December 24, 2005, 645 PM, Switzerland
In a gesture more timid, Frank Reilley knocked hesitantly on the hotel room door. From within, he heard the response "Enter," heard someone pad lightly across the door, heard someone turn the door handle under a hand, heard the door creak open only slightly. He stopped it with his foot before it slammed closed again. Hesitantly, he stepped inside the room, letting the door fall closed behind him, and leaned against the wood.
He breathed deep, inhaling once, exhaling the air. He repeated the cycle twice, finally calling, "Boss?"
"Yes?" Sam's voice held no surprise, and it held no malice. Frank Reilley noted Sam sounded almost. . . human, a first since he had started working directly for the younger man, and a long time coming since he had known the younger man.
"Please don't do this," he pleaded.
Sam did not respond for several moments, and then he spoke, only to ask, "Mind stepping further into the room, Frank? I like to see the people I am talking to."
Frank Reilley nodded, realizing belatedly Sam could not see the gesture. He gingerly pushed himself off the door, walking further into the hotel room, cautiously sitting on the edge of an armchair. Sam sat on the bed, hair ruffled, still wet from an earlier shower; he sat cross-legged, dressed in gray slacks and a white dress shirt, untucked, hanging over the pants waist. A laptop was before him, and the younger man typed quickly, a half-scowl directed to the screen.
"Sir?" asked Frank Reilley, a gentle reminder of his presence.
"Frank, yes, give me just a minute. I'm recording some recent observations of my charge."
Frank nodded, and he turned to the open window. Sam had drawn open the drapes, and in the far distance, the very far distance, he could just barely see a mountain range. From the sky's look, it would be a white Christmas morning.
Sam's charge, he remembered, Sam's charge was Asher Jacobs.
"Now," Sam's voice pulled him from his reverie, and the older man turned quickly from the window view to face his superior. "Now," Sam repeated, "what is this about not doing this?"
"Don't go to see Asher tonight," he responded quietly, but his voice was firm.
"You already told me you hated me, Reilley."
"Yes, but I-"
"And, I told you that it was all in day's work. Surely, you did not think I would strive to change your opinion now?"
"No, just-"
"So, what is this about, old man? I have given you clear instructions. You were to meet Asher and her precious little boyfriend, and you were to take them somewhere, learn her motives, her plans, and re-gain some semblance of her trust, which you did. Very well, I might add. So, why turn away now?"
"She is my granddaughter, Clarke."
"No," Sam shook his head, and a clump of wet hair fell across his forehead, "No. She is not your granddaughter. She is an Immortal. She is a foundling. She is not your blood."
"I know the physics. I, too, am a Watcher, but in heart, in soul, in family law, she is my granddaughter."
"Touching. But I've lost faith in such love soft spots. So, tell me, old man. You going to protect her from me?"
"Yes." Again, his voice was quiet, but firm.
"How perfectly quaint." Sam rose from the bed, arching his back in a stretch, and Frank Reilley noticed how cat-like the gesture was, knowing the younger man to be graceful as one, but also as equally dangerous. "In retrospect, I am truly sorry for your loss then."
"If you harm one-"
Sam bent over suitcase, straightening again several moments later. A slow, sardonic smile spread across his face. "Not her loss, Reilly. Your loss." And, he fired the shotgun. Frank Reilley slumped over the arm of the chair, an expression of mixed horror, threat, and apologism frozen on his face.
Sam Clarke tossed the gun onto the bed, where it bounced once across the spread, before it came to a calm halt. He turned to the window, stretching again. "Such a pity," he mumbled to himself, and then he repeated: "It ends tonight."
In a gesture more timid, Frank Reilley knocked hesitantly on the hotel room door. From within, he heard the response "Enter," heard someone pad lightly across the door, heard someone turn the door handle under a hand, heard the door creak open only slightly. He stopped it with his foot before it slammed closed again. Hesitantly, he stepped inside the room, letting the door fall closed behind him, and leaned against the wood.
He breathed deep, inhaling once, exhaling the air. He repeated the cycle twice, finally calling, "Boss?"
"Yes?" Sam's voice held no surprise, and it held no malice. Frank Reilley noted Sam sounded almost. . . human, a first since he had started working directly for the younger man, and a long time coming since he had known the younger man.
"Please don't do this," he pleaded.
Sam did not respond for several moments, and then he spoke, only to ask, "Mind stepping further into the room, Frank? I like to see the people I am talking to."
Frank Reilley nodded, realizing belatedly Sam could not see the gesture. He gingerly pushed himself off the door, walking further into the hotel room, cautiously sitting on the edge of an armchair. Sam sat on the bed, hair ruffled, still wet from an earlier shower; he sat cross-legged, dressed in gray slacks and a white dress shirt, untucked, hanging over the pants waist. A laptop was before him, and the younger man typed quickly, a half-scowl directed to the screen.
"Sir?" asked Frank Reilley, a gentle reminder of his presence.
"Frank, yes, give me just a minute. I'm recording some recent observations of my charge."
Frank nodded, and he turned to the open window. Sam had drawn open the drapes, and in the far distance, the very far distance, he could just barely see a mountain range. From the sky's look, it would be a white Christmas morning.
Sam's charge, he remembered, Sam's charge was Asher Jacobs.
"Now," Sam's voice pulled him from his reverie, and the older man turned quickly from the window view to face his superior. "Now," Sam repeated, "what is this about not doing this?"
"Don't go to see Asher tonight," he responded quietly, but his voice was firm.
"You already told me you hated me, Reilley."
"Yes, but I-"
"And, I told you that it was all in day's work. Surely, you did not think I would strive to change your opinion now?"
"No, just-"
"So, what is this about, old man? I have given you clear instructions. You were to meet Asher and her precious little boyfriend, and you were to take them somewhere, learn her motives, her plans, and re-gain some semblance of her trust, which you did. Very well, I might add. So, why turn away now?"
"She is my granddaughter, Clarke."
"No," Sam shook his head, and a clump of wet hair fell across his forehead, "No. She is not your granddaughter. She is an Immortal. She is a foundling. She is not your blood."
"I know the physics. I, too, am a Watcher, but in heart, in soul, in family law, she is my granddaughter."
"Touching. But I've lost faith in such love soft spots. So, tell me, old man. You going to protect her from me?"
"Yes." Again, his voice was quiet, but firm.
"How perfectly quaint." Sam rose from the bed, arching his back in a stretch, and Frank Reilley noticed how cat-like the gesture was, knowing the younger man to be graceful as one, but also as equally dangerous. "In retrospect, I am truly sorry for your loss then."
"If you harm one-"
Sam bent over suitcase, straightening again several moments later. A slow, sardonic smile spread across his face. "Not her loss, Reilly. Your loss." And, he fired the shotgun. Frank Reilley slumped over the arm of the chair, an expression of mixed horror, threat, and apologism frozen on his face.
Sam Clarke tossed the gun onto the bed, where it bounced once across the spread, before it came to a calm halt. He turned to the window, stretching again. "Such a pity," he mumbled to himself, and then he repeated: "It ends tonight."