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Another Day on the Job. (AutumnDreaming/Rekoj)

R

Rekoj

Star
Joined
May 27, 2009
In a dark corner of an ill-lighted street, hidden in the black shadows of a dim building, stood a shady character. The only light to be seen was the red amber burning of the end of a cigarette, which was brought up to the lips of Johnny Holland. His short, wavy chestnut blond hair was packed underneath an army style cargo green hat. His broad shoulders were hidden beneath a black jean jacket, with matching black denim jeans. He took another long drag from his cigarette, before eyeing the street. He took his left hand and scratched his right arm nervously before grabbing his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He exhaled through one of his nostrils roughly, and twitched before slumping down in the corner. His olive green t-shirt hung loosely over his form as he sat against the brick wall behind him. He scratched the outside of his arm once more with his right hand, setting the appearance. He was just some harmless tweaker, not interested in anything, except his own mind. He stared down at the sidewalk, the green cap covering his eyes.

His eyes, however, were inspecting everything, from counting the amount of street lights to watching any shadow that moved. Johnny Holland was a cover name, for a undercover cop. His real name, was Detective Patrick Adair, and he hated cigarettes. He hated drugs, which is why he had to falsify the tweaks and twitches. He had spent every day for months, practicing and perfecting his craft. He sat in the dark corner, acting to nobody in particular. His eyes, always moving, always looking for another shadow to follow, while his body didn't move at all. He had been following his target for weeks, she had been here before, looking over the very same building across from him. Of course, those previous few weeks, he had been Johnny Holland only twice, a few other times he had been Mike Penn, and other various identites. Quite often he'd just stayed invisible in the shadows, as whoever he felt like. She'd never seemed to notice him, or even care, which was exactly what he wanted.

Always watching, nothing more. He could always just watch, scope, inspect, and it drove him crazy. Patrick was one for action, to sit idle and plan out something just didn't feel right to him. Another grab of the nose, and twitch of the shoulders. He pondered to himself in his mind if it was just his imagination, or if something felt different in the air tonight. He could taste something in the air, was it action? Was it foreboding? Or was it his mind lacking patience. At the young age of 22, patience was one thing he lacked. However, to his advantage, most people would not expect somebody of his age to be a master of his craft. He was an undercover cop, and damn good at it already. He'd only worked a few small cases, in which his only job was to be eyes and ears, an informant. This time, it was all on him, he had to bring her down himself. The rest of the force was busy dealing with rising mafia battles in the street, there was no time for a group to deal with thieves. Instead, they had to trust their young detective, and one thing Patrick Adair hated to do- was disappoint. So for now, he just had to remain patient, until the one shadow he wanted to see would appear.
 
Dianna Hartford did not consider herself a criminal, but a mastermind and an artist. Even if in blatant terms she was a thief, she was much more than petty and careless. Her methods were ingenious, combining intelligent skill with charisma to be a deadly threat. Posing as Elise Trenton, the art curator from Boston, most of her clients, also known as victims, fit into the same stereotype: they were rich, lonely, desperate, stupid, and possessed rare and valuable pieces of art. Elise was like a tumbleweed to them, blowing in with such a ferociousness they never noticed how cunning she could be until it was too late. By the time they realized that not only had she stolen and broken their hearts she had robbed them blind too, she was long gone. Of course, her scorned lovers always reported her to the police eventually. Embarrassed by their foolishness, every single one of them had waited until the losses were too overwhelming not to be reported. Weeks or even months would float by, the trail too cold then for the police to be able to find any traces of the woman who didn't exist. She was like a phantom, a figment of their imaginations.

Dianna had rules: no multiple clients, no multiple jobs in the same city within one yearly setting, and no remaining in the same place for longer than a month at maximum. At twenty-three, she had vowed to abide by her own laws for the past five years, never once breaking a single one. However, a love affair with a music box had changed everything.

Her latest victim, Trevor Stanton, had not made her job an easy one. Not only was he clingy, but he was enchantingly handsome. His affection for her was not as obvious as the others had been, but he had a need to see her on almost a daily basis. She hadn't minded as it made keeping her eye on the literal prize- an original painting by a well-known Parisian artist- an easy feat. It was through him, however, that she encountered the reason she was breaking her own logical rules. He had insisted on taking her to the art museum, ironically thinking it would teach her about painting. It was during one of the escapades that she saw it: a nineteenth century music box covered in alternating diamonds and emeralds. The finish was exquisite, the wood still sparkling as if it had only been a few days since production. She didn't know what song it had played, but she didn't care. The collector had to have it.

After finishing with Trevor, she should have fled the area. She couldn't, though, knowing that box was in existence. For weeks, she kept returning, admiring it every day. Like a hawk she had watched the guards at the museum, spending time to learn their habits and the security systems that protected the building. Finally, her night had come. As cliche as it was, her lean five-foot six-inched frame was covered in a black leather catsuit. The tight garment would prevent any loose threads from accidentally tripping any system, ruling her plan. Dark auburn hair was pulled into a sleek bun, secured tightly at the base of her neck. Light green eyes were unshielded, confidently waiting for the moment to strike.

All her days of snooping were about to pay off. The item was on the third floor, but one of the windows on the south side of the second story was faulty, not quite locked in place. For that, the system would not be alerted if she could manage to pry through it. She had a small grappling hook in hand, connected to a rope and harness that would allow her to quickly scale the exterior walls. With perfect precision, she tossed it up onto the ledge near her targeted window. Tugging on it to assure herself it was in place, she used her upper body strength to pull while her feet began to ascend up the smooth wall.
 
Detective Adair was a perfectionist, from the age of 17 when he realized what he wanted to do, he committed every waking moment of every day to achieving his goal. It had been a sunny June day, where the temperature was just right- when he'd witnessed the crime that changed his life. He didn't realize at the time it would change his life, it seemed like such a minor event. He had been walking home on the last day of his schooling, when he saw a few of his fellow grads drive by. They drove past him, and one leaned out of the window- with a paintball gun. The car stopped and the young man took aim at a beautiful Ferrari, in the nearby driveway. The paintballs flew out of the gun and smashed against the windshield and hood of the car, spewing paint all over the expensive vehicle and cracking the windshield. A man with graying hair, who looked in his 40s came running out and screaming at the hooligans in the car. Who simply drove off, laughing, hooting and hollering as they sped down the street. A graduation prank, pulled by people who still had the rest of their lives in front of them.

Three days later, two of them were found shot dead by the owner of the car, a child was clipped by a stray bullet in the shooting and hospitalized. The man in his 40s was promptly arrested, and half a year later, found guilty of the murders, sentenced to life in prison. Three lives were ended by the prank, and countless others were forever affected by it. The child, traumatized, the parents, put through so much unnecessary sorrow. The families of the graduates, having their boys ripped away. It was the week after the trial when Patrick had been reading the paper, and an article on the murders. It was an interview with the murderer, in each sentence, he couldn't stop apologizing for what he'd done. His final sentences were as follows, 'I look back and still can't believe I did what I did, but when I phoned the cops to report the vandalism, it took them a few frustrating days to come by. And when they did, I gave them the license plate of the car that the boys were driving in and everything, and they said they couldn't do anything about it. They were simply too busy- I couldn't believe it! I'd given them everything they'd needed to catch and properly punish the kids... and they were too busy! I suppose that's when I lost it, there is no excuse what I did, but I couldn't believe they were simply going to let these kids walk.'

It was in that moment, 6 months after the crime, a confused and lost 18 year old found a purpose, so much tragedy, pain, and death that could've been averted if only there was a police officer there to do the job. He knew what he wanted to do then, he knew what he needed to do then. He had found his calling, and every day after that, he began to go to the gym and train. He studied law once again, as well as anything else that could've come in handy. Apparently, he was a good actor, as after he made the academy he was quickly assigned to train for undercover work. And now, here he was, other cops had done the job of finding him the target. He didn't know how they had managed to track this thief down, but they had, and now it was placed in his lap to finish the job. She had been spotted on the museum security cameras, and he saw the way she eyed the box. He studied every tape from every camera in the evenings, over and over again, until he learned who she was and what she wanted.

He'd stayed in close contact with the museum the entire time, they only knew him as Johnny Holland, but they knew he was working on catching a thief. They gave him access to anything, and told him if he thought they were going to be robbed- he could do whatever was necessary to take the thief down. He was looking up to the sky when he heard it, the 'clink' sound of metal upon metal. He had not seen anything, but he had definitely heard the noise. He stood up, slowly, and surreptitiously made his way towards the alley behind the building where the noise had come from. He crept into the alley, and nearly missed her shadow crawling up the side of the building when he blinked. She was a good sleuth, but he was a better snoop. He quietly stepped around the building to the front entrance, which was oddly abandoned. He ignored it for now, maybe there had been a discrepancy in the building, it was normally closed at this time. However, the museum had explained to him that even when the hours were over, they kept their doors over, for possible professors and other high-end types to come in and either inspect what they had, or do business to add new artifacts to the place. He made his way to the staircase, and began to climb up the steps, anxiously awaiting his soon to be confrontation with the thief.
 
As a child, Dianna had been both a dancer and an athlete. Her delicate structure had been strengthened with years of ballet and tennis, giving her a toned physique. It was due to fifteen years of training that she was scaling the brick wall with such success and ease. Her gloved fingers pulled tightly on the rope, her cleat-lined soles digging into the mortar of the red blocks. She was almost there now, one arm extending to grasp the ledge of the window. The other let go of the rope, swinging out to hook her fingers underneath the corner of the pane. Silently, she propped open the glass square until the spring caught it, enabling the window to remain open on its own accord.

Reaching farther inside, Dianna pulled her lithe weight up to the ledge. Swinging over a muscled leg, she bent her back forward so that she could duck into the interior of the museum. With cat-like flexibility, she swung the other leg inside, slithering down to the floor. Fingers coiled around the hook, pulling it inward. Taking off her light pack, she disassembled herself from the harness, shoving the equipment inside.

The young thief had already scoured every inch of the facility, committing it to memory. She had visited on different shifts, not wanting any of the staff to become too accustomed to her appearance. She was already bending her own laws by breaking into the museum, but that music box called to her like no other piece she had ever lifted. Elise had worked for other people, reselling the prints for a greater sum of money than most were worth. This item, however, would belong to her. It was a selfish act, but she could no more deny herself that object than she could air.

Having become so familiar with the building, she knew that this particular window was also centered between two camera views, thus she had a radius of three feet which were completely safe to her at all times. The others were not fixated, rotating every so often. All she had to do was time herself perfectly and she could dart across the room toward the awaiting staircase. Pushing up the right sleeve of her leather suit, she began to count the seconds. Thirty, forty-five, sixty. . . go! With light feet she glided through the air, running toward the stairs.

Ascending them, she was finally on the third floor. It was unnaturally quiet, the air seeming somewhat stale around it. In the distance, she could see the pedestal which held her beloved prize. Something, however, kept her from going to get it. Crouching lowly on the landing, she scanned the floor. What or who she was looking for, she didn't know.
 
His ascent of the stairs was slowed due to his footwear, because of the character he was in he had an annoying pair of white sneakers on. To stop them from squeaking upon the hardwood stairs, he had to climb each step softly, slowly. He knew she would be in the building by now, with the pace she had against the wall he'd learned a few things. She was fast climbing that wall, which meant she was athletic, and he would have to corner her or else she would run, and be very difficult to catch. He knew where the pedestal and the box was, in every video, she would go by that box. She'd go by many other pieces, every time, she was very deceptive- he had to give her credit. But in each of those videos, she'd at least pass by that music box. And there was simply something in her eyes when she saw it, he knew that was what she wanted.

He made it to the top of the third flight of stairs, and looked down the hall that led to the pedestal. He did not go directly down the hall, instead choosing to sneak off to his right. He was going to go around, and hit her from the side. The third floor didn't have as many artifacts or pieces upon it, instead, it was mostly offices and private rooms. He continued his quiet movements throughout the halls, until he knew he was around the corner from the pedestal. He pinned himself right against the corner of the wall, closing his eyes and trusting his ears. When she got to the box, he'd have to make his move. It was his only chance of cornering her, as the pedestal and music box were in a small, open room. There were two exits, the one he'd peered down and avoided, or the one where he was at now. His ears were piqued for any sound, as he simply waited for her footsteps to put her in the right spot. If he mis-judged by even a second, she could have an easy escape. He needed to put himself between the two exits, in an instant. It was all down to timing now, as he quietly drew the pistol hidden within his jean jacket, and waited.
 
Dianna's natural intuition was almost always spot-on. If a situation felt awkward to her, she backed away from it before it escalated into something less than ideal. Like a lioness readying herself to catch her prey, she sank back on her haunches. One hand was firmly planted in front of her on the ground, keeping her balance steady so that she could spring forward if she needed to do so. To keep all noises at bay, Dianna simply pressed her lips together into a thin line. Breath was stilled, held tightly in her lungs. Silently, she listened, waiting for either her feelings to subside or be confirmed.

Taking the backpack off her shoulders, she cautiously placed it in front of her. Eyes could sense no movement in the dark room, but she was still held back from advancing. Reaching into the shallow tote, she pulled out a rubber flashlight. What she was about to do would be extremely risky, possibly costing her her freedom, but she had to know. Trusting that she could race back down the stairs quickly enough, she simply flicked her wrist and rolled the object very quickly across the floor. The lightweight item tumbled against the wood, sounding very much like footsteps running toward something. It spun toward the column holding the music box in place, thudding against it. Head canted, waiting to hear any traces of motion. Eyes darted toward the offices in the distance, anticipating someone to burst out of them at any moment.
 
His back was pressed against the cold wall, as Detective Adair took care to make sure his breathing wasn't too loud. His chest slowly compressed and depressed as he exhaled, he breathed slowly, through his nose, his ears piqued for any sound. A soft rustling, what was she getting? Then he heard it, the rolling against the wood- but there was something wrong. Why was she so stealthy all of the way to the object she so badly wanted, only to run when she reached it? Something was wrong, he clenched his eyes tighter as if trying to force another sound to ring out through the silence to explain the problem, but nothing after the thud, just silence. He drew in one more breath, before he couldn't wait anymore. He knew he was being impatient, but he couldn't help it, he wanted to take this thief down.

Raising both hands to the pistol he turned the corner and took aim. Eyes darted from the pedestal as he cursed under his breath to find that she wasn't there. Quickly he turned his gun to the side to find his target, eyes squinting to find a form within the shadows. He found her, and realized she had a clear escape, she'd known he was there. He had only one choice, as he raised his voice, "Stop or I'll shoot!" He needed to scare her still, he couldn't identify himself as a policeman, he had to hope that the weapon in his hands would freeze her. He was aimed right at her, standing still to make sure he'd have a pure shot.
 
Her worst suspicions were confirmed, the voice cutting through the still air like a knife. From across the room, she could make out a shadow of a figure. He had warned her not to move or he would shoot, and the lights from the offices were just enough to illuminate the sliver of an object held in his hands. She was not one to panic, but she didn't want to get caught either. Grabbing her bag from the floor, she turned to dart toward the staircase in a quick move.

Dianna descended only two stairs when she heard the sounds of gunshots. Initial instinct was to duck, thinking he had held true to his threat and was firing at her back. Upon further listening, however, she realized that shots were not coming from behind her but in front. Bullets were flying, bouncing off the walls from the small hallway that was at the base of the stairs. The sounds of screams filled the air, forcing her to turn back around.

Making her back up to the landing, she was facing the man who had hidden in the shadows. "Tell them to stop firing at me!" She called out, thinking he was a police officer and the other shots were coming from his backup men. Another one grazed by her head, nearly clipping her ear. She dropped down to the ground, covering her head. "Damnit, stop it! I'm not moving!"
 
He cursed under her breath, she had the reflexes of a cat- or even better. She made it around the corner of the wall, taking away whatever shot he had in the darkness. He dropped his hands and started bolting it towards the corner, rounding it when he heard it. The ear-piercingly loud explosion of gunfire, and instantly Patrick's run came to a screeching halt, and he looked at the gun in his hand. His hand was still, the steel was still cold, and then it hit him- the noise didn't come from the pistol in his hand. It came, instead from down the hall in front of him, where he had been chasing his target. He looked ahead to find a figure in the shadow running back at him, telling him to tell them to stop firing.

Tell who to stop firing, and who was he to tell [/i]them? By the sounds still ringing through the halls it was more than obvious they had better firepower than him. The pistol in his hand felt as useful as a slingshot, as the automatic gunfire continued to slam through the building. He didn't know anybody else in the building was still awake, never mind somebody he had authority over. He had to duck as he heard a ricochet ring through the hall right by him. As he ducked, he saw the figure in front of him drop to the floor.

Normally, when dealing with police, this is a good idea. Drop to the ground, hold your head, and wait to be arrested and dealt with. But these were definitely not police firing, the only cop in the hallway looked like a drug addict, smelled like cigarettes, and was standing dumbstruck in the middle of a dark hallway. He heard another bullet ricochet and saw his target laying there, in the hallway, exposed to any ricochet or any fluke shot. He couldn't let it end like this, she had no idea it wasn't a cop shooting down the hall, and now she was caught in a terrible spot. He crouched low and ran forwards down the hall, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her body against the floor down the hallway. He ignored the gunfire and focused on remaining low- and fast, very fast. He practically swung her body on the floor around the corner of the hall. As soon as he got around, he slammed his back against the wall and dropped down on his rear end. Breathing heavily, he almost had to shout out over the gunfire, "STAY LOW!"
 
The blood in her body was pumping rapidly, her pulse accelerating to an almost dangerous level. Adrenaline flowed freely making her feel so airy that she doubted she would have noticed if one of the bullets plunged through her leather-covered flesh. Her emotions were running amok, scrambling in different directions through her brain. How could she have been so meticulous only to be blindsided by a raid of multiple officers patrolling the building to take her down? Furthermore, why did the police station feel she was so dangerous they needed to fire at random at her? None of it made sense, not at all.

On the floor, Dianna's main priority was keeping her head covered. If the people firing at her were there to arrest her then the shots should have ceased. Though she had tried to escape, she was no longer resisting arrest. Eyes were closed, pointed down toward the cold floor. Another bullet soared through the air, flying into a protective case and shattering it. The sound of glass breaking into minuscule shards rang throughout the room as the crystal pieces fluttered to the ground. Dianna screamed unintentionally with a sharp voice in an octave that threatened to penetrate the sound barrier.

The man holding the gun to her grasped her hand, dragging her across the floor and out of harm's way. She didn't question him, though it did cross her mind as an odd reaction. Ordering her to stay low, she nodded and kept herself pressed into the tile. The pale light from the offices illuminated the man to show his plain clothing. Her nose had already detected the smoke, but that didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. "Are you an undercover cop or did I just step into a war?" She asked him, her voice kept quiet. "Why the hell are your guys firing so much?"
 
Instead of telling whoever he was with to shut up, he reached across the shadows and slammed his palm over her mouth. Sweat beads began to drip down his forehead, rolling down his gaunt face. He kept his palm over her mouth, as the gunfire had stopped. He struggled to hear any noises throughout the halls over the sound of the blood pumping through his veins. His eyes were wide open, as he tried to figure out exactly what to do in this situation. Everything had been so calm, quiet within the building, now it was all chaotic. Instead of worrying about who was shooting, and why, he decided to change his focus.

That focus, was on getting the hell out of this building alive. The gunfire had stopped, but there was still a tension in the air. It felt as if a tank could come rumbling through the halls at any moment. He kept his pistol raised with his right hand, while his left remained over his poor victim's face. He slowly pulled his left hand away from her mouth, to lean over and whisper an answer, directly into her ear, "Both." He was an undercover cop, and this sure as hell felt like a war, and now was the silence before the air raids would start again. He expected a grenade to come flying around the corner, or maybe a mortar would come through the ceiling.

Instead, it remained silent, and the silence was even worse to poor Detective Adair. He dared to break the silence to whisper in her ear again, "These aren't my men, I don't know what's going on, but stick with me. We're getting the fuck out of here..." With that, he started to shuffle down the hallway, instead of heading directly for the staircase, he headed up the hallway, aiming for the back staircase. The hidden staircase was supposed to be a fire escape, but they could easily be used to quietly sneak up a level. He didn't want to head down the stairs, fighting his way through bullets flying through the air. Instead, he'd make his way to where her rope was still hanging, it would be a hell of a lot easier to slide down a rope than climb up it again. She had spent weeks committing the building to memory, and he had been doing exactly the same.
 
The woman on the floor didn't take kindly to being bossed around by anyone, especially not some punk with a gun. When his hand clapped over her mouth, her jaws parted and teeth were set to bite down on the curves of flesh tucked against her lips. However, thinking better of it, she drew her lips in over her teeth to prevent the temptation of following through with her initial thoughts. Instead, she remained as calm as possible, silently telling the organ thumping in her chest cavity to slow itself to a normal rate. Head leaned forward against his hand, ears struggling to listen to any other foreign sounds or indications that the fire would resume. Eyes peered around the corner, scanning the darkened room for any movement.

The man with his arm extended to her face withdrew the hand to lean forward and whisper against her ear. "Both." She repeated back to him, accepting that confirmation to her suspicions concerning his career. Her heart gave an erratic pump, body leaning away from him. If he was a cop then he was the enemy; the enemy was claiming the people shooting weren't friendly fire. So if they were enemies of her enemy did that make her friends with the owners of the rogue bullets? Of course not. Then again, who could she trust? He was asking her to come with him, no telling her, which must have meant he did have intentions of arresting her. She certainly didn't want to be imprisoned, but what else could she have done?

He was right, getting to safety was a first priority. The blueprints of the building were brought up in her mind like a screen to a computer. She knew where her escape route lay in respect to where they were. "Come on." She whispered to him, keeping her bag wrapped around her wrist as she silently crept ahead of him. "I'm sure I know this building better than you." Maybe she didn't, but she certain didn't want to be shot in the back. In front of him, she pressed her back against the wall, hands pressing to the coolness of it.
 
She was leading him exactly where he had hoped to go, his form remained flat against the cool wall, following behind her, ready at any moment to draw his pistol and fire. He'd already accepted he was in a life-threatening situation, and that force may be necessary to save his life. They were killing each other in a merciless, ruthless, and heartless fashion. He wasn't just a cop anymore, he was a man trying to escape with his life. The pistol in his hand had quickly become his best friend, his target coming as a close second- as she'd give anybody they ran into somebody else to aim for. He didn't plan on letting her get shot, but attracting the bullets away from him, if only for a second could allow him to line up a shot a lot easier. This is why he let her lead, especially since she seemed intent on going to the same place he was.

He let her lead, as they slowly crept along the halls, as the sounds of voices could be heard throughout the halls now. The voices were far away, no words could be made out, it was just obvious that somebody was shouting at someone. It was down the hall, which made Detective Adair a little more aggressive in his movements. He pulled his body off of the wall and began to walk down the hall, a quick walk in which his feet barely left the ground. He looked forwards to the red exit sign, one of the few lights shining through the dark hall. He pressed his back against the wall beside the door, holding his pistol with both hands. He looked down the hall, and nodded his head towards the door, signaling for her to lead through the door. He wanted her to lead, open the door for him so he could be ready to aim for anybody waiting for them in the staircase. He whispered quietly, "We're going up, to the way you came in, I'm not fighting my way downstairs through automatic fire with only a pistol, and I doubt you're armed. It sure doesn't look like you've got a place to store a weapon in that suit, anyways..."
 
Intelligence was not a quality Dianna was sorely lacking. She understood well that he voiced no complaints to her leading simply because it would mean she was a shield for him. He may have been physically stronger, but she doubted he was as agile or flexible as her. He was dressed plainly, almost thuggish while she was perfectly camouflaged in the darkness with her black form-fitting black suit that served as a second skin. It would be harder to see her figure than his, especially when she moved so quickly with the shadows.

The shoes on her feet were specially made for events such as these. She walked silently down the hallway, still keeping her back angled toward the wall. The door leading to the fire escape was within her line of sight, the Exit sign almost waving to her from high above. When they reached it, he spoke again. "You don't know what I have hidden in this suit." She replied in an almost inaudible whisper. Hands tightened on the doorknob, turning it slowly until she heard the latch creak open. Being cautious, she ducked slightly behind it until she noted the coast was clear. Sliding inside the stairwell, she slowly ascended the stairs to the top landing. Repeating what she had done downstairs, she opened the door to the room from where she had entered.

It was quiet inside, almost exactly like she had left it. Eyes scanned the room, finding the window that was slightly ajar. Locating it, she took a step toward it before stopping. Something seemed off. . . The moonlight was not breaking through the glass as it had done before but was completely blocked off instead. She followed the thick shadow all the way to the top of the figure's head, catching the whites of his shadowy eyes. His arm moved to point another silvery object at her. Before she could warn the man behind her, the shots were fired. Dropping down, she rolled out of the way. Arms were grasped over her head again, trying to protect it.
 
Every step, of the staircase, he matched his pace to hers, holding his pistol aimed at the ceiling, but ready to draw it and fire at any moment. As he was pacing the stairs behind her, he finally got to see her in an illuminated environment. The fire escape stairs were well-lit, metallic, and completely empty except for them. His eyes stayed ahead of her, watching in front of her, ready to do whatever it took to get them out of the building. He couldn't help but notice out of his peripherals, how attractive her form was within the tight suit. He quickly pushed the thoughts out of his mind, there was no time for distractions right now.

Out of the staircase they crept into the nearest room, and this is when Detective Adair made his biggest mistake. He trusted her read on the room, and entered it, turning his form to close the door behind him, double-checking for anybody else in the halls. His back was turned, as he closed the door, and before he had the chance to turn he heard the ever-familiar sound of gunfire, and watched as a hole appeared in the door. He then felt as if somebody had wound up a sledgehammer and slammed him in the back, as he cried out, his left hand twisting behind him to hold where the bullet had slammed through his torso. The exit wound was what made it worse, as it felt another hammer had slammed through his chest, the bullet cleanly going in and out of his body. He twisted to the left to cover his back, and as he twisted he swung his right hand around his body, aiming the pistol for the shadow that was wielding the automatic gun. He fired three rounds, the first one slamming through the window beside the man, but the second one was dead on. The sight of blood could be seen on the window behind the man's head, as he dropped without a sound, the third bullet moving with his swinging arm and firing into the ceiling.

He dropped to the floor and began to gasp, holding the exit wound on his torso, quickly realizing how lucky he was. The bullet had cleanly gone through his ribcage, taking out nothing but painful, burning flesh. He hadn't been crippled, but my god, was he disabled. He remained on the floor, as red lights flooded the room with the alarm triggered by his first errant shot. He drew another heavy breath and began to crawl towards the window, realizing that they had attracted the dropped foe's friends. He started to try and stand, shuffling, favoring his left side greatly, using whatever strength he could find to escape. He made it to the window, when he noticed, in the light of the full moon... was Sergeant Johnston, Detective Adair's superior officer. He dropped to one knee again, realizing he had just shot a fellow cop in the forehead.
 
Dianna couldn't stand to watch the exchange between the two men. She wasn't even sure which one- if either- she should hope to win the battle of flying metal ringing throughout the room. Crouched against the wall, the woman had made herself appear as small as possible so that the fired bullets were barely missing her form. Though blinded by the darkness of night, her ears were perfectly in tune with every sound that reverberated against the walls. The sting of gunfire assaulted both her ears and her nose, but it was only when the glass broke did she dare to life her head to peer out of her secured position. In front of her, the man initially firing dropped to the ground with a thud, a stream of colorful liquid splattering across the illuminated panes behind him.

The bullets ceased, the room falling still again except for the sound of one struggling to breathe. Dianna unfolded herself, stretching out her lean arms and legs from her torso. Turning toward the police officer, she shook her head in remorse toward him. Guilt stabbed at her heart for not warning or trying to protect him, but at the same time she was relieved he had been hit. It was a totally selfish revelation, but it meant she could escape more freely. In fact, she could completely leave him behind to die. . .

Only, she couldn't. As he pulled himself to his feet, Dianna was behind him. She watched him drop to his knees, the woman tugging on his arm to help him stand. "Come on, get up. We have to go." Her voice was urgent as she bent down, snaking her shoulder under his arm to become his supportive crutch. "What are you doing? Get out the window and I'll help you when I get down. Go on, climb!"
 
His was still as pale as a ghost as he found himself entranced by the revelation of his boss's corruption. And he was left in shock overthe fact that he had just ended the man's life, his dead eyes staring up out towards the window. He then felt something tugging at his shoulder, and the survival instinct got his body moving before his brain clicked into what he was doing. He was still numb, too many thoughts trying to run through his odverstressed brain, before they all got shut out by a single revelation. He was falling, fast, his hands were around the rope and as his mind clicked into action he gripped on, slowing his descent, wincing in pain as extended to keep himself from dropping. When he dropped, he still only awkwardly drop off of the rope and onto his knees, bending over against the concrete, his left hand covered in his own blood as the crimson stain appeared darker and darker through his clothes. He knew he needed to stand, he needed to fight, he needed to survive. But he was disabled, so many little movements required the muscles that had now been torn into, and something as simple as standing caused him such pain.

He remained on his hands and knees, his forehead against the cool pavement, his hands were cradling the exit wound that was just above his left leg, somwhere close to his hip. He managed to raise himself to a single knee, and only found the strength to twist and watch his companion make their way down when gunfire rang out from the building. It wasn't at the window she wad dropping from, instead somewhere else in the museum as it was obvious the war was continuing. He saw her form upon the rope, and he could only pray she'd make it down safe. He needed her now, and he knew it, she could just run, save her own ass, and leave him behind. The people upstairs had to be bad people, what was his sergeant doing there, with an AK-47 in his hands? So many things he wanted to question, but couldn't, as instead he had to focus on something else. Something that was usually so simple, but it felt impossible, as Patrick found himself in disbelief at his inability to stand up on his own two feet. His knees felt so much more comfortable, as he was mentally and physically exhausted.
 
This punk cop in front of her practically fell out the window, barely clinging to the rope as he slid down to the ground. Her hand reached out in front of her as if to grab him, though there was nothing she could do. He was acting strange, though she knew he had to be disoriented from the, what did they call it? Oh, yes, GSW- gun shot wound. Canting her head, she looked down at the dead man whose blank eyes were staring back up at her lifelessly. She was certain she didn't know him, yet the undercover agent had seemed so distraught when he fell beside him. Surely it wasn't just out of remorse for defending himself. He was a cop, he had to be used to taking lives by now.

Dianna was the epitome of grace as she slid out the window and glided easily down the rope to the ground. She stood back for a moment, watching as he struggled with his wounded body. The internal battle was beginning, her head and heart competing against each other. One said to leave him while the other said to help him. "I don't know how you found me or where I became careless. You really thought you could arrest me, didn't you?" She spoke hurriedly as she walked over to his crumpled form. "I'm going to help you because you kept me from getting shot." She whispered to him, bending down again. "I can't carry you so you have to walk. I realize you're bleeding. Take your shirt off and hold it to your wound to slow the bleeding while we travel to the car. I'm parked over in the garage off Clement Street."

The woman was being gentle as she helped tug him back onto his feet. "Lean on me, come on." She began to walk, half dragging him behind her. "God, you're heavy. Come on, cop, walk with me here."
 
It was easier when he had something to lean on, he could stand on his own two feet, and stumble, but the shock and pain he was in didn't allow him to step with confidence. He tried his best not to lean on the woman, as he tried his best to find something else to think about besides the blood that was dampening his shirt more and more. He would have taken off his shirt and listened, but he'd have to stretch out the muscles around the wound to pull it off of his body. That wasn't going to happen anytime soon when walking itself was so difficult. He was surprised when he found he was opening his mouth to speak to her, "You were tough, I didn't sleep for weeks, trying to find you. You were almost invisible, and it was my job to find you. Had to find you, had to take you down, it's what I get paid to do. You just couldn't keep your eyes off of that box..."

Evidently, he was in a talkative mood, surprisingly building up a good pace with his stumbling, his one arm draped over her shoulder, to use her for support, the other still cradling the exit wound. The entrance wound was burning as well, the damage could be felt from one end of his body to the other, back-to-front. However, the advantage of the painful exit wound was that it meant there would be no digging into his torso to remove a deadly piece of lead. It had gone clean through, and although it had shredded a few core muscles and taken out a good amount of flesh- it hadn't done any life threatening damage. Detective Adair knew enough about the human anatomy to know that where he'd been shot was just flesh and bone. However, he realized, another six inches up and towards his chest more, it would've been a heart shot. And there would be no Detective Adair stumbling down the street, he'd been as cold and dead as his boss.
 
The woman was slightly flattered to hear he couldn't sleep well due to trying to track her down. "Amazing, I didn't know that my criminal tasks were on the same level as drug dealers and murderers. Good to know you think so highly of me. What was it about me that you couldn't stand to stay away from?" She asked him, letting him continue to lean on her as she led them down the darkened streets through alleyways and the shadows of buildings. She was trying to distract him, to keep his mind focused away from the copious amounts of blood pooling at the wound and sliding down his jeans to the ground. It was enough to make her ill, but one of them had to remain strong and calm. "Is it because I'm a woman? And not just any woman, but one of intelligence who has outsmarted and broken the hearts of dozen of rich mean across the nation?" She was admitting her crimes, but it mattered little to the incapacitated man. "Ah, the beautiful box." She sighed, wishing she had it in her possession. "It's an original, so antique and finely crafted. I truly admired it. I was greedy in that I had to have it, but if we hadn't been fired back tonight I would own it now. You couldn't have caught me. I'm almost untouchable."

The arrogance in her voice was intentional, wanting to put some fire into his spirit to keep him alive. They trudged onward, closing in on the entrance to the parking garage. She led him to an elevator, pushing him inside as she pressed the third floor button. The silver doors opened to an empty parking lot save for a few cars. "Come on, to the black one." It was small and sleek, expensive yet non-descript. Opening the passenger door, she gestured for him to climb inside. "Get in and try not to get blood on the leather interior, okay? It's a rental."
 
He was bewildered by the revelations she was sharing, she had been a high-class thief for a while, that much was becoming obvious to him. He heard the arrogance, and did it ever work to get a little fire from within going. He was becoming a touch angrier with each step, that gave him just barely enough energy to be able to make it into the passenger seat of the car. If he could've tried to stop the bleeding from getting onto the leather, he would've. He was clenching his blood-soaked shirt to the wound, the jean jacket he was wearing failing at covering up the evident wound. The blood was pooling on the back of his shirt to an extent as well, from the entrance wound, luckily the denim jacket was protecting the seat somewhat from the blood. He was astounded by how red his shirt was getting in the light of the car, but his mind was elsewhere.

From the blood loss, he was starting to become a little loopy, as he couldn't help but giggle a little bit. "A cop and a thief, making a getaway from a war zone in a museum..." he laughed a little at the entire situation. If he wasn't laughing, he'd be crying, as the pain was simply starting to turn to numb, and it seemed at least, that finally the bleeding was slowing. Not stopping, but at least slowing, which seemed to be good news to Patrick. He seemed to think it was hilarious, as he was laughing, revealing, "And then the cop, to protect the thief... shoots another cop in the face! His own boss!"
 
Getting into her own side, she threw her back in the backseat. Leaning across him, she shut his door and reached to put his seatbelt on him. Though it would be uncomfortable, she didn't need another reason for a police officer to be pulling her over tonight. He began to babble, laughing almost maniacally. She paid him little attention, inserting the key into the ignition and turning it over until the engine started. Foot was on the clutch, her other hand ready to shift into gear. His words were tickling at her ears, barely entering the canal. Then, she heard it. "What did you say?" She asked him, stalling the car on accident. "You shot. . . oh, shit. Shit. Shit shit shit!" She cursed endlessly, shaking her head. He needed a doctor, but she couldn't risk taking him to the hospital now. The dead cop had shot at his own, which meant there was some sort of corruption and Dianna was merely in the middle of it all.

Her arm extended toward the glove compartment, opening it to retrieve her cell phone. Fingertips brushed across the screen, moving in a series of taps until a contact was pulled up. She waited silently, driving quickly down the ramp and out of the garage. "Rox, it's me. No-wait, listen! I didn't get the box. There was an undercover waiting on me, but the police department fucked up somewhere and shot him. Yes, they shot him, Rox! No, he's alive." She paused, sucking in a deep breath of air. "The wound is close to his hip, but I don't know the severity. He's yakking out of being delirious. Rox, I gotta bring him home. I can't leave him out here to die. Yeah, I know he was going to arrest me." She turned sharply down a back road, carrying them somewhere out of the city. "He won't. He's too weak and losing too much blood. Okay, see you in ten." She hung up the phone, reaching over to grasp his arm. "Hey, hang in there. I'm getting you some help."
 
He ignored the pain that the seatbelt offered, and he laughed, as his mind came to more and more conclusions over the corruption of his former friend. He just laughed, choking out the words as he laughed, "Unbelievable... Johnston, a fucking mobber... all makes sense... fuck, how many of them are dirty? His entire unit could be, haha, no wonder he put me on a thief..." he knew that Sergeant Dan Johnston was working on the mafia case, and now it all made sense. By word of mouth, so many things were transferred at the cop shop, and Adair was putting all of the pieces together. The smile slowly faded, and the laughs transformed into cries of pain until they stopped entirely. Instead, he just breathed heavily, his mind pushing through the breakdown as he let out a loud, angry groan. He understood now, Johnston had put him on a thief, not realizing that the very museum she robbed was their hideout. Adair put it all together, Johnston and numerous others were in charge of finding the mafia, but they were part of the mafia. Who knew what the shootout was about, but Johnston was not there undercover. He was more than in plain clothes, he was armed with a non-standard weapon. The man was ready to shoot anybody that was there, he was not a policeman, he was a mob security guard.

His mind needed something to hold onto, something to get the adrenaline pumping, so looked over to the lady in the driver's seat, and blurted out, "I lied. You weren't that difficult to catch at all, every time you visited it was the only one you'd always pass by. You'd always come by, in all of these different outfits, all of them designed to either distract guys with a little bit of skin, or disappear entirely. It was easy, I watched all of those films once, and knew who the thief was right away!" He was practically shouting by the end, he was finding some strength from somewhere. He was sitting up more in his seat, and after his angry rant he let out another frustrated noise.

Within the blink of an eye, suddenly changed his tone, the adrenaline and rage worn off, but the after effect of the energy was still there. He was awake, he wasn't breaking down, he was going to fight for his life. He spoke, in a rushed, but strong voice, "Thank you so much for not leaving me to die, you don't have to worry about me arresting anybody yet, you're saving my life. I'm sorry about bleeding on the seats, there really isn't anything I can do about it." He had needed the adrenaline, he'd needed something to be angry about- but now he felt like an asshole for cursing the lady that was saving his life. He was going to pass out by the end of all of this, his mind was traveling at a minute.
 
Dianna wanted to speed through the dimly-lit streets, but she knew better than to risk the capture. If there was internal corruption then who knew how many people were looking for him, for her, or both. His laughter was annoying, but at least it was proof he was still conscious. The woman caught bits and pieces of his mutterings, though she thought it mostly nonsensical. Blood was leaking quickly from his body, pouring down into the carpet of the immaculate car. It would stain, but she had a friend who could clean it before she had to return the car to the rental place the following day. Her hand slowly withdrew from his body, replacing itself on the cool gearshift between them. She pressed in the clutch, maneuvering the stick into a higher speed. The speedometer was climbing, steadily accelerating as she brushed out of the city limits and toward the country.

His speech changed, the tone of his voice becoming more dramatic and reckless. When he finished his spiel, she cast a glance his way. "Oh, I was easy to find, was I?" She doubted it as she had bent her own rules just to have this antique in her possession. "I distracted no one except for you. If that was my tactic, it certainly worked. You couldn't wait to have me for yourself, but I'm afraid I'm the one person you can't have." She was bantering with him on purpose, intending to keep his will to survive intact. "If you know so much about me why don't you tell me about myself?" When he sat up, she allowed it, though she didn't want his blood pressure to drop any more.

Again, he was raising the volume of his voice before diminishing it back to a normal tone. Much to her surprise, he was thanking her for putting him in the car. "I'm not worried about being arrested. You don't even know where you are, how could you do anything to me? Who can you trust now? I've all you've got, punk. The seats are fine, just keep calm. Jesus, are you sure you're a cop?" She asked, turning off a side road and entering a scattered residential road. She led them through thick groves of trees, the tall trunks towering over the tiny car. Turning into a paved driveway, she drove up the hill to a two-story brick home that overlooked a flowing pond equipped with colorful fish. As soon as the engine was shut off, a light flickered on a porch and a woman Dianna's age came storming out the front door.

"Come on, get him in. I got a table set up." She went to the passenger door, opening it and trying to unfasten his belt. Dianna grabbed her back and jumped out. "Call Freddie and tell him to clean out this car. He's got blood everywhere." The thief spoke, running around to the other side and helping her roommate grab him. The other had cropped hair, the black strands short and pointing out awkwardly at her ears. Her eyes were large and dark and her body covered in piercings and tattoos. "Come on, Sugar, let us get you inside and I'll fix up that shot for you." Roxie said, practically tugging him now.
 
His eyes opened to find another young woman helping him out, and it occurred to him, it could be worse. He might be left at the mercy of some chubby, ugly, rude hairy guys, the usual mob thugs. Instead, he gets not one young woman, but two, and both of them attractive in their own right. He was starting to feel optimistic about the situation, until he tried to help both of the girls by supporting some of his own weight with his legs. He had just gone through a lot, in a short amount of time, more than just the bullet through him, but his mind had taken a lot of punishment. He was breaking down in the car, unable to focus on pushing himself through his current predicament. Now though, he felt some strength, and was able to stand up upon his own two feet. He just needed both of the girls there to support him, the thing that was making him the weakest now was blood loss.

He almost dropped when he made it through the door, but he managed to keep himself upright by propping himself against the door frame. He winced and covered his wound, realizing he had never managed to get his shirt off. Now was a better time than any, soon enough he'd be on the table that the aforementioned Rox said she had set up. He slowly got both of his hands under his shirt, having difficulty finding the hem because he was unable to tell where the blood ended and where the shirt began. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, letting out a groan of effort and frustration as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the side, letting it drop with his jacket to the floor. Where the blood wasn't covering his torso, it was now evident that Detective Adair was a cop. His form was lean, but very defined, and the strength that the jacket hid was revealed now. Patrick would run, for hours, every spare moment, even resorting to studying by listening to audio clips on his iPod-while running.

With the nasty exit wound exposed in front of him now, the pain became evident. He put both of his hands around it to inspect it better, the pain continuing it's slow fade into numbness. The exit wound was about in line with his belly button when it came to height, but it was located more to the side of his body, not close to the core. He started, "Well... at least it went right through, no digging necessary..." he trailed off as the blood loss was getting to him, and he started to drop from his position against the doorframe.
 
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