Story #172 - Theifed

Theifed

“Don’t tempt me.” The gun wavered only inches from my head, and I could see that the man holding it meant business.

Up until five minutes ago, we’d been thick as thieves. The fact that we were thieves, and good ones, rather complicated the matter.

***

24 Hours Ago

It wasn’t as though I’d planned for any of this to happen. That in itself was strange; I’d always taken great pains to make sure that everything I did had a logical set of steps, and came to an almost forgone conclusion. It was a good way to live as a thief – and kept the chances that I would be killed to a minimum.

Now, on what was supposed to be best job Sammy and I had ever pulled, I’d gone and screwed everything up. I’d known from the beginning that this heist was going to be a bad idea, but this was something that Sammy had wanted for a long time, and he’d done more than enough for me.

Europe and its institutions were old, and in many cases very rich, but those that owned their assets had ways of making thieves disappear without legal actions or trials. Riverboats and sinking bodies were more their style.

A bank in France was the target, one that had been used by British businessmen and prospectors in the late 40’s. Thanks to a comedy of errors, most of those who knew anything about the gold stored inside the vault had passed away, and those that were left had no intention of accessing it any point in the near future.

Except, of course, for us.

Sammy’s plan was nothing short of brilliant, and I could find no flaw in his methodology, execution, or the extraction route he had planned, but I’d had a bad feeling about the whole endeavor since the plane touched down.

My partner had tried to tell me it was simply because we’d never had a score this big, and that I was reluctant to give up control of our operation to him. I’d smiled tolerantly but refused to say anything committal – it was my emotions that weren’t matching up, and they weren’t something that Sammy needed to know anything about.

It had all gone to plan for the first week we were in town. Sammy spoke French fluently, and we’d been able to get everything we needed in a matter of days. The crew we’d hired to do the pre-work for our break-in had done their jobs flawlessly, and as far as we could tell were none the wiser.

Sammy and I weren’t killers by nature, but we’d both silenced a few loud talkers after they’d found out too much about our operations. We weren’t bad men, all told, but we weren’t about to go to jail, either.

It was a chance encounter on the street four days ago that sent everything spiraling out of control, that made the possibility of jail something I’d finally have to face, at least if I wanted her in my life.

Now, running through the final checks with Sammy at my side, I’m distracted, disinterested in what will keep us alive and un-captured during the next day. He knows something is wrong with me, but isn’t about to say anything. Good, sensible Sammy, with his too-sharp eyes and his too-big smile. He should really ask what’s wrong.

But he won’t.

***

Two hours ago.

I had to do it.

She loves me, I’m sure of it, and I love her too.

I’d spilled out my heart during one humid night in her apartment, and though she said she’d be willing to let it all go and run away with me, she needed to know that I was finished before that could happen. Keeping my mouth shut up about my current job in the city took everything I had, and I felt physically ill knowing I was lying to her.

I just couldn’t do it.

An anonymous tip to the local police put my mind at ease. I couldn’t stop Sammy – he earned his payday, but that didn’t mean I had to share in it. By giving the police information that would lead them to the scene of the crime after it had been committed, I could take the blame by “injuring” myself and letting Sammy go on ahead. He knew the thieves code, and he’d leave me behind if it looked like I couldn’t keep up.

He’d get his money, I’d get some jail time, but eventually, I’d get the girl and still have a clear conscience.

“Ready?” Sammy asked me, his eyes bright in the lamplight. The sewers underneath the bank smelled phenomenally bad, but that couldn’t damped my partner’s enthusiasm.

I nodded. “Let’s do it.”

A quick tap from Sammy’s hammer broke the per-arranged spot in the bricks above, and thanks to the work of our hired sewage repair crew, only a small amount of red dust showered down onto us.

We were in.

***

“I had to do it, Sammy!” I screamed. “She loves me!”

Sammy barked a laugh, and gun dropped for a moment. The alarms were sounding, now – my partner would be lucky to get out with his life. Apparently the police in the area were more zealous than I’d given them credit for, and had arrived earlier than I expected.

“She’s the commissioner’s daughter, you moron!”

I felt my stomach twist. She hadn’t said anything of the sort, and obviously Sammy had been watching me. This was all going wrong.

“Go, Sammy! Go!” My partner hesitated, his finger hesitating just outside the trigger guard on the pistol, but finally he threw the gun to the ground and ran. As he moved away, I began making as much noise as possible, hoping to draw the police to me. Once I was in custody, they would be delayed long enough that Sammy could get away. At least one of us would be free.

I couldn’t be sure if Sammy was telling the truth about her, but the unthinkable might have happened. She might have stolen the only thing I kept hidden, and abandoned me once she had no use for it.

I might have been thiefed.

- D

Story #55 - Dream Cleaver

Dream Cleaver

The hackles on the back of Adrian's neck raised.

Until that moment he hadn't ever felt his hackles raise, let alone knew what caused them to do so but the feeling was unmistakable, like someone was trying to pull him upward by the fleshy confluence of his shoulders but without enough strength, resulting in middling discomfort mixed with a feeling of “what the hell was that?”.

He'd love to say that he sat “bolt upright” in bed like people do in movies and on TV, but things don't often work like that and never had for him. Instead he lurched up and to the side, managing to clip his cat in the side of the head with his elbow, let out a distinctly un-manly screech and then came to partial rest panting as the cat look at him from the floor with an offended expression as he tried to keep his teeth from chattering. Something had scared the hell right out of him and though he didn't much care for the hell when it was in him, he'd like it back – this wasn't pleasant at all.

A few moments of deep breathing brought his lungs back under his control; he hadn't really been asleep yet, just drifting off, so whatever had brought him back from the brink had come at the worst possible time. Disjointed and disoriented, he couldn't pinpoint what had frightened him so much but couldn't shake the feeling either.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned across the bed and turned on his table lamp, being wary of the cat on the floor. Sammy was a good girl, most of the time, but strange noises and odd movements excited her, and that included those that went along with trimming her razor-sharp claws. She could be quite the fluffy white ball of terror when she wanted to be.

The lamp snapped into brightness and Adrian peeled his gaze around the room, looking for anything that might be out of place, that might be other than it should, but everything seemed as it was when the light had been turned off. An overfilled clothes basket still held court behind the door and functioned as second bed for Sammy when the mood struck, his not-quite-the-cheapest window shade hung, nearly slipping, from its metal contact points, and his battered dresser sat firmly against one wall, covered in dusty mementos and items of memory he'd managed to forget. Nothing, then, was out of order. The blind had been his first choice as a culprit; the thing had a habit of falling down every time the weather turned warm, but it remained just where it was supposed to be – in the window.

His house alarm hadn't gone off and he was sure he'd locked all the doors and windows; some called him overly-concerned, but he just considered it pragmatic. If thieves were coming in, they were coming in regardless, but his security would buy him time to make a call and maybe get the hell out.

Although – he reached quickly for the phone and breathed a sigh of relief when a crackling dial tone met his ear – it appeared no one was so desperate to rob or maim him that they'd cut his phone line.

It was the deepening shadow in the room that drew his attention and he threw a look at the lamp. The department store bargain was still on, filament humming softly, but was growing dimmer by the second. Odd – these things usually burnt out rather than decaying, but perhaps it had reached the end of its time and was going out with some dignity.

At ten watts or so the thing just stopped. Still on, it covered the room in a useless half light that played tricks on his mind, creating new shadows layered on top of old and birthing twisting gray specters in lonesome and unused corners. Even Sammy took on an odd, almost unholy cast in the light.

Swinging out of bed Adrian slipped on a pair of cotton pants and kicked his feet into slippers, then cautiously waded out into the hallway arm first and groping along the wall to the switch. Fingers found it and flicked, bringing the sixty-watt pleasure of a compact, carpeted walkway with two doors to each side.

With a quick sigh of relief he stepped forward, only to be met by a dimming that surrounded him, deepening the hallway's confines into unfamiliarity.

What the hell was going on?

Fear struggled with reason and formed an uneasy alliance; he moved quickly throughout the house, throwing light switches on steady feet while his mind had itself a nice old-fashioned freak out. Two minutes and he was done, every switch flipped and every light darkened to a single pinpoint of its former glory; none burnt out, but each only glowing with ten watts or less.

Creeping to the front door he saw a darkened block; no streetlights blazed in the dark November night and not a single other house had a light on of any kind, be it porch, bedroom, or kitchen. Blackout.

Lightout.

Adrian began to shake, hackles rising and falling in waves that sent his stomach to turning.

He knew full well there was one light in the house he hadn't tried, one switch that hadn't yet been flipped. He didn't mind his basement during the day but at night thoughts of hidden burial chambers or old church sites came to mind and he high-tailed it out of there in favor presumed upstairs safety.

One deep breath and a quick tug on the door revealed a long hallway leading down to a sharp curve, or would have if there was any light to see it. With a trembling hand, he reached out and thew the switch he knew was there.

Stunning whiteness faded to dampening yellow and he saw it; a drooling mastiff twice his size, crouched at the bottom of the staircase, its own hackles literally standing on end, a deep growl coming from its throat. A poor schoolyard experience had instilled an irrational fear of the beasts in him at a young age and though he loved cats, dogs were simply not an option.

Fear and reason had no chance to come to an agreement; his feet remained rooted as the primal part of his mind took over, dooming him to his fate.

The mastiff hunched down, powerful muscles taut beneath its elastic skin, and it leapt.

***

Adrian did sit bolt up in bed this time, heart pounding and sweat soaking his bedsheets. The dream was getting worse each night, and each time he had no inkling he'd had it before. Specialists had done nothing, and drugs made him too dull to work. Beside him, Sammy purred quietly, only mildly irritated at his terror.

Sighing, he lay his head back down and rolled to a new spot on the bed; he was hard on bedsheets, harder than any man should be but he would deal with them in the morning. Perhaps the dream wouldn't come again.

Uncounted time passed and his consciousness retreated under the soothing waves of his cat's contralto tones.

Then, just before he drifted off to sleep, an oddity, a vocal trick, surely, but something real and present nonetheless.

A growl, from that sweet little kitty.