Slate held his hand out, waiting.
“What?”
“Ticket.”
“I don’t need your help.” Absinthe looked at his hand as if he had leprosy, and kept the folder closed.
“Good for you. Do it your damn self. Ticket.”
She looked at his dark eyes, and slicked back hair, and the black stubble on his face, and black dress shirt, open a couple buttons, and didn’t hand him a damn thing.
He counted to three in his head, as the floors dinged past, then calmly reached under his suit jacket, and slid the makarov pistol out of the smooth leather holster, and leveled it at her face.
And Absinthe recognized the motion long before she saw the gun- she slid a dagger from her thigh to his throat and leaned in to kill him. But she didn't go far- the narrow, steel pipe barrel of a german makarov pistol between her breasts stopped her efforts.
“It’s no wonder you fail assignments,” Slate remarked. The elevator settled to ground level, and the doors dinged open, and the gray day joined them. “Do you really think that little knife can win against a gun?”
“You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger.” She looked past him- he blocked her way out of the elevator, and behind him a lobby full of men, full of villains, turned their heads. “Step aside. Now.”
“Ticket.”
“Move. We are not working together.” She pushed the tip of the knife into his throat and his skin indented.
That was the most intelligent thing she had said yet. “No, we’re not. Ticket.” He shoved her back with the gun, and the knife left his throat.
Absinthe could kill him easily; she could skewer his jugular, grab his shirt to steady him as he died, and push the button for the third floor. No one behind him would know, and she would step out of the elevator two floors up and out through a window. Easy. And she wanted to kill him- she didn’t like Mondays, and she didn’t like the rain, and she didn’t like having her failures announced in front of him, or anyone else. She also didn’t like being insulted. Skank. Fuck him. But she hesitated. For a passing second she was certain she could kill him, and just as certain she would die in the process. The men in the lobby, all villains, were watching; two stood. What could he actually do with just a plane ticket? Other than follow her? And if that was his goal, then she would simply lead him down a dark alley and cut him up. And if he truly intended to leave, and retire, and she completed their assignment alone- all the better. She slid her knife back into the leather strap, and slipped a white United Airline ticket out of the black folder.
Slate snatched the ticket, holstered his pistol, and walked out of the building into the gray purple rain.
Dedication. That was the word that gnawed at him. He lacked dedication to the cause of being a criminal. Those words gnawed at him like hungry dogs. Fuck the bosses, and fuck all the villains, and fuck that goth skank and her knives. His feet smacked the puddles, and filthy black rain pelted his face, and he wanted nothing more than to kill, and murder, and burn.
Dedication was not Slate's issue- direction was.
Gray and black rain came down in sheets and soaked his hair, his jacket, his pants, and he looked up at the early day and cussed it.
Very few would ever understand the true problem with being a villain, or a criminal. Killing was easy. Shooting, poisoning, bludgeoning, burning, dismembering, disposing- the public library could turn a dedicated teenager into a mass murderer in a week- books upon books. But knowing how to do something wasn't enough, and was the reason so many criminals were behind bars. Being a successful criminal and a good villain required only one thing: money. Anyone with enough money could succeed at any crime. And yet, unfortunately, the goal of most crime was to increase money. And yet, even more unfortunate, Slate had no money. He spent it all.
He cursed the day and he cursed himself, and watched the crowds in front of him- most had umbrellas, but not all. He noticed a young blond woman in a snug brown sweater; the diamond on her finger glinted in the gray light, and her shoes were name-brand, and she clung to the dry side of the sidewalk, under awnings, avoiding the rain. Slate took two more calm, easy steps then side-stepped to dodge a puddle and bumped into the woman. He quickly reached out to catch her, and steady her- "So sorry," he said, his voice low, and considerate. Pedestrians passed behind him; he ignored them.
She felt his hands on her hips, and felt the strength of his right arm, and lost herself in his dark eyes, and put her hand on her chest. "Oh no- are you ok? I'm so sorry."
"No, no- my fault- I thought I was about to lose my shoe in a puddle." He studied the young woman's face a moment, as if remembering an old lover, and smiled. "Although, I think losing a shoe was worth bumping into you." He smiled again at her blushing cheeks, squeezed her hip one last time, and continued on.
But picking pockets and robbing banks only earned so much. He waited till he turned a corner and studied the diamond ring in his hand- perhaps worth seven or eight at a pawn shop. Dollars- not hundreds of them, just dollars. Fake shit. And then he opened her wallet and rifled through it- five, ten, twenty, twenty-two. Goddamnit all to hell. He shook his head, pocketed the money, and tossed the wallet and the ring into the gutter.
*
By three o'clock Absinthe had managed to bribe the nice man at the United Airlines desk into a first-class seat. She traveled light- two changes of clothes, seven daggers, two survival knives, one ice pick, all strapped to her thigh, hidden under her skirt, or strapped to her boot, hidden by the straps, or in her bag. She boarded, and watched for her bastard partner, and never saw him.
She had read the assignment- destroy an ammunition compound on the outskirts of Houston. How hard could that be? Set a fire and watch it burn. Payment for this job was set at two-thousand. If she reported he abandoned her she would earn four-thousand. Not bad for burning a building to the ground. She slid the black folder into her bag, leaned back, and shut her eyes.
And though she never saw him, Slate sat at the very back of the plane- he was the first to board, and the last to leave, and by the time the plane landed it was 6:00 in the evening. He made his slow way down the concourse and noticed his damn partner far ahead, walking towards the car rental booth. He was surprised she hadn't been arrested yet just for looking like a villain- most women wore very conservative dresses the color of easter eggs, or blouses with floral prints, but not her- short skirt, black corset covered by a black jacket- what an idiot. It was fairly common for women to dye their hair blonde and red and copper, and Slate didn't like it. But her hair was purple at the ends. How fucking stupid was she? She couldn't call more attention to herself if she tried.
He watched as she shouldered her way past a group of business men, and they all turned and watched the sway of her ass as she walked away, and they all missed the single sheet of paper that fell from her bag. Slate watched as they stepped on the page as they turned, and watched as women in their heels stepped on it, and by the time he picked it up it was covered in footprints and dirt and crinkled. He studied it a moment, and then smiled- this was the first page of their assignment, and this Monday just kept getting better:
...you are instructed to destroy the Tacara Ammunition Facility, located exactly one mile southeast of the Marshall Ford Marina. Loss of life is inconsequential to this assignment, however, if anyone is killed, ensure their bodies are lost in the fire. Ensure that everything located on the property that can be burned, is burned. We expect a "total loss" reported on the insurance claims. There are three fire stations within ten miles of the factory, and a small housing complex just south- take efforts to ensure...
Slate didn't bother reading the rest; he needed ammunition, whether he was an ataxic villain or not. He smiled- it was still Monday, but he had packed all his belongings, shipped all his furniture to his new house in Florida, had five-hundred dollars in his pocket from lifting wallets, had lost his idiot-whore partner in the crowd, and it was no longer raining. On top of that, he was never returning to the goddamned headquarters again. He smiled as he collected his luggage, and whistled as he walked to the parking lot, and hummed to himself as he found a 1958 Chevy Impala. Unlocked. He loaded his luggage in the back, slammed the trunk closed, jump started it, and drove away.
And a blond woman in a simple dress, with a simple bag, watched both agents. She watched Slate pick up the sheet of paper, and she watched him steal a car. And she watched Absinthe looking for the sheet of paper, and then she watched her run out of the airport with her bags.
Next stop: the Tacara Ammunition Facility.
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