A Family Affair
Chapter 3.
Ian Nottingham crouched on the rooftop of the building across from the Greek diner that the Wielder and her so-called nephew had entered a few minutes ago. Through the high-powered rifle scope he always carried with him, he could see her and the boy she thought of as her nephew sitting at a table near the front. Showing no signs of the trauma he had suffered at Ian's hands in the alley beside the 11th Precinct mere minutes ago, the youth was talking animatedly while Lady Sara listened attentively.
Replaying what had transpired in that alley in his head, Ian winced as he remembered Sara's anger and the scathing insults she had uttered. He wondered if his master had sensed the Wielder's ire through their link, and he heaved a sigh as he got his answer when the cell phone in his coat pocket began to vibrate.
"Yes, Master?"
"What did you do to upset the Wielder this time, young Nottingham?" Kenneth Irons urbane tones asked without preamble.
"I mistakenly perceived a threat to her and acted accordingly," Ian replied.
"Tell me."
"At 09:00 this morning, I spotted a teenaged youth entering the alley next to the 11th Precinct. He was acting strangely so I maintained surveillance on him. My suspicion appeared founded when I observed him retrieve a weapon from where he had obviously secreted it on a prior occasion. He then placed the weapon, a small-caliber handgun, in his knapsack, and waited in the alley. The Wielder came out of the precinct at 09:45 and the Witchblade appeared to alert her to the danger. The boy started to approach her. That is when I intervened, disarming him."
"Is the child injured, Ian?"
"No."
"And I take it Sara Pezzini knows him."
"Yes. He is the grandson and namesake of her former captain, Joseph Siri, Sr. I will have to update the photos in Wielder's dossier. The boy has changed considerably since the photograph I have of him was taken. I did not recognize him."
"Yes, children rapidly change in appearance after a certain age," Irons murmured, thinking of a small boy with inquisitive hazel eyes and dark, curly hair who had once liked to dress up as a cowboy.
"What was the boy doing with a firearm?"
"He obtained it last night from a drug dealer who was supplying his girlfriend with narcotics. He followed her when she went to make a purchase, and the boy confronted the two of them. A scuffle ensued and the dealer pulled a weapon, but the boy managed to disarm him. The dealer has threatened him with retribution. La-- . . . Sara intends to bring the weapon to her friend the Medical Examiner, Vicky Po, and have it run for prints."
Ian mentally cringed in anticipation of a harsh rebuke from his master at his slipup. He had almost called Sara "Lady Sara," and he knew Irons didn't like him to use that honorific when referring to the Wielder. His master strongly suspected that Ian was infatuated with the Witchblade's Wielder, and while this had amused him at first, Irons had lately begun to disapprove of any hint of impropriety in his bodyguard's interactions with the beautiful homicide detective.
Thankfully, Irons had apparently decided to let the transgression pass this time. "Do you believe the boy's story, young Nottingham?"
Ian frowned, putting the scope to his eye once again. He saw that the waitress had brought Sara the check. "I am not entirely convinced that events transpired exactly the way the boy told his 'aunt' they did."
"And why is that?"
"Something he said when Sara indicated she was upset that he was in trouble."
"Tell me."
"He said 'I know I shouldn't have kept the gun, but I didn't use it,' which leads me to believe that the weapon was discharged at some point during the altercation, perhaps by the girlfriend or the drug dealer."
"Hmmm. Undoubtedly, the Wielder is going to attempt to apprehend this dealer so that he does not have the opportunity to make good on his threat. Stay very close to her, Ian. Do whatever you have to to ensure that no harm comes to her. And keep me informed of events."
"Yes, Master."
Ian put the phone back in his pocket and saw Sara and her nephew leave the diner. They walked slowly down the block away from the precinct, the Wielder doing the talking this time and the boy listening. Then they hugged, and the boy ambled off down the street. Sara Pezzini stood there watching him go for several moments, lifting her hand in farewell when he glanced back one last time. Then she turned and looked up to where Ian crouched on the rooftop. Even without the scope, he could see the scowl that marred her lovely features. She flipped him the bird, and then marched away down the street in the opposite direction, back toward the 11th Precinct.
Sighing heavily, Ian followed her. Obviously, she was still irked with him. Now that his master had all but given him permission to hunt down the drug dealer and eliminate the threat to Sara's nephew and, by association, to the Wielder herself, he allowed himself to remember the last thing he had said to her. Until now, his mind had flinched away from his declaration, or, more truthfully, from the fear he had glimpsed in her stunning green eyes when he'd said "I would do anything to please you." Why had he admitted that to her? As soon as he'd uttered the words, he had realized that he'd just given her yet one more reason to look at him like he was some kind of psychotic stalker.
In his heart of hearts, Ian desperately wanted Sara to look at him and truly see him for what he was: her Protector and champion, a man that would gladly sacrifice his life for her and die content knowing he had done his duty. He longed for the day that the first thing she did when she saw him was smile instead of frown and finger her service weapon. It pained him more than he cared to admit that Sara hated the sight of him, that what she thought when she laid eyes on him was "psycho," "stalker," and, worst of all, "freak."
Watching her hug the weeping boy had moved Ian more than he thought possible. What would it be like to find comfort in his Lady's arms? 'No,' Ian mentally chastised himself, 'that way lies danger. If my master ever found out the depths of my feelings for the Wielder . . .' He shuddered to think of Irons' rage and the severe punishment, perhaps even death, it would mean for him. His master would never allow his perfect killing machine to love anyone, least of all the current Wielder of the Witchblade.
What Kenneth Irons failed to realized was that Ian Nottingham no longer had any choice in the matter. He had given his heart and very soul to the woman presently stomping down the sidewalk below from the moment he had first laid eyes on her. While he was still unquestionably loyal to the man who had made him who and what he was, Ian knew he would ultimately betray his master if Irons ever ordered him to harm the beautiful, green- eyed homicide detective. He would end his own life first.
Surprisingly, this realization did not arouse the slightest feeling of trepidation or confusion in the assassin. He was not some mindless automaton that blindly followed orders. Ian held to a strict code of honor, one that had very little to do with his extensive training in special ops and several martial arts disciplines. Irons had insisted that his creation be capable of independent thought. Nottingham had been thoroughly schooled in all of the intellectual arts: philosophy, literature, art history. He was highly intelligent, fluent in a dozen languages, and possessed of an almost photographic memory. The genetic enhancements that had been done to his body gave him nearly superhuman strength, reaction time, and recuperative powers. He could literally dodge bullets and leap tall buildings (well, at least from a height of six stories, which was the most he'd ever attempted to jump from). But he was also the latest in a long line of warrior Protectors to the Wielder of the Witchblade. It was to her that his true loyalty belonged, no matter what Kenneth Irons had tried to breed into him. His heart and soul were hers to do with what she would, did she but know it.
"I would do anything to please you."
And so Ian had laid bare his soul to her in that alley, removing the armor of deadly assassin and bodyguard to one of the world's richest men. The memory of the fear that had crept into her green, green eyes following his proclamation hurt. A lot.
"My Lady, my Lady," he whispered as he watched her enter the 11th Precinct. "I am yours."
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Chapter 3.
Ian Nottingham crouched on the rooftop of the building across from the Greek diner that the Wielder and her so-called nephew had entered a few minutes ago. Through the high-powered rifle scope he always carried with him, he could see her and the boy she thought of as her nephew sitting at a table near the front. Showing no signs of the trauma he had suffered at Ian's hands in the alley beside the 11th Precinct mere minutes ago, the youth was talking animatedly while Lady Sara listened attentively.
Replaying what had transpired in that alley in his head, Ian winced as he remembered Sara's anger and the scathing insults she had uttered. He wondered if his master had sensed the Wielder's ire through their link, and he heaved a sigh as he got his answer when the cell phone in his coat pocket began to vibrate.
"Yes, Master?"
"What did you do to upset the Wielder this time, young Nottingham?" Kenneth Irons urbane tones asked without preamble.
"I mistakenly perceived a threat to her and acted accordingly," Ian replied.
"Tell me."
"At 09:00 this morning, I spotted a teenaged youth entering the alley next to the 11th Precinct. He was acting strangely so I maintained surveillance on him. My suspicion appeared founded when I observed him retrieve a weapon from where he had obviously secreted it on a prior occasion. He then placed the weapon, a small-caliber handgun, in his knapsack, and waited in the alley. The Wielder came out of the precinct at 09:45 and the Witchblade appeared to alert her to the danger. The boy started to approach her. That is when I intervened, disarming him."
"Is the child injured, Ian?"
"No."
"And I take it Sara Pezzini knows him."
"Yes. He is the grandson and namesake of her former captain, Joseph Siri, Sr. I will have to update the photos in Wielder's dossier. The boy has changed considerably since the photograph I have of him was taken. I did not recognize him."
"Yes, children rapidly change in appearance after a certain age," Irons murmured, thinking of a small boy with inquisitive hazel eyes and dark, curly hair who had once liked to dress up as a cowboy.
"What was the boy doing with a firearm?"
"He obtained it last night from a drug dealer who was supplying his girlfriend with narcotics. He followed her when she went to make a purchase, and the boy confronted the two of them. A scuffle ensued and the dealer pulled a weapon, but the boy managed to disarm him. The dealer has threatened him with retribution. La-- . . . Sara intends to bring the weapon to her friend the Medical Examiner, Vicky Po, and have it run for prints."
Ian mentally cringed in anticipation of a harsh rebuke from his master at his slipup. He had almost called Sara "Lady Sara," and he knew Irons didn't like him to use that honorific when referring to the Wielder. His master strongly suspected that Ian was infatuated with the Witchblade's Wielder, and while this had amused him at first, Irons had lately begun to disapprove of any hint of impropriety in his bodyguard's interactions with the beautiful homicide detective.
Thankfully, Irons had apparently decided to let the transgression pass this time. "Do you believe the boy's story, young Nottingham?"
Ian frowned, putting the scope to his eye once again. He saw that the waitress had brought Sara the check. "I am not entirely convinced that events transpired exactly the way the boy told his 'aunt' they did."
"And why is that?"
"Something he said when Sara indicated she was upset that he was in trouble."
"Tell me."
"He said 'I know I shouldn't have kept the gun, but I didn't use it,' which leads me to believe that the weapon was discharged at some point during the altercation, perhaps by the girlfriend or the drug dealer."
"Hmmm. Undoubtedly, the Wielder is going to attempt to apprehend this dealer so that he does not have the opportunity to make good on his threat. Stay very close to her, Ian. Do whatever you have to to ensure that no harm comes to her. And keep me informed of events."
"Yes, Master."
Ian put the phone back in his pocket and saw Sara and her nephew leave the diner. They walked slowly down the block away from the precinct, the Wielder doing the talking this time and the boy listening. Then they hugged, and the boy ambled off down the street. Sara Pezzini stood there watching him go for several moments, lifting her hand in farewell when he glanced back one last time. Then she turned and looked up to where Ian crouched on the rooftop. Even without the scope, he could see the scowl that marred her lovely features. She flipped him the bird, and then marched away down the street in the opposite direction, back toward the 11th Precinct.
Sighing heavily, Ian followed her. Obviously, she was still irked with him. Now that his master had all but given him permission to hunt down the drug dealer and eliminate the threat to Sara's nephew and, by association, to the Wielder herself, he allowed himself to remember the last thing he had said to her. Until now, his mind had flinched away from his declaration, or, more truthfully, from the fear he had glimpsed in her stunning green eyes when he'd said "I would do anything to please you." Why had he admitted that to her? As soon as he'd uttered the words, he had realized that he'd just given her yet one more reason to look at him like he was some kind of psychotic stalker.
In his heart of hearts, Ian desperately wanted Sara to look at him and truly see him for what he was: her Protector and champion, a man that would gladly sacrifice his life for her and die content knowing he had done his duty. He longed for the day that the first thing she did when she saw him was smile instead of frown and finger her service weapon. It pained him more than he cared to admit that Sara hated the sight of him, that what she thought when she laid eyes on him was "psycho," "stalker," and, worst of all, "freak."
Watching her hug the weeping boy had moved Ian more than he thought possible. What would it be like to find comfort in his Lady's arms? 'No,' Ian mentally chastised himself, 'that way lies danger. If my master ever found out the depths of my feelings for the Wielder . . .' He shuddered to think of Irons' rage and the severe punishment, perhaps even death, it would mean for him. His master would never allow his perfect killing machine to love anyone, least of all the current Wielder of the Witchblade.
What Kenneth Irons failed to realized was that Ian Nottingham no longer had any choice in the matter. He had given his heart and very soul to the woman presently stomping down the sidewalk below from the moment he had first laid eyes on her. While he was still unquestionably loyal to the man who had made him who and what he was, Ian knew he would ultimately betray his master if Irons ever ordered him to harm the beautiful, green- eyed homicide detective. He would end his own life first.
Surprisingly, this realization did not arouse the slightest feeling of trepidation or confusion in the assassin. He was not some mindless automaton that blindly followed orders. Ian held to a strict code of honor, one that had very little to do with his extensive training in special ops and several martial arts disciplines. Irons had insisted that his creation be capable of independent thought. Nottingham had been thoroughly schooled in all of the intellectual arts: philosophy, literature, art history. He was highly intelligent, fluent in a dozen languages, and possessed of an almost photographic memory. The genetic enhancements that had been done to his body gave him nearly superhuman strength, reaction time, and recuperative powers. He could literally dodge bullets and leap tall buildings (well, at least from a height of six stories, which was the most he'd ever attempted to jump from). But he was also the latest in a long line of warrior Protectors to the Wielder of the Witchblade. It was to her that his true loyalty belonged, no matter what Kenneth Irons had tried to breed into him. His heart and soul were hers to do with what she would, did she but know it.
"I would do anything to please you."
And so Ian had laid bare his soul to her in that alley, removing the armor of deadly assassin and bodyguard to one of the world's richest men. The memory of the fear that had crept into her green, green eyes following his proclamation hurt. A lot.
"My Lady, my Lady," he whispered as he watched her enter the 11th Precinct. "I am yours."
More to come. I love feedback!