Cornered Rat, pt. 1
Ranalore, hon, this is part one of your holiday gift. ::grins:: Second/final(?) part'll be written tomorrow. Meanwhile, this works as a temporary stop point. Enjoy!
Cornered Rat
The guy's barely shorter than I am, I doubt he's lighter, and I'm starting to think he's every bit as dangerous. He's also an ironclad sonofabitch, and his balls are clearly brass and baseball-sized.
"The lock's not broken, my alarm didn't go off, and I didn't call you and don't want you." There's a precise, vicious edge to his voice, and an accent I don't recognize: French? Belgian? Swiss? Somewhere that's used to a mix of languages, and a rasp that isn't smoke-induced. "You don't have a warrant. I don't have to let you in without one."
The cop can't even get a foot into the gap the guy's left between door and jamb, and his persuasion's not getting far. "Look, sir, there's a dangerous--"
He cuts the cop off without hesitation. "The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized. Constitution of the United States, Fourth Amendment, ratified fifteenth December, 1791, when Virginia voted for it."
That sharp, sarcastic voice cuts through the cop's attempts to cut him off. "But I'll translate it for you. No warrant, no entry." He closes the door firmly, turns the lock, and turns around... to look straight at my patch of shadow. He's not talking to the cop when he says, "You're good, and you're quick, but you're on my territory. Give me a reason not to throw you to them."
I've already spotted two weapons in his coat and one of them is either a length of pipe or a sword. Either way, the coat's tailored to balance it, and this guy thinks it's supposed to be there. I was right, too. Hard, dangerous, smart eyes. Fuck.
I step out of the shadows, hand out and empty. "Because you don't like cops."
"Heh." He's amused, though. It's in his eyes, behind his voice, and I grin at him. "The other hand too. While I still have my sense of humor."
I bring it up, slow enough not to risk getting shot. I've got gloves on and I don't think the jacket left a gap for plastic to show but it doesn't seem to matter; he catches on immediately. "Already been thrown to wolves once, hmm?"
His eyes are moving fast, pausing at my face, my shoulders, my hands, my belt, my hips, my boots. He just placed every weapon I have, how much sleep I haven't had, and how desperate I am... and filed all of it. None of it's in play yet. It may never be. Christ, whoever this guy is, he's very good, and I don't want him pissed at me. He's too fucking professional and I've never heard of him.
"I'd ask who you are, but then you'd do the same thing and it's safer if you don't know." I shrug a little. "Let me have a couple hours, until they leave--"
"They'll be gone in an hour, or a fortnight. That depends on how badly they want you." He's still looking me over, but now I don't know what he's seeing, or how he's weighing it. For a moment, he's looking at something that isn't me at all, then he nods. "Russell Nash. Come upstairs. You need a shower and food. We'll get you out tomorrow night, when it's calmed down and they've decided I'm not helping you."
All I can do is stare at him. I need help; that doesn't mean I thought I'd get any. "Why?" Then his name clicks and all I can say is, "And they quit investigating you?"
"They had a witness. I wasn't the one they were looking for." He chuckles again, that rasping sound, and there's humor in it with something more dangerous under that. "Not by half a foot, fifty pounds, and a lot of hair that I had and he didn't."
"You didn't say you didn't have anything to do with it." I shouldn't have said it, and he sees that cross my face. I let him. I don't want Nash pissed at me, and I sure as hell don't want him angry when he's hiding me from a lot of police who'd take me in, process me, and leave me in a holding cell that would be my last sight on earth.
Nash just watches me -- Headhunter 3, Cops 0 the papers screamed; I remember that file, and I remember that same deadly alertness in his photo in the files; Mulder was fascinated by the string of beheadings, and lightning storms in NYC that year -- and all I can do is wonder why he's carrying a sword in his coat. "You make interesting enemies," he says finally, smiling a little.
"And you'd make a bad enemy. Yes."
"You're catching on. Good. There's a shower upstairs, and stew in the freezer. I'll show you where you can hide during the day." Nash doesn't wait for me to agree, just moves. Watching him move tells me, at least, that he's some kind of martial artist. Balanced, cocky son of a bitch.
I nod, even though he can't see it, and follow him up the stairs. Pity I'm too tired to enjoy the view on the stairs or out the windows of his living room -- how much money does this guy have, to own a place like this in Manhattan, and why wasn't that mentioned in the police or FBI files on that string of killings? Tired or not, I'm too paranoid not to look for the alarm system I clearly triggered, the one that isn't tied to any police monitoring system. I can't find it. What kind of friends, or debtors, does this guy have?
Nash is fast, and good, and he doesn't trust the police. He beheads people he has to kill, which means the bounty hunters won't have a chance. And he's decided, for some insane reason, to help me. Fate owed me one. This is a hell of a pay off.
"Are you sure you're awake?" Dry, dry voice, and amused under it. Clean clothes land on the counter, and lotion, "For your arm;" there's a bedroom through the other door of the bathroom, but it's clearly his. "You'll sleep with me." He glances at me, chuckles. "Not for that, thanks. I like my partners to have options. One bed in use, in case the police do bring a warrant."
"What, I'm going to owe you a favor?"
He just shakes his head. "No. If you get a chance to repay me, fine." Something's off there; he knows something I don't. "If you don't, don't worry about it. I've taken favors in my life. Call this a payment to an account already closed."
"You're giving me a dead man's dues?" My voice sounds huskier than usual, but it doesn't break and I keep it to curiosity, not disbelief.
This time, Nash's laugh is amused -- first wickedly, then more honest, less edged. "Now that you mention it? Yes." He's grinning at me. "Why not? I got a few that way. Get a shower and get that arm off before you rub the blisters into sores. I'll tell you about FitzCairn and Ramirez over the stew."
He turns away and leaves me there, calling over his shoulder, "And don't get into anything you shouldn't, man, or I'll have to find ways to keep you busy. You'd rather sleep."
All I can do is stare at him and try not to grin myself... even if I do want to nose into everything now. But if I don't, he won't, for now anyway. If I get caught by the police somehow, all bets are off.
I bet Russell Nash could find someone who could decrypt this CD, and find ways to put it to good use. A man who quotes their own laws to police as if they should uphold them, as if he would, is a man who'd find a way to use whatever I stole that has the Consortium this pissed off at me.
I wonder what I found?
Once the disk is hidden and I'm under the water -- it took three minutes; let him think I was tired enough to have trouble shedding clothes and plastic arm -- I tilt my head back, let the water pour over my face, my throat, down chest and legs. Hot, wet, cleansing... a small stretch of heaven. I'm not in a jail. I'm not dead. That's enough for now.
I need food. I need sleep. I'd kill for coffee, almost. Not Nash, thanks; I need him. Besides -- I'm beginning to like the man. He's twisted, sharp, smart, and helping me. What more could I ask for? Oh. A warm body beside me that's not going to stab me. He's even going to give me that. What more could I ask for?
And why doesn't that question make me more nervous?
Right. The rest tomorrow, I hope. {{hugs}} Happy Holidays, Rana!
ETA: a link to part 2.
Cornered Rat
The guy's barely shorter than I am, I doubt he's lighter, and I'm starting to think he's every bit as dangerous. He's also an ironclad sonofabitch, and his balls are clearly brass and baseball-sized.
"The lock's not broken, my alarm didn't go off, and I didn't call you and don't want you." There's a precise, vicious edge to his voice, and an accent I don't recognize: French? Belgian? Swiss? Somewhere that's used to a mix of languages, and a rasp that isn't smoke-induced. "You don't have a warrant. I don't have to let you in without one."
The cop can't even get a foot into the gap the guy's left between door and jamb, and his persuasion's not getting far. "Look, sir, there's a dangerous--"
He cuts the cop off without hesitation. "The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized. Constitution of the United States, Fourth Amendment, ratified fifteenth December, 1791, when Virginia voted for it."
That sharp, sarcastic voice cuts through the cop's attempts to cut him off. "But I'll translate it for you. No warrant, no entry." He closes the door firmly, turns the lock, and turns around... to look straight at my patch of shadow. He's not talking to the cop when he says, "You're good, and you're quick, but you're on my territory. Give me a reason not to throw you to them."
I've already spotted two weapons in his coat and one of them is either a length of pipe or a sword. Either way, the coat's tailored to balance it, and this guy thinks it's supposed to be there. I was right, too. Hard, dangerous, smart eyes. Fuck.
I step out of the shadows, hand out and empty. "Because you don't like cops."
"Heh." He's amused, though. It's in his eyes, behind his voice, and I grin at him. "The other hand too. While I still have my sense of humor."
I bring it up, slow enough not to risk getting shot. I've got gloves on and I don't think the jacket left a gap for plastic to show but it doesn't seem to matter; he catches on immediately. "Already been thrown to wolves once, hmm?"
His eyes are moving fast, pausing at my face, my shoulders, my hands, my belt, my hips, my boots. He just placed every weapon I have, how much sleep I haven't had, and how desperate I am... and filed all of it. None of it's in play yet. It may never be. Christ, whoever this guy is, he's very good, and I don't want him pissed at me. He's too fucking professional and I've never heard of him.
"I'd ask who you are, but then you'd do the same thing and it's safer if you don't know." I shrug a little. "Let me have a couple hours, until they leave--"
"They'll be gone in an hour, or a fortnight. That depends on how badly they want you." He's still looking me over, but now I don't know what he's seeing, or how he's weighing it. For a moment, he's looking at something that isn't me at all, then he nods. "Russell Nash. Come upstairs. You need a shower and food. We'll get you out tomorrow night, when it's calmed down and they've decided I'm not helping you."
All I can do is stare at him. I need help; that doesn't mean I thought I'd get any. "Why?" Then his name clicks and all I can say is, "And they quit investigating you?"
"They had a witness. I wasn't the one they were looking for." He chuckles again, that rasping sound, and there's humor in it with something more dangerous under that. "Not by half a foot, fifty pounds, and a lot of hair that I had and he didn't."
"You didn't say you didn't have anything to do with it." I shouldn't have said it, and he sees that cross my face. I let him. I don't want Nash pissed at me, and I sure as hell don't want him angry when he's hiding me from a lot of police who'd take me in, process me, and leave me in a holding cell that would be my last sight on earth.
Nash just watches me -- Headhunter 3, Cops 0 the papers screamed; I remember that file, and I remember that same deadly alertness in his photo in the files; Mulder was fascinated by the string of beheadings, and lightning storms in NYC that year -- and all I can do is wonder why he's carrying a sword in his coat. "You make interesting enemies," he says finally, smiling a little.
"And you'd make a bad enemy. Yes."
"You're catching on. Good. There's a shower upstairs, and stew in the freezer. I'll show you where you can hide during the day." Nash doesn't wait for me to agree, just moves. Watching him move tells me, at least, that he's some kind of martial artist. Balanced, cocky son of a bitch.
I nod, even though he can't see it, and follow him up the stairs. Pity I'm too tired to enjoy the view on the stairs or out the windows of his living room -- how much money does this guy have, to own a place like this in Manhattan, and why wasn't that mentioned in the police or FBI files on that string of killings? Tired or not, I'm too paranoid not to look for the alarm system I clearly triggered, the one that isn't tied to any police monitoring system. I can't find it. What kind of friends, or debtors, does this guy have?
Nash is fast, and good, and he doesn't trust the police. He beheads people he has to kill, which means the bounty hunters won't have a chance. And he's decided, for some insane reason, to help me. Fate owed me one. This is a hell of a pay off.
"Are you sure you're awake?" Dry, dry voice, and amused under it. Clean clothes land on the counter, and lotion, "For your arm;" there's a bedroom through the other door of the bathroom, but it's clearly his. "You'll sleep with me." He glances at me, chuckles. "Not for that, thanks. I like my partners to have options. One bed in use, in case the police do bring a warrant."
"What, I'm going to owe you a favor?"
He just shakes his head. "No. If you get a chance to repay me, fine." Something's off there; he knows something I don't. "If you don't, don't worry about it. I've taken favors in my life. Call this a payment to an account already closed."
"You're giving me a dead man's dues?" My voice sounds huskier than usual, but it doesn't break and I keep it to curiosity, not disbelief.
This time, Nash's laugh is amused -- first wickedly, then more honest, less edged. "Now that you mention it? Yes." He's grinning at me. "Why not? I got a few that way. Get a shower and get that arm off before you rub the blisters into sores. I'll tell you about FitzCairn and Ramirez over the stew."
He turns away and leaves me there, calling over his shoulder, "And don't get into anything you shouldn't, man, or I'll have to find ways to keep you busy. You'd rather sleep."
All I can do is stare at him and try not to grin myself... even if I do want to nose into everything now. But if I don't, he won't, for now anyway. If I get caught by the police somehow, all bets are off.
I bet Russell Nash could find someone who could decrypt this CD, and find ways to put it to good use. A man who quotes their own laws to police as if they should uphold them, as if he would, is a man who'd find a way to use whatever I stole that has the Consortium this pissed off at me.
I wonder what I found?
Once the disk is hidden and I'm under the water -- it took three minutes; let him think I was tired enough to have trouble shedding clothes and plastic arm -- I tilt my head back, let the water pour over my face, my throat, down chest and legs. Hot, wet, cleansing... a small stretch of heaven. I'm not in a jail. I'm not dead. That's enough for now.
I need food. I need sleep. I'd kill for coffee, almost. Not Nash, thanks; I need him. Besides -- I'm beginning to like the man. He's twisted, sharp, smart, and helping me. What more could I ask for? Oh. A warm body beside me that's not going to stab me. He's even going to give me that. What more could I ask for?
And why doesn't that question make me more nervous?
Right. The rest tomorrow, I hope. {{hugs}} Happy Holidays, Rana!
ETA: a link to part 2.