It was dark and cold and wet and if he didn't know better he'd think there was someone holding a gun to his head.
But that couldn't be the reality of the situation. Jim had told him that the turf war was settled. Jim had made it clear that all the little dealers were happy and there was no danger there. He didn't have to watch his back at all times to avoid getting killed. He was perfectly safe. He'd be fine.
Of course it was his own fault for trusting Jim to actually tell him the whole truth, plain and simple. He hadn't, however, predicted that he was going to end up tied to a chair in a cellar being questioned by drug dealers about who-knows-what that he'd probably never even herd of anyway. Fucking hell, why couldn't James Moriarty just spend five seconds filling in his trusted assassin? Probably because he was too busy flirting with that bloody Sherlock Holmes. What was so special about him anyway? He was just some prick helping the hopelessly oblivious Scotland Yard. He was nobody. Who cared about some stupid consulting detective? Not him. Not Sebastian Moran.
Seb had only been conscious for about fifteen seconds when something hit him in the side of the face, hard. He coughed and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark. “What the hell?” he mumbled, more to himself then to the short, balding man gently rubbing the snipers blood off his knuckles and standing in front of him. “Oh fuck” he groaned as recognition washed over him like an ice-cold bucket of water at three am. “C'mon Ricky, what'd I ever do to you?”
Richard Edwardo Twyn considered this. Not literally, of course, but he did stroke his goatee mockingly. “Well I suppose if you look at it from a certain angle, everything you've ever done to me has been admirably indirect.” He smiled and it was incredibly unappealing “hey, if it was even an option, I might let you live”.
Sebastian smirked up at the blue-eyed gang leader. “Uh-huh?” he drawled tonelessly. He he raised an eyebrow as if to ask the man if he was actually serious before sighing and spitting out some blood onto the hazel floor boards. “You do know who I work for, right?”.
“Moran, everyone in the criminal world knows who you work for.”
“Good, you gonna untie me now?”
“aren't you hilarious.”
“I think so. No one else seems to get my sense of humour, it's becoming an issue. If I have to explain another clever line to some ignorant victim I swear I might just drive them over here and leave them to try and converse with some of your underlings. If there is anything more painful I have no wish to find it.”
“Bet you don't even know why you're here.”
“Bet you think I'll be here long enough to tell you a damn thing.”
“I do, yes. Thank you for noticing. Unfortunately you seem to be operating under some other delusion.”
“Have you ever met James Moriarty, Rick? Face to face?”
“once or twice...”
“You know what he's like then.”
“I didn't even think it was possible for anyone to be that... freakish.”
Sebastian smiled. Ricky didn't know the half of it. Few people did. His employer was like that and anyone who talked to him for more then twenty seconds knew it. Seb closed his eyes and slowly started laughing quietly. This was always fun.
“What?” asked Twyn, with just a hint of worry. “What is it?”
“I'm afraid this is the best part Ricky”. The sniper slowly opened his eyes, still wearing that deeply crucial, terrifying half-grin. He looked up at the man and almost felt the confusion he could see in the tanned features “This is the part where you find out.
“You get to find out that everything you herd about him is true. He is quick and quiet and deadly. You can't even begin to imagine just how good he is. Just how fast, just how silent, just how perfectly fit to what he does and what he is. He is an unknown god of the criminal world. He is a killer, a genius, an unheard of force of all things cruel. And you know what's best? You know what really makes him dangerous?”
...and that was the last thing Richard Edwardo Twyn, Allan David MacArthur and Vincent Sidney Wrestler ever heard. The gun was fired three times and there were three bodies now lying on the floor with bullets through the hearts belonging to the master and his apprentices, who had been no doubt lurking near by. Sebastian had already cut loose his hands and he lit up a cigarette as he stood.
“He really doesn't like it when you touch his stuff”.