Cudos to Nicole for being the best beta around. And... Sorry.
Her hands shook uncontrollably as she tried to push the magnum into the gun clutched between her numb fingers, the lack of sensory awareness not at all spurned by the cold. Crouched down behind the cement pot of the street plant, hidden by its dark shadow cast about the narrow sidewalk, she felt the fury-fuelled adrenaline running through her veins, scorching her skin from her toes to her hairline.
It took her several attempts to hear the satisfying click as the rifle was finally successfully loaded. And a feeling of anticipation began to settle over her, starting at the top of her head and washing down her neck, her arms, her chest and legs and feet until she shifted in her spot so she was better facing the road.
The night was silent and she looked down at her phone on the ground, the small red circle that pulsated along the street labelled lines, getting closer and closer to where she was lying in wait. Leaning back against the cool cement, Emma took a deep and shaky breath, unsuccessfully trying to steady herself as she grasped the roll of metal tighter in her hand. Her knuckles went white from the strain.
She could hear the car now, the crunch of rubber on asphalt as it turned the corner and began its approach.
Louder and louder. Closer and closer.
The soft material wrapped around her wrist came abruptly into her peripheral vision as she lined up her arm, hand flexing around the wide coil of metal. She told herself not to look at it; to stay focused, to ignore the vivid flashes of a night not long ago similar to this, another car speeding down a damp road, another gun poised to shoot.
A fresh wave of mixed anger and sadness enveloped her as blood-soaked images filled her mind's eye and she grimaced as tears unwillingly pooled behind her lids.
It beat out any and all remorse she might have felt for what she was about to do.
This was how it had to be.
Throwing aside every memory, every possible reference for bias. There was no room for sympathy or holding back. Neal could not simply be 'brought in' anymore. Metal bars would never suffice.
Too much innocent blood had been shed.
The time for playing by the rules, by the law, was done. One of them had to die. There was simply not enough room in the world for Emma Swan and Neal Cassidy to co-exist.
Too much history.
Too much bad blood.
Emma swallowed hard, her resolve solidifying in her chest as the car's tires became louder on the road, its approach rapid and unstoppable. She moved closer to the edge of the street, still shrouded by the shadows and darkness.
With one last heavy breath, she kicked herself into action.
It all happened in a matter of seconds.
The tire spikes that had been curled up in her hand rolled seamlessly out across the road as she thrust her arm forward and opened her palm. The second it left her grip, she used her free hand to more firmly support the sleek rifle, aiming it up and shifting her weight to stand as soon as the cars crossed the sharp spikes.
She watched remorselessly as the front wheels of the first black sedan crossed the strip and began to swerve as though ice coated the remainder of the road. She raised her gun, finger ready on the trigger to shoot as the main body of the vehicle prepared to pass her.
8888
Three weeks earlier
The cold night air spurred gooseflesh to come to life along her exposed skin, up her arms and down her back. She flicked her hair out of her face in the light breeze as she walked hurriedly across the street. She needed air. His words echoed in her head like a rock in a pond, the ripples of what he'd said still coiling out to touch her nerves and she felt traitorous tears prickle the back of her eyes.
Killian was too close.
Why couldn't he just stop?
Why couldn't he just see?
She should have just told him what was going on.
She was glad she didn't.
She wanted him to leave her alone.
She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see him running after her.
But he wasn't and she cursed the absurd assumption that he might actually come after her after the shit she'd just pulled. She hadn't meant for the acid to seep into her tone, twist her words and bend them into sharp knives – but it had just happened. She hadn't even really wanted to come to the Gala, only pulling on the soft red dress when Ruby emailed her to remind her of their deal – that and Graham's insistence that not going would only convince her workmates that something was up.
Her old partner had promised to keep her updated: their entire day had been devoted to tracking Neal, following any hint of his presence in Virginia.
She didn't think they'd get anything new until tomorrow; but they had and, as promised, Graham had texted her. First to let her know he'd found another lead which had served as a reminder to keep her teammates at arm's length, the second – which she felt was the catalyst for what had just occurred in the foyer – was to tell her Neal was in Quantico. And, like a deer caught in headlights, she'd panicked, foregoing any and all training she'd had that urged her to stay calm. She'd tried to leave, tried to run away. But he just had to get involved. And she didn't want to identify the mixture of feelings swirling in her gut that he had chased her into the hall. Doing so would only take her attention away from where it was desperately needed: Neal and his alarming proximity.
Emma took a shaky breath as she reached the other side of the street where there was a concrete square and a small fountain bubbling away. Sitting on the edge of it, she let her head fall in her hands, rubbing her temples and ignoring the small Ruby-like voice that told her she would smudge her make up. Her head hurt and she could feel a headache coming on.
Killian's face, his eyes saturated with fury and betrayal, flickered in her mind's eye. It made her heart twist painfully in her chest.
"Emma."
That voice.
Her eyes snapped open, her head still in her hands, her nerves suddenly painfully alert. The air around her shifted as a thousand thoughts crossed her mind in the blink of an eye. She had about a second to collect herself before she would have to face him.
Emma had imagined this moment often, so often that she had developed an internal script. Every time she had gone over this conversation in her head, it had been different. Initially, in her weaker days, it had been tense and angry, followed by apologies and forgiveness. And then, slowly, she'd developed a new script that detailed a furious man who would either (a) scold her and move on (very unlikely, but it was the only thing that kept her nightmares at bay) or (b) kill her.
She swallowed the lump in her throat to no avail, her mouth drying up as she lifted her head.
A silent drumroll had already begun to toll in her head, leading to the moment she would raise her eyes to his for the first time in years.
It was time to face the music.
He looked just like she remembered him, strangely so. His hair was still chocolate brown and sticking up all over the place, brown eyes still twinkling with boyish mischief – though now there seemed to be lines on his face that weren't there before, drawn in by the hands of time, a long cut near his jaw that she didn't remember.
There was also a harsh tinge to the way he regarded her. She would have flinched had he not been sending her a small sharp smile that spoke of dark amusement.
"Neal," she answered stoically, gathering herself and sitting straighter on the edge of the fountain, fingers itching to reach through the split in her dress to where a small gun was strapped to her thigh.
His eyes roamed unapologetically over her for a short second before rising up to her face again and she suppressed a shiver. He nodded indifferently to the great building she had exited where soft elegant music could only barely be heard as it drifted across the street.
"Have fun?" he asked with the slightest hint of condescension, and then, with none at all, "You look beautiful."
She levelled him with a scathing smile, "A blast. Shouldn't you be worried about coming out in the open like this?" Emma raised an eyebrow, her expression oddly telling about her attitude towards the prospect. Also, her hand inadvertently twitched down to where her gun was usually hastened at her hip, a subconscious response.
Neal shook his head adamantly and looked down at his feet with an amused smile, "No, no, no. My friends over there," he directed Emma's gaze to three lean men standing a short distance away, their shade-covered eyes surely fixed on the exchange between the blonde agent and the arms dealer, "they're spectacular body guards."
His eyes met hers, narrowing as the ice audibly seeped into his tone, "And besides, I've always felt safer in your presence."
She kept her mouth in a tight line, images and memories flashing in her mind's eye at the obvious double entendre that lay there. He really would never forgive her for what happened all those years ago – but she didn't really want his forgiveness anyway, she just wanted to forget.
Didn't they all say, 'Ignorance is bliss?'
He paused and sat down beside her on the edge of the fountain, a foot away so they weren't too close. Either way, his movements made the blonde stiffen, her eyes trailing him with every step he took. Every muscle in her body felt as though it congealed at his close vicinity. She didn't speak, her mind whirring away as it tried to catch up with what was happening. She felt as though the ground had broken beneath her feet and she was randomly scrambling about for something to hold onto, something to say that might make this end well.
She couldn't find one thing to say.
"So," Neal began, drawing her attention rather roughly back to him as he licked his lips and smirked, "What's her name?"
Emma frowned, tilting her head down to look at him incredulously, "Excuse me?"
He met her eyes and she saw the acid that coated his every gesture. The vindictive glint in his eye had her on edge even before he began to speak, and she vaguely recalled a need to stay apathetic because any response would only goad him on.
"That girl in the burgundy dress," Neal elucidated, "The brunette one? Ravishing, really. Something tells me she'd be a freak in bed. But it's a genuine turn-off when women frequently forget to lock the doors of their Moulver Street apartments at night." He didn't even bother to conceal the ominous threat as his eyes drifted back to the golden lit building across the street where all her colleagues and friends were still happily dancing and clinking their champagne glasses together.
She felt the anger in her chest begin to simmer as he spoke, the notion that he not only knew where Ruby lived, but had been close enough to check her locks, disconcerted her more than anything. Yet she kept her face impassive, tapping heavily into her reservoir of focus just to keep from locking her jaw.
He put his finger up in the air, holding it aloft as if recalling something of great importance.
"Oh, and the young kid looks nice," he complimented, "innocent even. Except for those bruises – I'd ask what happened there but I get the feeling it's a touchy subject… He reminds me of my younger brother a bit. Hopefully he doesn't suffer the same naïve tendencies. But I guess if he's got you, he should be fine."
Emma bit down on her tongue as she felt her fists clench tightly beside her. She nearly shook with the effort it took not to stand up and knock him out. Especially at the subtext that he knew she would interpret. Mentioning Charlie was a knock-out blow in itself but the comparison to Henry nearly sent her over the edge.
She would later feel the need to commend herself on her self-control. But for the moment, Emma kept her eyes glued to his face, letting the fire in them speak for her without moving.
"And that British one – Phillip? He sounds like a great guy. His new girlfriend Aurora is pretty cute too. The guy's smitten. And David – he acts like a father to you doesn't he? Does he know about your upbringing?" Neal turned to her with a mocking smile, "I can just imagine you, him and his lovely little wife Mary Margaret all playing house on a Sunday afternoon in their adorable little bungalow on Thistle Avenue."
Fury boiled up in her veins like fire, consuming every nerve.
Neal had investigated her entire team, he was bringing them into it – the few people she cared most about. The only people she would willingly throw herself to the dogs for.
She found herself internally blanching at the concept of him, standing somewhere close to her Unit Chief's house. The way he spoke about every team member as if he knew them personally bit at her nerves like a virus, rapidly disintegrating her control.
But there was still one person he hadn't mentioned.
Neal's smile faltered for a moment, a strange look glinting in his features momentarily before being wiped away by cruel satisfaction. His voice took on a particularly distasteful edge and she couldn't help but wonder why.
"Does he join in? Your partner? Killian, right?" Neal spoke his name as if tasting it, chewing the edges and spitting it out mercilessly. His eyes narrowed fractionally, "He really is infatuated with you. Did you know he takes the same route to work every single day?"
Emma froze.
Neal looked up as if trying to recall and bit his bottom lip, "Smith Street," he finally said with cruel delight that she hadn't heard in his previous threats. He shook his head and rubbed his hands together cheerily, "You would think he might choose a different route to work considering it's an accident prone area –"
SNAP.
"Neal."
Evidently, her voice startled him with its composure as he looked up from his hands. She didn't growl or yell or scream or even throw a punch. She didn't attempt to maim him as her instincts so urged her to do. She didn't even slide closer to him.
"Yes?" he asked, trying to act unfazed by the change in the air around them. It was still stifling, but there was something else there. Like a fuel waiting for a spark to ignite it.
Emma kept her voice low and resonant, leaning in ever so slightly as she spoke – taking great care with her enunciation so every syllable was clear and sharp as a shard of broken glass.
"I'm going to warn you once out of respect for Charlie," she started, wincing internally at the pain it caused her to say his name, "I've seen some pretty downright heinous things in my life and even more in my time as a BAU agent," she stopped and tilted her head down so she could stare at him with unmatched wrath, her voice dropping a decibel as she poured every ounce of hatred into words, "But if you touch my team – if you so much as a lay a finger on them – the things I've witnessed will pale in comparison to what I do to you."
She paused for effect, letting her words sink in before hissing through bared teeth, "Leave. Them. Out of it."
He was silent for a moment, unmoving as her words seemed to echo, cold and harsh like the night that surrounded them. The air around her was taut, pressing on the both of them and for a naive second she foolishly assumed he might have actually felt the gravity of her threat. But before shock could fully register in her mind, she watched as a grin split across his face and he regarded her with condescension.
He barked a laugh and shook his head, standing up and shoving his hands into the pockets of his black coat. Emma kept her eyes trained on him, her fingers still itching to grab the gun strapped to her thigh and end it all right there.
But for some reason, she either couldn't or wouldn't.
"I'd like to see you try, sweetie," he finally said, the term of endearment sharp and bitter on his tongue.
Emma glowered at him and straightened herself before standing up again, "You've forgotten Neal, I don't make empty threats."
He nodded casually and her eyes instantly snapped onto his hand as he raised it to tuck a strand of blonde behind her ears - the movement soft like steel and so obviously intended to intimidate her. She bit back the urge to jerk away, knowing it would only fuel his delight. So, instead, she held her ground.
When he pulled his hand back, he cocked his head to the side and fixed her with a look she couldn't rightly describe or comprehend: a strange mixture of admiration and disdain.
"That's what I always loved about you."
He held her eyes for a moment longer and then he was turning, pivoting on his heel and walking towards the three suited men as he made a hand signal that indicated they were done.
Emma didn't move, her body still frozen in place, her muscles cemented, her nerves on fire as anger and fear surged through her.
She took a deep and ineffective breath. The feeling in her chest didn't change: the one where her lungs were shallow and something cold and hard pressed unflinchingly on her heart.
Her attention was brought abruptly to the building on the opposite side of the street as the dull roar of people clapping crossed the damp bitumen road - likely because of some stupid speech designed to reel in the benefactors. But it brought her mind to something else entirely - returning her thoughts to his threat, the facts, the very thing that had made her snap and respond despite years of training that urged her to ignore him.
Her team.
He was going to hurt them - or kill them if he thought it would hurt her more. He'd been to their homes, studied their routines, their loved ones, their habits. And he'd flaunted that in her face.
Every possible scenario crossed her mind, followed succinctly by the nightmare she'd had back in Chicago
Emma opened her clutch and snatched the phone out, dialling Graham's number in one fluid movement. He answered after one ring.
"Emma? I thought you were at the Gala - did you get my text about Cassidy?"
"Yeah but I'm coming back to the hotel now-"
"Wha - Why?"
"I can't explain over the phone. I'll see you in twenty minutes." She didn't let him respond as she ended the call, walking quickly back to where she knew her car was parked.
8888
The door creaked loudly as it was jerked open harshly and thrust closed again, Emma entering the room in its wake. Graham sat up on the motel bed, alarmed by her sudden entrance after her unhelpfully vague phone call. He wasn't surprised by her presence or that she was still wearing the red dress she'd adorned for the evening.
After she'd found the swan necklace in her room, Emma had packed a bag and left. Knowing that Neal knew where she lived was motivation enough to leave the apartment until they dealt with him. So, in the meantime, she was sharing a hotel room with Graham (only after he'd upgraded to a double room), falling into old habits from their time in France easily.
Granted, in France she hadn't woken up frequently in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
She threw her clutch at the other bed as she flew into the room, her hair mussed from constantly raking her fingers through it on the drive to the hotel.
"Emma?" Graham asked tentatively, sitting on the edge of his bed and watching as she paced the length of the room. She didn't respond but stopped momentarily to kick off her heels so she could pace more thoroughly, her brow drawn in deep thought.
"What's wrong?" he queried again. When she didn't respond, he stood up and moved to block her path.
"Hey, what-"
"Neal. He paid me a visit." Emma stopped moving around, her eyes locking onto his, uncharacteristically panicked.
He was stunned into silence for a long second, "Wait - what?"
"After the gala. I left after your text," she began, the memory of Killian's look of hurt, betrayal and anger making her flinch against her will, "and when I got outside, he... He was there. Outside. Waiting for me."
"Wha - did he talk to you?"
"Yeah," she replied without thought, eyes focused on a spot behind Graham, mind preoccupied by the conversation replaying over and over and over in her head.
Graham noticed her expression and drew his brows together in concern, folding his arms across his chest, "Are you okay?"
No. He made it clear this was not a game. He put a proverbial axe over her head, letting her know he could cut off all the things she loved in one fell swoop should it strike him. She opened her mouth to respond, before the walls around her heart crowed out in vehement protest. Besides, Graham didn't need to know the specifics.
"Yeah, I'm fine. We just..." she took a deep breath, "We need to get to him before he gets to us."
He was unconvinced and the look he levelled her with said as much.
"Emma, what happened? What did he say?"
His worried voice brought her back to the hotel room in which they stood and she shook her head, trying in vain to clear the cobwebs that slowed and clogged her thought processes like tar running through her veins. "Nothing. Just idle threats is all," Emma explained lamely and, when Graham still regarded her carefully, she added, "How did you find out he was in Quantico?"
There was a moment where he didn't move, evidently weighing up whether he wanted to pursue the topic of her conversation with Neal or move on to the more pressing matter at hand (or what she considered to be the more pressing matter). She waited for him to respond, emotional walls tall and ready to deflect when, thankfully, he sighed and turned around, wearing his own hole into the carpet.
"An old contact told me that word on the streets is an old gold is back and not for the guns. I put two and two together pretty quickly but checked it out anyway and then I texted you."
Emma nodded and shuffled over to let herself drop onto the side of the bed, letting out a tired huff of breath.
"Okay, so where do we go from here?" she asked.
Graham walked to the bed and sat down beside her on the edge, "From here?" he clarified to himself before raising his eyes to look at her intently, "We track him down and figure out a vantage point. Then we attack and bring him in."
Emma shook her head at the utter simplicity of the plan. As though it would be so easy to simply 'catch' Neal. As though the man wasn't as elusive and deadly as smoke.
"It sounds so much easier than it is..." she said, her voice drifting off into the room, swirling in the air around her like a black grim.
8888
"Where did you find out about the old gold?" Graham's voice crackled through the receiver. He was wearing a wire, sitting at the bar in the derelict tavern. Emma hid in the back booth, earpiece connected firmly to the side of her head, hidden by her hair which she'd purposefully styled over her ears.
They'd quickly decided to outsource the individual who'd first warned Graham about Neal's presence in Quantico. They needed a place to start and this guy seemed to be it. It had taken them two days to get into contact with him and organize this meeting - hearing from him was one thing but setting up a meeting was something else entirely.
He'd decided upon 'The Mirano,' a beaten down old bar downtown. After some small talk preamble, Graham was finally getting to the point - the information they needed. Anything that could get them closer to Neal.
She kept her head down as her old partner talked with his contact, taking mental notes of every piece of important information. She played idly with the napkin on the table in front of her, folding the edges as she waited for a name or a place or something bloody well tangible.
"You know I trust you, Graham - but I can't risk it. Snitches don't do well in my business," the contact replied quietly, his voice like sandpaper on cement.
Emma had yet to actually see the man sitting beside Graham at the bar. All she could gather was that he was short, round and had an affinity for brown - a beige coat, muddy pants and maroon beanie covering the majority of his figure.
"I need something, Dirk. I can't go home empty handed today of all days," Graham replied, leaning towards the man with a pleading look.
Emma saw the contact's hand wave apologetically in front of him before his reply sounded in her ear, "I'm sorry, but I risked enough when I told you what I knew."
She rolled her eyes. They could have found out what he told Graham from anyone in the streets, he just happened to be the closest and fastest contact to reply. Evidently, Graham agreed because he tilted his head disbelievingly at the man, taking a measured sip of the beer in his hand.
He swallowed the alcohol and replied, "You and I both know that's a lie."
"Whatever. I can't. I just can't - I'm sorry Graham -"
But her old partner cut him off, "Listen Dirk, I get it but... this is for a friend. A girl. Please."
Emma felt her mouth fall slack in shock - the way Graham had said it... It sounded as though he was... Well, it sounded like the 'she' he was referring to was more than a friend. And there was only one person he could be referring to at that moment.
She watched him intently from her spot across the bar, the napkin crunching satisfactorily in her grip as she watched him eye his contact desperately. He never once glanced at Emma, even though every instinct told her he wanted to.
The contact was silent for a moment, "A girl, huh?" he asked sympathetically.
Graham nodded, "Yeah."
She wanted it to be a lie - to be a tactic Graham devised to play on the contact's sympathies. She wanted it to be a game of manipulation, shifting facts to suit his agenda. But she could see him clearly, could see his body language, his face - the unrepentant truth in his words.
How could she not have known? Emma looked down at the table and the ruined napkin in her hands.
They'd worked together constantly for almost two years.
He'd always put her safety above all else.
He'd always been open with her.
They'd always been able to read each other fairly well.
But she'd always put it down to friendship; the bond they shared that was forged amongst a tough time in her life, strengthened by the crucible that was Neal's prosecution and incarceration in Korea, strained by distance and time but still present. So many comments, lingering stares and glances, actions and moments were suddenly shed in a new light as her mind struggled to catch up to the new information.
Memories aligned in frightening synchronization, shedding light on what she might have always known but never pondered.
No.
He couldn't possibly...
But they were friends.
"Miles Jackson," the contact suddenly said, pulling Emma unceremoniously back to the present, "He told me about it. That's all I can give you... I hope she knows what you're doing for her," he continued thoughtfully.
Graham replied grimly, "She does... Thanks Dirk."
Emma finally found the courage to look up from the table as Graham stood up and pushed the stool back into the bar, "Until next time."
The contact raised his glass in silent salute as Graham turned around and left, his eyes briefly flitting to Emma. She couldn't move. She couldn't think. Of all the bloody times for a revelation, he chose now. Now, when the world was crumbling and skeletons were forcing their way out of closets and into the harsh light of day.
He walked quickly outside and she heard his voice in the receiver, a muffled whisper, "I'll be waiting outside."
Emma sat in the booth for a long moment, seriously considering taking the back exit and catching a cab to the motel room they were sharing. But he would eventually turn up at the door, softly asking her permission to enter so he could explain. But what was there to explain, really? He had feelings for her. What else was there?
She would have to face the music eventually.
"Emma, please come outside so we can talk," Graham pleaded gently into the receiver.
She took a deep breath and grabbed her stuff off the table, unexplained anger bubbling to the surface as she stood up and weaved her way through the crowded tavern. Many of the patrons in the bar shot her dirty looks as she shoved uncourteously passed them, but she paid it no mind. Why did he choose today? Now? What in the seven hells was he thinking?
How could he put it on her now and expect her to be okay with it? 'I know we're chasing down your crazy ex but by the way, I kind of have a thing for you. No big.'
Idiot.
Bloody idiot.
The door to the bar nearly fell off its hinges as she slammed it open and stormed outside. She didn't even flinch at the temperature change, the warmth from the building behind her evaporating in the brisk night.
She turned left and began striding towards their car where her eyes landed on Graham, leaning against the car with an apologetic expression and folded arms. When he saw her, he stood up from the side of the car and took a step in her direction, arms outstretched imploringly.
"Emma, listen -"
She never gave him time to finish, shoving him backwards as she finally reached him.
"What the hell?" she growled furiously, "What the hell Graham!"
He caught himself before he could trip over, "I'm sorry! I didn't want you to find out like this but I couldn't think of any other way he'd tell me!" He shook his head, "I don't expect anything from you, Emma."
"I know!" she yelled back angrily, running a hand through her hair and ripping the wire away from her ear to throw at him. He caught it deftly.
"Then why are you angry?" he asked, not impolitely.
She stammered for a second, "Because... Because I can't - I don't - I don't need this right now! Do you have any idea how much - how 'not ready' I am to deal with this!"
"Emma," he pleaded and when she didn't respond, reached out to grab her arm, "Emma!" She finally looked up to meet his eyes, the anger waning as sadness and confusion took its place.
"How long?" she murmured, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.
His eyes never left hers, "I reckon since France."
She frowned, "All this time? It's been years."
"I forgot what it was like to be around you, so it wasn't the entire time... But it all came rushing back when I got here," he answered with a minuscule regret-filled smile.
"Why didn't you tell me in France?"
"Because you went undercover before I was sure. And then you fell in love with Neal - or at least got close. And then you were trying to recover from Charlie and everything else... And then you left... It was never the right time," Graham said sadly.
It was the truth and for some reason she felt indignation coil around her throat. She choked on her own self-loathing for a moment, because it was her fault. But it only served to mix in with what she was already feeling towards Graham, the emotion directing to him as she spluttered, the failed words coming out of her mouth in wisps of white steam.
"And now is the right time?" she demanded.
He shook his head, something like anger finally appearing on his face, "No, but I wouldn't have gotten the information without it!"
"You should have let me speak to him!"
"And have you trade the information for what? A pretty smile from a woman he doesn't even know?" he countered, pointing inelegantly towards the tavern.
"We could have found another source!"
"No we couldn't! Think about it, Emma! The only reason he told me was because he trusts me and anyone else we would have had no chance!"
He was right. Emma closed her mouth, her fingers bruising on her own arms as she held herself like she held her heart: guarded and tight.
"I don't expect anything. Neal is our first priority," he reiterated calmly, and she was relieved to finally take note of the truth there.
Emma nodded faintly and a long moment passed before he reached out with one hand to pull her slowly forward. She surprised herself when she let him pull her into a tentative hug. A small part of her tried to ignore the way her defensive instincts told her to flee his embrace as well as the regret she felt - partially unsure as to why she felt guilty. But she felt tired and, as much as she despised it, weak. For once she just wanted to be held - even if he didn't smell like rum and the sea.
"I'm sorry," she murmured against his shoulder, not sure if she was apologizing for the outburst or her feelings (or lack thereof). Because the gods above knew that her desires weren't for soft brown eyes and sandy curls. Ice blue irises and jet black hair burned her mind's eye as she burrowed sadly into her friend's shoulder.
8888
Miles Jackson all but lived in a swingy Italian restaurant near Foulger Square. It only took a couple of days to find out - sifting through old contacts and favours from friends to locate the man who could lead them to Neal - and then they were both off, driving towards the 'Taziana Italian Grill' to meet Mr Jackson.
The car ride was silent, a mixed result of Emma's fatigue and the after effects of Graham's revelation. The past few days had been strained to say the least: neither knew how to handle themselves now because he wanted more than she could give. The fact that he was so understanding just made her guilt compound until it was like a barbell on her shoulders, pulling them taut so she walked with a nearly indiscernible hunch.
Distantly, she realized no one was at fault.
But it didn't stop her from the remorse she felt. Human emotions are tricky that way.
The second they entered the establishment, they spotted him. Even if they hadn't seen a picture of him, they would have been able to discern him. He sat in the center of the room at a large round table, a laptop to his left and a fresh plate of penne carbonara to his right. He sat in the wooden chair like it was a couch, utterly in his element among the food and people enjoying their meals.
He had dark ebony skin, a head like a bowling ball shining in the restaurant's overhead lights. Despite his relaxed demeanour, he wore a crisp black suit that lended to the idea he was a businessman - which he was (in a sense).
Emma led the way, making a beeline for his table.
"Miles Jackson," she said as she pulled to a stop in front of his table. He looked up from the computer to eye her suspiciously, beady brown eyes boring into her without regard for her appearance or gender.
"Who's asking?" he responded, looking behind her to Graham who had sidled up to her.
"A friend," Graham interjected, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite the man. Emma stayed standing, watching Miles warily as he raised a speculative eyebrow in their direction. His expression was half amused and half impressed; evidently people didn't often join him without invitation.
He was clearly the sort of person who was used to intimidating people. Everything about him from his expression to his posture suggested overconfidence and intensity.
"I have enough friends," he retorted, bringing his hands together over his lap and leaning, if possible, further into the chair.
"We have incentive," Emma said, her tone implying just what sort of incentive she was referring to - the kind that was green, rectangular and made of paper.
Miles' other eyebrow ascended of its own accord and he smiled.
"I do like incentive," he said, "What is it I can do for you?"
Graham glanced at Emma and she nodded, so he continued, "We heard you were one of the first to find out about an old gold being back in town for alternative reasons."
Miles nodded indifferently but didn't speak.
"How did you come across that information?"
He smiled even wider, "Incentive first."
Emma yearned to threaten him, her fingers itching to wipe the smug grin from his sharp face.
"seven-hundred dollars," Graham said quickly, like he knew where the blonde's thoughts were crossing.
Miles nodded in approval and closed his laptop with a sharp click, the sound punctuated by the squeaking of his chair as he leaned forward to put his hands on the table.
"I saw the old gold meeting with one of my good friends a little while ago," he said simply, "outside the Police Station on Broadway Street. He's either stupid or cocky to be doing business there."
Of bloody course Neal would do something like that - flaunt his work outside the very establishment designed to stop him. She couldn't decide whether it was simply him being an arrogant bastard or a deliberate move for her benefit.
"How long ago?" Graham asked.
"Two or three days I think."
Emma tapped her old partner on the shoulder to get his attention, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "We can hack into the video cameras from that area to get a better picture and possibly pick up some plates."
He nodded in agreement, "Sounds good."
When she stood back up, Miles was eyeing them both with feint amusement and a smirk to boot. She tried to ignore the way his gaze flickered between them both.
They really didn't need some smug asshole aggravating the already tentative situation between them.
Graham brought his attention back to the topic of conversation as he extended a hand, seven one-hundred dollar bills clenched between his fingers. Miles took the money with a precise swipe of his hand and leaned back, snapping the bills twice in silent inspection.
Graham pulled out from the table as he did this and stood beside Emma. They both waited for the man at the table to look up before they nodded once in succinct goodbye and turned around to leave.
"Good luck with whatever you're doing," he called after them with a bark of laughter.
8888
As it turned out, there were a multitude of cameras in the area near the police station and thanks to some favours on Graham's part; they were able to isolate the video footage with little difficulty. They sat down on the edge of the bed in the small motel room; laptop balanced on Graham's lap and opened the file.
It was fairly grainy black and white footage from a dingy cafe across the street from the station, but it was obvious when they showed up. Three black sedans pulled up on the opposite side of the street to the large marble building that was the precinct. Suited men could be seen in the windows of the first and third as the door to the second opened. Two suits - whom Emma recognized from the Gala - exited the second vehicle, followed by Neal and then a third - who Emma also remembered from the Gala.
Neal walked calmly towards a park bench a short distance down the street and sat. It was about five minutes before another man showed up - dark sunglasses and black cap covering the majority of his defining features. And yet, something about him felt familiar, a voice in the back of her mind urging her to place the face she was sure she'd seen before - not too long ago. But she couldn't, either because there wasn't enough to go on or her mind was still consumed by the unsettling image of Neal on a street she was so used to crossing.
The other man moved cautiously, like he knew where the cameras would be, and sat beside Neal. They spoke for about ten minutes before the latter shook the unknown man's hand and moved back to the cars.
Before he entered the middle sedan though, he looked up, head turning around seemingly periodically around the street.
Emma frowned at the screen, confused and curious about what he might be doing until his eyes locked onto her. Not literally her, of course. But the camera - and it hit her.
He'd been staring at each of the cameras - ensuring he would meet her eyes at least once.
And another thought occurred to her - he knew she was coming after him.
A game of cat and mouse.
But she was still trying to figure out who was the cat and who was the mouse.
He finished looking at each of the cameras and jumped into the sedan before they drove away. She stared at the screen a moment longer until she realized Graham was staring at her with blatant concern.
His soft brown eyes bore into her green ones, "You alright?" he asked gently. Emma nodded immediately in reply, a hurried tilt of her head that was so unconvincing she almost cringed.
He picked up the laptop and stood, walking to the desk so he could deposit it on the clean mahogany surface. He picked up a pen and paper and scribbled something before shuffling across the carpet to stand in front of her.
Emma shook her head and frowned, trying to wipe away what was starting to feel like a constant haze.
"We need to track these plates," he said, handing her the note with the assortment of letters and numbers. They would need to use government resources for this particular task.
"Okay," she said, coughing to clear her voice, "Can your clearance at Interpol get you that?"
He shook his head sadly, "Not while I'm supposed to be on holiday."
"And you don't know how to hack?" she said meekly, already knowing what his answer would be and sighing when he shook his head.
"Not on that level."
She sighed exasperatedly and cursed under her breath, "Damn it."
He rubbed his brow tiredly for a minute, silence encroaching on the motel room until he pulled his hand away, holding it aloft as he suggested, "Well, why don't you call in a favour from the tech analyst on your team? She could get that sort of info couldn't she?"
Emma took less than a second to respond, "No."
He frowned and started walking around the room, not impolitely questioning, "Why not? From what you've told me, she'd barely have to lift a finger to track a number plate."
Emma met his eyes then, shaking her head, "No, Graham," she said sternly.
Genuine confusion marred his face at her refusal, "I thought the two of you were friends?"
"We are but," she paused, "I just -"
"I'm sure she won't tell your Unit Chief -"
"He threatened my team."
Emma closed her eyes, squeezing her fists in an effort to conceal the emotions bubbling and fizzing inside of her. She could hear as Graham stopped abruptly in his tracks and could imagine him turning to face her.
"What?"
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, "Neal," she explained, "That's what he said to me after the Gala. He threatened my team."
There was a long silence as realization flitted across Graham's face and he walked closer to Emma.
"That's why you haven't gotten them involved," he murmured eventually, seemingly to himself, "I thought you just didn't trust them enough."
Of course that's what he would think. That's what everyone who knew her would think.
How could Emma Swan, the girl with fortified emotional walls of steel be keeping people out for their own safety? she thought bitterly to herself. She didn't tell people she trusted them - she let her actions speak for her. Ever since her time in the system, Emma had never been an overtly sentimental person. It didn't get you anywhere.
Showing any kind of affection was near blasphemous.
So of course he would think that.
She wanted to shake her head and scoff because she trusted her team with every iota inside of her. David, who acted like the father she never had - and even his wife Mary Margaret. Henry, who treated her with such respect and awe it was as though he was twelve. Phillip, whose conscience and morality were a constant and subtle source of comfort. Ruby, the first member of the team she'd openly laughed with.
And even Killian; her partner and the man who seemed not to realize just how much she depended on him - a fact she herself hadn't realized until this moment.
She trusted her team more than anything.
But she would never say as much.
Emma returned his gaze fervently, "They can't have anything to do with this. As far as they know, I'm taking long-service leave and that's how it's going to stay."
She paused and Neal's words replayed in her mind, followed by images and memories of each team member. It made her heart seize in her chest.
"I have to protect them, Graham," she murmured, "I can't drag them into my mess."
He nodded, "I understand."
"Thank you," Emma said quietly, her voice barely a rasp. There was another extended moment of silence as Graham paced backwards to sit on the edge of the desk where the laptop was still open. He folded his arms across his chest and caught Emma's eyes.
"So what do you want to do now?" he asked.
She ran a hand through her hair, thinking, "Well, didn't you say one of your contacts has connections to the police force in Delaware?"
He had to think for a second, "...Yeah."
"Would he be able to get that sort of thing?"
Graham rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "For a price."
"Do it. I'll pay it," Emma responded instantly.
He shook his head and stood, fishing his phone from his pocket, "We'll go halves."
"No," she said firmly, "I'll pay it. Call him."
Graham sent her an incredulous look before dialling the number and walking towards the bathroom. He called over his shoulder as he moved, phone already at his ear, "Give me a minute."
Emma nodded as he closed the door, leaving her alone in the main part of the motel room. She stood up from the bed and patted her jean pockets awkwardly, looking around in search of something to do while she waited. Her eyes landed on her phone where it lay on the edge of the desk.
Don't do it, a part of her warned, unbidden as she moved over to it.
She reached for it tentatively, almost afraid, like it was a bomb ready to detonate in her hand. But she'd never had a problem with explosions.
Emma picked up the phone and immediately frowned, her lock screen showed 19 new messages and six missed calls - all from her team. She began to read through the messages. The first was from David.
David: Enjoy your holiday - you deserve it. Call me if you need anything and keep in touch.
She smiled faintly and moved on to the second message from Henry.
Henry: I'm disappointed I won't be seeing your face at work for a while but have a good holiday. Make sure you call once in a while though!
Guilt instantly began to well in the pits of her stomach as she thought about the young agent. Disinclined to let the unsolicited emotions consume her, she went on to Phillip's message.
Phillip: Enjoy your leave, you definitely deserve a break. I'm always here if you need anything and I'll see you when you get back.
Trust Phillip to be a sentimental git even through a simple text. More guilt poured into the crevasse in her gut.
Ruby: Oi! Wats this I hear about long term service leave? Where the hell was my goodbye?
Ruby: Ok so I've been told (by free willy) it's impolite not 2 tell u 2 hav a nice holiday. But I don't have 2 mean it bc I want u 2 come back ASAP.
Ruby: Ok ok ok hav a good holiday but u better freaking text me!
Emma made a watery laughing sound. Bloody Ruby. When she saw there was a second text from Henry, the soft smile vanished and she bit her lip, her chest tightening as she read his message.
Henry: Hey Ems, I'm getting kind of worried because you haven't called or anything. Can I get a text just so I know you're alive?
Ruby: bitch u haven't texted me.
Ruby: I misssssss u. All this testosterone is making me feel manly. Oh and free willy (victor) says hi and hav a good holiday.
Emma's breath caught in her throat when she saw who'd sent the next message, the small writing on her screen jumping out as she read the words in his lilted voice.
Killian: So I hear you've taken long-term service leave?
She could hear the incredulity in the basic words, the way he would raise his eyebrow and level her with a skeptical look.
Henry: Getting really worried.
Ruby: Emmmmmmaaaaa! Call or text me u mutinous wench!
Killian: Everyone's getting worried. Where are you?
Killian: And don't try to bullshit me with some lame excuse about a holiday. You and I both know that's a lie.
She wanted to hate him for it; the way he could read her when he wasn't even around her. Their last conversation was a yelling match for crying out loud - he shouldn't even care. After everything she'd said, she was sure those bridges were burnt, blackened and charred and sunk beneath a sea of her viscous words. And subconsciously, she was sure that it had been her intention- to push him away so he couldn't get tangled in the viscous web which she had woven all those years ago.
Emma focused back on the text on the small screen in her hand.
David: When do you think you'll be coming back?
Phillip: Just checking in - everything okay?
Henry: So Phillip and David told me to stop texting you because it's rude to pry when you're probably relaxing somewhere but I'm worried. Please text me. Even a kk. Please?
She smiled in spite of herself, her lips pulling up in sad amusement. Henry absolutely hated the use of 'kk' in texts, she'd suffered through a lecture from him about common courtesy when she'd first made the mistake of sending him a simple 'kk' back in the earlier days.
Ruby: not even sorry if im hassling u but u srsly need to let us know ur still alive.
Killian: Please.
One word. One simple word that hit her like an arrow to the chest, driving into her heart so she could nearly hear his voice soft and pleading in her ear. Emma touched the screen softly, not truly registering what she was doing as she whispered, barely audible, "Killian."
"Who's Killian?"
Emma jumped and nearly dropped her phone as she spun around. Graham stood in the doorway to the bathroom, his phone in hand. His eyes flitted curiously between her phone and her face and she fought the urge to hide the small device in her hand.
She simply looked down to it, her expression suggesting he'd perhaps spoken a foreign language.
"On your phone," he reiterated quietly, pointing feebly to the technology in her palm, "You said his name?"
She met his eyes and stammered momentarily, glancing at the word on her screen several times, "Oh, um... He's my partner - at the BAU."
She chewed her bottom lip as he nodded thoughtfully and caught her gaze again, "You okay?"
Emma nodded rapidly - and unconvincingly - "Yeah. Yeah, I just... um, my team's been texting me."
He gave her a sympathetic look, "Is everything alright?"
Again Emma nodded, "Yeah. Fine." She brought the phone up closer to her and flicked back to Henry's message. She typed two letters and threw the phone carelessly towards the bed. When she looked back up, there was a strangely knowing look on Graham's stubbled face and she frowned.
Emma opened her mouth to question the look when he cut her off, holding up the phone as he spoke, "So, to get the track it's going to cost five-hundred dollars because the guy's an asshole."
She let the subject drop and tried to concentrate on what he'd said and, more importantly, what it meant for them.
"How long until he gets the track up and running?" she asked.
"He'll have it by tomorrow and is going to connect it to my phone so we know where he is at virtually all times," Graham answered, dropping the phone on the desk as he passed it. Emma kept her eyes on him and turned so they were facing each other.
They both knew what this meant.
One step closer to finding Neal.
One step closer to a mission that held danger and death as a firm prospect.
Emma nodded, "Okay."
8888
It took them a week of watching Neal's movements to realize he was never in one place for an extended period of time and his schedule never repeated itself. Smart fucker.
Distantly she heard a small voice chide her for ever thinking he would be stupid enough to have a recurring schedule. But desperation is funny like that - chaining you down with shackles of naivety. They were in the motel room when she suggested they head out to break away from the four walls that had confined them for what felt like an eternity. The exhaustion had clearly been stained on the lines in her face because he agreed instantly, grabbing his jacket and leading her out.
They chose a small bar down the street and sat down in the booths in the back. Emma slouched heavily into the maroon leather cushioning of the seat, closing her eyes momentarily as the familiar smell of rum and leather filler her senses, a completely different (and irrational considering their circumstances) image coming to mind.
She felt as though a string was tethered to her chest and it was straining outwards, pulling and begging her to move, to run where the other end was tied, a small and timid part of her already beginning to raise its head in recognition of where the line ended.
"Any drinks?"
Emma opened her eyes and looked across the table to where Graham was levelling her with a concerned look.
"Just a beer," she said, her voice raspy even to her own ears.
He nodded and stood up to get their drinks. When he returned, setting the glass in front of her before taking the opposite seat again, she leaned forward.
"We need to work out a plan," she said with a loud exhale.
Graham nodded in agreement, "Any ideas?"
Emma kneaded her forehead as though she could physically clear away the near-constant fog. Compartmentalizing was almost painful at this point.
"Well we know he'll never stick to a schedule because he clearly knows he's a wanted man," Emma began, "But that could also make him vulnerable."
Graham raised a questioning eyebrow as she took a sip of the amber liquid in her glass. Upon seeing his expression, she explained, "Think about it this way - if he's not following a schedule, in his mind he knows we can't organize a strategic attack. Right?"
He nodded, gulping down some of his own beer.
"So what if we used a general outlay - plan what we'll do based on the general things that he has to do: eat, sleep, go to the toilet. We know for sure he has to do that stuff so why don't we organize a plan for the next time he goes to a cafe?"
"Like a one-size fits all," he murmured, eyes glazing over as she saw the strategist in him take over. This method included a higher risk but it was going to get them closer than anything else they'd tried so far. She took a long swig from the glass of beer in her hand.
"It might just work," he affirmed with a small but genuine smile, the affection that edged the expression making guilt well in her stomach again.
They hadn't talked about his revelation since the night of. She was almost thankful for the unwavering distraction that Neal's presence provided. She returned the smile tightly and drank the last of her beer.
"I can probably get some supplies like smoke grenades and tear gas from an old friend in the force - he owes me a big favour," Graham suggested with a shrug. They would definitely need them.
"Okay, let's go," she said, grabbing the keys off the table and shifting to slide out of the booth. He put his hand over hers before she could move and her head snapped up to his so fast she thought it might break.
Please don't do this now.
When he noticed the startled glint in her eyes he pulled his hand back and gave her an apologetic smile.
"My friend won't deal with anyone but me," he explained, "You go back to the motel. I'll catch a cab and see you later tonight."
Emma frowned, something deep inside of her screaming No! She didn't know why but she didn't want to let him out of her sight. She would never know what led her to ignore her gut; whether it was because of the exhaustion that sagged her shoulders and mind, or because she didn't trust her judgement with everything going on, or maybe she was simply too tired to protest.
But she would never forget her next decision.
"Yeah alright," she answered with a sigh, sliding out of the booth with the keys clutched tightly in her hand.
Emma walked beside Graham as they exited the bar and she could sense every time he glanced at her - like his gaze was something she could tangibly feel as it drifted anxiously to her face every so often.
There was an ominous sense of foreboding in the air and she assumed it was because of the task they had just agreed to undertake. The street was strangely quiet, the golden light from the tavern casting a glow over the sidewalk and damp bitumen road.
"See you at the hotel," he said with a light smile and Emma waved half-heartedly as he walked past her to cross the road.
Emma pulled out the car keys and pushed the button on the small device to unlock the doors. She wedged her fingers under the handle of the door, ready to open it when she heard the sound of tires screeching in protest. From her position behind her car, she could see as a black SUV pulled around the corner. A warning bell shrilled furiously in her head as it took the turn too fast, drifting dangerously along the black road until it was adjacent with the footpath and then speeding down the street in her direction.
She let go of her keys and looked over the roof of her car to where Graham had also stopped to look at the speeding SUV. It continued moving down the road towards them and Emma peered through the night at the driver.
Her blood ran cold as she recognized the face in the driver's seat, the dark messy hair and brown eyes, just before she heard the car window wind down and a tumult of noise break the silence that had descended in the empty street. Ice froze around her muscles, cementing her to the spot where she stood like an invisible force, goaded on by the panic that attacked her brain and the blood that rushed in her ears like the deadly beat of a drum.
A spitfire of gunshots rang clear and true.
It all happened in slow motion; one minute Graham was looking at her with mixture of confusion and apprehension. And the next, the black SUV had blocked him from her view before driving off into the night, leaving him stumbling as lethal red flowers bloomed on his chest.
Emma didn't remember sprinting around the car, or crossing the road, but suddenly she was beside Graham, stumbling under his weight and lowering him as gently as she could to the ground.
The bitumen dug into her legs and the awkward angle at which she sat, but she barely felt it – every nerve ending was numb as her eyes consumed the sight of him.
His shirt was red. It used to be white.
His face was white. It used to be red.
Graham groaned painfully, turning his head to look at her; those searching brown eyes meeting hers in a look that conveyed every last emotion as it flashed like a brief motion-picture through his glistening eyes.
No no no no no.
No.
Please God no.
He sputtered and only blood came out in a strangled cough, dribbling out the side of his mouth as he tried in vain to say one last coherent thing.
"Somebody call nine-one-one!" Emma screamed, her voice cracking dangerously as she cradled Graham's head. He gasped again in pain and, through some form of momentous willpower, raised his hand to cover hers. He clasped it gently and the exchange left her hand sticky.
She kept her eyes on his face, unwilling and unable to face the harsh reality of his wounds. Her jeans were wet and she internally blanched thinking about the fact that it was his life rapidly spilling into her lap.
"Graham," she said firmly, slapping him lightly on the cheek, "stay with me." She glared down at him, hitting him a little harder when his eyes closed for a painfully long moment. He gave her a watery smile as a tear drifted down his smooth and dangerously pale cheek.
"S-o-rry," he gulped out, momentarily clenching her hand in his.
A droplet of water landed on his cheek and Emma peered up at the sky, expecting to find storm clouds looming over them. But there was nothing – the sky was clear – and it was with dismay that she realized her cheeks were damp. She blinked her leaking eyes furiously, incapable of wiping them with her blood-stained hands. She had to stay focused, she had to keep him alive long enough for an ambulance.
His eyes drooped again and Emma shook him.
"No!" she growled, her voice wavering into a sort of sob, "You are not leaving me!"
Another tear slid down his cheek and she heaved a great breath, desperately holding herself together though she could feel the cracks appearing, starting at her base and making their way up like vicious vines, ready to swallow her the second she faltered.
"Somebody call nine-one-one!" Emma bellowed again, looking up around her. A couple of people appeared to be exiting the bar and were pulling out their phones as they made their way slowly towards her. For some reason or another, they gave her a wide berth – their eyes trailing grimly down to the man in her lap. Why were they looking at her, at them, like that?
When Emma's eyes descended on Graham once again, she could see the light fading from his eyes and it was like having a piece of barbed wire wrapped slowly around her heart. She could feel the sharp spikes tearing into her chest, constricting and compressing her ability to function properly.
No.
No, please God no.
This was Graham – the first person she ever worked with, the first person she'd trusted with her life, the first person she'd ever let in. This was the man who, for a short time, had helped her cope with her screwed up feelings after Neal. This was the man who had flown from freaking Europe just because he was worried about her mindset.
This was one of her oldest friends.
"Graham," Emma whispered, pleaded, her stare darting frantically over his slackening face.
His gaze was still on her face but the pools of chocolate brown were gradually becoming unfocused.
And slowly, yet so quickly, the light in his eyes was extinguished like a candle being flushed out and Emma felt the grip on her palm loosen completely, his hand falling limp in her tight and bone-crushing grasp.
"Graham," she said louder, shaking him roughly, "Graham!"
He didn't respond; his eyes stared up at the starry sky, no longer on her face as his head lolled to the side. She shook him roughly again, and again, and again, until finally it registered, surpassing the pain and adrenaline and panic so one statement rang wretched and true in her head like an executioners noose: He's dead.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," she murmured weakly, her hand cupping his face as the realization settled in her weary bones. Emma felt herself curl over as the tears began to flood her cheeks and the sob wracked her small frame. With every heaving gasp, she shook and so did he.
In the distance, the faint sound of ambulance sirens could be heard. But it was far too late.
8888
It took only days to get Graham's friend from Delaware to link the constant track on Neal's cars to her phone and another to find the tire spikes and rifle. It all passed in a numb blur, her mind on overdrive and autopilot all at the same time as she moved from place to place, like a machine getting everything prepared.
She didn't stop - she couldn't stop.
If she let herself stop, she would break. If she let herself think, she would break.
So she brought it to the climax, brought the fight to him.
A favour called in here and there, a false threat, a strategically placed flash mob. And now he only had one place he could go. There was only one road he could travel down if he wanted to avoid traffic and the law.
And it led straight into her blood stained and battered hands.
She clutched the gun and the tire strip.
The sedans were loud in the silence of the night as they came around the corner of the deserted street.
She threw the metal roll.
She watched the first car move across the strip.
She stood to shoot.
But the empty street did not erupt in a cacophony of noise. Bullets never sprayed out into the quiet night, blemishing the lustrous metal of the vehicle that began to pass her.
The magnum was abruptly unloaded from the gun with recognizable skill as arms shot out from behind her, a simple and ineffective click sounding as she pulled back the trigger. She barely had a second to drop the firearm and turn around before those same hands were pulling her relentlessly back into the blackness of the alley behind her, one palm covering her mouth as the other arm coiled itself painfully tight around her middle.
Do I dare ask for a review?