony, with his ambiguous morals, his hawk-like features, observing her as one would a lab rat, rough and angry, and seething at the edges.

Fuck him.

Without a word, Dylan twisted, wedging her knee between them, and arching her back against the brick. His fingers tightened, but her free leg was already moving, booted foot slamming into his chest, powerful limbs thrusting him back.

"No," she bit.

He jabbed, palm splayed in a knife lunge, and she blocked it easily, hand closing over the wrist, and sweeping under, cutting into his face with her elbow. The anger made it easier somehow, as her ribs screamed, but her mind screamed louder, He swung a fist, and she blocked it. Another swing, she ducked under. The frustration, now boiling over, gave her the strength, and in a quick flurry of hand work, she had him moving to the wall.

With a shove, one fist around his hands, the other palm spread out to keep her bodyweight against him, she had him pinned.

"STOP IT," she hissed. He fought, she shoved again, harder. "STOP IT. CALM DOWN."

He was shaking, face a mottled pink.

"Listen," she said, speaking in a tone that was hard and fast, loud enough to be heard over the blood rushing in her veins. "We don't have time for this. Natalie and Alex will pick up our scent as soon as they get over the shock, and they'll find us. So you get over it, and help me, or I let them have you."

Eyes narrowed in slits, the Thin Man observed her, almost as if she was the one being pinned. His attention slowly moved to her fists, holding him still. Without a word, he suddenly relaxed, perfect posture easing as the taught muscles in his arms stopped pushing.

Dylan felt the sudden absence of pressure. He now seemed perfectly composed, gazing at her as if her pinning him was an inconvenience and nothing more. The only sign of his recent bout of anger were his bangs, now hanging loosely over his forehead, released from their gel, and making him look like a mischievous little boy.

With a sigh, Dylan eased back the pressure, untangling fingers. "Thank you," she said finally.

He took in a too heavy breath response, taking advantage of his sudden freedom to straighten his cuffs, pulling down on the suit blazer.

Dylan pursed her lips, studying the act. He was angry, bewildered and confused on her account.

Gently, she brushed the errant bangs away from his face, smoothing them over his scalp. The intimate gesture startled him. Once again, Dylan was reminded of a wounded dog, bristling under her touch, unsure whether to lean into it, or bite her hand off.

But he allowed it. She rubbed with both hands, skimming through the fine black strands. But the damage had been done. His hair only swung back into his face, and the expression he gave her, almost a 'You see?' look, would have been amusing in another circumstance.

"Sorry," she said.

His gaze narrowed, and when his eyes moved suspiciously to her own damp tresses, she groaned slightly.

"Shit, right. Hair fetish. Look, let's just get this over with." Pulling a knife from her belt, Dylan reached for the nape of her neck, picking out a small lock of reddish hair. Snapping the blade, she sawed it.

With an arched eyebrow, she deposited the hair in his hand.

"Sniff away," she said, knife going back into the belt. "But that's the last one you're getting."

Slowly, deliberately, he slid the lock against his face, eyes closing with a silent sigh.

Dylan watched with a disbelieving glare. "Wanna wait on that orgasm?" she quipped. "Kinda still here."

A rock shifting in the distance broke her focus, and immediately, the world came back.

"Come on," she whispered. "You know who's behind the murders. You're going to help me get them. And we're doing it before he kills someone else. You got it?"

Hand plastering the hair against his face, he never gave an inclination he had heard her. But his eyes were on her, watching her every move.

"I'll take that as a yes," she answered quickly. "We have to get out of here. Chances are they'll go back to Charlie before they come back - but thanks to our little scuffle, and the fact that Natalie's nose isn't normal, they'll be after us soon."

It may have been taking things a little for granted that he would follow, but she expected it.

She was no more than two feet away, when she heard a whispered, hesitating, almost painful, "Why?"

Dylan's eyes closed, breathing sucking slightly, before she turned, offering him a shrug.

"You tell me."

--

"And here I was thinking things couldn't get any worse."

The statement came from Bosley, currently slouched on the corner of the desk, arms crossed, face creased with utter despair.

Natalie didn't feel much better.

Despite what others thought, much of the reason why Natalie always seemed so utterly carefree was that fact that, no matter what happened to her in their dangerous lives, she always knew that Dylan and Alex would be there to back her up.

Tonight, the unthinkable had happened, and she wondered whether she should have blamed herself.

Sighing helplessly, she turned to Alex, reaching for her palm. "Maybe if we had listened to her, talked to her and heard her out, she wouldn't have-"

"Alex, Natalie, it's no use looking back to the past," Charlie said, voice grave from the speakerbox. "It's not going to change what's happened. I advise we simply attempt to figure out how it happened, and move on."

"Dylan ain't no traitor," Bosley spoke up, pushing off the desk, eyeing the couch that just seemed much too large with just Natalie and Alex sitting on it. "She went rogue, then she must have had a reason."

"It's my fault," Alex said quickly. When everyone glanced at her questionably, she continued, "We had a fight. I ... accused her or something. I lost control of myself-"

"A fight takes two people, Alex," Charlie said. "But if you and Dylan disagreed about the mission that much, it should have been brought up."

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Natalie said. Her eyes stung, heart stuck in an odd place. It was as if the shock had yet to wear off. Still, the image of Dylan holding a sword to their hearts stuck with her.

"Angels, we have to move on from this," Charlie continued. "I don't need to tell you we don't have much time left. Mary Briggs is threatening to leak the story by tonight, and with Dylan gone-"

"She's confused," Natalie interrupted. "She thinks he's innocent, and she's out to prove it."

"I don't trust him," Alex clipped. "You saw him in there. He would have killed us."

Natalie frowned. "But the way he acted with Dylan-"

"Doesn't make him any less a murderer," Alex finished. "You know that."

Natalie shuddered, eyes closing with a conflicting gulp.

"Okay. If we can get to her, get them separated, talk some sense into Dylan and take him down, we may have a chance to nab him before he can strike again."

"I dunno, girls. It might be harder than you think." Bosley, lost in thought, scratched at the pile of hair on his head, tugging on his earring thoughtfully.

Shooting a glance at each other, Natalie and Alex both remained quiet.

"Bosley? What do you mean?" Charlie asked.

Shrugging, he pointed at the two girls. "Ya'll are good, but you're used to fighting in threes. With Dylan gone, that's like losing one third of your brains ... not that you can't handle it, but-"

"It's that much harder," Natalie agreed.

"Now, Dylan ... she's kinda been an independent from the beginning. That girl's scrappy, and couple that with the Thin Man's evilness? It's like Bonnie and Clyde on speed."

The analogy may have been farfetched, but it was certainly had a ring of truth into it.

With grim determination, Natalie rubbed at her palms. "We'll do what we have to."

"I just wish we didn't have to," Alex whispered.

Natalie glanced over. Alex's concern, what most would mistake for passive apathy, was prevalent. Her hand moved over hers, squeezing lightly. Alex, almond eyes moist, gave her a worried glance.

"If it gets out of hand, we will eventually have to alert the LAPD," Charlie said gravely.

Natalie looked up quickly, a jolt of panic sliding into her throat. "We can't bring in the LAPD now, with Dylan involved-"

"Everyone makes choices, Angels," Charlie said firmly. His tone softened when he continued with, "Dylan made hers."

The ramifications of that, Natalie didn't even want to consider. One look in Alex's direction told her she was thinking the same thing.

"We have to find her," Alex said finally. "We find Dylan, we find the Thin Man."

"Right," Natalie agreed. "And time is running out."

--

"Mr. Gibbons?"

Mary Briggs clearly startled Jason Gibbons. The actor was lying back on the bed, bare-chested, a bandage wrapped around his torso, staring listlessly at the television.

Looking at her, he gave her a curious nod.

"Yeah," he answered. "Who're you?"

He was extraordinarily handsome. Mary had gotten over her starstruck stage two months after she came to Hollywood, when she busted a pornography ring that implicated more than a few A-list actors.

The cover-up had been Mary's loss of innocence. She wondered if she ever recovered.

"I'm Mary Briggs, with the LAPD," she said finally, flashing him a badge as she stepped into the room. "I was hoping I could ask you a few questions."

Jason frowned. "I already told the police everything I knew, which is pretty much nothing. One minute I was walking, the next I got shot. I didn't see anything."

"It's not about the shooting," Mary said gently. "And I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah," Jason agreed, settling back against his bed with a wince. "I guess I came out better than Annabeth or Sandy. You planning on finding this guy anytime soon?"

Mary grimaced. "We're working on it." She moved into a chair, scooting it closer to the bed. "Mr. Gibbons, if you could... I understand that you were involved for some time with Alex Munday."

The name definitely produced a reaction. Immediately, his eyes narrowed, hands clutching into defensive fists. "What about Alex?"

"I was hoping you would answer-"

"She's not in any trouble, is she?"

"Not yet," Mary said. "Your cooperation may become very helpful in that."

Jason Gibbon's shut his mouth defiantly.

Mary frowned. Looking at her notes, she tried again. "What about a Natalie Cook?" His eyes narrowed. "Dylan Sanders?"

His frown deepened, but the actor didn't say a word.

"Look ... they were placed at two of the shootings. One of them has been implicated as being involved with our suspect. If you could just-"

"Alex, Dylan and Nat are my friends," Jason groused. "And if you're going to mess with them, you better let them know. Whatever you're trying to pull, they're better at it then you." Mary blinked, but he kept going. "Now if you have any other questions, talk to my publicist. His cards are on the table."

She glanced over at the neat pile of white cards. Jason turned back to the television, turning up the volume, reaching towards the monitor with a remote.

Mary got the abrupt feeling of dismissal.

Sighing, she pushed off the chair, closing her notepad with a tap. "Thanks," she said dryly. "You've been a big help."

Turning in the doorway, Mary's steps faltered. Alex Munday, dark eyes glowering, and black hair falling perfectly around her shoulders, stood waiting.

She had heard the whole thing.

Resigned, Mary ventured a short smile. "Ms. Munday."

"Ms. Briggs," Alex said, crossing her arms to regard her summarily. "Get your answers?"

Mary grinned slightly. "I don't discourage easily."

"I wasn't aware we were suspects," Alex snapped.

Mary shrugged. "You weren't, until one of your little Angels went missing."

"It would be pointless to ask you how you knew that," Alex said crisply.

"You're not the only one good at their job."

"Maybe if you spent less time obsessing about us, and more time looking for the killer, you might actually get somewhere."

"Like you are?" Alex's frown deepened, but she said nothing in response. Mary gave a gallant wave to the door. "Your witness."

"No further questions," Alex replied easily. "I just got all I needed to know."

The small Asian women had a strong frame, lean and sexy. It was everything Mary wasn't. Extraordinary, beautiful. Her looks, she heard, were only rivaled by her intelligence.

And they were all like that.

They were younger, richer, smarter, prettier. With dedicated boyfriends like A-list actor Jason Gibbons.

She shouldn't have been intimidated.

Mary was an accomplished woman. She may have relied on her gun a little too much, but she could hold her own in the LAPD boys club.

But she gave something away, when she broke the glance first.

Pushing around Alex, Mary blew out an uneasy breath, realizing her heart had stuttered into an erratic beat.

Suddenly, she was glad there was only one present, not the three together.

Walking away from the Angel, Mary had the crazy feeling she had just lost something of an edge over the woman.

--

Dylan had calculated her time as a matter of hours.

Now, she hoped that Natalie and Alex's predictability did not fail her.

She guessed, after the initial shock, the meeting with Charlie, and the chance to regroup and formulate a plan to take her and the Thin Man down without hurting either, would take about five, six hours, at the least.

That was barring any costume changes, the compensating for her loss, and the actual figuring out where they were.

They knew that Dylan, not being stupid, would never go back to her bungalow.

So she did exactly that.

It had taken some effort to sneak into the elusive hotel without being seen, and coupled with the fear that Natalie and Alex, double-guessing her, would be right there waiting, had left a nervous jerkiness to it all.

But when she finally opened the door, only the messy darkness of her home greeted her.

Now, pulling a simple black top over her head, buttoning the tight blue jeans, and with a tinge of guilt, slipping on Alex's boots, she felt more or less herself.

She was fully stocked on medical supplies, thank goodness, and for once she was glad that her ribs had settled into a dull ache.

Gauze in hand, she pushed at the door, moving from the bathroom and into her living room/bedroom.

Even now, she wasn't sure she would ever be calm about the fact that the Creepy Thin Man was standing in her room silently, hand loosely holding onto his deadly cane, staring about it as if he were caught in a trap.

Taking a breath, she stepped forward, clearing her throat.

"Come on," she said crisply, motioning to the bed. "We don't have much time." When he only stared, she motioned again. "On the bed."

He considered. With the ease of a big cat, he moved toward the bed, settling onto it gracefully.

The Thin Man. On her bed.

Shuddering, Dylan forced a smile, moving forward and putting her things down on the bed.

Standing on the edge, she motioned him to her, unrolling the gauze. "Take off the blazer and the shirt." Again he simply stared. "Hello? Now!"

He glared.

"Humor me?"

Apparently, he was still pissed about that whole 'trying to kill him' thing.

Coming forward, he knelt on the edge of the bed, gaze defiant.

Losing patience, Dylan went for the blazer. "Fine," she muttered. "You want to act like a baby?" With nimble fingers, she unbuttoned the blazer, pushing it off his shoulders with a rough shove. He arched an eyebrow, as if amused by her frustration. Snorting at him, Dylan slid her fingers into the buttons of his shirt, opening it to reveal the lean, trim chest, most of it obscured by the bandage over his torso and over his left shoulder.

He had surprisingly smooth skin, hairless where she smoothed her fingers over it, broad shoulders, and muscles that jolted when she slid her palms over them. The shirt, silk, fluttered down his arms, and he actually helped this time, pulling hands out of sleeves.

Bare-chested, he eased down, legs brushing her thighs as he leaned on the edge of the bed. Taller than she, he was now her height, palms resting lighting on her sides, knees almost pushing on her hips, enveloping her.

Crotch seemed perfectly lined with hers, and despite the air conditioner, Dylan found her throat drying, body tempature rising.

Without a word, she shrugged off her leather jacket, tossing it on the bed behind him.

'He's the Thin Man, Dylan', she snarled at herself. 'Stop it.'

Soon, she was absorbed in her task, meticulous as she uncovered the healing wound, discovering a bloody scab that was just millimeters away from his heart.

"You really are a lucky bastard," she told him. He said nothing, face conveying no emotion as he watched her work, almost as if he weren't even a part of it.

Still, when she moved against his shoulder lightly, he obediently shifted. When she pushed at his wound, in an act that would have made her hiss in pain, he did nothing.

"Gotta say," she said after a minute. "You're definitely the best patient I've ever had."

Slowly, without a word, he began to rub his thumb along her sleeve.

Licking her lips, she allowed it.

"Okay," she said finally. "Question time. Do you know who's behind this?"

He kept rhythmically rubbing at her sleeve, feeling the fabric of her shirt between his fingertips.

"What does Seamus have to do with it?" she asked.

He unbuttoned her cuff, smoothing a digit just under her wrist to the sensitve skin along her vein.

Her breath caught.

Moving back, she jerked her hand away, reaching for more guaze.

"Lift," she told him.

He did, and she rolled it around him, cheek just brushing his warmer than normal skin, nipple of his chest poking into her skin temptingly.

Fuck.

"Anthony, you have to give me something," she said, tone husky and just a little bit angry. "I'm going out on a limb for you, and you can't expect me to figure this out on my own with you along for the ride like some glorified rottweiler."

Yes, she had just compared him to a dog. It was easy to do. Spike didn't give her has as much trouble as he did, and at least the dog gave her a nice big lick when she had emotional problems.

Again, he gave her no indication that he had heard the insult.

Instead, all his focus and determination seemed to reside on her body.

Intense energy seemed to go into discovering her arms, the length and shape of them. His fingers, thorough in their examination, moved to her shoulders, massaging with such a gentle touch it felt foreign. His lips broke in an unspoken sigh as his eyes closed, breathing in deeply in that 'better-than-sex' whisper of breath he seemed to be so good at.

It went right through her. From her head, through her heart, a tremor below her stomach and ending with a tingle in her toes, she shuddered as the fingers still holding gauze crinkled against the velvet of his skin, scratching into him.

It was when he began to rub under her arms, just on the outsides of her over-sensitized breasts, that Dylan finally woke up.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she snapped, smacking him as she stepped back a startled step. "I'm trying to get you off for murder and you're just... trying to get me off!"

He remained seated, not quite contrite as his gaze moved from her feet to her eyes.

"Just... WHY do you like me?!" she snapped. "You don't know me. You had no problem with trying to kill me just a few years ago ... so what changed?" Coming forward again, she shoved at him, a not gentle push that still didn't move him more than a few inches. "Why didn't you start obsessing about Alex? Or Natalie? At least maybe they would have had the sense to kick your ass when you decided to start making out!"

The rant over, Dylan was left a huffing, puffy, red-in-the-face mess, and it was not attractive, she knew.

He continued to observe her, managing to make her look like the silly embarrassment despite the fact that he was the one splayed out on the bed half naked with a hole in his chest.

"Answer me!" she finally pleaded.

The Thin Man spoke, but only on limited occasions, and usually monosyllables. She knew it was too much to hope for to venture something from him.

But what he did astounded her.

Fishing a notebook from her backpack, he reached into his pocket. Pulling out a Montblac pen, he studied the white pages, and finally wrote quickly.

With a gallant flourish, he presented it to her.

With surprised anticipation, she took it, turning it to her viewing the meticulously formed letters.

The victims are all extraordinary.

She frowned, licking her lips as she nodded. "Yeah. So?"

The gesture he returned was an arched eyebrow, muscle ticking in an expression a school teacher would made if she had just given an incredibly dumb answer.

He motioned for the pad, and wrote with deliberate strokes, underlining his words with a sharp slash.

He gave it back to her, motioning to the words.

"You are extraordinary," she read. He didn't look as if he had just given her a compliment, just a fact that he would have rather not admitted. "That's it?" she asked, disbelief making her snap her words. "That's all you're giving me? Anthony, what about Seamus? I need you to tell me who the killer is!"

He shook his head, obviously frustrated with her lack of patience. Snatching at the pad, he wrote again.

It's not enough.

"What's not, Obi-Wan?" Dylan sighed, rubbing fingers into her hair, noticing with growing aggravation that his eyes followed each and every strand. Pulling her hands from her hair, she finally went for a last ditch effort. "Tell me who the killer is," she whispered, "And I'll let you yank a lock."

His body didn't move, but his face twitched, moving from her hair, to her face.

Finally, he opened his mouth, licking his lips, and coughing, trying to get his voice back.

It was slow, small, barely able to be heard.

"Death."

END CHAPTER