He joined her a few minutes later with a duffle bag and a weapons pack. "Alright, you ready?" he asked, heading for the door. "Also, fair warning, we're going to be sharing close quarters with Jim, so if that changes your packing arrangements at all, do it now."
She shook her head, snorting. "No, why would it? I'm fine, let's go," she chuckled, dropping the towel she'd been holding to her neck and picking up her bag, turning for the door. "I'm a little surprised I'm coming, though."
"We had a discussion about it," he said, heading for the elevator. "I won." Well, more Jim had been apathetic about the outcome, but with Jim that was about as close to a win as one could get.
"So what was that noise upstairs, anyway?" she sighed, stepping into the lift as it opened. "That network Sherrinford mentioned, trying to make a move? I mean, I assume that's why the three of us are sneaking off to hide. Oh, god, I'm going to be so bored."
"Yes, the network he mentioned. They didn't have a chance of getting close to Jim, from what I saw, but they had the right target area, which means this location has been compromised and we're laying low for a while."
She nodded, sighing again as the elevator began to descend. Besides the general boredom that she was facing - what the hell was she going to do with herself? - this meant she had to live with Jim. Jim fucking Moriarty. It wasn't a comfortable thought.
He glanced over at her, shifting his pack so the strap wasn't sitting on his shoulder holster. "If you'd rather stay here, be my guest," he said dryly.
She grimaced. "If you think I'm a high enough target to warrant going, I'm not going to try to argue. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."
"Terribly sorry for trying to save your ass," he muttered. He honestly wasn't in the mood to deal with her complaining, and headed out of the elevator at a brisk pace, in the direction of the garage.
She sighed and headed after him with a silent shake of her head, keeping just a pace behind him. Jim was waiting for them, leaning against a nondescript black SUV. "Hi, kids. Get in the van."
He smirked, reaching up to catch the keys tossed in his direction, walking around to the driver's side. "Do you have any candy or are we just going to have to take your word for it?"
"I don't need any," he snorted, climbing into the passenger side as Lorna got into the back. "Look how easily you were lured."
"You're really bad at luring if your prey is driving the vehicle," he shot back, starting the car up. "Where are we going?"
"A block from the Mediterranean place. I'll point it out when we get there," Jim directed, buckling his seat belt. Mostly because Moran was in the car, and his bodyguard was serious about his job.
He nodded, pulling onto the road once he heard the click and starting to take a different round-about route than he had when they'd gone to the restaurant, watching for tails. "How long do you want to stay under?"
"As long as it takes to get people to New York to send that bastard a message. I've completely forgotten his name. He means that little to me. The problem is we have to find him first," he snorted, rolling his eyes, as if this was unbelievable. "Until then, I'll just work from the safehouse."
He nods in agreement, not bothering to ask any further questions as he headed down back alleys. A few minutes later Jim pointed out the apartment and he pulled into a parking garage nearby.
The three of them left the garage before Jim said anything, looking straight ahead as he rounded the corner and climbed the stairs up to the flat door, keys in hand. "If you two interfere with my ability to work or sleep, I will be unhappy. I'm hoping that was already obvious."
Lorna cleared her throat. "It was, sir."
Moran watched as he keyed into the flat. "This isn't my first time in close quarters with you, boss," he said with a bit of a smirk. "I promise not to claw the couches or piss on the rug."
He smirked, leading the way into the flat. "Alright, the bigger room is, obviously, mine. But romp around the rest of the place as much as you like," he shrugged, taking his bag and walking down the narrow hall and into a room that was undoubtedly his, where he shut the door behind him. Lorna let out a long breath.
Moran walked over to the other bedroom. It was small, but not terribly so, and there was a television on the bureau. He dumped his bag on the bed, before sitting on it, considering the surroundings. There were no windows, and he was grateful for it. "It's not terrible."
She followed him in, eyes flitting across the blank white walls, the simple furniture, the cramped feeling to it all. It was almost exactly like her first flat, except for the lack of cracking plaster and a sense of lingering despair that was handed down to each new occupant as the old one left. "I've had worse," was all she said in return, moving to unpack her things into the dresser.
He nodded, staring up at the ceiling. "So have I," he agreed. "After army barracks and various prisons I've learned to stop complaining."
"Mm. Most of my bad ones are heroin dens. That's just a different class of shitty," she sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed as she finished putting away her clothes. It bothered her that there were no windows. Moran probably loved it. "God, I'm going to be useless in here. I mean, you guys, you can do most of your work through emails and shit. But god, are grifters bad at online communication."
He sneered a bit. "Really? I would have thought that would be a strong point for you lot. Post a few well-planned pictures and you can rule the world."
She chuckled. "No, no, online isn't the same. Pictures and words on a screen don't impact people as much. It isn't what you say, it's how you say it. I mean, I'm sure there's a class of incredibly talented cyber-grifters that aren't emailing people as struggling Nigerian princes, but the majority of us are better at getting what we want in person. And it means there are less pictures of us in circulation. Less chance of being recognized by someone who's never seen us before."
"Mmm... I suppose that's fair," he said in agreement, sighing before standing and walking over to her, reaching out to tilt her head and get a look at the gash on her neck. "You need to get this covered up. Did he get you anywhere else?"
She was not pleased that she had to tilt her head back less sitting on the bed than she would have standing on the ground. "No, that's the only cut. I got a pretty good knee to the ribs, but at the most it's a nasty bruise," she sighed, shrugging a little. "If you have a medkit on you, cool, but otherwise..."
"Otherwise I'll be making a run to the store, because any safehouse without a med kit is a damned death trap," he muttered, rolling his eyes and heading into the adjoining bathroom. He returned, kit in hand, and set it beside her, pulling out antiseptic ointment and opening the tube, starting to spread it carefully over the cut.
Her jaw tightened a little but other than that she didn't react, doing her best to stay still for him. She didn't feel good about the work she'd done with O'Hare. She'd started out alright, had been doing well, in fact, until she'd tried to get physical. She should have known someone with that much bottled hatred, self and otherwise, would instantly suspect deceit when someone suddenly was interested. "Thanks for being punctual when I called for help. I shouldn't have tried to rush it, I just.. didn't feel like we had a lot of time. Guess I was kinda right."
"Yes, you were kind of right," he said as he wiped his fingers on his trousers and closed the tube up, grabbing some gauze and pressing it carefully into place. "What happened that made it go south?"
She snorted, shaking her head a little as he finished taping it on, reaching up to touch it gently. "I tried to seduce him. It was stupid of me, getting him drunk would have been safer," she muttered, leaning back on her hands.
"Yeah. I don't imagine his self esteem was quite high enough to play that card," he muttered, packing everything away. He was finally beginning to relax, which was really not a good thing, because with it was coming the pounding guilt of the body he'd dropped not an hour ago. A body he'd sworn to protect.
She sighed, letting herself fall back the rest of the way, staring up at the ceiling. "Sorry. That couldn't have been a fun situation for you."
He shrugged, walking into the bathroom to return the kit. "It's my job. It was fine."
"Just cause it was your job doesn't mean it was a good time," she shook her head, toeing off her shoes. "You had history with him. You don't have to like how it turned out."
He shrugged, taking a breath as he looked in the mirror. The scars across his face seemed laughable compared to what O'Hare had had. "It wasn't pleasant, no. But it was my job and that's as far as it goes."
"Alright," she sighed, not willing to push him on this. And these days, that line was something she drew herself. There was no point in being constantly afraid of him reacting in a volatile manner; she just recognized by this point that he was entitled to a little privacy, or space, or whatever you wanted to call it.
He walked over to his bag, starting to unpack it as well. When she wasn't looking he slid two large bottle of high proof under the bed. He didn't need them, but he wanted them there. No point in being sober, especially not now.
She shifted up to lean against the headboard, reaching for the TV remote on the nightstand and turning on the news, already battling boredom. Then she smirked. "They found an arm in the Thames. Wanna bet it's Ford's? Bet it's a little battered by now."
"The other Holmes brothers are undoubtedly going to be pissed about that," he smirked, moving to sit on the bed as well, legs crossed. "Even if they were estranged, I doubt they're going to let that go lightly."
"No, I imagine they'll be a little put out by it," she chuckled, dropping the remote between them, in case he wanted to change the channel. "I hope it gets under Mycroft's skin the most."
"It undoubtedly will," he said with a sigh, leaning back and closing his eyes, trying to relax. "He's the eldest and overprotective of the others, even if he doesn't like to show it."
"Good," she muttered, then let them fall into silence. He looked like he needed a break.
He appreciated the silence. The alcohol under the bed felt like it was calling to him, but he payed it no mind for the time being, deciding that for the moment, it was as good a time as any to take a nap.
It was hours later that Lorna quietly turned off the TV and slipped out of bed and out the door, making for the kitchen. She was hoping it was late enough that Jim would be squirreled away somewhere, working - she wasn't sure she could eat with him just hanging around, watching her like a hawk. She practically tip-toed into the kitchen, opening up the door to the pantry as quietly as possible. Please stay in your room, boss...
He watched in amusement from his spot at the breakfast table in the corner. "Trying not to wake darling Sebby?" he smirked, teeth flashing as he saw her jump.
"Jesus," she huffed, bracing a hand by the door for a second and raking a hand through her hair. "Uh, yeah, kinda. And you. Didn't know if you were the napping sort."
"Hardly," he said, smirk still curling his lip at the nervousness she exuded. "How are you enjoying my Tiger, Lorna? Is he satisfactory?"
She just shut the pantry door, convinced now that there was no way she could eat. "Yeah, he's, uh, he's my type," she shrugged a little, jamming her hands into her pockets so she didn't have to worry about what they were doing on their own. "10/10, would recommend, you know."
"Oh, I've certainly considered it," he said, smirking a little. "He'd go bottoms up the instant I suggested it. I've been distracted of late. But we're in for a bit of a boring time in close quarters..." He bared teeth in a smile that suggested he was considering various forms of murder.
She cleared her throat a little, shifting uncomfortably and trying to pretend like she wasn't stuffing down an irrational jealousy. "I'm not sure what I'm meant to say to that, sir," she settled for finally, giving him a little bit of a shrug. "I guess.. maybe warn me ahead of time so I don't disturb you?"
He smirked. "Oh, I'm not sure. I think that might be entertaining. You've grown rather attached to him, I think... A habit I really should break both of you of."
She squared her jaw a little. "Pardon my saying so, sir, but it's not as if we're not comfortable with the idea of the other fucking somebody else. It is part of my job description. And he does whatever he has to. If I'm attached, I don't think that'd be the way I'd go about breaking it."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, no, that wouldn't be to break you of it, that would be for fun. Breaking you of it would involve a much more... entertaining and creative course of action. But I haven't decided yet." He considered her for a few moments, still smiling a cold smile, before it dropped and he waved her off. "Go away, you're boring."
She turned immediately and left, trying to settle her rolling stomach. Christ, sometimes he was so much like DeWitt it made her ill. She shut the door to the bedroom a little harder than she meant too, then winced, hoping she hadn't woken Sebastian up.
He looked over when she came in- no way he was going to sleep through that- and frowned at her expression, sitting up a bit. "What's wrong?"
"Jim thinks we've become too attached to each other. And whatever it involves, it's not the fucking you. That's just 'for fun'," she muttered, leaning back against the door with a heavy sigh. "Christ, it's like living with fucking DeWitt. God, I hate those games they play."
He sat up fully, frowning a bit more. "Wait, what fucking me are we talking about?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The 'bottoms up' kind, according to Jim," she snorted, giving the ceiling a look that suggested it was to blame. "You better make some sort of noise if you fuck him, cause I am not walking in on that."
"Since when am I fucking Jim?" he asked, putting his hands up a bit defensively, confused.
"I said 'if', didn't I? Look, it's not exactly as if we've exchanged promise rings, I'd get it," she sighed, shrugging a little. "It's fucking Jim. Literally fucking Jim. How well would saying 'no' go?"
"Not.. not very well," he admitted, crossing his arms a bit, as he considered the situation. "Just... surprising. How the fuck did that even come up ?"
"He surprised me in the kitchen and then asked if you were 'satisfactory'. I certainly didn't steer the conversation, believe me," she snorted, finally moving off the door to sit down heavily on the edge of the bed, grimacing a little. "I get the sense he just really wanted to bug me."
"Well, yeah, that's Jim for you," he muttered, shaking his head a bit. "He doesn't do well if he feels trapped. He gets more... hostile."
She snorted again. "No fucking kidding. What I'll really be interested to see is if he says the same sort of thing to you."
"All bets are off with him, we'll just have to see," he sighs, yawning. "What were you out there for anyway?"
"Food," she shrugged, getting up again to go to her dresser and pull out some pajamas. "Why else would I risk interacting with Jim, really?"
He laughed a bit at that. "Do you want me to go try and get something to bring in here?"
She smiled a little, turning and starting to get out of her clothes. "No, but thanks. I rather not have to face the extra snide comments because I couldn't go get food for myself. Plus, you might not come back, and I'm feeling far too possessive for that."
He smirked just a little, deciding not to think too much into that. He wasn't tired, but he got up to change into pajamas anyway. He'd have a drink after she fell asleep.
She crawled into bed a moment later, slipping between the sheets and then lying back, staring at the ceiling. She sighed. "I'm not the slightest bit tired."
He took a slow breath, hiding any frustration, and smirked over his shoulder at her. "Yeah... unfortunately the night life isn't great here. Want to watch a movie or something?"
"Or something," she snorted, slipping back out of bed and heading over to her bag, pulling out a bottle of bourbon and a half-empty pack of cigarettes. "I kinda wanna fuck up this room for anybody who tries to sleep here after us."
"Keep in mind that Jim does own the place," he pointed out. "Don't fuck it up too terribly."
"I'm not going to spray-paint my name on the walls," she shrugged, flopping back down on the mattress and tossing the cigarette pack onto the nightstand so she could open up the bourbon. "Just leaving behind the undeniable odor of rebellion. You want some?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation, the headache that was starting pausing to tilt its head and listening to the thought of approaching alcohol.
She took a good swig and then handed it over to him, leaning back against the headboard. She normally didn't pack liquor on emergencies. But she'd seen how he'd been when she'd suggested O'Hare was the mole, and she'd seen the alcoholism he'd resorted to when O'Hare had first shown up again in his life. She'd figured that it would be better if he got drunk under a little supervision. Plus, she really was feeling a little salty about what Jim had said. "I think it's the one I remember you liking. It's been a while, I'm still getting back my liquor sea-legs."
He nodded as he took a long pull, taking a slow breath as the stuff warmed his esophagus pleasantly. He handed the bottle back. "It is, yeah. Good memory."
"Be a pretty shitty grifter if I didn't," she shrugged, then smirked, a bit more of a teasing tone coming into her voice. "Plus, it helped me get into your pants, didn't it?"
He snorted slightly, rolling his eyes. "That's debatable," he muttered, smirking. "I'd say it was your catastrophic failure at poker. I had to take pity on you."
"I don't know, I think if there was any pity it was because of the really lame sex you watched me have," she chuckled, prying the bottle from his hand to take another sip of it before handing it back to him. "The poker just gave you an excuse to get off."
"Okay, well, I suppose that's fair. It was really awful sex that you'd endured," he smirked, taking another sip and considering the bourbon label.
She smirked, bringing her knees up to rest her elbows on them. "And it doesn't even make my list of top 20 bad fucks. Do normal people even keep lists like that?"
"No, not to my knowledge, but now you have me curious," he said with a snort. He made to take another sip of the bourbon, but felt her glance and lowered it again with a small snort.
What she really wanted to talk about was how he was feeling after downing O'Hare, but god knew if she tried to get him to open up he was just going to spit fire back at her. So she'd get him a little drunk, first. "Yep, I have a real list, in my flat. Haven't had to update it in a while, fortunately for me. And thank you, for failing to be anywhere near that list."
"I should hope I'm not," he snorted. "Come on, though, what are the top three?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Number three was this french guy, back when I was first grifting. We were both pretty young, so, you know, stupid. He dropped me off the first floor balcony. Not the American first floor, either. That was the first time I broke my arm," she grinned at the memory, taking the bottle briefly to take another sip. "Second was a woman. Only woman on the list. And she's only on it because she had these killer nails. You can imagine. Not fun."
He made a face, taking another long drink. "Some nails are nice, but there comes a limit, and I don't have inside parts, least not that most people are interested in. That sounds hellish."
"That one was very nearly a hospital visit," she chuckled, rubbing at her eyes. "But number one... Oh boy. I had this guy in bed, and he wasn't really that good. Just.. kinda lifeless, you know? That alone wouldn't have made the list. But then his mother called. And he answered. Without stopping. I think I literally shriveled up."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, his nose wrinkling instantly. "Please tell me you're kidding... Gods..." He tossed back more bourbon. He was starting to feel warm. "Did you have to keep pretending he was sexy after that?"
"Yeah, it was maybe one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life. If he hadn't been a mark I probably would have killed him. I'll put up with a few eccentricities if the sex is fucking out of this world, but I'm not putting up with it in mediocre-at-best sex," she scoffed, reaching to take a drink from the bottle. He'd downed a lot more of it than she had. "What about you? You had any truly awful fucks?"
"Plenty," he smirked. "Some of them were hookers, which I find odd. I mean... go into a career you're talented at, you know?"
"How much were they? Only the expensive hookers are required to be good. Cheap hookers just have to be vaguely present for the deed," she smirked, shrugging a little. "Well, at least I can't say I have a lot of disappointing sex. That's what low standards are for."
"I suppose that's fair," he muttered. She was holding the bourbon hostage, but he was pretty buzzed anyway so he let her keep it for the moment. He'd taken the edge off his headache.
She sighed, resting the bottle in her lap. "Sebastian... I'm a little worried about Jim. I don't.. I don't want him to fuck this up, you know? And I'm afraid he's going to try to fuck it up."
"Fuck what up, exactly?" he asks, grabbing a pillow and shifting it between him and the head of the bed, leaning back.
She shrugged. "Whatever the fuck this is. I don't know. This.. unhealthy attachment thing we have going. I like this fucked up thing, okay? I don't want Jim to wreck it just because he's bored."
He raised an eyebrow, smirking just a bit. "I hope this isn't a bid for me to do something, because in case you haven't noticed, I don't have much influence over what Jim Moriarty does or does not do."
She gave him an extremely dry look. "I do try to be straight-forward with you, you know that? I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm expressing my dislike for having my life played with like it's a game of fucking Sims. Would you like me to advertise my intentions in advance next time I speak? Warning: may contain trace amounts of emotion?" Maybe she'd had a little more booze than she'd thought. The sarcasm was getting all over the place.
He let out a sharp laugh, head tilting back for a moment as he let it escape, reaching up to cover his face with his hands a moment later. "Oh, gods, Harrison... I'm not sure what sort of company you think you work for, but if you weren't aware that your life had puppet strings the moment you signed on, you were sadly misled." He looked back at her, then, eyes dancing with mirth over a layer of darkness. "He owns us, Harrison. You signed a contract, knowing that if you breached it or decided to leave, your life would be forfeit. You signed your soul over to the devil- who as it happens, wears Westwood, not Prada- and occasionally we have to deal with the consequences. 'Express your dislike' all you want. It won't change anything and it's naive to entertain hopes of it being otherwise."
She grit her teeth, staring up at the ceiling for a moment to stop herself from just yelling at him. "I know, Moran. Of course I fucking know that. I'm not a fucking idiot. I think we've demonstrated that I'm quite aware of the depth to which Jim Moriarty owns my fucking soul. Christ," she muttered, shaking her head, suddenly tired of him, of dealing with this goddamn bullshit he spat out every time he thought she was just a little too familiar. "I'm under no illusions that things will change. I never have been. That doesn't mean that occasionally, when I'm caught in a small space with a couple of bloodthirsty predators, I'm not going to say something offhand just to relieve a little fucking tension," she snapped, the calm in her voice finally breaking. She shook her head, jaw clenched and got out of bed, heading for the dresser. "Fuck this. I'm not required to stay here."
He stood up immediately when she said that, swaying just slightly as his vision lagged, but catching himself a moment later. "Yes, you are. That's an order," he said, his voice brokering no argument.
She paused with one hand tight around a half pulled-out drawer, resisting the urge to just slam it shut. "Why?"
"Because," he said slowly, evenly, though his hand clenched. "I'm your superior, and I said so. Are we going to have a problem?"
"I don't know, Sebastian, are we?" she snapped, turning back to him, anger clear on her face. "Are you going to do this every fucking time I say something that's just, what, too real for you?"
He squinted at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was going on about. "I'm not sure what the fuck your problem is. Yes, I'll have a go at you for being surprised that Moriarty's trying to fuck our lives up. He's probably out there in the kitchen listening to this and having a fucking laugh about it. Did I miss something?"
"I'm not surprised, you asshole! I said I didn't want him to. You know, like most people say about things they have no control over! Christ, I hope the economy doesn't get worse! Fucking hell, I'll be pissed if it rains today! For fuck's sake, Moran, you have to get fucking defensive every time I say something just a little off the beaten track for you! That's what my fucking problem is. I don't know what I can fucking say to you. I don't know what's going to set you the fuck off," she snorted, raking a hand through her hair. "Just fucking let me leave. I can't fucking walk on eggshells around both you and Jim. It's too much. Let me leave or just stop getting up in arms all the time for stupid shit."
"I didn't get up in arms, Harrison," he said, a bit of an edge to his voice. "I laughed. I'm terribly sorry if that was somehow offensive." His voice was dangerous. "You want to leave? Fine. Get going. Jim will be thrilled."
"You call that laughing? You immediately jumped up to remind me - as if I needed reminding - how fucked my life is," she snarled, giving in and slamming the drawer shut without taking her clothes out, frozen in place between staying and leaving, like she always was when it came to him. "When do I ask you for anything? What do I ask from you, Sebastian? What? Why do you automatically assume that I'm going for a fucking angle?"
"Not yours, ours," he retorted. "We're in the same situation. So I'm flippant about it. I'm not going to apologize, I'm always flippant, and you're toeing a hell of a line right now acting like this. I'm in charge, not you. You bring a concern to me, I handle it how I like. You want to quit? Fine. The door's there, but it would be easier if you just walked over to Jim and let him down you right now."
She snorted, waving a hand at him. "I never said anything about quitting. Christ. I don't approach Jim voluntarily, suicidal or not. Give me that bourbon."
He snorted, but held the bottle in her direction. "You leave, it's disobeying a direct order, which isn't going to end up much prettier."
She took it, and downed a sizable portion. "I don't know why you want me here," she muttered, shaking her head. She downed another swig.
"Why the fuck do you think," he muttered, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes.
She capped the bottle and moved to set it on the nightstand, running her hand through her hair and taking a steadying breath. He was infuriating. And he'd effectively trapped her here. There was nothing she could do.
He sighed, reaching down under the bed and pulling out his own bottle, standing and heading for the door. He didn't want to deal with her right now. Jim wasn't much better, but at least he was a predictable kind of completely unpredictable insanity.
Lorna sighed and ran a hand over her face, staying where she was for a moment before turning and heading wearily for the bathroom. Maybe she could shower this away.
Jim was in the kitchen on his laptop. He smirked as Sebastian walked in. "That didn't take long at all."
"Yessir, thank you sir, may I have another?" he muttered sarcastically, cracking the seal on the bottle and twisting the cap off. He took a long pull, heading over to the fridge.
He let out a dark chuckle. "Don't tempt me, you know I'll do it. I guess neither one of you will mind then, if I fuck the other. I do so love the tearing you apart, but that sounds like equal fun, if you get as jealous as she did. And you do, don't you, Tiger?"
He grit his teeth slightly, but kept rummaging. "What's mine is yours, sir. Always has been. And she's more yours than mine anyway. You pay for her." He gave up on finding anything he wanted to eat, and got out a glass instead, filling it with ice. "Drink?"
"Mm. No thank you. I'd rather like one of us to maintain actual use of our mental facilities this evening, and judging by the fact that I didn't hear any glasses touch the furniture and the fact that you smell like you were baptized in bourbon, it's going to have to be me," he snorted, shutting his laptop and setting it aside on the island counter he was seated at. "Either way, I want to remember how many different times you dance around the word 'whore'."
"If I had permission to speak freely, I'd probably tell you to shut the hell up. As it is, I know better," he muttered, pouring himself a generous shot. He shouldn't have said that. It was risky. But he was drunk and pissed, and Jim seemed to be in a decent mood.
"Yes, you do know better," Jim replied, just a bit of an edge entering his voice, eyes sharp on Moran. "You should be grateful, Moran. I was much more aggressive with your little.. plaything. But then, I do occasionally find conversation with you worthwhile. Don't waste it."
"Of course not, sir," he sighed, taking the hint to watch his tongue. He was drunk, not stupid. He set the bottle aside, leaning against the counter with his drink. "How goes whatever you're working on?"
Jim sighed, patting his laptop once. "Fine. It's not a job, it's just a hunt for information. I've been having to shake a few trees, but no fruit yet. I want this Mallory twat dead on a slab. I don't like competition. I loathe competition that thinks it's a good idea to attack me."
"To be fair, that does suggest that they're particularly stupid competition, especially given their method of 'attack'. Though they did manage to plant a mole within the organization..."
Jim shook his head, sighing. "I don't like that they found us, Moran. If we don't obliterate them soon, that information will spread. We might have to move buildings anyway, just to be safe," he huffed, pulling his laptop over again and opening it, motivated back into working. "If O'Hare wasn't the only leak, we still have to tread carefully. And the fact that he was present during the attempted hit... Comb through the list again, when you have time. No one's free of suspicion this time. Doesn't matter how long they've been hired, or under what circumstances. Anyone could have been turned."
He nodded in agreement, taking another sip of alcohol and sighing, closing his eyes and trying to think. "We may just have to interrogate people individually."
"When we can get out of this fucking safehouse, we can do the purge. For now, I just want to keep our work as insulated as possible. Keeping it in the flat, and all that," he sighed, then shut the laptop again, pulling it into his lap and then standing. "I haven't slept in four days. I'm going to remedy that. Don't wake me."
"Understood, sir," he said, nodding and watching him go before knocking back the rest of his drink and heading for the small den. He had no problem crashing on the couch.
The next day was unpleasant for Lorna. She'd almost been surprised when he had never come back to bed, and when he didn't initiate conversation the next morning when she slunk out for breakfast, she decided to follow suit. They went the whole day without speaking. He mostly stayed in the den, and she only left the bedroom for necessities. But that night, she decided she was going to have to leave the flat, briefly. If she had to go one more day without milk in her tea, she was going to drop dead.
They grabbed her on that fucking milk run. And, while she was in the van, hands bound in front of her and a bag over her head, she went through the walk, tried to see where she had made her mistake. She'd been careful, they all had. She'd gone under the cover of dark, in a loose hoodie and jeans that were too big, walking in cheap, silent sneakers and carrying no obvious bag, nothing to tempt a mugger. Where had she gone wrong? Where had she slipped, where had she alerted them to her presence? She didn't know.
Lorna didn't try to talk during the ride, though she could hear the breathing of several different people. She suspected they were men. It was statistically likely, given that not a lot of women were big enough to stuff somebody quickly and efficiently into the back of a raised vehicle. Wherever they were taking her, she was fucking screwed. The network would not be coming to save her. She was alone, and it was going to be up to her to get herself out. The prospect was not a bright one. Moran might try to find her, but without resources, how could he? That was a bad thought, but then she had a worse one. What if he thinks I'm a traitor? That I've been playing him this whole time? That, out of all the possibilities in front of her, was the most frightening. Physically, there was not all that much that they could do to her to make her feel real fear, but the thought of him thinking she'd betrayed the network, betrayed him, was chilling.
Time passed relatively quickly, because it didn't feel all that long later that a rough pair of hands hauled her up and bustled her out of the vehicle, only pausing to make sure she didn't fall before pressing her forward again. The floor felt dirty, even under her shoes, like a thick layer of dust had settled on top of it, and the air smelled faintly of rust and grease. An old factory, maybe? It hardly mattered, except for sating her own curiosity. Wherever she was, they didn't force her up or down any stairs, just through a few doors. When they seemed to finally reach their destination, the person that had been guiding her tugged her to a stop and turned her around, and before she knew it she was pinned against the wall. The zip-tie holding her wrists together was cut with a zztnoise and then her wrists were being forced up, a second pair of hands appearing to help the first. Then she felt something close around her wrist, and she could no longer bring her hands down. Were those manacles?
Somebody moved in front of her. Before she could tense up, the sack over her head was plucked off. Standing before her was a man probably younger than herself, with carefully styled hair and an eyebrow piercing. The edges of a tattoo could be seen peeking out from the collar of his shirt, and his fingers were practically covered in rings. Who the fuck was this kid? "Hi there," he smiled, dropping the bag that had been over her head to the side. Christ, he was American, too. "Lorna, right? I've heard good things. And some bad things, but I don't think any of us really can get away with being perfect all the time, can we? I'm Keenan. And I'm not particularly interested in you. Now, your boss... You'll be doing yourself a favor if you just tell me where he is."
He didn't care for the first hour that she was gone. By the second, he was edgy, and by the third he risked approaching Jim about it. "Harrison went out for milk three hours ago," he said briskly. "She isn't answering her phone."
Playlist: Shinedown - State of My Head