All the King's Men (3/5)
Title: All the King’s Men (3/5)
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-15
Spoiler Warning: The Reichenbach Fall
[Part III Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]
Part III Warnings: on-screen murder of a minor character/OMC; off-screen (attempted) murder of a minor character/OFC; Sean still needs to clean his mouth with soap and find a less homicidal attitude (especially towards women, fellow assassins, and paperwork)
Summary: All Sergeant Sean Pritchard wanted was the chance to complete his assignment: kill Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lady Luck (and Scotland Yard) had other ideas…
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: I would be utterly lost without my awesome beta team: powdered_opium, bluewillowtree, and agent_bandit.
Author’s Note: Please see Part I for General Warnings.
Part I: This is an idiotic plan.
Part II: In the Boss’ organization, knowledge is power and wealth, but it comes with a price.
~
October 27th
Leaning against the doorframe, Sean watches his supervising sergeant stare at the crime map pinned to the front of the conference room. It’s mid-morning on a rare, quiet day for their team. For the past two months or so, Donovan has been hiding here with a stack of case files whenever she has a spare moment. He’s asked around, but no one seems to know what’s caught her attention. When he brought it up with Lestrade, the detective inspector had said something about tracking case reports for a Trends & Statistics analysis or some other bureaucratic bullshit. Sean doesn’t buy the cover story, because no one would ever volunteer to write that report without being held at gunpoint. He still has nightmares about writing the unit’s last crime trends analysis.
“See anything interesting?”
Donovan barely flinches at his sudden comment before she turns around to look at him. Sean smiles cheerfully and holds out a mug of hot tea. It’s amazing what a full night’s sleep can do for a man’s attitude. It might even inspire him to be kind to a colleague and not lace her tea with arsenic or ricin, at least, not this time around.
“No, thank you,” she says tersely, busying herself with the case files on the conference room table. He shrugs outwardly and curses inwardly to himself as he takes a sip of the still awful kitchenette tea. Even after sixteen months of working together, Donovan hasn’t particularly warmed to him, but she’s never been the chatty type, even before Sherlock Holmes’ swan dive off of St Barts’ roof.
Sean strides toward the front of the conference room and settles himself well within her personal space. Donovan doesn’t react to the invasion with anything more than a glance. He sneaks a look at the files in her hands before he quickly swings his attention elsewhere. She’s been studying the CID’s cold cases, including all of his kills for the past year or so. A surge in the crime rate and a lack of resources means that cases with no leads or evidence tend to go cold. It’s an unfortunate reality, and Sean has taken advantage of that with glee. Who cares about another dead dealer when a mother of three from Belgravia is raped on the same night? The Met has noticed that the criminal underworld has gone to war with each other, but they’re too stupid to figure out the why.
Taking another sip of the monkey piss, Sean stares at the black-and-white map tacked to the large corkboard on the wall. Judging by the relative lack of pinholes in the paper, it’s a new copy of the usual borough map that outlines their jurisdictional boundaries in London. This printout usually shows up at annual report prep-time or when there’s a serial killer on the loose. Lestrade hasn’t had any nutjob murderers recently, so Sean can’t see a reason why the map is dotted with more tacks than a leopard has spots. He takes a closer look at the map and realises that the tacks must be colour-coded to crimes. He risks a suspicious glance in Donovan’s direction. Why did she make this map? What does she see? She’s not smart enough to put the pieces together, he knows that, but it’s still a little discomforting to realize that someone is taking a second look at his work.
A sharp crack of knuckles against glass breaks his concentration and he turns around to see Preston standing in the doorway with her jacket slung over her arm.
“Call just came in,” the young DC reports when she sees she has her superiors’ attention. “Attempted murder at King’s Cross.”
Donovan nods. “Have you updated Lestrade?”
“Not yet,” is the response.
The female sergeant jerks her chin towards the main office space. “Go on then, we’ll meet you downstairs.”
With a quick bob of her head, Preston scurries off to do as she’s told. Lestrade’s head sergeant throws all the files into a stack and picks them up. Sean puts down his tea and offers in a gentlemanly manner, “Want some help?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” She smiles tightly at him and ignores him as they walk out of the conference room together.
Sean watches as she puts all the cases in her secured drawer and spins the combination lock. As he grabs his coat from the back of his chair, he wonders if she is supposed to have access to those files. It would be a quick way to get rid of her, once and for all, but it wouldn’t earn him any favour with Lestrade or the rest of the unit. Maybe it’s time to take up that leggy IT girl’s offer of a date, see if he can get her to hack into Donovan’s account for anything dirty he can use as leverage.
The morning drive out to King’s Cross is a nasty snarl of idiotic drivers and moronic commuters. Sean grits his teeth and fights the urge to use the blues and twos. He tries to calm himself with the thought that the DI trusts him sufficiently to let him drive, putting the two women in the back. By the time they arrive on scene, he no longer feels the urge to throttle someone for being a piss-poor licensing examiner. Sean feels gracious enough to help Preston babysit and question the sobbing American tourist who can’t even speak proper English through her hysterics. That indifferent generosity disappears when the team gathers in a huddle to exchange information.
“The victim is Helen Wilkinson, age twenty-two, a student at UCL,” says Lestrade briskly. “She’s been taken to UCH with multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. They’ll let us know when she’s out of surgery.”
Donovan nods and points to the busy entrance of the Tube station, ignoring the crowd of curious bystanders drawn in by the flashing lights of the patrol cars and the pool of drying blood on the pavement. “From all accounts, Wilkinson got off the Victoria line, came out of the Tube station, and bumped into her assailant. He stabbed her between three and six times, and tried to run off with her handbag before bystanders called for help. Description is white male, mid to late thirties, with a blond goatee and short blond hair. He had on a dark blue hat and sunglasses, also wearing dark blue jeans, a brown jacket, and gloves. CCTV confirms witness statements.” She flips her notebook closed, tapping it against her leg. “We can probably say that the hat, jacket, gloves and sunglasses are probably gone, and if he’s smart, he’ll lose the goatee and dye his hair too.”
Sean nods and lets Preston speak because he is trying to figure out why the name ‘Helen Wilkinson’ sounds so familiar. He’s heard it somewhere before, and recently too. Someone told him that name, and-
Oh fuck.
The college girl, the one who was poking around the Boss’ business, the one who Sebastian said was a problem, and, damnit, Smith just had to go and fuck it up because the fucking bugger can’t find his arse with two hands and a torch. Jesus, can’t I get a fucking break?
There is absolutely no goddamn doubt in Sean’s mind that he will be called in to do the clean-up on this botched murder. Maybe Wilkinson will do them all a favour and kick it in surgery, but there’s still the evidence on her hard drive and computer and wherever the fuck else paranoid bitches who can’t mind their own fucking business hide their information. And if she doesn’t die, then he’s the one who gets to come up with a genius way to make sure she does snuff it without anyone thinking that he has anything to do with it. The urge to scream has never been quite so pressing.
“Pritchard?”
“Yeah?” Sean snaps back to the conversation, realizing that he has wandered off a bit. “Sorry, Boss. Yeah, that’ll be fine. I’ll head over to the school, see what we can find out there.”
Lestrade nods, “Good. Preston, with me. Donovan, find her address and next-of-kin?”
Already calling back to the station, she nods, “On it, Boss. I’ll see if the CCTV unit can give us anything, and we’ll get people canvassing the crowd and shops.”
“Stay in contact,” says Lestrade before he nods in dismissal. Sean makes a dignified escape from the crime scene. It’s a short walk from King’s Cross to University College London’s main campus, and he intends to make the most of it. As soon as he is a street away, Sean pulls out his phone and calls a disconnected number. He hangs up after the first ring. Sebastian needs to know that Smith fucked up, majorly, and they need to let the Boss know.
Later that night, Sean vents his frustration in the only productive way he can. He unleashes his rage on a convenient target until he feels drained of frustration. When he regains his breath, he looks at his audience for further instructions.
Sebastian has watched the proceedings from a safe distance, calmly nursing his bottle of beer while sitting at a small tea table draped with a pristine ivory tablecloth. A loaded 9mm, wrapped in a white handkerchief, sits next to his hand.
“Feeling better?” he asks mildly, putting the nearly empty bottle down on the table. Sean nods languidly.
The other man gestures with his left hand, encompassing gun, acid bath, and the soon-to-be-dead hit man, and says, “Your choice.”
Sean smirks before he cleans up. Lestrade won’t ever find Smith now, not alive, anyway. Or identifiable. The gunshot echoes in the wide space, lingering longer than the screams it silenced.
When the younger man returns from his quick shower, hair still slightly wet, a second chair has been set at the table. The two associates sit down to share a light dinner.
“So, Wilkinson?”
“We’re off the case,” he says, skewering a chip. “The DCI said it was a conflict of interest, with her snooping around into Richard Brook. It’s been reassigned to a bird named Amanda Whitney.”
There’s a dismissive snort from the other man. “What’s the latest on the girl?”
“She’s still alive, critical care. She hasn’t been able to give a statement yet.”
Sebastian sighs. “And the evidence?”
“The techs found her files and research, but she ciphered them somehow. It’s going to take a while to crack it. Do you want me to take care of it?”
“No.” The answer is so unexpected that Sean nearly chokes on his beer. The other man explains calmly, “The Boss doesn’t see the point in risking you when a simple hack and delete can take care of it all. But the girl…She’s under guard, I assume?”
“Yeah, all the DCs and a few of the junior DSs are on the detail. Do you need me to interfere?”
“Only, and we must stress this-only, if you can maintain your cover.” Sebastian takes a long swig of his beer. “Wilkinson knows enough to be a minor problem and an embarrassment, but dead or alive, she doesn’t know enough to damage us in the long-run. You’re our trump card, Sean. How close are you to Lestrade?”
“Not close enough,” mutters Sean, his annoyance remerging.
Sebastian chuckles, “Any closer, Sean, and you’ll be buggering his arse. It’s fine. No one’s suspicious about you?”
“No.” He shrugs. “Donovan’s been looking at our cold cases, but she’s not bright enough to see anything without someone connecting the dots for her.”
The other man nods in agreement. “Do you want us to take care of her for you?”
Sean mulls the idea over. As tempting as it would be for Donovan to die a sudden and mysterious death, he’s not sure he wants to deal with a CID unit in mourning again. For one thing, he doesn’t know if he has enough seniority to make it as Lestrade’s head Sergeant. The senior DSs tolerate him, but they haven’t made any moves yet to groom him for more leadership positions. (Jesus, he even sounds like a fucking copper in his head.) For another, Lestrade might pass him over for Lee or Bronte, or even Davies’ protégé O’Neil. And, well… When the time comes to deal with the problem, he would like to take a hands-on approach.
He smiles and shakes his head. “No. She and I have some business to settle.”
“Ah,” Sebastian’s smirk is both knowing and approving, “then I wish you happy hunting.”
“Thank you.”
Still, the conversation replays in Sean’s head in the coming weeks-when the IT unit first loses and then recovers the unaltered Wilkinson evidence from the Met’s computers; when the protective detail on an unconscious Wilkinson is abruptly replaced by an armed guard from the Home Office; when Wilkinson’s leaked thesis hits the headlines of every major news outlet in England. The media uproar is a sight to behold. Eighteen months after journalists scrambled to vilify Holmes and the Met, the press is now frantically looking for ways to make him some kind of crusading saint for truth and justice. Sean finds the hypocrisy amusing… Although by the time he is dealing with the fifth journalist who will do anything to catch the elusive DI Lestrade and DS Donovan for a sound bite, including and up to assaulting him with a custard pie, Sean is rapidly losing his patience with the entire hoopla.
The horde of Holmes supporters, however, gives him an idea on how to deal with Donovan. If his plan works, it wouldn’t give him the same kind of satisfaction, but it would certainly keep him above suspicion. It doesn’t take much groundwork to set up. Sean already knows where she lives and an hour on one of those “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” websites yields the names of Holmes’ more…ardent…fans. He has to reach out to a contact, but the hacker is quick to respond with a fake Twitter account, some kind of proxy server IP address or other, and a burner phone. All Sean has to do is log onto the account (justice4truth), make a few strategic posts, and wait for the supporters to take the bait.
The information goes viral.
Within hours, the Met’s email system crashes from the sheer amount of hate mail and death threats sent to Donovan’s inbox. The next night, someone leaves vulgar graffiti all over the door of Donovan’s flat. It only gets better from there, especially when an overenthusiastic fan tries to bash her head in with a brick. Unfortunately for him, Donovan has an ASP baton and knows how to use it. The kid ends up in a holding cell, nursing various bruises and scrapes, and Donovan… Donovan disappears into the back of an unmarked government car. She still comes into work as if nothing has changed, but it’s as if she doesn’t exist outside of the Met. No one from Sean’s underworld contacts knows where she goes. The same goes for John Watson, Martha Hudson and everyone associated with the Sherlock Holmes scandal. They’ve all just disappeared from London…except for Greg Lestrade.
One night, out of curiosity, Sean swings past the older man’s building to see if the detective inspector is still going about his daily routine. The lights are on in his supervisor’s flat, but Sean tells the cab driver to keep on going. As they head toward the main street, he glances at the block of flats on the opposite side of the street. They drive past a no-parking sign. He twists his upper body to look through the rear window. Directly outside the veteran police officer’s residence, a dark sedan is parked illegally on the side of the road. Abruptly, Sean feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle as if he’s being watched. He turns back around to glare at the cab driver. The elderly man is too busy squinting at the road to notice the attention.
As Sean leans back, the pieces click together in his head. It makes sense now, why the Boss has been so willing to let Sean stay where he is for as long as he has. With all the little revolts in Europe, he would be far more useful moving from country to country, enforcing the Boss’ rule, than he is stuck at a desk with paperwork and ‘colleagues,’ pretending to be a bloody copper. But he understands now. Lestrade isn’t just a nosy DI who needs to be eliminated. His life is leverage against someone who is far more powerful and protected, someone the Boss doesn’t want to touch with a brute force threat. He doesn’t know or care about this person, but he can admire the situation. There is an elegance to the threat Sean embodies. Do this-or don’t do this-and Lestrade dies. He wonders briefly if the other man even knows he is a pawn. Then again, it doesn’t matter. Sean already knows who is going to win this match.
The man settles against the seat cushions. Well, then. It’s time to start making the right kind of preparations.
No one challenges the Boss and wins.
~
May 23rd
“He needs to accept the proposal.”
Sean glances at his until-now silent drinking companion. Behind them, drunken uni students start heckling the telly, pelting the screen with peanuts until the bartender tells them off. The non-rugby crowd couldn’t care less, drowning their sorrows in pockets of isolated misery.
“What’s the timeline?”
Sebastian replies, “As soon as possible.”
“I’ll need to do a bit of tidying first,” he warns.
“The Boss just wants you to close the deal,” says Sebastian with a hint of annoyance. “The when, where, and how you do it is up to you.”
Sean drains his beer.
“Consider it done.”
The older man nods in approval. Anchoring it with his empty, Sean puts a tenner down on the bar to cover his drink and a bit of the other man’s. It’s only polite. He leaves without a goodbye.
As he walks through the evening crowd of tourists and pub-goers, Sean reflects that he is unsurprised by the message.
There have been rumours about a man in the British Government who has taken an interest in the Boss’ operations. The Iceman has his own set of connections in the criminal underworld, and those little bees have been busy. On his on-call and leave days, Sean has been traveling the length and breadth of England, with occasional jaunts to Europe and Asia, putting out fires and taking care of the Boss’ business. In recent months, there have been murmurs that the South and Central American operations have collapsed and that the Black Lotus tong has broken away. Internationally, all of their allied warlords are restless and more demanding than ever. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the Boss’ empire is under assault. The Americans and Europeans are suddenly extremely interested in the Boss’ connections within their borders. Governments are starting to pay attention to what they used to ignore, and an international crackdown on the Boss’ network is happening without fanfare and with brutal efficiency.
Even with the Boss’ personal involvement in the European operations, Sean knows that they’re losing people faster than they can be replaced. Not that the Americas are any better, but still. This is the Boss’ home ground. This is where his influence should be the strongest, but connections take time to form, and smart criminals are the ones who are slowest to trust. People are starting to twitch under the Boss’ authority. It’s been nearly two years since the start of the first rebellions, more than enough time for the Boss to arrange matters and put his house in order. Now, it seems like the Boss can’t protect his own people or keep them under control. In recent weeks, scores of mid-level captains, people who know just enough about the Boss’ empire to be damning witnesses, have vanished. Some of them have turned up dead, the rest presumed dead or soon-to-be. Sean isn’t the only handyman for the Boss. If those turncoats have decided to run, they won’t live long enough to testify, but Sean has to wonder: are they self-serving traitors, or rats fleeing a sinking ship?
Then there is the Shadow. No one seems to know the man’s identity or what he looks like, but they do say this: the Shadow knows everything. He knows who you are and what you’ve done before you even open your mouth. He also seems to be everywhere at once. Wherever the Shadow appears, chaos follows. Operations and alliances crumble like sand in his wake, with key players turning up dead or State’s Witnesses. It’s enraging. Sean personally has hunted the Shadow twice, and he just keeps slipping through all their fingers. It’s like playing whack-a-mole with none of the pleasure of actually whacking the mole. From what Sean has heard, it seems that the Shadow is making moves on the Boss’ empire, angling to be the next Boss of the underworld.
It’s a tossup between the Iceman and the Shadow as to who dares to challenge the Boss. There is a certain ruthlessness to both men that Sean can admire in silence. He spares a moment to wonder which man Lestrade’s death is meant to punish before he dismisses the thought. The point is, Lestrade is the message and Sean is the messenger. He has a month’s grace to keep his current Boss happy, which brings him to…
Donovan. The detective inspector trusts him. His head sergeant does not. They’ve all been working together for two fucking years and she still won’t let Sean be on scenes alone with Lestrade. So the plan has to take her into account like this: get rid of the interfering bitch, then kill the target. It won’t be that easy-Donovan’s death will have to be more impersonal than he wants-but he has the freedom to craft the perfect plan. It’s a two-fer, and then he can disappear from this stupid identity.
He smiles as he brushes his hand against the switchblade hidden in his belt.
It’s time.
~
Continued in Part IV
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-15
Spoiler Warning: The Reichenbach Fall
[Part III Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]
Part III Warnings: on-screen murder of a minor character/OMC; off-screen (attempted) murder of a minor character/OFC; Sean still needs to clean his mouth with soap and find a less homicidal attitude (especially towards women, fellow assassins, and paperwork)
Summary: All Sergeant Sean Pritchard wanted was the chance to complete his assignment: kill Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lady Luck (and Scotland Yard) had other ideas…
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: I would be utterly lost without my awesome beta team: powdered_opium, bluewillowtree, and agent_bandit.
Author’s Note: Please see Part I for General Warnings.
Part I: This is an idiotic plan.
Part II: In the Boss’ organization, knowledge is power and wealth, but it comes with a price.
~
October 27th
Leaning against the doorframe, Sean watches his supervising sergeant stare at the crime map pinned to the front of the conference room. It’s mid-morning on a rare, quiet day for their team. For the past two months or so, Donovan has been hiding here with a stack of case files whenever she has a spare moment. He’s asked around, but no one seems to know what’s caught her attention. When he brought it up with Lestrade, the detective inspector had said something about tracking case reports for a Trends & Statistics analysis or some other bureaucratic bullshit. Sean doesn’t buy the cover story, because no one would ever volunteer to write that report without being held at gunpoint. He still has nightmares about writing the unit’s last crime trends analysis.
“See anything interesting?”
Donovan barely flinches at his sudden comment before she turns around to look at him. Sean smiles cheerfully and holds out a mug of hot tea. It’s amazing what a full night’s sleep can do for a man’s attitude. It might even inspire him to be kind to a colleague and not lace her tea with arsenic or ricin, at least, not this time around.
“No, thank you,” she says tersely, busying herself with the case files on the conference room table. He shrugs outwardly and curses inwardly to himself as he takes a sip of the still awful kitchenette tea. Even after sixteen months of working together, Donovan hasn’t particularly warmed to him, but she’s never been the chatty type, even before Sherlock Holmes’ swan dive off of St Barts’ roof.
Sean strides toward the front of the conference room and settles himself well within her personal space. Donovan doesn’t react to the invasion with anything more than a glance. He sneaks a look at the files in her hands before he quickly swings his attention elsewhere. She’s been studying the CID’s cold cases, including all of his kills for the past year or so. A surge in the crime rate and a lack of resources means that cases with no leads or evidence tend to go cold. It’s an unfortunate reality, and Sean has taken advantage of that with glee. Who cares about another dead dealer when a mother of three from Belgravia is raped on the same night? The Met has noticed that the criminal underworld has gone to war with each other, but they’re too stupid to figure out the why.
Taking another sip of the monkey piss, Sean stares at the black-and-white map tacked to the large corkboard on the wall. Judging by the relative lack of pinholes in the paper, it’s a new copy of the usual borough map that outlines their jurisdictional boundaries in London. This printout usually shows up at annual report prep-time or when there’s a serial killer on the loose. Lestrade hasn’t had any nutjob murderers recently, so Sean can’t see a reason why the map is dotted with more tacks than a leopard has spots. He takes a closer look at the map and realises that the tacks must be colour-coded to crimes. He risks a suspicious glance in Donovan’s direction. Why did she make this map? What does she see? She’s not smart enough to put the pieces together, he knows that, but it’s still a little discomforting to realize that someone is taking a second look at his work.
A sharp crack of knuckles against glass breaks his concentration and he turns around to see Preston standing in the doorway with her jacket slung over her arm.
“Call just came in,” the young DC reports when she sees she has her superiors’ attention. “Attempted murder at King’s Cross.”
Donovan nods. “Have you updated Lestrade?”
“Not yet,” is the response.
The female sergeant jerks her chin towards the main office space. “Go on then, we’ll meet you downstairs.”
With a quick bob of her head, Preston scurries off to do as she’s told. Lestrade’s head sergeant throws all the files into a stack and picks them up. Sean puts down his tea and offers in a gentlemanly manner, “Want some help?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” She smiles tightly at him and ignores him as they walk out of the conference room together.
Sean watches as she puts all the cases in her secured drawer and spins the combination lock. As he grabs his coat from the back of his chair, he wonders if she is supposed to have access to those files. It would be a quick way to get rid of her, once and for all, but it wouldn’t earn him any favour with Lestrade or the rest of the unit. Maybe it’s time to take up that leggy IT girl’s offer of a date, see if he can get her to hack into Donovan’s account for anything dirty he can use as leverage.
The morning drive out to King’s Cross is a nasty snarl of idiotic drivers and moronic commuters. Sean grits his teeth and fights the urge to use the blues and twos. He tries to calm himself with the thought that the DI trusts him sufficiently to let him drive, putting the two women in the back. By the time they arrive on scene, he no longer feels the urge to throttle someone for being a piss-poor licensing examiner. Sean feels gracious enough to help Preston babysit and question the sobbing American tourist who can’t even speak proper English through her hysterics. That indifferent generosity disappears when the team gathers in a huddle to exchange information.
“The victim is Helen Wilkinson, age twenty-two, a student at UCL,” says Lestrade briskly. “She’s been taken to UCH with multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. They’ll let us know when she’s out of surgery.”
Donovan nods and points to the busy entrance of the Tube station, ignoring the crowd of curious bystanders drawn in by the flashing lights of the patrol cars and the pool of drying blood on the pavement. “From all accounts, Wilkinson got off the Victoria line, came out of the Tube station, and bumped into her assailant. He stabbed her between three and six times, and tried to run off with her handbag before bystanders called for help. Description is white male, mid to late thirties, with a blond goatee and short blond hair. He had on a dark blue hat and sunglasses, also wearing dark blue jeans, a brown jacket, and gloves. CCTV confirms witness statements.” She flips her notebook closed, tapping it against her leg. “We can probably say that the hat, jacket, gloves and sunglasses are probably gone, and if he’s smart, he’ll lose the goatee and dye his hair too.”
Sean nods and lets Preston speak because he is trying to figure out why the name ‘Helen Wilkinson’ sounds so familiar. He’s heard it somewhere before, and recently too. Someone told him that name, and-
Oh fuck.
The college girl, the one who was poking around the Boss’ business, the one who Sebastian said was a problem, and, damnit, Smith just had to go and fuck it up because the fucking bugger can’t find his arse with two hands and a torch. Jesus, can’t I get a fucking break?
There is absolutely no goddamn doubt in Sean’s mind that he will be called in to do the clean-up on this botched murder. Maybe Wilkinson will do them all a favour and kick it in surgery, but there’s still the evidence on her hard drive and computer and wherever the fuck else paranoid bitches who can’t mind their own fucking business hide their information. And if she doesn’t die, then he’s the one who gets to come up with a genius way to make sure she does snuff it without anyone thinking that he has anything to do with it. The urge to scream has never been quite so pressing.
“Pritchard?”
“Yeah?” Sean snaps back to the conversation, realizing that he has wandered off a bit. “Sorry, Boss. Yeah, that’ll be fine. I’ll head over to the school, see what we can find out there.”
Lestrade nods, “Good. Preston, with me. Donovan, find her address and next-of-kin?”
Already calling back to the station, she nods, “On it, Boss. I’ll see if the CCTV unit can give us anything, and we’ll get people canvassing the crowd and shops.”
“Stay in contact,” says Lestrade before he nods in dismissal. Sean makes a dignified escape from the crime scene. It’s a short walk from King’s Cross to University College London’s main campus, and he intends to make the most of it. As soon as he is a street away, Sean pulls out his phone and calls a disconnected number. He hangs up after the first ring. Sebastian needs to know that Smith fucked up, majorly, and they need to let the Boss know.
Later that night, Sean vents his frustration in the only productive way he can. He unleashes his rage on a convenient target until he feels drained of frustration. When he regains his breath, he looks at his audience for further instructions.
Sebastian has watched the proceedings from a safe distance, calmly nursing his bottle of beer while sitting at a small tea table draped with a pristine ivory tablecloth. A loaded 9mm, wrapped in a white handkerchief, sits next to his hand.
“Feeling better?” he asks mildly, putting the nearly empty bottle down on the table. Sean nods languidly.
The other man gestures with his left hand, encompassing gun, acid bath, and the soon-to-be-dead hit man, and says, “Your choice.”
Sean smirks before he cleans up. Lestrade won’t ever find Smith now, not alive, anyway. Or identifiable. The gunshot echoes in the wide space, lingering longer than the screams it silenced.
When the younger man returns from his quick shower, hair still slightly wet, a second chair has been set at the table. The two associates sit down to share a light dinner.
“So, Wilkinson?”
“We’re off the case,” he says, skewering a chip. “The DCI said it was a conflict of interest, with her snooping around into Richard Brook. It’s been reassigned to a bird named Amanda Whitney.”
There’s a dismissive snort from the other man. “What’s the latest on the girl?”
“She’s still alive, critical care. She hasn’t been able to give a statement yet.”
Sebastian sighs. “And the evidence?”
“The techs found her files and research, but she ciphered them somehow. It’s going to take a while to crack it. Do you want me to take care of it?”
“No.” The answer is so unexpected that Sean nearly chokes on his beer. The other man explains calmly, “The Boss doesn’t see the point in risking you when a simple hack and delete can take care of it all. But the girl…She’s under guard, I assume?”
“Yeah, all the DCs and a few of the junior DSs are on the detail. Do you need me to interfere?”
“Only, and we must stress this-only, if you can maintain your cover.” Sebastian takes a long swig of his beer. “Wilkinson knows enough to be a minor problem and an embarrassment, but dead or alive, she doesn’t know enough to damage us in the long-run. You’re our trump card, Sean. How close are you to Lestrade?”
“Not close enough,” mutters Sean, his annoyance remerging.
Sebastian chuckles, “Any closer, Sean, and you’ll be buggering his arse. It’s fine. No one’s suspicious about you?”
“No.” He shrugs. “Donovan’s been looking at our cold cases, but she’s not bright enough to see anything without someone connecting the dots for her.”
The other man nods in agreement. “Do you want us to take care of her for you?”
Sean mulls the idea over. As tempting as it would be for Donovan to die a sudden and mysterious death, he’s not sure he wants to deal with a CID unit in mourning again. For one thing, he doesn’t know if he has enough seniority to make it as Lestrade’s head Sergeant. The senior DSs tolerate him, but they haven’t made any moves yet to groom him for more leadership positions. (Jesus, he even sounds like a fucking copper in his head.) For another, Lestrade might pass him over for Lee or Bronte, or even Davies’ protégé O’Neil. And, well… When the time comes to deal with the problem, he would like to take a hands-on approach.
He smiles and shakes his head. “No. She and I have some business to settle.”
“Ah,” Sebastian’s smirk is both knowing and approving, “then I wish you happy hunting.”
“Thank you.”
Still, the conversation replays in Sean’s head in the coming weeks-when the IT unit first loses and then recovers the unaltered Wilkinson evidence from the Met’s computers; when the protective detail on an unconscious Wilkinson is abruptly replaced by an armed guard from the Home Office; when Wilkinson’s leaked thesis hits the headlines of every major news outlet in England. The media uproar is a sight to behold. Eighteen months after journalists scrambled to vilify Holmes and the Met, the press is now frantically looking for ways to make him some kind of crusading saint for truth and justice. Sean finds the hypocrisy amusing… Although by the time he is dealing with the fifth journalist who will do anything to catch the elusive DI Lestrade and DS Donovan for a sound bite, including and up to assaulting him with a custard pie, Sean is rapidly losing his patience with the entire hoopla.
The horde of Holmes supporters, however, gives him an idea on how to deal with Donovan. If his plan works, it wouldn’t give him the same kind of satisfaction, but it would certainly keep him above suspicion. It doesn’t take much groundwork to set up. Sean already knows where she lives and an hour on one of those “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” websites yields the names of Holmes’ more…ardent…fans. He has to reach out to a contact, but the hacker is quick to respond with a fake Twitter account, some kind of proxy server IP address or other, and a burner phone. All Sean has to do is log onto the account (justice4truth), make a few strategic posts, and wait for the supporters to take the bait.
The information goes viral.
Within hours, the Met’s email system crashes from the sheer amount of hate mail and death threats sent to Donovan’s inbox. The next night, someone leaves vulgar graffiti all over the door of Donovan’s flat. It only gets better from there, especially when an overenthusiastic fan tries to bash her head in with a brick. Unfortunately for him, Donovan has an ASP baton and knows how to use it. The kid ends up in a holding cell, nursing various bruises and scrapes, and Donovan… Donovan disappears into the back of an unmarked government car. She still comes into work as if nothing has changed, but it’s as if she doesn’t exist outside of the Met. No one from Sean’s underworld contacts knows where she goes. The same goes for John Watson, Martha Hudson and everyone associated with the Sherlock Holmes scandal. They’ve all just disappeared from London…except for Greg Lestrade.
One night, out of curiosity, Sean swings past the older man’s building to see if the detective inspector is still going about his daily routine. The lights are on in his supervisor’s flat, but Sean tells the cab driver to keep on going. As they head toward the main street, he glances at the block of flats on the opposite side of the street. They drive past a no-parking sign. He twists his upper body to look through the rear window. Directly outside the veteran police officer’s residence, a dark sedan is parked illegally on the side of the road. Abruptly, Sean feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle as if he’s being watched. He turns back around to glare at the cab driver. The elderly man is too busy squinting at the road to notice the attention.
As Sean leans back, the pieces click together in his head. It makes sense now, why the Boss has been so willing to let Sean stay where he is for as long as he has. With all the little revolts in Europe, he would be far more useful moving from country to country, enforcing the Boss’ rule, than he is stuck at a desk with paperwork and ‘colleagues,’ pretending to be a bloody copper. But he understands now. Lestrade isn’t just a nosy DI who needs to be eliminated. His life is leverage against someone who is far more powerful and protected, someone the Boss doesn’t want to touch with a brute force threat. He doesn’t know or care about this person, but he can admire the situation. There is an elegance to the threat Sean embodies. Do this-or don’t do this-and Lestrade dies. He wonders briefly if the other man even knows he is a pawn. Then again, it doesn’t matter. Sean already knows who is going to win this match.
The man settles against the seat cushions. Well, then. It’s time to start making the right kind of preparations.
No one challenges the Boss and wins.
~
May 23rd
“He needs to accept the proposal.”
Sean glances at his until-now silent drinking companion. Behind them, drunken uni students start heckling the telly, pelting the screen with peanuts until the bartender tells them off. The non-rugby crowd couldn’t care less, drowning their sorrows in pockets of isolated misery.
“What’s the timeline?”
Sebastian replies, “As soon as possible.”
“I’ll need to do a bit of tidying first,” he warns.
“The Boss just wants you to close the deal,” says Sebastian with a hint of annoyance. “The when, where, and how you do it is up to you.”
Sean drains his beer.
“Consider it done.”
The older man nods in approval. Anchoring it with his empty, Sean puts a tenner down on the bar to cover his drink and a bit of the other man’s. It’s only polite. He leaves without a goodbye.
As he walks through the evening crowd of tourists and pub-goers, Sean reflects that he is unsurprised by the message.
There have been rumours about a man in the British Government who has taken an interest in the Boss’ operations. The Iceman has his own set of connections in the criminal underworld, and those little bees have been busy. On his on-call and leave days, Sean has been traveling the length and breadth of England, with occasional jaunts to Europe and Asia, putting out fires and taking care of the Boss’ business. In recent months, there have been murmurs that the South and Central American operations have collapsed and that the Black Lotus tong has broken away. Internationally, all of their allied warlords are restless and more demanding than ever. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the Boss’ empire is under assault. The Americans and Europeans are suddenly extremely interested in the Boss’ connections within their borders. Governments are starting to pay attention to what they used to ignore, and an international crackdown on the Boss’ network is happening without fanfare and with brutal efficiency.
Even with the Boss’ personal involvement in the European operations, Sean knows that they’re losing people faster than they can be replaced. Not that the Americas are any better, but still. This is the Boss’ home ground. This is where his influence should be the strongest, but connections take time to form, and smart criminals are the ones who are slowest to trust. People are starting to twitch under the Boss’ authority. It’s been nearly two years since the start of the first rebellions, more than enough time for the Boss to arrange matters and put his house in order. Now, it seems like the Boss can’t protect his own people or keep them under control. In recent weeks, scores of mid-level captains, people who know just enough about the Boss’ empire to be damning witnesses, have vanished. Some of them have turned up dead, the rest presumed dead or soon-to-be. Sean isn’t the only handyman for the Boss. If those turncoats have decided to run, they won’t live long enough to testify, but Sean has to wonder: are they self-serving traitors, or rats fleeing a sinking ship?
Then there is the Shadow. No one seems to know the man’s identity or what he looks like, but they do say this: the Shadow knows everything. He knows who you are and what you’ve done before you even open your mouth. He also seems to be everywhere at once. Wherever the Shadow appears, chaos follows. Operations and alliances crumble like sand in his wake, with key players turning up dead or State’s Witnesses. It’s enraging. Sean personally has hunted the Shadow twice, and he just keeps slipping through all their fingers. It’s like playing whack-a-mole with none of the pleasure of actually whacking the mole. From what Sean has heard, it seems that the Shadow is making moves on the Boss’ empire, angling to be the next Boss of the underworld.
It’s a tossup between the Iceman and the Shadow as to who dares to challenge the Boss. There is a certain ruthlessness to both men that Sean can admire in silence. He spares a moment to wonder which man Lestrade’s death is meant to punish before he dismisses the thought. The point is, Lestrade is the message and Sean is the messenger. He has a month’s grace to keep his current Boss happy, which brings him to…
Donovan. The detective inspector trusts him. His head sergeant does not. They’ve all been working together for two fucking years and she still won’t let Sean be on scenes alone with Lestrade. So the plan has to take her into account like this: get rid of the interfering bitch, then kill the target. It won’t be that easy-Donovan’s death will have to be more impersonal than he wants-but he has the freedom to craft the perfect plan. It’s a two-fer, and then he can disappear from this stupid identity.
He smiles as he brushes his hand against the switchblade hidden in his belt.
It’s time.
~
Continued in Part IV