It's recently come to my attention that this story hasn't been touched in about a year at my end. Its second birthday passed a couple months back, and I realized that I had only posted a handful of chapters since the first birthday. Thus, I've been focusing on this particular piece of work. I've been stuck in revision mode for a long time, and I'm not the best at handling that particular side of the creative process, which is half the reason it's taken me so long. But I hope that the work put into these following chapters will be worth the wait; compared to the first draft, I believe that this version is far superior.

This is, "The Saboteur."


1.


Footsteps approached. Salvation was just a few feet from the door.

But Mokuba couldn't move. He felt magnetized, physically attached to the gun against his back, welded to it. Siegfried had ordered him to stand, and he had stood; Siegfried had ordered him to turn, and he had turned. And now Siegfried was seated in one of the other chairs, mere inches behind him, and Mokuba knew what was going on here. He had been used as a poker chip more than once; Siegfried had just taken it a step further.

This time, Mokuba was a shield.

For the first time he could remember, the thought of his brother being here didn't bolster the young Kaiba's spirits; it terrified him. There had been something different in Siegfried von Schroeder's face right from the beginning, something he hadn't seen in all the others, and it made all the difference in the world.

The others had expected to make it out alive.

Each of the men who had abducted Mokuba in the past had had one primary motivation: to survive. And Seto had never failed to make it clear that survival wasn't on the negotiating table. The key to victory had always been Seto's willingness to kill. That most primal of instincts always kicked in at that realization; everybody knew that hurting the heir to the Kaiba fortune was a death sentence, and they stayed clear.

But this man...this young man who fancied himself Seto's equal in everything...had an advantage. In his own mind, Siegfried von Schroeder was already dead. He had nothing to lose, and that meant Seto had nothing to take. The understanding of the consequences of his actions today was a far more effective shield against Seto than Mokuba was. He had no need to worry because the worst-case scenario had already happened. This was Siegfried's final victory.

There was no reasoning with, no negotiating with, and certainly no intimidating the walking dead.

The cold metal of Siegfried's weapon dug painfully into Mokuba's back, and the boy had a forceful image of being torn in half by a blast of gunfire. All Siegfried had to do was squeeze with a single finger. Mokuba tried to imagine—against his own will—how much it would hurt.

How much blood would spill.

How much...

How much...

And he doubted—against his own will—that his big brother would be able to save him this time.


2.


The first thought that came to him was so redundant that it did no good whatsoever: Something isn't right.

The sad truth of the matter was that this situation was nothing new to Seto Kaiba. He was used to the confidence, used to the overwhelming sense of superiority; he had long since acclimated to this man's egotism. He'd seen it in so many other people that it should have been boring. It should have been so commonplace that he could ignore it. But somehow, it wasn't, and he couldn't.

Siegfried von Schroeder was too confident.

And more to the point...Mokuba was too scared.

There was something going on here that he didn't know; something he didn't understand. It wasn't the gun pressed against Mokuba's back. That much he could guess. It was something else, something underneath. Something said, something done, something...wrong.

Mokuba didn't answer Siegfried's prodding, but it didn't seem as though an answer was expected or even wanted. Or, Seto thought, he didn't answer vocally. The look on the boy's face was answer enough; it sent one message, as clear as any message he'd ever received. It said, don't let him.

Don't let him win. Don't let him intimidate you.

Don't let him kill me.

Seto's face hardened, his focused honed as sharply as it ever had, and his grip on the pistol in his hands tightened. "Well, you look cheerful," he offered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Were you planning a surprise party for me?"

Siegfried's insufferable grin widened. "You hate surprises," he said.

"I hate a great many things."

"I doubt that, dear boy. You don't have the time. You're too busy to hate. Hate isn't only useless, Seto. It is destructive. It is distracting. It is...expensive."

Seto's smirk was painful. "You would certainly know," he said. "So? Get on with it, von Schroeder. Do whatever it is you've decided you need to do. I don't have much time and I have even less patience."

Mokuba went pale and let out a tiny, involuntary squeak as Siegfried's gun dug into his back. "Tell your misinformed brother why that likely isn't the best course of action for him right now. Or...for you."

"N...N-Niisama-a..." Mokuba whimpered, and the terror in his voice said...everything.

Seto ground his teeth into a snarl. "If that's the case, I have to wonder why you haven't done it already. If this was your aim from the beginning, you would have been better served in letting Saruwatari finish the job. Instead of...this."

Siegfried looked genuinely puzzled. "Seto...haven't we discussed this? I thought you told me already, I am not that efficient. And besides, why would I do that? Do you think me heartless?" (I think you're brainless, Seto thought) "I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing! How would it look if I let poor little Mokuba die without giving him the chance to tell his beloved Niisama goodbye?"

"About the same as you do right now, von Schroeder," Seto hissed. "Pathetic."

Mokuba bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and shuddered. Seto would think later that his little brother had more courage in him than he, personally, would ever have. When the young Kaiba opened his eyes again, they were dry. Clear. Steady.

Heartbreaking.


3.


...And people call me brave, thought Detective Darren McKinley, as he watched Mokuba Kaiba draw himself together and force himself to be calm. Dear Host in Heaven, what kind of hell could draw that kind of control out of a ten-year-old boy?

It didn't take him long to realize that he didn't want to know.

He had a guess—he didn't know, and didn't dare ask—that Mokuba was no stranger to firearms. It was likely he'd had a few pointed at him before. But it was a rather simple realization that he'd never had one pressed up against his spine before. As brave a front as he was putting up—and Darren thought that just for that, he deserved a medal—the black-haired boy was petrified right now. The message on his face was as clear as day.

He was begging his big brother to save him.

"You're not letting this go easily," Seto said, and it wasn't a question. His gaze was riveted on this man that Darren had never seen before (although he was obviously familiar to both Kaibas), and for his part, Siegfried von Schroeder kept his eyes locked on Seto.

"It will be quite easy," Siegfried purred. "But first, I should like to catch up. It's been a long time, Seto. Won't you at least say hello?"

"Hello," Seto growled, and it sounded like a curse.

"I don't have some ulterior motive, you know," Siegfried continued, still with that happy grin on his face. "I don't have any demands. I'm not here to negotiate with you, or anything of that nature. I'm not going to challenge you to a duel. So asking me to move it along will do none of us any good."

"So," Seto replied, "you have a pistol pressed against my brother's back for kicks, then. Beautiful. Tell me again why we never got along."

"Oh, it's not for...ahem...kicks," Siegfried assured. "I have a purpose in mind. Do you not remember? You have already decided that I am seeking retribution. Vengeance, you called it. It is as good a motivation as any, I suppose."

Seto's eyes narrowed. He seemed to be searching for something. Some sign, some telling twitch, on his former rival's face. Some chink in his armor that would give him the opening he needed. Darren shifted slightly to the right, and Seto's eyes flickered in his direction and back again so fast that Darren would have missed it if he hadn't been looking directly at the young executive's face. Siegfried gave no indication that he had seen anything.

Darren wondered vaguely about Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor. What they were doing; if they had managed to find anything. If they had any clue what was happening here. Grimacing, he tightened his hold on his pistol and readjusted his aim.

Seto gave a slight scoff. "You...you son of a bitch."

Siegfried chuckled. "I wondered if you would say that," he murmured thoughtfully. "Such a common phrase. I had hoped that you might pick something a bit more colorful. But...I suppose not."

"You want colorful?" Seto asked. "I'll give you the whole goddamned rainbow if you'd rather." He forced a grin, pained and manic, onto his face. "I just don't want to chance Mokuba repeating any of it later."

"Ah, well," the German psychopath said, still with laughter in his voice. "Are you so sure you want to be that stringent? After all. Circumstances allowing, dear Seto. Perhaps you could let the boy speak his mind for once?"

"Whatever you're implying," Seto snapped, "say it clearly. I'm not interested in games, and you're not in much of a position to force me to play them."

"Nor are you in any position to force me to stop," Siegfried said, and for the first time there was a trace of new emotion in his voice. Anger? But almost instantly, it was gone, and the sunny smile was back. "You see, Seto, as I've already said, there isn't going to be any negotiation here. Both of us are...well, shall I say, backed into a corner? You know what I am going to do, and I know what you are going to do. That is all. How long it takes us to perform these actions would likely be up to you."

Siegfried would kill Mokuba.

Seto would kill Siegfried.

And then, in all likelihood...Seto would kill himself.

Darren realized why Mokuba looked so frightened, even though this wasn't his first, nor his second, nor even his third time being used as a target for revenge. This time was different because this time, there was no way out.

No chances. No games. No demands.

Just a death sentence.

Unless...


4.


How long it takes us to perform these actions would likely be up to you.

Seto ground his teeth as he stared into the laughing, mocking face of the Grim Reaper, and realized the truth of that. Yes. It would be up to him. Even this time, even though Siegfried had said under no uncertain terms that there would be no chance to negotiate, there was still a chance. There was still a path to take.

He had to kill Siegfried first.

But...did he trust his aim? Did he trust the speed of his hand? Would he be fast enough? Would there be enough time, even in the most optimal of circumstances, for his finger to pull the trigger, for the bullet to fly, and for Siegfried to die before the damage was done?

Mokuba was beginning to shake. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. He was crying. Seto couldn't think. He couldn't gauge. Mokuba was crying. Damn it, how was he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to get Mokuba out of this? How was he supposed to win out this time? How the hell was he—

Click.

He stopped. No. He had no time for this. He wasn't sure what path was open to him in order to save his brother, but the one thing he did know was that panicking was the one, surefire, no-nonsense way to get the boy killed.

"...You look like you understand now, old friend," Siegfried said now.

"Oh. I understand perfectly."

Siegfried's grin returned, looking like he'd just watched a prized puppy learn to sit properly. "Good! I'm glad! There will be no confusion, then. So, why so restrictive on what your dear baby brother should be allowed to say? Surely now, of all times, rules and regulations and lessons and doctrines should not come into play?"

"He can say whatever he likes," Seto shot back. "Do I look like I have a remote control that will stop him? He knows what I expect of him. If he decides to act outside of accordance with those expectations, that is his decision to make."

"Ah, but there. You see there? That underlying threat that says he will be punished if he acts on that decision. That tone that says Niisama won't love him anymore if he doesn't do as he's told."

Seto sighed. "I trust that Mokuba is better able to analyze my tone than you are, von Schroeder. Forgive me if I defer to his judgment on the matter."

Siegfried shrugged. "I do believe you would defer to little Mokuba's judgment on a great many matters," he said idly. "That much, I must admit. If I were to point out one thing in particular that is admirable about you, old friend, it would have to be your devotion to this most charming child. It's quite endearing. But you know..."

The pleasant smile sharpened into a smirk.

"...I must wonder if it will be enough. Will devotion alone see you through this day? See both of you through this day? I must confess, I have my doubts."


5.


"The hell're we supposed to do?" Tristan asked irritably as he and Joey sneaked through the dank, empty halls of 1342 Yellowtail Terrace, checking doors and finding nothing but dust and echoes. "There's nothin' here. Kaiba 'n soldier-boy are still in that front room, and I'm damn sure I heard somebody say 'Niisama' back there. We're here to help Mokuba, right? Why ain't we back there?"

Joey stopped, turned. He looked conflicted, but convicted just the same. "'Cuz what good're we gonna do for 'em? You saw Kaiba with that gun. You know guns. Did he look like an amateur?"

Tristan frowned. "...No."

"And he's with a cop. Not some coffee-and-doughnuts rent-a-cop, either. That guy's the real deal. You wanna tell me we're gonna actually help them? We're baggage, Tris. Best we can do is find the security system, like they said, and hope we run into somebody stupid enough to stop us." The blond grinned. "Hey, maybe we'll run into Saruwata-what's-it."

Tristan wanted to look offended, but he had to admit that Joey had a point. Kaiba was clearly no stranger to a fight; he wasn't some pampered, silver-spoon prodigy who'd inherited his position. Over the years, it had become pretty clear that Kaiba had clawed his way to the top, with sweat in his eyes and blood on his hands and broken fingernails. And Darren McKinley, well...sometimes he looked no older than Tristan himself, and other times he looked older than Yugi's grandfather. Joey was right. He was the kind of cop that Tristan had spent most of his early teens avoiding at all costs: the ones who knew how to use themselves as well as any gun or handcuffs. The ones who knew what they were doing.

The ones who'd look right at home in the army.

...Small wonder those two are friends, Tristan thought, and almost laughed.

Any semblance of humor left him in a rush as he heard footsteps. Joey froze.

"Well, well. More familiar faces. It's like a high school reunion."

Tristan wouldn't have called himself an authority on voices, but this one in particular was easy to remember. He knew without thinking who was standing behind him, and from just how stiff Joey had become, he knew it, too. The familiar voice began to chuckle. Dark, ominous, confident.

Clearly, he was mistaking surprise for fear.

"So, care to explain why you're trespassing on private property? I'm pretty sure nobody invited you in. I'm afraid I'm going to have to...ahem...ask you to leave."

"Well...that's a cryin' shame," said Joey, who had always been the ringleader. He and Tristan had been getting into fights for years; almost ever since they had met when they were thirteen years old. And every time, Joey did the talking. Joey was by far the more assertive one. Tristan was the wingman, the backup, the sidekick.

This wasn't to say that Tristan was any less reckless. As he turned to face his latest conquest, he could barely keep himself from giggling like a maniac. It'd been far too long since he'd been able to vent, and this was the perfect punching bag.

He had a score to settle with this one.

Saruwatari was tall, and he was big, and he was cocky as anyone Tristan had ever met. And to most anyone else, he would have cut an intimidating figure. His suit bulged as his gigantic muscles strained against it, which should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't. His sunglasses were gleaming and almost glowing in the meager light of the hallway, his hair so painstakingly gelled that it looked set in concrete.

In many ways, this man reminded Tristan of Joey's old gang leader. Hirutani had been almost as tall, almost as big, and twice as cocky. He'd never worn suits, but he'd always kept his school uniforms in good shape, unlike most of his underlings. He'd always tucked in his shirts, and he'd always ironed his pants and jacket, always polished his boots.

If he'd dyed his hair, changed his clothes, and bulked up a bit more, he would have looked identical to the man standing in front of Tristan right now.

Barring one major difference.

Hirutani knew how to fight.

Joey turned on one heel, and unlike Tristan hadn't even bothered to keep the grin from his face. The familiar sheen of bloodlust was in his bright brown eyes, and his fists were clenched so tightly that they shook. He was almost salivating.

Saruwatari didn't look quite so confident anymore.

"Y'see..." Joey said slowly, almost purring, "...a buddy of ours is in this house, and we ain't leavin' without 'im. So if you want us to leave...you're gonna hafta force us."


6.


"I can see where you're headed with this," Seto snapped. "You're going to spend some time worming your way into my head, pretending like you're just making conversation while whoever the hell you have tying your shoes for you in this trash-heap makes a pot of tea. You're going to demonize me, try to make me doubt myself, but most of all you're going to make Mokuba doubt me. Just to watch me squirm. Tell me, von Schroeder, how close am I?"

"How close do you need to be, old friend?"

Seto scoffed and rolled his eyes. "If you're aiming to piss me off, you've already done that."

Siegfried blinked innocently. "I'm aiming at your brother's spinal cord."

Seto's laugh was bitter. Darren flinched. Mokuba let out a tiny yelp.

"Oh, you think you have me," Seto said. "You think you've figured everything out to the letter. Every move planned, every strategy covered. You figure the more stupidly you act, the angrier I'll get, and that the angrier I get, the more likely I'll be to make a mistake. You want me to slip up and then pull the trigger, just so you can be absolutely certain I'll feel responsible for it."

"Oh, come now, Seto. Don't lie to me, and don't lie to yourself. Everyone here in this room knows that you're going to feel responsible no matter what happens here today. That, more than anything, is your weakness. It's not just that you love your brother; it's not just that you want to protect him. Your true Achilles' heel is that whenever something does happen to poor little Mokuba, no matter who is at fault for the deed, you blame yourself. You take on the burden of guilt like a favorite coat, and woe betide anyone with the audacity to take it from you."

Seto's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He gave no indication that he'd even heard most of what Siegfried was saying. He seemed hell-bent to forget that Siegfried could even speak, much less pose a threat to his brother, as if pure willpower could remove the man from existence.

Siegfried tilted his head to the side. "For example...as I hear it told, Mokuba walked right into my little trap. How simple would it have been for him to avoid Adachi, if he had only been paying attention. Why, if he'd only looked up...but you don't lay the blame at Mokuba's feet, do you?" The man's eyes twinkled with mirth. "No, no, because why was Mokuba distracted? Why did he get into that vehicle? Because he was playing a game given to him by...oh, who was it? Ah. That's right. You. And that's all you need to justify taking the blame, isn't it? It's just that simple to you, isn't it?"

Seto drew in a breath. "I don't pretend to know why my brother ended up in this situation. I don't intend to press him for answers, either. I know only that this is the arena you've prepared, and you would have stopped at nothing until we were here. If Mokuba had evaded Saruwatari this time, you would have tried again. And again. And again. And whether it be a month from now or a year, eventually we would have been here, having this conversation. So I find it difficult to care whose fault it is that it was today."

He didn't want to have to talk this damned much. He would have liked it if talking had been unnecessary from the beginning. But Siegfried had anticipated that, and the sad fact of the matter was that there was no possible way for any shot he made to reach Siegfried without going straight through Mokuba. He was using the black-haired boy as a shield; a pale, shaking, terrified shield.

The usual method wasn't going to work.

He had to stall.

He had to wait.

Siegfried leaned up closer to Mokuba. "You see, there, Little Kaiba? How easily your brother passes over the truth? You know how ridiculously easy it would have been to escape this entire fiasco, don't you? You know who to blame...don't you?"

Mokuba closed his eyes and didn't answer. He was having enough trouble breathing.

"The truth?" Seto hissed. "Oh, you want to start discussing the truth, do you? That's a new trick for you, von Schroeder. In my experience, you prefer to indulge in self-serving delusion. If I'm not mistaken, you've managed to rationalize your behavior today as a favor to me."

"A favor?" Siegfried echoed. "To you? Now who's indulging in delusion, Seto? This isn't for you. No, no, not at all. If this is a favor to anyone, it's a favor to dear, darling little Mokuba. You'll see, young one. Just wait and see, and I'll show you the truth. And when it's over, I'll save you from the truth. I'm not a serial killer, you know. I don't do this for enjoyment."

"It's amazing how easily you walk straight into your own hypocrisy," Seto muttered.

Darren wasn't saying a word, wasn't making a sound. He was simply observing. Waiting. Gauging. Seto didn't dare a glance at his companion, knowing that it would count as a slip-up, and if Siegfried was even half as insane as he looked, then he would take that miniscule opportunity...and everything would be over.

As Seto's own traitorous imagination conjured up an image of what would happen if Siegfried actually managed to pull the trigger, he realized what was different here. He realized the part of the equation that hadn't computed.

And he realized why fear was started to coil its way around his gut.

Crawford's aim had been to manipulate Seto.

Ishtar's aim had been to manipulate Seto.

The man who went by the name Amelda's aim...had been to manipulate Seto.

Even Noa, whose short-lived abduction Mokuba didn't even remember, had been out for Seto.

But Siegfried?

There really was no ulterior motive here. There wasn't a game to be played, or a contest to overcome, a claim to stake. There was nothing here but Siegfried, Mokuba, and a weapon. There wasn't a damned thing Seto could do to placate this man into dropping his guard.

Siegfried von Schroeder already had exactly what he wanted.


7.


Not many people would have caught it.

Darren did, and that meant Mokuba did as well: Seto was starting to slip. It was subtle, and he might not have taken note of it at all except for the fact that now, more than ever, Seto needed to be impeccably calm. But there was a faint twitch, just enough to show that despite everything, Seto was getting angry.

Angry...and fearful.

Only part of it had to do with Siegfried von Schroeder himself.

Seto was a man long accustomed to being taken seriously. He was often criticized, but all the more often he was respected, and feared, and envied. Darren's own daughter fell into the most devout category of all, those who all but worshipped him. And when Seto Kaiba was angry, or offended, or irritated...people knew it. And they responded. Darren could recall many occasions where a simple glare from his young friend—no words, just a look—was enough to send people running.

Siegfried was not so much an enemy in and of himself as he was an idea: resistance. Not just resistance, but strong resistance. Here was an obstacle that could not be dealt with normally. Here was a man who not only fought him, but reveled in it. So unused to this particular breed of adversary, Seto was losing his grip on his usual ironclad control. It was slow, and it was subtle, but it was steady.

And for his part, Darren was sure, Siegfried was loving every moment of it.

The detective made a slow, slight, almost-step shift to the right. He had to take the opportunity as it presented itself, and if he could only get the right angle, he could end this charade before Siegfried's attention ever left his rival.

"Are you done playing the self-sacrificing martyr?" Seto asked, exasperated, still with his own pistol aimed squarely at Siegfried; which, consequently, meant that it was aimed at Mokuba. Darren couldn't even guess how that must look from the young Kaiba's point of view.

Shift to the right.

"You'll know when I am done, Seto, my dear," Siegfried crooned. "Are you down to ignoring me now? Are you deflecting now? Because you know I am right, and there is no use arguing? Do you realize now that you can't win with your normal tactics?"

"If you want me to play this game," Seto said, "you'll have to provide me with some incentive."

"Isn't the incentive simple?" Siegfried asked, clearly puzzled. "The longer I talk to you, the longer your brother lives."

"But in the end, you intend to kill him."

"Of course."

"Then I say again, provide me with some incentive."

Siegfried looked ready to laugh. "What more incentive could you possibly need? Is time not important to you if it cannot be gauged in years? Months? Days? When is the cutoff point, Seto, when the time one has left becomes meaningless?"

"I...will not...bury my brother."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that you have no choice in that matter, Seto, unless you intend to keep his body as a statue for your front parlor. Do you know a taxidermist? Or would you just dip him in liquid gold?"

"Apparently you didn't hear me, von Schroeder."

"I heard you. I just know that you're lying, and it would seem that you do not. Tell me, Seto, what pose would you pick for your statue? Would he be standing? Sitting down? Would he have his Gameboy?"

"You'll be my statue, von Schroeder," Seto snapped, "and you'll be on your knees. Wrapped in tinfoil in my freezer."

Shift.

Siegfried laughed. "Such confidence!" he cried. "You see, Seto? This is why you are so vastly entertaining! Nothing ever gets under your skin, does it, old friend? No, you are quite the machine. When a task must be completed, there is nothing except that task, isn't there? And right now, you're thinking that this task would be to kill me. Kill me quickly. Kill me before I cause any damage. And everything will be fine."

"Not at all," Seto sneered. "The task I had in mind was to sit down and have a mug of coffee. Why do you insist on drawing out this melodrama? Is this fun to you? You're all the same. Empty threats. You hold out the possibility of hurting my brother so that I'll dance on your strings. It's getting old."

Siegfried's laughter turned a shade darker.

Shift.

"We both know that I'm not here to make you dance, Seto. But the big question remains: do you intend to call my bluff? Are you willing to take that chance? Are you willing to wager your brother's life on that chance?"

Shift.

Seto tightened his grip on his gun. "The true question is whether you intend to call my bluff."

"Most unfortunately for you, old friend...I already have."

There. Another twitch. Beneath his lips, pulled down in a scowl, Seto's teeth were clenched. His jaw flexed. Mokuba bit his lower lip, closing his eyes for a moment as he drew in a shuddering breath that came out as a tiny, strangled cry. Seto's entire face gave a spasm and his hands shook, throwing off his aim. He caught it again almost instantly.

And all the while, Siegfried chuckled.

Hell isn't deep enough for you, Darren thought savagely.

"What are you after, von Schroeder?" Seto asked in a near-whisper. "What is the point of this? You claim to accept that I'm going to kill you. Smart. Smarter than the others. But at the same time, hopelessly stupid. Acting without reason is more than stupid. It's the definition of insanity."

Siegfried hummed. "We've been through this already, Seto. You have your answer. Take it. You're not going to get a better one from me. You can just assume that I am driven by the simple desire to see you suffer."

"Why him, then? Why not aim the gun at me?"

Darren heard a note that was almost pleading in the question.

Seto was trying to reason with psychosis.

"Collateral damage, I'm afraid," Siegfried said offhandedly. He turned his attention to Mokuba. "I am sorry, little one. You are a fine boy, and I do despair to see you caught in this, and only for the crime of being tied to this man. If it is any consolation, know that you are loved. That is why you are here, after all." He looked back up at Seto. "You do love your brother quite deeply, don't you, Seto? You should tell him, you know. You should take the time to say goodbye."

"Fuck you."

"...Indeed? Fascinating."

Shift.

Siegfried's eyes flickered.

By the sudden widening of the man's crazed grin—although the most disturbingly crazed thing about that grin was that it looked so very nat ural—Darren knew that he'd been seen. Siegfried laughed heartily. "Ah! Yes! You are well-trained, aren't you, Detective? I've heard of you. So quiet, so calm. So subtle. Yes. You must be thinking, if you can just get the right angle...why, you might just be able to take me down before I even realize it! And you think that maybe, just maybe, even if I do manage to pull the trigger—" he pushed his gun against Mokuba's back, "—perhaps it won't kill him? Perhaps, you hope against hope, it will only cripple him? Perhaps you will throw off my aim, and it will only graze him? Yes..."

He chuckled again, shaking his head.

"Well, now...perhaps..."

He switched his weapon from his right hand to his left, sliding it so that it never lost contact with its target, and knelt down. Reaching up and around with his free hand, Siegfried slid his arm up under Mokuba's and almost tenderly gripped the boy's chin.

Grinning pleasantly, he forced Mokuba's mouth open, just enough for the cold metal barrel to fit.


END.