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Sebastian’s first job with Jim goes a bit sideways. Not his first assignment for Moriarty, to be clear, that goes perfectly: the target down with a single shot to the head from 1200 yards away, no traces left other than the mangled bullet that ripped through the man’s skull. But the first job he and Jim go on together.
He’s been working for Moriarty for around six months, doing hits and other odd jobs here and there, when he gets a text from his boss one morning. He hasn’t heard from the man in a few weeks, which is not all that unusual: contact is intermittent, only as needed, and often vague, details of the assignment delivered in person through an intermediary. What is slightly unusual, though, is the message itself.
Today 3:24 AM: Job tonight. Will send a car. Wear a suit. – M
Not entirely surprised by the fact that his boss is apparently sending him texts at 3 in the morning, he focuses on the last part of the terse message instead. Wear a suit? Does he even own a suit? Suits are uncomfortable and constricting, not his usual choice of outfit for the kinds of jobs he does. Shrugging to himself and chalking it up to the whims of his admittedly strange employer, he goes to search his closet.
Turns out he does own a suit. He finds it hanging in his closet, tucked away between a white dress shirt he’s only worn once and a dark green winter coat. He doesn’t have a tie, but he snags the dress shirt (a gift from his father he never bothered to get rid of) and tries it on with the suit. It’s black, cheap, and slightly too small, and when he looks at himself in the mirror he remembers buying it for a funeral a decade ago. He can’t remember who died, though. Glancing over himself once more, he deems the suit acceptable.
At 4:45 PM, a black BMW SUV with tinted windows pulls up outside Sebastian’s flat and flashes its headlamps, unnecessary since the expensive vehicle stands out well enough on its own in the run-down neighbourhood. Sebastian double-checks he has everything—his SIG in a shoulder holster, two spare magazines, and a knife concealed under the left leg of his trousers—and shrugs on his suit jacket, leaving it unbuttoned to reduce the bulge of his sidearm. Any other weapons necessary for the job would have to be picked up from one of his caches or arranged for by Moriarty.
Certain that he has all he needs at this point, Sebastian pockets his mobile phone, turned off for now, and exits his flat, locking the door behind him. Idling on the street, the BMW puffs tiny clouds of white smoke from its exhaust pipes. Sebastian hurries to escape the chilly winter air, crossing the street in long strides and almost sighing in relief when he reaches the car. Opening the door reveals, to his surprise, Moriarty, sitting in the back seat with his legs crossed and examining his fingernails.
“Boss,” Sebastian says somewhat uncertainly, sliding in to sit next to his employer. Text messages are the most direct form of contact Sebastian has with Moriarty, not counting the first time they met. His boss has never been present when he’s received instructions for a job before.
“Drive,” Moriarty orders the driver, who shifts the vehicle into drive obediently. Once they’re moving, Moriarty uncrosses his legs and shifts his eyes toward Sebastian, expression one of obvious disdain. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Sebastian looks down at himself. “You said wear a suit. It was all I had.”
His boss rolls his eyes. “I suppose it will have to do for tonight. I’m getting you a decent suit, though. And a tie.”
Deciding not to mention the waste of money that would likely end up being, Sebastian just shrugs. He watches graffiti-covered buildings morph into Georgian townhouses as the car travels through a more affluent area. It is several moments before Moriarty speaks again.
“Tonight’s job will be slightly different from your previous tasks, as you’ve no doubt already guessed. I trust I don’t need to enumerate the consequences should you be unable to handle the adjustment.”
Sebastian doesn’t reply.
“Good. I have a meeting with an associate. You are to accompany me, to act as an incentive for him to remain cooperative.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of a way to remedy the situation.”
“Probably,” Sebastian says. “I can be pretty creative.”
The rest of the journey is spent in silence. Moriarty seems occupied with his own thoughts, whatever those may be, and Sebastian is perfectly at ease in the quiet. The driver of their car, a burly man in his mid-40s dressed in a navy blue suit and tie that look incongruous paired with his shaved head, goes exactly the speed limit to avoid unwanted attention from other motorists and speed cameras. Sebastian surveys the scenery they drive past, though he keeps his eyes searching for potential threats even as he appreciates the pink and purple hues of the sky on the verge of darkness. The scenery gets progressively more rural, London slowly turning into small towns and farmland. Eventually, they pull into a lot containing several warehouses. The industrial lot is remote, neighboured only by fields. The driver stops the car outside the largest of the warehouses, a grey concrete building with a flat roof.
“Keep the engine running,” Moriarty tells the driver. “Check the building.” He holds out a key to Sebastian.
Taking the key, Sebastian nods and exits the vehicle. He walks the perimeter of the warehouse. There are three small windows and two doors, but one is padlocked and boarded up. At the back is a loading dock. Sebastian finds nothing amiss outside the building, and he circles back to the usable door. It opens with the key. The warehouse holds five sizeable metal containers and a number of smaller wooden crates. He searches the room, but nothing seems out of place.
Sebastian returns to the BMW and opens the door for Moriarty. “All clear,” he informs his boss.
Moriarty steps out of the vehicle, brushing his suit off with his hands. He walks behind Moriarty on the way to the warehouse but enters the building first, holding the door open for his boss, and situates himself behind and slightly to the left of Moriarty when the man chooses a spot to stand. They wait in silence for a few moments.
Through a window, Sebastian sees a silver Audi pull up. The driver and another man, both wearing black suits, climb out of the vehicle, and one of them opens the back door to let a third man out. Clearly the one in charge, the third man is dressed in a gray suit tailored to flatter and disguise his slight beer gut. The three men enter the warehouse, the man in the gray suit leading the way. He stops to stand in front of Sebastian and Moriarty and the other men take up position behind him. In a bid for intimidation, they adjust their suit jackets to reveal the pistols on their belts. Sebastian feels no need to do the same.
“Jimmy,” the man says, spreading his arms. “Lovely to see you again.”
“And you, Vic,” Moriarty replies, tone respectful. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know, the same as usual. And how is Moriarty?”
“He sends his regards.”
Sebastian heard of Moriarty before he met him. Rumours were whispered and improbable tales spun. The one that stuck in Sebastian’s mind, though, was that no one has ever actually met the man. Inevitably, this led to outlandish claims that Moriarty was some sort of supernatural entity or shadow organization, but at its core it seemed the most plausible of the stories. Sebastian, of course, saw it disproven through first-hand experience, but he’s always assumed that their meeting in person was a rare occurrence. After all, many rumours develop from some grain of truth. Sebastian realizes now, however, that it’s not that people rarely meet Moriarty, but that people rarely know they’re meeting Moriarty.
“Good, good. Pass along mine as well, of course.” Vic claps his hands together. “Now, down to business, shall we?”
“Of course. The money has been wired to your account as usual. When can we expect the next shipment?”
“Yes, well.” Vic fiddles with his cufflink. “There’s been a slight change, you see. The price has gone up.” Sebastian can’t see Moriarty’s face from where he is standing, but does catch the subtle, momentary tensing of his shoulders. Vic does not seem to notice. “We’ll need another 500,000,” he continues.
Moriarty clears his throat, putting his hands in his pockets. “Moriarty won’t pay any more than the price he agreed to, and you know that. He won’t be pleased with your demand.”
Vic’s face twists into an angry snarl. “Then he should’ve fucking thought of that before he killed one of my men!” He stalks closer to Moriarty and leans over him threateningly. Sebastian steps forward slightly. Moriarty does not appear intimidated, however; his relaxed slouch is unaltered and his hands remain in his pockets. “He was my brother-in-law, you know,” Vic growls. “And Moriarty had him gunned down like a fucking dog.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Moriarty states calmly, “but don’t jump to any conclusions.”
“So your boss thinks he can get away with this?” Vic turns to his bodyguards. “Let’s send him a little message.” He turns back to Moriarty with a regretful expression and shrugs. “Sorry, Jimmy. Nothing personal.”
The two bodyguards raise their guns, one pointed at Sebastian and the other at Moriarty, but Sebastian is faster. He draws his SIG and squeezes the trigger, hitting the guard aiming for Moriarty twice in the chest. Sebastian doesn’t have time to neutralize the other guard before he shoots, so he grabs Moriarty by the shoulder, pushes him to the side, uses the momentum to dodge out of the way of the bullet. He feels it catch him in the upper arm, but that’s a whole lot better than where it would have ended up had he stayed a stationary target. Still holding on to Moriarty, he pushes his boss in the direction of a storage container, dragging them into cover as the guard fires off two more rounds.
Sparing a quick glance at Moriarty, who looks a bit affronted by all the rough handling but otherwise fine, Sebastian shrugs off his suit jacket. Moriarty raises his eyebrow at him, but Sebastian ignores him for now. At least he has the sense to keep quiet, so Sebastian can hear the bodyguard’s footsteps as he treads toward them. Sebastian balls his jacket up in his left hand, gun ready in his right, and waits a beat, listening. Determining the guard is approaching from the right, Sebastian chucks the jacket to the left, out of the cover of the container. The guard reacts instinctively, spinning to point his pistol at the movement before his mind registers what its source is. Sebastian uses the opportunity of his distraction to put a bullet through his skull.
For a moment, the only sound in the warehouse is his and Moriarty’s breathing, quickened slightly from adrenaline. The relative quiet doesn’t last long, however, the sound of car tires on gravel filtering in from outside. Sebastian holds his breath, straining his ears, hears the slam of car doors and footsteps.
“They’re in the warehouse. I want them dead,” he hears Vic order whoever is exiting the car.
Crunching gravel. Heavy boots, steady gaits. Low murmuring Sebastian can’t quite make out. He counts two men and one woman, based on their voices. No doubt armed. He looks over at Moriarty. “You armed?” he asks in a whisper.
Moriarty nods. “I have a knife.”
“Okay.” The warehouse door creaks open. “Be ready to use it.”
Sebastian risks a glance out from behind the container. The men and woman are armed with assault rifles. They spread out to search, one of the men going right, toward some wooden crates, the woman heading straight, and the other man going left, in the direction of Sebastian and Moriarty.
Sebastian gets Moriarty’s attention and gestures with his head to the other end of the container. Nudging his boss along in front of him, Sebastian moves in a crouch, keeping to the balls of his feet to remain quiet. They duck around the corner of the container just as the armed man comes into view, going to search behind some nearby crates. Re-holstering his pistol, Sebastian removes his knife from the sheath above his ankle. While the man’s back is turned, Sebastian creeps up behind him. He grabs him around the neck with one arm, hand covering his mouth to muffle any noise he might make. The man struggles. He sinks his teeth into Sebastian’s hand just over the joint at the base of his thumb, forcing him to loosen his grip, and manages to let out a yelp. Sebastian increases the pressure against his neck and thrusts the knife into his back. The man groans, going slack, and Sebastian severs his carotid arteries. He eases the man’s body to the ground.
Sebastian registers the sound of footsteps. Having heard their comrade’s shout, the other two are hurrying over. Wiping some blood off his face with the back of his hand and tucking his knife back in its sheath, Sebastian grabs the AK-47 from the man’s body. He checks the magazine, finds it full, and moves the rifle’s fire selector to full-auto.
He gestures to another container across the room. “Run to that container when I say. Stay low,” he whispers to Moriarty, who nods.
The man and woman draw near, and Sebastian raises the firearm. “Go,” he tells Moriarty, stepping out from cover and shooting suppressive fire as his boss runs, low to the ground, behind him. The man and woman scramble to find cover from the spray of bullets. Following Moriarty, Sebastian fires the AK-47 until it empties. Once safely behind the container, he crouches next to his boss and tosses the now useless gun aside, taking out his pistol.
The man and woman emerge from where they found cover, weapons firing. Bullets slam into the wall and the metal of the container. Sebastian peeks around the corner of the container. The man and woman are flanking them, rifles raised and firing to prevent Sebastian from shooting at them while they close in. Sebastian waits for them to have to reload. When they do, he shoots the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling above them. Glass and sparks rain down on them, and they bring their arms up to shield their heads. Sebastian moves out from behind the container and shoots each of them with a double tap.
He walks over to where their bodies lie on the ground with two tightly grouped holes in each of their chests. The man twitches, and Sebastian puts a bullet in his head for good measure. The woman is dead. So are, Sebastian determines after a quick survey of the warehouse, all the others. He replaces the SIG’s almost empty mag with the spare anyway, just in case.
Moriarty comes to stand next to him, examining the bodies with mild interest. “I must say, you sure know how to impress a guy.”
Sebastian chuckles, but the roar of an engine outside interrupts any further response. He jogs to the door. When he opens it, gun raised, he sees a frantic Vic behind the wheel of the silver Audi. In his peripheral vision, he registers that their driver is slumped forward in the BMW, next to which an unoccupied Jeep is parked.
Sebastian puts two rounds in one of the Audi’s front tyres. Vic accelerates, but the rapidly deflating tyre slows the car down enough that Sebastian is able to wrench the driver-side door open and pull Vic from the vehicle. Vic struggles, arms and legs flailing. Sebastian cracks the barrel of his pistol against the man’s head, not hard enough to knock him out but enough to daze him. He forces the man’s hands behind his back and hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him back into the warehouse. Sebastian shoves Vic to the floor in front of Moriarty.
Moriarty smiles. “You brought me a present, Sebastian.”
Vic attempts to get up and Sebastian delivers a hard kick to his ribs, causing the man to curl up in agony. “What do you want to do with him?”
“Kill him.”
Vic laughs, the sound laced with pain. “Moriarty needs me.” He coughs, spitting blood onto the floor. “He’ll kill you if you do anything to me.”
“Will he?” Moriarty crouches down next to Vic. “See, I don’t think so.”
Vic scoffs. “And what the fuck would some lackey like you know?”
“No, no, you idiot,” Moriarty says, dragging his finger through Vic’s blood on the ground. The man watches the movement warily. “I’m not a lackey.”
“What—?” Vic stammers, confused. After a moment, his eyes widen in understanding and terror. “M-Moriarty—?”
Moriarty stands up. “Shoot him,” he says, sounding almost bored.
“Wait—!”
Whatever Vic is going to say is cut off as the bullet hits him between the eyes.
After a moment, Moriarty sighs. “Well, that was messy. I’ll have someone clean it up.” He takes out his phone and types something. “You’re bleeding,” he says once he’s finished with the phone, though he doesn’t sound particularly concerned.
“Oh, yeah.” Sebastian looks down at his arm, where blood has soaked through the white fabric of his shirt. He rolls up his sleeve. The wound is a bullet graze, long and relatively deep but not life-threatening. A few stitches and he’d be good as new. “Just a graze. I’ll be fine.”
Sebastian feels Moriarty’s eyes watching him as he collects his suit jacket from the floor and puts it on. It covers up some of the blood—his own and others’—on his shirt, at least.
“I did have his brother-in-law killed, in case you were wondering.”
Sebastian glances at Moriarty. “I wasn’t,” he says truthfully, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “Your driver’s dead, so I guess I’m driving us back. Unless you want to?”
His boss examines him with the kind of look that a scientist might give a particularly fascinating lab specimen. “You can drive,” he answers eventually and heads toward the door. He pauses next to Sebastian. “This time, anyway,” he says, running a suggestive hand down Sebastian’s torso. He holds Sebastian’s bewildered gaze for a moment, smirks, then continues to the door.
And fuck if Sebastian knows what to do with that.