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“Good evening, 47. Your target is Arthur Goodwill, a high-class investment banker and professional scammer. He likes nothing better than playing with the odds, and you’re just as likely to find him in his casino, co-owned by his wife Margret Goodwill, as in his bureau. He’s been known to “lose” his clients’ money, and tired of his games and excuses, they turned to us. They suspect Arthur Goodwill has been stealing their money for years, and they want proof as well as his head if he is indeed guilty – literally or figuratively is up to you, though I suggest the latter in the interest of discretion.
Arthur Goodwill is paranoid to the extreme, so be careful, 47. He lives above his casino and rarely leaves his home, and never unprotected. His security is tight, his casino exclusive and invite-only. His staff is handpicked by himself and he knows each and every face that enters that building. Even you would have trouble infiltrating.
Luckily, I have a solution…”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t need to like it, you just need to play along,” Diana said while handing the young servant her invite. “Smile, love. This is a party, not a funeral.”
Even without looking, Diana knew 47 would remain thoroughly unimpressed, although she suspected a small part of him appreciated her joke. He rarely joked back, but she’d witnessed his dry sense of humour often enough to know that it was there.
Hidden, perhaps, like so many aspects of him were, but it was there.
“You’re in danger here.”
He was also currently portraying a protective streak that, while expected and not unwelcome, was in the way right now when all his attention should be focussed on getting the job done without being caught by the extensive security at the fundraiser gala that took place in Baron Carstairs’ grand mansion. Granted, this was an unusual situation for both of them; he was used to having her voice in his ear while she was safe behind her screens in one of her apartments, many miles away from him and any danger, but it was not the first time where they’d had to work together in the field. It was a bit inconvenient not to have access to her computers, but the baron holding this event had been an old friend of her father and he’d been all too willing to invite her and her plus one when she’d contacted him for a catch up.
Which meant that she had to be here, and while touching, his reluctance to leave her side now that they had entered the crowd was also an inconvenience to their job that could not be tolerated and needed correcting.
“I am also the one with the invitation, and as good as you are, I doubt you could pass yourself off as me.” She lay a calming hand on his forearm and threw a slight smile at him. It did nothing to ease the tension in his body or the scowl off his face, but touching him calmed her down, too, so it still served a purpose. “I’m not helpless, 47.”
“Something here does not feel right. Something is going to happen.” His blue eyes scanned the elegantly dressed men and women in the room, looking for anything out of place. Diana followed his example, but she could see nothing unusual for an event like this; the men wore their best suits while their wives and partners tried to outshine every other woman in the room with their no doubt expensive dresses and sparkling jewellery. Waiters somehow managed to weave through the groups of people without jostling the trays with snacks and champagne in their hands, while security personal discreetly watched from the corners of the room.
She did not, however, discount 47 honed instincts.
“A reason more to be careful and quick. Remember, the clients want to know the names of Mr Goodwill’s partners in crime and, if possible, the location of their money, so don’t kill him too quickly. Good luck, 47.”
“I don’t need luck, only skill.” He finally turned to go off on his own, to mingle with the crowd and keep an eye out for his target, but uncharacteristically, he hesitated. It was only a barely turned head, just a whisper of a touch on her hand, just a fraction of worry in his ice blue eyes, but they were there. “Be careful, Diana.”
And he was gone in a blink, from one moment to the next indistinguishable from any other member of the collected aristocracy of Britain.
Releasing a shuddering breath, the only sign of the small crack in her composure, she went to do her part in this mission. She was going to mingle, talk with the other guests, maintain old connections and forge new ones where she could. And while she played the game of high society, she would watch and listen and gather as much intel as she could.
She did not know when and how things went catastrophically wrong. One moment she was doing pleasant small talk with an old acquaintance on the edges of the crowd, expertly evading any too direct questions about her life and profession, the next armed troops stormed the foyer and the cold edge of a blade dug into the delicate skin of her throat while she found herself face to face with a dozen muzzles, all aimed at the man holding her hostage.
Stiffening, she subtly reached for the knife strapped to her thigh, concealed by her long green dress but accessible be a discreet slit that also allowed her a wide range of movement, but his voice in her ear stopped her. “Don’t move.”
She could hear the screams of the terrified rich, could see the fear in the eyes of her acquaintance as he backed away, could see the tense concentration on the faces of the security men and women circling them, waiting, hoping for an opening to shoot. She felt the fear thick in the air as everything seemed to slow and still as everyone held their breath, waiting for the inevitable explosive release of tension that would surely cost more than one innocent life. She could feel her own fear, too, her pulse thrumming louder than thunder in her veins, but not because she had a knife pressed to her throat or guns trained at her body as she acted as an involuntary human shield for their actual target.
No, she was afraid because in all their contingency plans, they had not considered this possibility. 47 did not fail, and 47 never left a trace behind. He certainly never had to run and take hostages.
What had gone wrong?
A question for another time, Diana reminded herself as 47 slowly backed up towards a door that led into the staff area, taking her with him. 47 had to get out, and get out fast. “Keys in my handbag,” she muttered, careful to move her lips as little as possible and disguise what she couldn’t hide as fearful pleading. She grabbed at the hand at her throat for good measure, as if she intended to pull him off, but of course that would be futile anyway. Still, it had to look like she was making an effort to struggle so she wouldn’t be pegged as his partner in crime. She could feel his hand slip into her handbag and fish around for a moment before he found what he was looking for, his grip on her loosening in the process.
She twisted out of his hold, unheeding of the sharp burn of steel cutting into her skin. Arms flailing as if to catch her balance, she spun away from him towards the thickest cluster of security men, obscuring their view of 47 and banking on their natural instinct to catch her. With a sharp cry, she tripped over the hem of her dress and crashed right into them, knocking two or three guns to the ground and drawing the attention of almost everyone in the room for a second.
A second was all 47 needed to slip through the door and vanish.
“You sure you’ll be alright, ma’am?”
Slightly exasperated by this point but careful not to let it show, she smiled at the young officer who’d driven her home after “that murderer” stole her car. “Yes. All I need is a little bit of rest. Thank you for your concern.”
Officer Benton looked unconvinced, but he couldn’t very well invite himself into her home without due cause so he nodded reluctantly. “If you say so, ma’am. If you do encounter trouble, the police is just a phone call away. Good night.”
“Good night.” With a silent sigh she closed the door, glad to be finally alone and able to relax. Well, not quite alone. Chucking her heels hazardously in the entryway of her Londoner apartment, she went further inside, heading for the kitchen first. She needed a drink.
It was while she was reaching for a wineglass from her cabinet that she felt his approach from behind. “I’m surprised you bothered locking the door again.”
“It might have roused suspicion if the door wasn’t locked.” His deep voice sounded calm and sure like it always did, but she needed visual confirmation that he was alright. It was like an itch inside of her, a deep-seated need to know that he’d made it out of a mission safe, that he was unharmed and still with her. Before Providence, she’d always had to ignore that itch and comply with the ICA’s regulations that kept handlers and their agents apart, but the rules had changed.
They had changed them.
Turning around in her barely used, modern looking kitchen, empty wineglass and full bottle in her hands, she gave him a critical once-over. He was wearing a waiter’s uniform – his lovely black tux probably in some back alley bin – but visually, he looked fine. Looks could be deceptive, though, especially when it came to 47. “I always turn the key twice. You only locked the door once.” She uncorked the wine and filled her glass before lifting the bottle in his direction, silently asking if he wanted some too. He shook his head and she put the bottle down before returning to business. “Are you injured in any way?”
Such a stoic face, impossible to read even after all these decades. “A graze wound on my right arm. It might impair my functionality temporarily, but nothing permanent or dangerous.”
“Let me take a look,” she said, hastily putting down her glass on the marble counter and then striding over to 47. Her hands were already on his collar to unbutton his uniform shirt when he stopped her hands with one of his own, the other rising to her throat to gently trace the bandage there.
“I hurt you,” he said, voice near toneless but something akin to regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
It was rare for 47 to apologise, the notion of feeling sorry usually foreign to him. Of course he knew when he was expected to apologise and he did so flawlessly, but rarely earnestly. And only ever to her. After a beat of surprised silence, Diana shook her head, ignoring the slight pain of her wound. “That was my own fault. Don’t blame yourself for it, I knew what I was doing.”
After another soft caress, he let go of her and stepped back, face unreadable as always. “It should’ve never happened. You shouldn’t have been there.”
Diana narrowed her eyes, angry that he’d question her involvement again instead of trusting her, but she deliberately turned around to pick up her glass again and take a sip before she spoke. “If memory serves, I’m the reason you made it out alive.”
“I could have found another way.”
“Certainly, but doubtlessly a less efficient one with more casualties.”
“That wouldn’t have mattered.”
“It always matters, 47. It’s what raises us above the criminals we hunt.”
47 didn’t answer immediately, instead seeming to carefully consider his next answer, or choosing not to respond at all. It didn’t matter to her, as long as he thought about it. He’d come to a conclusion on his own, and she trusted that it would be the right one. Pushing past him and making her way into her living room, she could feel his eyes on her. Calculating. Considering. Overthinking and rearranging his personal moral code? He’d always been cold; unfeeling, uncaring of who he killed, who he hurt, except for very rare exceptions. It was Diana who’d always acted as his conscience, pointing him towards targets that deserved what was coming for them. But ever since regaining some of his memories, he was… changing. Not noticeably to anyone who didn’t know him very well, and at a snail’s pace, but he was different from before. More individual, more emotional, more… human.
Diana was perhaps the only person left alive on this planet to know him well enough to notice, but notice she did. Oh, she did.
Sitting down on her comfortable sofa, slightly swirling the wine in her hand, she looked at 47 still standing in the doorway to her kitchen. “Come here, please. I want to look at your wound.”
“Why?” he asked but complied, already undoing the buttons on his shirt while he walked towards her. By the time he reached her, he’s already shrugging out of it, exposing his defined upper body and, most importantly, his bandaged arm to her gaze.
“Because I care about you,” she said softly, dropping her strong façade for a second, letting him see her worry and concern for him. Then, taking a fortifying breath and pushing down those feelings, she turned her attention to his wound and eyed it critically. First aid wasn’t her strong suit, but the sterile gauze pad looked expertly applied and the bandage above it secure enough. Still. “I will contact a doctor in the morning to take a look at it. In the meantime, rest. You can stay here for a few hours and lie low, but it would be best for you to be gone by morning before anyone sees you.”
“Thank you,” he said and shrugged back into his shirt. She saw his minuscule wince when he moved his arm and the fabric put pressure on his wound, saw him suppress the pain and carry on, and an intense urge to protect him and keep him safe gripped her.
She hated seeing him hurt, hated seeing him in danger and in pain.
She knew he felt the same about her and that’s why he protested her in-person involvement this time, but this was their life. They’d chosen this path with eyes wide open and they walked it every day. Closing your eyes to the consequences only made you fall.
And so she wrangled those feelings down and accepted once again that there would always be moments where she feared for his life, and where she would have to watch him be in danger and in pain. Where she was far away and only a voice in his ear, and where all she could do was show him the way to the nearest exit when a mission went wrong. Where she couldn’t make personally sure that he was alright and safe.
But she could tonight.
“Right. I have food in the fridge; let’s eat while you tell me what happened at the gala.” He followed her back into the kitchen and then leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest while she heated up the pre-cooked dinners she had a chef make for her every couple of days. “The target?”
“Dead.”
“Good. Shrimp pasta or steak?”
“Steak.” He waited until she’d put his dinner into her microwave and turned back around to him before continuing. “It wasn’t me who killed him. Someone else got to him before me. Going by the mess they left behind, they were either an amateur or a professional who wanted to leave a trace behind.”
“To frame you?”
“Perhaps. They took the documents too.”
“Shit.” Diana pinched the bridge of her nose. “That complicates things. I will look into it in the morning, see if I can find anything. Did you notice anything of value?”
“The guards arrived quickly after I entered the scene of crime. Could have been alerted by the other killer. The target died through multiple stab wounds, but it is possible that the first strike killed him and the others were just cover up.” He accepted his food with a nod as thanks. “The target died in an upstairs office; could have been in a private meeting with his murderer.”
“He didn’t have any scheduled for today, at least none that were in his calendar. Still, it’s a starting point.” She took her own food out of the microwave, grabbed two sets of cutleries and went back into her living room to eat on the coach. It wasn’t something she did often, but right now she wanted to be closer to 47 than the dining table could offer.
They sat down, so close she could feel his every movement as they ate in amicable silence in the dimly lit room, the only sources of light coming from the kitchen and a small reading lamp next to the couch. Occasionally his hand would brush against her or she shifted and her leg touched his, and she welcomed these little touches and craved more at the same time. He was her solid rock, the anchor she could rely on to make things right.
After today, she wasn’t alright.
She hated to admit it, but she was shaken up by what had happened. Not because he’d held a knife to her throat, because he’d have never harmed her intentionally. Neither was it the danger they’d found themselves in, because while it had been bad, they’d faced worse.
No. It was the fact that such a simple mission had gone so terribly wrong in such a short amount of time. She’d taken their success for granted, and it hadn’t been.
No one is untouchable.
A mantra she lived by every day, and yet sometimes forgot that it applied to her and 47 too.
“You’re shivering.”
She huffed out a breath. “Just… shaken, I suppose. By how quickly the tables turned against us today.”
“If someone planned this, they are a threat.”
Diana chuckled mirthlessly. “And if they didn’t, they have the worst timing imaginable.” She closed her eyes and leaned back against the sofa, suddenly exhausted, but her eyes snapped open again when she felt 47 tugging her closer. She glanced at him in surprise, but he didn’t look at her, instead staring intently at the wall, a little furrow in his brow.
“47?”
Finally he looked at her, and albeit it was difficult to make out in the dim light and through his typical expressionless face, he looked almost hesitant. “It’s what people do, isn’t it? To… give comfort?”
“… Yes,” she sighed and relaxed against him, closing her eyes again. His grip around her waist tightened slightly, and it felt… good. Comforting. Safe. His heart beat slow and steady beneath her ear, reassuring her that he was fine and with her, and his heat enveloped her like a cocoon of warmth that she could stay in forever.
“You matter more than they do,” he said abruptly.
“Hmm?” she murmured, already half asleep.
“You said it sets us apart from who we hunt that we don’t accept collateral damage. That it matters who dies.” Blue eyes boring into hers, an urgency in them that she’d never seen before. “And you’re right. It matters. They don’t deserve to die, and they shouldn’t. Not by my hand, and not by someone else’s. But to me, you matter more than they do.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure you won’t ever be forced to choose in the future, won’t I?”
“Yes.”
She snuggled deeper into his chest and smiled. “How fortunate that I’m good at planning.”
He huffed a little laugh into her hair, barely noticeable but it was there, and she was glad that he was able to laugh again. He was healing and coming into himself, and she’d be there every step of the way.
Tomorrow he’d have to leave and she’d have to work and find the newest potential threat, but until then, they had this, and that was all that mattered.