Mycroft lurked in the shadows beneath the belly of the jet. It was a bit cool for comfort and he pulled his suit coat more tightly around himself. Sherlock was supposed to appear at any moment. He’d sent his own driver. Lawrence was quite good, though one never knew with Sherlock. Mycroft’s brother was just not ‘on time’. The man-child could be refusing to answer the door or flaunting his refusal to dress properly. For some reason he had taken to using nakedness as a weapon. Mycroft blamed John Watson for this. His brother was learning all sorts of things that made ‘normal’ people squirm due to his association with the compact little medical man.
Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground rhythmically. He was cross, truly. As a young field agent in the service of his country he had been allowed the luxury of expressing his… frustrations. Mycroft’s rage tended to be, unique, in its swift ferocity. Now though, his position was much more pivotal and such luxuries were not often an option.
Bond Air was supposed to be a simple feather in his cap. It was a trick he’d pulled before, at least seven times in various incarnations prior to this debacle. An airplane full of corpses explodes. No innocent civilians die. The news media goes wild, and the terrorists are assured of the success of their plot. The bombers, however, would have been apprehended amongst a crowd of Mycroft’s own agents, mimicking boarding passengers, and whisked away to be interrogated. The convenient thing about dead men was that they did not have civil rights.
The entire project had been railroaded by Sherlock’s bloody minded desire to show off. Godamn Irene Adler. Sherlock was not truly the guilty party in this situation. He had only done what he was hard wired to do and was taken advantage of. Mycroft’s brotherly imperative flared but he busied himself considering the jet. It was an amazing thing. An enormous metal tube kept aloft by a curiosity of aerodynamics. Bernoulli's principle, if he wasn’t mistaken, and he never was.
The CIA man he had been saddled with for the duration of Bond Air was a symptom of the American disease. The flight Al-Shabaab had selected for their attack was destined to land on US soil and this meant Mycroft had to deal with the testosterone laden train wreck that was Agent Haney. At least the Russians knew enough to trust his methods.
Haney had been working autonomously and made a disaster of everything leading up to his attempt to retrieve Adler’s mobile from 221B. Mycroft had considered warning the man about his brother but, following an extremely disrespectful exchange concerning his little project, had decided to allow Sherlock to happen to the Langley bred idiot. Several ‘accidental’ falls from the second floor window had been a more pleasing result than he had expected.
Mrs. Hudson’s bumps and bruises were regrettable. Despite Mycroft’s disregard for most of humanity, he did not dislike the meddling widow. She had teeth. However, menacing an elderly lady and being arrested for house breaking made bringing agent Haney into the fold extraordinarily easy. The US embassy had sent a fruit basket and a formal apology.
Finally the car arrived and Mycroft slid into the shadow of the landing gear. Lawrence would not be held accountable for the delay; however Mycroft could see the tension in his posture as the driver parked. His brother exited the car like a disaffected film star and sauntered toward the plane. Such hubris.
Mycroft remained hidden as Sherlock approached the motorized stairs pulled up to the jet. It was all for effect really. He wanted his brother to take it all in, the effort that had gone into the flight of the dead. He had spent weeks finalizing the plan, running agents, paying off morgue attendants, making sure each ‘passenger’ was documented correctly. Usually he avoided legwork but this was art, more or less, a testament to his power and dedication to his country.
Agent Haney was supposed to stand at the foot of the stairs quietly. He was set dressing. The man had insisted on being present for Sherlock’s revelation, the least he could do was add atmosphere. Mycroft had assured the agent would find himself receiving a majority of the blame for the failure of Bond Air on the American end of things when he arrived stateside. However, at the moment, he was sneering at Sherlock and Mycroft bristled.
“Well, you’re looking all better. How you feelin’?” Sherlock could not keep his mouth shut at the best of times and Haney’s sneer was simply an invitation for a well-aimed quip.
“Like putting a bullet in your brain, Sir.” Haney replied. In that moment Mycroft knew where his frustrations would be most constructively directed. The CIA man had outlived his usefulness to his own agency and Mycroft could do as he liked. It would save the US government the trouble and bullets. Sherlock, aloof, carried on toward the door, stopping briefly at Haney’s snide “They’d pin a medal on me if I did, sir.” Mycroft watched as his brother crossed the threshold and entered the carefully constructed farce.
The man who was the British government peeled silkily away from the shadows. His breathing was measured as he reached inside his suit jacket for the elegant razor sharp blade he carried at the small of his back. His hand wrapped around the hilt, index finger slipping neatly into the ring designed to keep the knife from becoming difficult to control when slick with blood. Like a panther, he was behind Haney before the man had finished preening, following his parting insult.
“You realize that he is my brother.” Mycroft’s lips were millimeters from the man’s ear and Haney jerked in surprise. He inhaled, a desperate sort of sound, and began to turn. His hand fluttered at his side, unsure about reaching for his gun. “That will be unnecessary agent.” Mycroft’s reputation had obviously preceded him.
Haney moved quickly as Mycroft’s left hand landed on His shoulder. He sidestepped and spun under the arm that shot out in what was surely meant to be some form of deadly Langley honed attack. As he came nose to nose with his former associate Mycroft grinned and the CIA man’s eyes went wide.
It amounted to three economical movements, barely detectable from more than a few feet away, with an undeniably wet, thick accompaniment. Haney opened his mouth, as if to protest and blood drooled down his chin. Mycroft gave him a firm shove and he toppled backward to bleed out on the tarmac.
With a satisfied sigh Mycroft’s hand disappeared inside his jacket. Suddenly his driver was at his side with a warm wet cloth for the blood. There really was not much to be dealt with, just a few drops between his fingers. Lawrence was smoothing down Mycroft’s lapels and sliding the handle of his umbrella into his grasp before Haney was done sputtering.
Mycroft reoriented himself. It was time to deal with Sherlock, to make sure his brother was aware of the machinations he had destroyed. If he was lucky Ms. Adler might show herself. If he was very lucky, Ms. Adler’s caution might desert her. He mounted the stairs, and glanced over his shoulder. Lawrence was bundling Haney’s corpse into the boot of the car. Good man. One never knew when an expired CIA operative might come in handy.