A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wish I did. Just playing. Enjoy.
Chapter 12.
By the weary set of her shoulders, Ian Nottingham could tell that Sara Pezzini was exhausted when she finally left her nephew's house. Through his trusty rifle scope, he watched as she stood on the front porch and briefly talked with young Joseph, then hugged him before walking to her motorcycle.
Even though he knew she could not possibly see him in the nighttime darkness where he was parked some 300 yards away, he had to fight the urge to duck down in his seat when she paused before putting on her helmet and looked intently up and down the quiet, tree-lined street. He got the distinct feeling that it was he she was looking for. Ian didn't relax until she mounted the Buell, giving her nephew one last wave good-bye before starting it up and riding off.
He let two minutes elapse before he started his car and followed her. Ian had long since learned that there was no point in trying to keep her in sight when tailing her. Sara rode like a woman possessed, zipping in and out of traffic and breaking the speed limit when at all possible. And that was before she figured out he was following her every move.
More often than not, he was forced to rely on his bond with the Wielder to locate her eventual destination and then follow her there at his best possible speed. But as time went by, he was discovering that he was slowly getting better at anticipating her moves, although contrary to what his master thought, Sara Pezzini was far from predictable.
Like now, for instance. He frowned as he realized that she was not heading to her loft in Tribeca, as he had hoped. Instead, she was headed toward the East Village, more specifically the area known as Alphabet City. He sensed it when she stopped and parked her motorcycle. A few minutes later, he drove by the bike, which was in a rather seedy section of the neighborhood, and parked around the corner from it.
Getting out of his vehicle, Ian scanned his surroundings, noting the virtual absence of people and the surfeit of abandoned and dilapidated buildings. Keeping to the shadows of the buildings on the opposite side of the street, he followed his connection to the Wielder to a building that, according to the sticker on the plywood front doors, was condemned. That was when he noticed that Sara's presence inside it had attracted some unwanted attention.
A group of unsavory looking characters had begun to gather in front of the building, effectively blocking Lady Sara's egress from it.
Swiftly, Ian crossed the street and circled around to the back of the building, unnoticed by the thugs. Climbing the rusting fire escape, he gained access to the third floor via a gutted window. Silently padding across the warped and debris-strewn floor, Ian took up position by the window that directly overlooked the front stoop.
Moments later, the Wielder came out of the building, only to be confronted by the imprudent young men waiting outside.
Ian counted six of them. Not nearly a problem.
Typically, Sara showed absolutely no fear of the ruffians, sarcastically informing them that she was in no mood for the confrontation. Ian smiled as he heard her threaten to use her service weapon, but it faded away as her assailants seemed disinclined to believe her claim that she was a police officer. He decided that it was time to reveal his presence.
His sudden appearance in the third-floor window above the entrance and then effortless leap to the stoop below was gratifyingly awe-inspiring, and like the cowards he suspected them of being, the hooligans quickly backed down. After he fixed them with his most intimidating gaze and silently demonstrated that he was heavily armed and not at all adverse to violence, all but one of them fled.
The reprobate that foolishly elected to remain -- the same one that Ian had marked for death when he dared to insult his Lady -- boldly professed not to be frightened of him. And then, much to Nottingham's delight, the idiot made a move toward his jacket.
Ian took immense pleasure in snapping the man's right arm and laying him out on the ground. He drew one of his Glocks, but refrained from putting a bullet in the imbecile's brain when his Lady indicated that she would prefer he didn't shoot the miscreant. He was forced to content himself with eliciting an apology from the terrified man, who Lady Sara then graciously allowed to run away before Ian could inflict more damage on him, much to his chagrin.
He braced himself for a furious tongue-lashing from the Wielder, but she was astonishingly mild-mannered in declaring that she could have handled the situation herself. There followed the most civil conversation he could ever recall them having as he escorted her back to where her motorcycle was parked.
Ian had to forcibly restrain himself from getting down on one knee and declaring his undying devotion to her when she actually remembered to thank him for accompanying her nephew to his girlfriend's home earlier that day.
He heaved a mental sigh of regret when he sensed the return of her customary uneasiness around him after he stated that he lived to serve her. However, moments later, his heart rate sped up when his assurance that he would see her safely home elicited the first genuine smile he had ever seen from her in his presence. She blinked in surprise when he told her truthfully that it was good to finally see her smile. Unfortunately, after that, it became obvious that she was eager to part company with him, and he realized that his admission had unsettled her even further.
Still, Ian held onto the memory of that smile.
As promised, he saw her safely to her door, and then made the half- hour drive to the estate in Westchester, where his master and the promised punishment awaited him. The recollection of Sara's smile helped him endure the enthusiastic whipping Irons dealt him as well as the long hours that followed, when the pain of his cuts and welts did not let him fall asleep until just before dawn.
****
What felt like mere minutes after he had finally managed to fall asleep, Ian was awakened by Irons and instructed to report to Dr. Immo for a complete physical.
He sighed as he realized that his master must have decided that the beating he had administered the previous night had not sufficed in the way of punishment. Kenneth Irons was fully aware of the fact that Ian hated to be poked and prodded after having been subjected to so many medical procedures while he was growing up.
Wearily dragging himself from his bed, Ian showered, wincing as the hot water and soap made the raw cuts and welts on his back sting like the dickens.
Half an hour later, he reported to Dr. Immo's lab, feeling a tiny stab of satisfaction when his silent entrance went unnoticed by the gray- haired doctor, who jumped violently when he finally became aware of Ian's presence.
Immo had always been kind to Ian, apologizing profusely for the sometimes agonizing procedures that he'd endured at his hands -- whenever Irons hadn't been observing the treatments that was. When Ian had been a child, Immo would often reward him for his bravery by slipping him a sweet after the ordeal was over, even though his master strictly forbade them. However, Nottingham had never quite been able to disassociate the kindly, unassuming man from his intense hatred of the endless tests, injections, and operations he'd been forced to undergo under the physician's direction. So, he took secret pleasure in the knowledge that Immo was always slightly nervous around him, perhaps because the doctor was intimately acquainted with just what Ian was capable of.
"Oh! You startled me, young Nottingham!" the man said, eyes wide behind the glasses he wore.
Ian just stared at him unblinkingly.
"Here, put this on, and we'll get started."
Hanging his overcoat on a hook on the back of the door to the lab, Ian wordlessly took the proffered examination gown and stepped behind a nearby screen to disrobe. Even though the doctor had treated him nearly his entire life, Ian had been conditioned from an early age to feel extremely uncomfortable without several layers of clothing covering his body.
"Mr. Irons tells me your current assignment has proven to be a bit of a distraction to you, young man. He is worried that there may be a pathological reason for your atypical lack of concentration," the doctor said while Ian undressed.
"We both know this is punishment, Dr. Immo, so, please, spare me," Ian said tiredly, coming out from behind the screen.
"This will all be over before you know it, my boy," the doctor said. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the fresh wounds and welts on Ian's back when he turned to climb up on the examination table.
Ian closed his eyes in humiliation as the man pushed open the already gaping gown and more closely examined the evidence of his master's cruelty.
"Tsk, tsk. Some of these are quite deep and may become infected. I'd better give you a precautionary injection of antibiotics," the white- coated physician said. He turned away and opened a cabinet, taking out a syringe and an alcohol swab. Then he bent down and opened a small refrigerator located below the countertop, removing a vial of clear liquid, which he shook until it became cloudy.
"Detective Pezzini is a very beautiful woman, Ian," Immo said, turning around, the now-filled syringe in his hand. "It is perfectly normal for a healthy young man like yourself to find her attractive." He wiped Ian's arm with the alcohol swab.
"I am not comfortable discussing this subject, Doctor," Ian said stiffly, instinctively looking away as the needle went into his flesh. A slight, burning pain spread from the injection site, probably from a minute amount of alcohol that had accidentally entered his vein. However, the discomfort quickly faded.
"Ah, I understand. These feelings and their, um, physical manifestations must be very new and frightening for you. Worry not, young Nottingham, every cloud has a silver lining," the doctor said cheerfully. "Now, let's get the most unpleasant part of your physical out of the way, shall we? We'll start with the examination of your prostate."
'Sara smiled at me last night,' Ian thought desperately. 'A genuine smile. And something I said caused it.' He repeated this to himself over and over, like a mantra.
****
Two-and-a-half hours later, Nottingham left the lab and then the estate, and eagerly headed toward the city to resume his surveillance duties of the Wielder.
Minutes after Ian left Immo's lab, the phone there rang.
"Yes, Mr. Irons?"
"Did you administer the toxin, Dr. Immo?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Prepare the antidote, but do not give it to Ian until I specifically order you to do so. Do you understand, Doctor?"
"Perfectly," Dr. Immo said, thinking of the syringe he had concealed in the lining of Ian's overcoat.
It had been fortunate indeed that young Nottingham had chosen to hang up his coat on the hook behind the door instead of slinging it over the screen or tossing it onto the table before changing into his examination gown. The doctor knew that the door was practically the only place in the exam room not captured by the hidden camera via which Irons had no doubt observed his servant's humiliating physical.
His subterfuge would have to suffice. Immo didn't dare openly risk Irons' displeasure, especially where his pet assassin was concerned. Despite his years of loyal service to the man, the doctor was all too aware of the fact that everybody in Irons' employ was expendable. Everybody. Including, unfortunately, Ian Nottingham. The three clones that lay in stasis in the cold room down the hall saw to that.
But what the billionaire hadn't counted on was Immo's unwillingness to let something he'd dedicated the better part of his life to be destroyed on the whim of a megalomaniacal old man. Therefore, the doctor had taken the enormous gamble of hiding in the lining of his overcoat the antidote to the poison even now coursing through the youngster's veins. The boy had at most 72 hours after the onset of symptoms to take the antidote. After that, his condition would in all likelihood rapidly deteriorate until he died.
Dr. Immo could only hope that once Ian started to feel ill, he would recall what the doctor had said to him immediately after he'd injected him with the toxin. Even then, Immo realized, discovering the syringe would require a leap of intuition on the young man's part. However, better than perhaps anyone else -- even the man he called his master -- Dr. Immo knew just how brilliant Ian Nottingham was.
More to come. The feedback is truly inspiring. Thanks to all of you! I'm glad you people are enjoying the story. Keep it coming!
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wish I did. Just playing. Enjoy.
Chapter 12.
By the weary set of her shoulders, Ian Nottingham could tell that Sara Pezzini was exhausted when she finally left her nephew's house. Through his trusty rifle scope, he watched as she stood on the front porch and briefly talked with young Joseph, then hugged him before walking to her motorcycle.
Even though he knew she could not possibly see him in the nighttime darkness where he was parked some 300 yards away, he had to fight the urge to duck down in his seat when she paused before putting on her helmet and looked intently up and down the quiet, tree-lined street. He got the distinct feeling that it was he she was looking for. Ian didn't relax until she mounted the Buell, giving her nephew one last wave good-bye before starting it up and riding off.
He let two minutes elapse before he started his car and followed her. Ian had long since learned that there was no point in trying to keep her in sight when tailing her. Sara rode like a woman possessed, zipping in and out of traffic and breaking the speed limit when at all possible. And that was before she figured out he was following her every move.
More often than not, he was forced to rely on his bond with the Wielder to locate her eventual destination and then follow her there at his best possible speed. But as time went by, he was discovering that he was slowly getting better at anticipating her moves, although contrary to what his master thought, Sara Pezzini was far from predictable.
Like now, for instance. He frowned as he realized that she was not heading to her loft in Tribeca, as he had hoped. Instead, she was headed toward the East Village, more specifically the area known as Alphabet City. He sensed it when she stopped and parked her motorcycle. A few minutes later, he drove by the bike, which was in a rather seedy section of the neighborhood, and parked around the corner from it.
Getting out of his vehicle, Ian scanned his surroundings, noting the virtual absence of people and the surfeit of abandoned and dilapidated buildings. Keeping to the shadows of the buildings on the opposite side of the street, he followed his connection to the Wielder to a building that, according to the sticker on the plywood front doors, was condemned. That was when he noticed that Sara's presence inside it had attracted some unwanted attention.
A group of unsavory looking characters had begun to gather in front of the building, effectively blocking Lady Sara's egress from it.
Swiftly, Ian crossed the street and circled around to the back of the building, unnoticed by the thugs. Climbing the rusting fire escape, he gained access to the third floor via a gutted window. Silently padding across the warped and debris-strewn floor, Ian took up position by the window that directly overlooked the front stoop.
Moments later, the Wielder came out of the building, only to be confronted by the imprudent young men waiting outside.
Ian counted six of them. Not nearly a problem.
Typically, Sara showed absolutely no fear of the ruffians, sarcastically informing them that she was in no mood for the confrontation. Ian smiled as he heard her threaten to use her service weapon, but it faded away as her assailants seemed disinclined to believe her claim that she was a police officer. He decided that it was time to reveal his presence.
His sudden appearance in the third-floor window above the entrance and then effortless leap to the stoop below was gratifyingly awe-inspiring, and like the cowards he suspected them of being, the hooligans quickly backed down. After he fixed them with his most intimidating gaze and silently demonstrated that he was heavily armed and not at all adverse to violence, all but one of them fled.
The reprobate that foolishly elected to remain -- the same one that Ian had marked for death when he dared to insult his Lady -- boldly professed not to be frightened of him. And then, much to Nottingham's delight, the idiot made a move toward his jacket.
Ian took immense pleasure in snapping the man's right arm and laying him out on the ground. He drew one of his Glocks, but refrained from putting a bullet in the imbecile's brain when his Lady indicated that she would prefer he didn't shoot the miscreant. He was forced to content himself with eliciting an apology from the terrified man, who Lady Sara then graciously allowed to run away before Ian could inflict more damage on him, much to his chagrin.
He braced himself for a furious tongue-lashing from the Wielder, but she was astonishingly mild-mannered in declaring that she could have handled the situation herself. There followed the most civil conversation he could ever recall them having as he escorted her back to where her motorcycle was parked.
Ian had to forcibly restrain himself from getting down on one knee and declaring his undying devotion to her when she actually remembered to thank him for accompanying her nephew to his girlfriend's home earlier that day.
He heaved a mental sigh of regret when he sensed the return of her customary uneasiness around him after he stated that he lived to serve her. However, moments later, his heart rate sped up when his assurance that he would see her safely home elicited the first genuine smile he had ever seen from her in his presence. She blinked in surprise when he told her truthfully that it was good to finally see her smile. Unfortunately, after that, it became obvious that she was eager to part company with him, and he realized that his admission had unsettled her even further.
Still, Ian held onto the memory of that smile.
As promised, he saw her safely to her door, and then made the half- hour drive to the estate in Westchester, where his master and the promised punishment awaited him. The recollection of Sara's smile helped him endure the enthusiastic whipping Irons dealt him as well as the long hours that followed, when the pain of his cuts and welts did not let him fall asleep until just before dawn.
****
What felt like mere minutes after he had finally managed to fall asleep, Ian was awakened by Irons and instructed to report to Dr. Immo for a complete physical.
He sighed as he realized that his master must have decided that the beating he had administered the previous night had not sufficed in the way of punishment. Kenneth Irons was fully aware of the fact that Ian hated to be poked and prodded after having been subjected to so many medical procedures while he was growing up.
Wearily dragging himself from his bed, Ian showered, wincing as the hot water and soap made the raw cuts and welts on his back sting like the dickens.
Half an hour later, he reported to Dr. Immo's lab, feeling a tiny stab of satisfaction when his silent entrance went unnoticed by the gray- haired doctor, who jumped violently when he finally became aware of Ian's presence.
Immo had always been kind to Ian, apologizing profusely for the sometimes agonizing procedures that he'd endured at his hands -- whenever Irons hadn't been observing the treatments that was. When Ian had been a child, Immo would often reward him for his bravery by slipping him a sweet after the ordeal was over, even though his master strictly forbade them. However, Nottingham had never quite been able to disassociate the kindly, unassuming man from his intense hatred of the endless tests, injections, and operations he'd been forced to undergo under the physician's direction. So, he took secret pleasure in the knowledge that Immo was always slightly nervous around him, perhaps because the doctor was intimately acquainted with just what Ian was capable of.
"Oh! You startled me, young Nottingham!" the man said, eyes wide behind the glasses he wore.
Ian just stared at him unblinkingly.
"Here, put this on, and we'll get started."
Hanging his overcoat on a hook on the back of the door to the lab, Ian wordlessly took the proffered examination gown and stepped behind a nearby screen to disrobe. Even though the doctor had treated him nearly his entire life, Ian had been conditioned from an early age to feel extremely uncomfortable without several layers of clothing covering his body.
"Mr. Irons tells me your current assignment has proven to be a bit of a distraction to you, young man. He is worried that there may be a pathological reason for your atypical lack of concentration," the doctor said while Ian undressed.
"We both know this is punishment, Dr. Immo, so, please, spare me," Ian said tiredly, coming out from behind the screen.
"This will all be over before you know it, my boy," the doctor said. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the fresh wounds and welts on Ian's back when he turned to climb up on the examination table.
Ian closed his eyes in humiliation as the man pushed open the already gaping gown and more closely examined the evidence of his master's cruelty.
"Tsk, tsk. Some of these are quite deep and may become infected. I'd better give you a precautionary injection of antibiotics," the white- coated physician said. He turned away and opened a cabinet, taking out a syringe and an alcohol swab. Then he bent down and opened a small refrigerator located below the countertop, removing a vial of clear liquid, which he shook until it became cloudy.
"Detective Pezzini is a very beautiful woman, Ian," Immo said, turning around, the now-filled syringe in his hand. "It is perfectly normal for a healthy young man like yourself to find her attractive." He wiped Ian's arm with the alcohol swab.
"I am not comfortable discussing this subject, Doctor," Ian said stiffly, instinctively looking away as the needle went into his flesh. A slight, burning pain spread from the injection site, probably from a minute amount of alcohol that had accidentally entered his vein. However, the discomfort quickly faded.
"Ah, I understand. These feelings and their, um, physical manifestations must be very new and frightening for you. Worry not, young Nottingham, every cloud has a silver lining," the doctor said cheerfully. "Now, let's get the most unpleasant part of your physical out of the way, shall we? We'll start with the examination of your prostate."
'Sara smiled at me last night,' Ian thought desperately. 'A genuine smile. And something I said caused it.' He repeated this to himself over and over, like a mantra.
****
Two-and-a-half hours later, Nottingham left the lab and then the estate, and eagerly headed toward the city to resume his surveillance duties of the Wielder.
Minutes after Ian left Immo's lab, the phone there rang.
"Yes, Mr. Irons?"
"Did you administer the toxin, Dr. Immo?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Prepare the antidote, but do not give it to Ian until I specifically order you to do so. Do you understand, Doctor?"
"Perfectly," Dr. Immo said, thinking of the syringe he had concealed in the lining of Ian's overcoat.
It had been fortunate indeed that young Nottingham had chosen to hang up his coat on the hook behind the door instead of slinging it over the screen or tossing it onto the table before changing into his examination gown. The doctor knew that the door was practically the only place in the exam room not captured by the hidden camera via which Irons had no doubt observed his servant's humiliating physical.
His subterfuge would have to suffice. Immo didn't dare openly risk Irons' displeasure, especially where his pet assassin was concerned. Despite his years of loyal service to the man, the doctor was all too aware of the fact that everybody in Irons' employ was expendable. Everybody. Including, unfortunately, Ian Nottingham. The three clones that lay in stasis in the cold room down the hall saw to that.
But what the billionaire hadn't counted on was Immo's unwillingness to let something he'd dedicated the better part of his life to be destroyed on the whim of a megalomaniacal old man. Therefore, the doctor had taken the enormous gamble of hiding in the lining of his overcoat the antidote to the poison even now coursing through the youngster's veins. The boy had at most 72 hours after the onset of symptoms to take the antidote. After that, his condition would in all likelihood rapidly deteriorate until he died.
Dr. Immo could only hope that once Ian started to feel ill, he would recall what the doctor had said to him immediately after he'd injected him with the toxin. Even then, Immo realized, discovering the syringe would require a leap of intuition on the young man's part. However, better than perhaps anyone else -- even the man he called his master -- Dr. Immo knew just how brilliant Ian Nottingham was.
More to come. The feedback is truly inspiring. Thanks to all of you! I'm glad you people are enjoying the story. Keep it coming!