10…11…12…14. His floor. Why they skipped the thirteenth floor, he just couldn't understand. It was clear that the fourteenth floor was really just the thirteenth, so why the charade? No matter, he was the only one up here – the penthouse suite.
His penthouse, he felt, was a declaration of status, and an affirmation that he had succeeded in life, regardless of his chosen field.
He never wanted to become a pro gun. He thought that occupations like this only existed in films and in the drugstore mystery novels that he so despised. Edward strode over to a hanging mirror, and placed his keys on the small table beneath it. He reluctantly looked up, afraid of what he would see. His speculations were bang on – he looked like hell.
Shrugging off his jacket, Edward noticed he had dark circles under his eyes that contrasted sharply with his overly pale skin. That's what you get for working nights, he thought. Not much time in the sun. And with winter coming on fast, it didn't look like he was going to be catching the rays anytime soon.
Licking his parched lips, he ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. This fact he was less critical of, as he had never been able to tame his locks into any remotely respectable style. Carlisle had kept him from many jobs that would lead him to a more formal setting as Edward would be spotted in an instant, he said. Regardless, his copper mane, flecked with blond and chestnut streaks, was getting too long, and Edward made a mental note to make a trip over to his barber. Tousling his hair back, he checked out his chin, covered in two days' worth of stubble. Peter had gotten one good punch in before…well, before. Peter had been wearing a ring – not a wedding band, thank goodness, just a class ring, and it had caught Edward square on the jaw. It wouldn't leave a mark, but Edward would have to refrain from shaving for another few days to allow it to heal.
Damnit, he cursed inwardly. He should have shaved this afternoon, but decided instead on ten more minutes of sleep. He hoped the scratch would heal quickly – he didn't want to look homeless.
He exhaled deeply as he walked towards the kitchen, flipping light switches along the way in order to illuminate his spacious apartment. Looking into the fridge was a stark reminder of the life he led; all that it contained was three containers of leftover Chinese takeout, baking soda, and a bottle of champagne he had been given as a gift. From who, he couldn't recall at the moment. Probably not a client.
Edward pulled out the white cardboard containers and lined them up on the nearby counter. He reached overhead into a cabinet for a plate, and rummaged around in the cutlery drawer for a set of chopsticks. He hated eating ethnic food with a fork.
Piling the assortment of dishes onto the plate, Edward thought back as to how he had become so proficient with chopsticks.
"The Mai Tong job, summer of '39," he muttered to himself, a small smile dancing across his lips. As he distractedly picked at the cold noodles, he scanned the kitchen. Immaculately clean, of course. He was hardly home enough to create much of a mess.
Edward carried his plate into the living room, and made himself comfortable in his favorite recliner. Balancing his food in his lap, he reached forward to grab this morning's newspaper off the coffee table and shook it open.
"What's the state of the world today?" He mumbled into his food.
Flipping past the blatant pro-war propaganda that graced the front page of every AmMikean publication these days, Edward turned to the World News section.
Two weeks prior, a riot had broken out in the main square of the town of Tecate, Mexico. A celebration in honor of St. Martin de Porres was taking place when a group of anti-Christian radicals stormed the festivities, armed with large automatic weapons. Mass hysteria ensued. St. Martin de Porres was a Christian martyr who devoted his entire life to
"Christ Almighty, what the fuck have you done?"
"Carlisle, listen, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
"I give you a simple job and you've gone and fucked it all to hell."
"I didn't mean to, Carlisle, it just, it just happened!"
"You mean you just happened to have sex with your mark's daughter into his own bed, and then get caught in the act?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's exactly it!"
"And then you just happened to panic, stab your mark to death – leaving a blood trail a mile wide – and the turn on his daughter too?"
"She was a witness, Carlisle."
"I'm fully aware she was a witness, Mike, but you went entirely against protocol. Cops are swarming the estate as we speak. They'll have you pinned within the hour."
"No they won't, Carlisle, not if you help me, not if you hide me! Hide me, Carlisle! I can't get caught! I-I'm young!"
"Exactly. Young and dispensable. I'm sorry, Mike. I wash my hands of you."
Edward was witnessing this exchange from fifteen feet away on the streets of east London. The fresh market served as an excellent distraction. With all the yelling, haggling and thievery, no one would ever cast a second glance at the two arguing men. No one but Edward, that is. He had always had an eye for detail, and noticed things that people often missed. And so now, nineteen year old Edward inconspicuously leaned against a market stall, eavesdropping on what was proving to be a very interesting exchange.
"Goodbye, Mike – and good luck," the older man said with a sad, but stern smile. He turned slowly, and began to make his way from the small nook in which he and Mike had met in the frenzy of the marketplace.
Edward shifted his attention to the younger man now, Mike. He had an intense look in his eyes – pain – but it quickly shifted to extreme hatred. Mike reached into his coat and pulled out a short dagger, still covered with blood, supposedly from the "mark" he and the older man, Carlisle, were discussing.
Pulse racing, Edward snapped his head to look at Carlisle. He was still a good ten feet from the safety of public view, and in his slow, trusting gate, he wouldn't make it there in time. With a guttural cry, Mike sprinted towards Carlisle, waving the dagger maniacally in front of him.
Without thinking, Edward bolted from his position against the stall and rushed towards the offender. He got there just as Carlisle was turning around, eyes wide, horrified at the betrayal he was witnessing. Carlisle raised his hands in defense as Mike lunged forward, making his strike. An instant before he would have made contact, a flash of black leather flew in from the side, tackling Mike to the ground.
"What in the hell…" Carlisle muttered.
The two figures on the ground wrestled for control of the dagger and the situation. One was clad in garishly vibrant garb, and one in black on black, which caused his rust-colored hair to stand out even more.
For a moment, Carlisle felt sympathy for this would-be hero; despite what he said earlier, Mike was one of his best men. This would be the last fight in which this unfortunately gallant stranger would partake.
Carlisle's opinion changed not a moment later when the black-clad boy – or man, he could not decide which – came out on top after the scuffle, and proceeded to punch Mike repeatedly in the face.
"Perhaps I was mistaken…"
The stranger paused for a moment, and Mike used this opportunity to throw his attacker off of him, and scrambled to his feet. The dagger lay strewn at the back of the passageway, temporarily forgotten. The two men now squared off and were slowly circling each other, poised for attack
Mike moved first – a swift kick perhaps just an inch too high. The newcomer blocked it effortlessly, throwing Mike's leg back at him, attempting to break his balance. Over and over Mike attacked, and, without fail, the mysterious stranger shrugged off his advances, yet did not make his own. Waiting for the right moment, Carlisle mused. He was now thoroughly intrigued by this unexpected guest and was watching the fight almost leisurely. It had been years since Carlisle had seen anyone give Mike such a run for his money.
Finally, the moment for attack came. Mike had just thrown a particularly sloppy punch, missed, and left himself open for the strike. The stranger wasted no time. He dropped to his knees and swept his leg across the ground, sending Mike flat onto his back. He then pounced on top of the fallen man and continued his fisted assault on his face. It was not until the body beneath him lay unconscious, but breathing, that Edward stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and walked away without saying a word.
"Stop," Carlisle called quietly after him, keeping his eyes on the ground, deep in contemplation. "Who are you?"
"Don't worry about it, old man," the stranger replied gruffly. Though, upon closer consideration, Edward was not sure exactly how old the gentleman was. Though he was clearly dressed with status, he had a build not unlike Edward's own. The man's eyes were downcast, disallowing Edward any further examination.
"Just don't go headed down any dark alleys with the likes of him," Edward continued, preparing to leave. "I won't always be around to save your ass."
Edward once again began walking back towards the market place, when Carlisle called to him for the second time.
"Young man, wait. At least let me offer you some form of thanks."
At the prospect of a reward, possibly of the monetary persuasion, Edward turned to consider the gentleman before him. He could see his eyes now, a brilliant shade of green, and yet Edward was still no closer to guessing his age. Edward approached with trepidation.
As the gentleman fumbled in his jacket for a coin purse, he began to question Edward in an offhanded manner.
"Now tell me, son, where did you learn how to fight like that?"
"My father was a boxer. Made me come to the ring with him every weekend and watch him train. When I was old enough, I started training myself. Just came naturally by then, I guess. Took a real interest in the fight – not just the win, like my dad. Started going to the Asian end of town, looking for something different. Found it, learned it, worked it in."
"So you're trained in martial arts?"
"You could say that, I suppose. Learned more than a couple of forms that I can't pronounce, but could probably show you, if you want a go."
The man finally retrieved his elusive wallet and began to search through it. This boy couldn't be more than twenty, and yet just held his own against a trained assassin with no warm-up, not even so much as a warning. Hell, he didn't even take off that stupidly long leather coat of his. Carlisle continued to buy himself some time, rooting through his pocket change.
Edward's eyes lit up at the sight of a wad of fifty pound notes, prime for the taking. He assessed the situation. The payoff would be huge, more than enough to keep him eating well and sleeping warm for two months, if not three. But he got a funny feeling from this man, that he was not one to be reckoned with. Edward decided; he would save the petty theft for later.
Carlisle noticed Edward's internal struggle and made a decision of his own: this was exactly who he was looking for. Obviously not a stranger to the streets, but clearly not uneducated. With a bit of training, he could be great. Carlisle had not seen agility or natural skill like that in years. In fact, he had thought that particular form of hapkido had just about died out here in London. This young man must have searched tremendously for an adequate coach.
A quick once-over confirmed what Carlisle already suspected – this boy was broke. His coat looked to be the only thing of value on him, and Carlisle seriously doubted that he had attained it through conventional means. Carlisle was taking a chance, yes, but if it worked out in his favor, this boy could be a very valuable addition to Carlisle's…organization.
Carlisle closed the coin purse with a snap and watched as Edward's face fell.
"I'll tell you what, boy, I'll do you one better. If I give you a twenty-pound note, you'll eat for what, a week? Hardly worth it."
"Actually, a week sounds pretty g-"
"But I give you a job, and I guarantee that within a year you'll have more money than you'll know what to do with."
Edward eyed the old man suspiciously. "A job?" This was beginning to sound like a trap.
As if reading his mind, Carlisle said, "No catch – on that, you have my word. But I need to know right now, before I further divulge any details. In or out."
There was a slight pause.
"In."
Carlisle's face split into a grin. "Well done, you won't regret it. Now I do believe that I haven't yet introduced myself. You may call me Carlisle." He offered his hand to his newest employee.
"Edward. Cullen."