Disclaimer: I do not own Now You See Me or any of its characters. If I did, there would be more of Jack

Chapter 4: Surprise

*Click*

The faint sound seemed ten times louder than usual, resounding in the silence of the empty hallway. The key's master sighed, pulling it out of the lock, and letting himself into his apartment. It had been a long day, which had mostly consisted of chasing down leads on the missing horseman with his partner. They had ended up with zilch in the answers department, and twice as many questions as before. Fuller was having a hard time keeping up. Someone was alive who couldn't be, someone else was out of jail who shouldn't be, and Rhodes was sure they were connected somehow, even if there was no evidence to support it, other than the possibility of a year-old vendetta. And speaking of Dylan… he was acting funny. Like, the case was much more personal than it should be. Fuller understood that his partner had been lead on the magicians' case last year, and that they had made a fool out of him and the rest of the FBI. The problem was that Dylan was acting… dare he say… worried? The whole fiasco was giving him a headache, and he'd had way too many of those lately. He locked the door behind him, and set his wallet and phone down on the table beside the door, so that he had a hand free to turn on the lights. He flicked the switch, and as the lights in the dingy (yes, dingy. You'd think high-profile FBI agents would be paid more) apartment flickered on, his heart nearly stopped. Thirteen guns (but who was counting) were trained onto him from various positions throughout the room.

"Surprise!"

Fuller forced his breathing to slow down and plastered on a calm façade.

"Don't you think this is a little much? I am just a man."

"Boss said no mess-ups. This will make sure of that," responded a muscle-bound Hispanic man (probably the leader, if this was a cliché situation at all).

"May I ask who was so confident in my abilities that they would send all of you, just to take me out?"

"What, do you think we're stupid or something?"

"I'd say there's a 50/50 chance of that. Statistically speaking, half the assassins I deal with are geniuses, the other half, well… not so much."

"Oh, you think you're funny, do you? We'll see how funny you are after we're done with you."

"Can I at least ask why I'm being targeted," Fuller asked, though he had a pretty good idea, as two men came forward to remove his gun, tie his hands, and blindfold him.

"Dead men don't need to know answers to silly questions."

He was getting irritated at this point. He was about to be killed, and he was still at square one on this case.

"Now being an agent, I'm sure you know how this works. Basically, you do anything I don't like, I shoot you." As Fuller was pushed out the door, he stumbled along, tripping over the carpets, and trying to look dignified at the same time.

They were just passing by the last few apartments, headed towards the door where Fuller assumed was a getaway car waiting to carry him to his demise, when he heard a "whooshing" sound and grown men screaming. It was all pandemonium from there, grunts, and the familiar sound of flesh connecting with flesh in a violent way. The noise was punctuated by clicks that the agent recognized easily as jammed clips. He was pushed to the wall, and began struggling to escape his bindings, all the while listening for key phrases that would tell him what was going on. He heard the muscle-man yell "get them" before the room was silenced by the cocking of a gun.

"W-wh-what do you think you are doing?! Put that down," the Hispanic man stuttered out.

Fuller then heard a quiet thud, and a quiet flood of words that made the pounding behind his eyes ebb away. This was followed a few moments later by multiple bumps, like rain hitting a rooftop. He was not so gently pulled away from the wall, and felt a woman's nimble hands undoing the ropes that had bound him. When his hands were free, he reached up and removed the blindfold. What the agent saw caught him completely by surprise. All thirteen of the men that had attacked him in his apartment were passed out on the floor, and standing in front of him were three familiar faces, which were clouded by a dangerously desperate countenance that reminded him, oddly enough, of Dylan.