Alliance
By The Shadower
Chapter Two
Feedback: If I get enough, positive or negative, you'll see more of this story soon.
Rating: PG-13. Language, some violence, emotional intensity. May use F-word in later chapters.
Spoilers: No specific ones come to mind. Possibly some general ones but nothing major.
AN: I won't go so far as to say John fans can't enjoy this, especially with the lack of Profiler fics these days. But don't expect me to like him, or to put him in a good role. I like Bailey and Jack a lot. I don't intend Rachel to have much if any role in this fic, but she is mentioned in this chapter. Also, again, thanks to Stephen King for the format, and parts of this are so obviously inspired by Thomas Harris, thanks to him too.
The back of the cell was dark, almost too dark for Bailey to make out the man's face. As he looked he felt as though his memory were helping him, somehow. Filling in the gaps. Bailey had seen this man somewhere before.
He stood looking for a full minute, before a hard voice came from the cell, echoing off the cement walls.
"Bailey Malone. It's been a long time. Too long, I'd say."
As he spoke, the man leaned forward and the light caught his face. He was about forty-five, and wiry. His cheeks were pockmarked, his cheekbones prominent. A shadow of a beard lingered over his slightly pointed chin.
(It had been longer once.)
His forehead was broad, his thin gray hair receding slightly, in a way that was somehow familiar.
His eyes were sharp. There was a viciousness there, Bailey thought, the same primal animalism that had been there four years ago. But now there was something else as well. Anger.
Bailey felt that those eyes had never held true anger before.
(Not even when we caught him.)
Bailey spoke, his voice not as calm as he would have preferred.
"John Doe."
There was amusement in
(Jack)
the man's eyes.
"That's what it says on my record, Bailey. But you know better, don't you? You know my name, at least the name you gave me."
"Jack."
"That's right. How much do you remember, Bailey? Do you remember catching me? It wasn't just you, was it? Mostly Rachel, really, though Sam probably contributed something too. You do remember Rachel, don't you? And Sam?"
Bailey stared at him, unsure how to respond.
"And me?"
Jack seemed to be enjoying himself.
"You do remember me, don't you Bailey?"
"You- I know you were a serial killer. I know I caught you, maybe with some others."
"And what about Samantha, Bailey? Do you remember about Samantha?"
"You were obsessed with her."
Jack seemed almost to smile, but then his face was again cast into jutting shadows by the dim light, showing only rage.
"That's right. I was obsessed with her and now she's dead. Have you been to your precious CIA about it? Have you asked them to help you find her killer?"
"Samantha Waters was NOT a profiler. She was a dress designer."
"Do you really believe that? They haven't let you investigate, have they? They're covering it up. They won't let you find the answers. THEY KILLED HER. They killed her, and you know it."
Bailey didn't stop to ask why the CIA would want to kill Samantha Waters. He'd seen what they did to agents who tried to leave, people who knew too much.
Was Samantha Waters one of those? Did she fall in that category?
He was so absorbed in thought that he hadn't noticed Jack get up and move to within mere inches of the barrier separating the cell from the corridor.
"Let me out," Jack said in an urgent, taunting whisper.
"You can't trust anyone in the CIA now, same with the FBI. Think about it, Bail, who do you KNOW isn't involved in the murder of Samantha Waters?"
He was right, of course. Bailey looked at the lock. So easy to break... it would be no challenge at all to break Jack out. But did he really want to? More importantly, could he?
Could he release one of the most dangerous serial killers on the face of the planet to help him find Samantha's killer?
(Blonde brown eyes high forehead)
Her face came full blown into his mind, perfect in every detail. He took his gun out of its holster and blew the lock apart.
An alarm sounded. Guards rushed to subdue him. He kicked one in the stomach. The guard hit the floor, his holster disconnecting on impact and sliding across the floor. Bailey turned to the other guard. The man was coming at him, hand on gun, authoritive expression fixed on face.
A great red hole appeared in his forehead, blood spilling down onto his face. He fell.
Jack began walking briskly toward the exit, pocketing the smoking gun he'd used on the guard, and nodding at Bailey to follow him. An expression of sadistic glee was fixed on his face.
AN: Let me know if you like it, let me know if you don't, but if you don't let me know it won't be pretty.
By The Shadower
Chapter Two
Feedback: If I get enough, positive or negative, you'll see more of this story soon.
Rating: PG-13. Language, some violence, emotional intensity. May use F-word in later chapters.
Spoilers: No specific ones come to mind. Possibly some general ones but nothing major.
AN: I won't go so far as to say John fans can't enjoy this, especially with the lack of Profiler fics these days. But don't expect me to like him, or to put him in a good role. I like Bailey and Jack a lot. I don't intend Rachel to have much if any role in this fic, but she is mentioned in this chapter. Also, again, thanks to Stephen King for the format, and parts of this are so obviously inspired by Thomas Harris, thanks to him too.
The back of the cell was dark, almost too dark for Bailey to make out the man's face. As he looked he felt as though his memory were helping him, somehow. Filling in the gaps. Bailey had seen this man somewhere before.
He stood looking for a full minute, before a hard voice came from the cell, echoing off the cement walls.
"Bailey Malone. It's been a long time. Too long, I'd say."
As he spoke, the man leaned forward and the light caught his face. He was about forty-five, and wiry. His cheeks were pockmarked, his cheekbones prominent. A shadow of a beard lingered over his slightly pointed chin.
(It had been longer once.)
His forehead was broad, his thin gray hair receding slightly, in a way that was somehow familiar.
His eyes were sharp. There was a viciousness there, Bailey thought, the same primal animalism that had been there four years ago. But now there was something else as well. Anger.
Bailey felt that those eyes had never held true anger before.
(Not even when we caught him.)
Bailey spoke, his voice not as calm as he would have preferred.
"John Doe."
There was amusement in
(Jack)
the man's eyes.
"That's what it says on my record, Bailey. But you know better, don't you? You know my name, at least the name you gave me."
"Jack."
"That's right. How much do you remember, Bailey? Do you remember catching me? It wasn't just you, was it? Mostly Rachel, really, though Sam probably contributed something too. You do remember Rachel, don't you? And Sam?"
Bailey stared at him, unsure how to respond.
"And me?"
Jack seemed to be enjoying himself.
"You do remember me, don't you Bailey?"
"You- I know you were a serial killer. I know I caught you, maybe with some others."
"And what about Samantha, Bailey? Do you remember about Samantha?"
"You were obsessed with her."
Jack seemed almost to smile, but then his face was again cast into jutting shadows by the dim light, showing only rage.
"That's right. I was obsessed with her and now she's dead. Have you been to your precious CIA about it? Have you asked them to help you find her killer?"
"Samantha Waters was NOT a profiler. She was a dress designer."
"Do you really believe that? They haven't let you investigate, have they? They're covering it up. They won't let you find the answers. THEY KILLED HER. They killed her, and you know it."
Bailey didn't stop to ask why the CIA would want to kill Samantha Waters. He'd seen what they did to agents who tried to leave, people who knew too much.
Was Samantha Waters one of those? Did she fall in that category?
He was so absorbed in thought that he hadn't noticed Jack get up and move to within mere inches of the barrier separating the cell from the corridor.
"Let me out," Jack said in an urgent, taunting whisper.
"You can't trust anyone in the CIA now, same with the FBI. Think about it, Bail, who do you KNOW isn't involved in the murder of Samantha Waters?"
He was right, of course. Bailey looked at the lock. So easy to break... it would be no challenge at all to break Jack out. But did he really want to? More importantly, could he?
Could he release one of the most dangerous serial killers on the face of the planet to help him find Samantha's killer?
(Blonde brown eyes high forehead)
Her face came full blown into his mind, perfect in every detail. He took his gun out of its holster and blew the lock apart.
An alarm sounded. Guards rushed to subdue him. He kicked one in the stomach. The guard hit the floor, his holster disconnecting on impact and sliding across the floor. Bailey turned to the other guard. The man was coming at him, hand on gun, authoritive expression fixed on face.
A great red hole appeared in his forehead, blood spilling down onto his face. He fell.
Jack began walking briskly toward the exit, pocketing the smoking gun he'd used on the guard, and nodding at Bailey to follow him. An expression of sadistic glee was fixed on his face.
AN: Let me know if you like it, let me know if you don't, but if you don't let me know it won't be pretty.