The heron and the fish. (standard:Suspense, 6629 words)
Author: OJ Ambrose	Added: Dec 06 2002	Views/Reads: 3301/2227	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The National Security Team find themselves in a situation with a sniper, and call in their expert prisoner. Whilst things seem routine, there are darker motives lurking. A powerful suspense story with classic double cross and suprise ending.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

thing about Mickey was that he wasn't just strong. He was a fighter. A 
real fighter. The type of fighter who takes as much as he gives, and 
isn't scared to give a lot more than he takes. He was raised in the 
life where fighting, or at least learning how to fight, is as much a 
part of life as school or sport. He knew where to place punches, and 
how to avoid them. He knew how to knock people out, and how to avoid 
being knocked out himself. He had been taught, or learnt himself, 
everything there is to know about striking, blocking, and grappling and 
had had many chances to practice and perfect his technique. His instant 
choice of career was one involving combat. Boxing wasn't good enough. 
Like all good fighters, he demanded something where he could unleash 
himself and show his full potential. Bare knuckle of course. However, 
after several raids, he was noted as a man to watch and decided it was 
for the best to quit. He had always had a love for guns. He had fired 
them at a young age, and bad habits tend to stick. After working as a 
bouncer, he got some connections and bought himself a pistol. This led 
the way to jobs. The other kind of jobs. Jobs led the way to more guns, 
and more guns led the way to more practice. After becoming quite a 
substantial figure in the London underworld, he had trained himself in 
every type of firearm and felt like another career change. At first he 
wasn't sure, but a strange series of events eventually steered him into 
his ideal job. Assassin. He'd always wanted to be one, but it wasn't 
that easy. You had to prove yourself. Except you couldn't prove 
yourself, because you couldn't get a job. To really have a chance, you 
needed to be related to, or at least be friends with, an assassin. 
Mickey's line of work had never brought him into contact with 
assassins, so he figured that option was off the list. He was wrong. 

Mickey had been visiting friends to talk about new careers and was
staying in a fancy hotel called Plaza di Aqua. He had been staying on 
the top floor, and decided to go up to the open roof and have a drink 
whilst contemplating his options. He had been looking over the edge at 
the view, thinking about his life. He gazed out under the moonlight, 
the city buzzing with modern life as if lit up by thousands of 
fireflies. Just as he was about to turn and leave, someone leaned out 
of a window and peered up at him. The leaning man locked eyes with 
Mickey and fear struck his heart like a piercing arrow. He reached 
inside the room somewhere, but Mickey recognised it. He flung himself 
back from the ledge, suprised and intrigued, as a silenced shot sent 
rock crumbling noisily from the ledge down into the darkness, like a 
soul plunging into hell. He dropped his glass and rolled, as he swiftly 
pulled out his pistol. He knelt for a second, and heard the man below 
muttering angrily. 

"I'll shoot him good. Teach him to try and kill me." His voice faded,
and a door opened then closed quickly and sharply like a twig snapping 
in the woods. Mickey stood up straight and quickly pulled a silencer 
from his back pocket and attached it to his gun. He moved slowly, 
crunching over pieces of glass, gun traced on the only door that led to 
and from the roof. He got in his ideal position, and crouched again, 
resting the gun in both hands. His breath was slow and steady. He 
calmed and prepared himself like a wild beast waiting to pounce on its 
prey. Loud footsteps came from the other side of the door. Stupid. The 
footsteps came closer, slowing slightly. Mickey waited, smirking at the 
insolence of his target. The handle turned, but before the door could 
open an inch, 5 bullets whistled through the air, and punctuated wood, 
flesh, and bone, with dull thuds. Mickey shook his head like a king 
amazed by the stupidity of a peasant and he quickly paced towards the 
door, slipping his gun in his pocket as he went. He reached the door 
and swung it open. With one hand he pulled the body through the 
doorway, and with the other he stretched to grab the man's gun just as 
it tilted, ready to fall over the step, and down into the open 
corridor, like water running off a waterfall. Before he could do any 
more, he heard a suprised voice from the corridor below. 

"What the hell?" A man came to the bottom of the stairs and stared up at
Mickey with a confused look on his face. "Who?" Mickey threw the door 
closed as the man began walking up the stairs. Mickey moved around to 
the back of the door housing and pulled himself up on top of it. He 
silently slithered to the end like a snake, and as he moved he heard 
the distinct sound of a gun cocking. He pulled out his own gun and 
peered over the edge, looking down. The door slowly opened and the man 
walked through, gun drawn, surveying the scene. He pushed the door 
closed with his foot, and noticed the body. He walked a little closer 
to it, and muttered in a confused voice, "But he?" Enlightenment dawned 
upon Mickey, and he flipped his gun so he was now holding it by the 
silencer. The stranger's dog-like hearing picked up the sound and he 
swung his head round, straight into the butt of Mickey's gun. 

As Graham moved back into position beside the door, John replied to him
in a cockney voice, 

"Well I dunno. Maybe he isn't all that good eh? You heard how he became
an assassin?" Graham replaced his sun glasses and nodded solemnly. 

"Well, a rumour. Didn't he like accidentally kill some assassin's target
then knock out the assassin?" 

"Yeah, that's what I heard. Then when the assassin wakes up, he's so
impressed he decides to introduce Mickey to his client!" 

"Man, if thats true, he's a pretty lucky dude." Graham paused for a few
seconds to think. "The thing is," he began hesitantly, "if he's such a 
mastermind, then how did the boss manage to catch him?" 

"Yeah well," replied John. "You know the boss never likes to talk about
that one." Graham mumbled in agreement, and an overwhelming silence 
swept over them like a blanket, even the slightest sounds of life 
blocked out by soundproof windows and doors.They waited for several 
minutes, and then the door swung open, letting in faint sounds, making 
the room seem like a dead man being resurrected. Paul walked out, 
followed by Mickey who was talking happily. 

"Right. Thursday yeah? Lunchtime?" 

"Correct." answered Paul. Mickey replied to himself, smiling, "Great."
Graham fell into step with Paul, and John began walking behind Mickey. 
They moved swiftly down the stairs, their footsteps echoing around the 
building like gun shots. When they reached the bottom they went through 
a small door and out into a large underground car park. Paul pulled out 
a mobile phone and began dialing a number as they walked towards the 
far side of the car park. A young woman answered on the other end of 
the line. 

"National Security Team holding quarters. How may I help you?" 

"Hi, Paul Dillon here. I'm just about to return with Mickey O' Rourke.
He should be signed out at 10:30 AM?" 

"Ummm. Yes, here it is." 

"Good, good. We were just discussing terms of release with him here at
H.Q.. Sorry, but I didn't fill the departure slip in." 

"OK Mr. Dillon, no problem. I'll sort out the records out and have the
report filed right away." 

"Thanks." He slid the phone back in his pocket as they approached the
car and Mickey spoke cheerfully, 

"You can get anything past those folk at the N.S.T, eh Paul?" Paul tried
to keep a straight face, but couldn't help a small smile escaping as he 
sat in the car and drove off. 

Mickey stood in the toilet, talking on a mobile phone, as the fire alarm
rang outside, as loud as an air raid warning. The ringing filled the 
prison, echoing around the cells and out into the streets, bouncing 
like a ricochetting bullet. 

"Yeah, it's me, Mickey." He had to practically shout over the ceaseless
sound of the alarm. "Ay, that's the fire bell. Yeah, loud as satan's 
screams I tell you. Must be the distraction they promised. Anyway I 
guess I'll be seeing you later today, unless I have to lie real low." A 
grin fell over his face, "I know, can you believe it, they think you're 
the new me! Ha ha, yeah. See you later mate." He switched the phone off 
and threw it into a cubicle. He began pacing the room, waiting, like a 
heron in a pond, waiting for his fish. After lapping the room masses of 
times, the door began to open and Mickey ducked into a cubicle. He 
shouted out, tryin to remain serious, "Yeah yeah, I'm coming in a sec. 
At least if the place burns down, I won't die on a full bladder." The 
man who had entered began walking towards mickey's cubicle, 

"Ah, O' Rourke. Why doesn't it suprise me to find you taking a slash at
a time like this?" Mickey exited his cubicle, flushing the toilet, and 
walked across to the taps. He spoke to the man, trying to sound as 
friendly as possible, 

"Ay, you know there's a mobile in that toilet over there," he said,
pointing to the cubicle that he had thrown his phone into. "Fine prison 
guard like yourself should have one eh?" The guard began walking 
towards the toilet, and Mickey moved as silently as a shadow, leaving 
the tap running as a distraction. The guard spoke sarcastically, 

"Ah great O' Rourke. I'm sure it'll do me nicely." He reached the
cubicle, saw the phone, and began to speak. 

"Oh yeah. Brilliant. Look-" Before he could finish, Mickey's hand flew
threw the air like a dart, and delivered a swift chop to the back of 
the guard's neck. As the man fell like a sack of potatoes, Mickey bent 
down over him. He took the guard's baton and clipped it to the back of 
his trousers, on the inside, then stood up. He almost immediately heard 
smashing, and looked up. The small window which ran along behind the 
cubicles was broken in one place, and as he watched more pieces of 
glass shot off on to the floor, cracking like eggs. Mickey prepared 
himself, then ran to the toilet where the glass was breaking. He 
reached it and peered through to see Graham and John working away. 
Graham had cleared a substantial area of glass with a large hammer, and 
John was now reaching for some sort of clipper tool. Mickey put on a 
hurried expression, and spoke quickly and nervously. 

"Come on, come on. Quickly." John didn't even ask what was wrong.
Mickey's acting was good enough to convince him something was up. He 
just began using the clipper to cut away at the metal framing of the 
window as fast as he could. The tool seemed to be some sort of 
pneumatic device. After each press of a small button, a loud hiss would 
be heard, and the blades would snap together. After John had cut enough 
metal away, Mickey pulled himself through the gap. Graham reached for 
Mickey, but his hand was pushed away, 

"Quick, come on. There's about 20 guards after me. You'll have to do the
searching when we get to the car." John put the clipper in a small case 
which also contained the hammer and various other tools. He picked it 
up and began to walk swiftly. 

"Follow me," he said. "And try to keep out of sight." Graham proceded
behind Mickey, and the trio moved quickly away from the building. The 
window faced on to a large open area, which seemed primarily used as a 
parking lot and dumping ground for the local buildings. Several alleys 
and one road led away from the enclosure. They moved like a small pack 
of wolves, out on a hunt. They walked quickly and quietly through one 
of the alleys, keeping concealed, staying to darkness and shadows, 
blending in like chameleons. After moving down several alleys and 
running across one main road, their pace slowed, and they moved like 
deadly predators; slowly, but still alert. Mickey was first to talk. 

"Your distraction worked well." 

"What the fire alarm?" queried John. 

"Oldest trick in the book dude," added Graham. 

"Ah well. Still worked well. I even managed to grab a baton from a
guard." Mickey had found that as long as you said something in a care 
free or normal voice, it would take people a few seconds to register 
it, but that was long enough. In one smooth action, he pulled out the 
baton and pivotted three hundered and sixty degrees like a ballerina. 
He hit Graham hard on the chin as he spun, causing him to fall down in 
a heap. As John turned around, Mickey jabbed to baton into his nose. He 
stumbled backwards from the blow, and Mickey swung the baton again. He 
brought it around from the side and hit John in the left temple. He 
slumped to the floor, bunching like a pile of laundry. Mickey looked 
around and spotted an alley. He slid the baton back down his trousers 
and casually walked away. 

At the back of a run down hotel, two men were meeting. Broken lights and
tin fires left the area encased in a dull orange glow. The scene was 
surreal like a movie or a dream. Flies and mosquitos hung in the air, 
generating a low, monotonous buzzing, like a motor. 

"Nice gun this. Cheers for giving it to me. Used to have one of these. I
used it all the time when I was starting out," said one man cheerily. 
The other replied, jokingly, "Shut up mate. We aint got that much time 
to talk." 

"Ay. I expect they'll be looking for me soon." 

"Well don't worry. We know how kind they are, I'm sure they won't shoot
on sight." 

"Ay, hopefully." 

"Oh and here's the other thing-" The man reached into his pocket and
pulled something small out. He handed it to the other man who inspected 
it, 

"Cor, it's tiny." He pocketed it and continued, "So it's just like the
old models? Place it somewhere, and wait?" 

"Right. Pressure activated, so don't squash it in your pocket. I already
set the recording number to my phone." 

"And it'll record everything they say just like that?" 

"Well, it records about 2 hours max." 

"Nice one. Well, guess I best be going, eh?" 

"OK. Be seing you." And the two men parted, each walking their seperate
ways, both being gradually consumed by the tar like darkness of the 
night. 

"So. Where is he," asked James Harrison. He was sitting upright in a
chair, behind a large desk upon which stood a computer, note pad and 
several trophies. He was around forty or fifty. His eyes where a deep 
shade of brown that showed wisdom and experience. His short black hair 
was greying in places, and his face was well defined, like a chiselled 
statue. 

"With all due respect sir," began Paul Dillon, "if I knew where he was,
then I would go and get him." 

"Hmm. Yes. I suppose you are right. But, as you can see, this puts me in
quite a difficult situation. The man who is supposed to be helping us 
has disappeared. The national police force will be looking for him. If 
we don't find him before they do, we, or rather, I ,could end up in 
serious trouble." 

"I understand sir, but what can we do?" 

"Exactly my point. I can't risk the rest of the force hearing about
this." James' face became serious as he continued, "You're my best 
agent Paul. You know that. I can trust you, and I know that you always 
produce good work. The others would sell me out at the first possible 
chance." Paul was stunned by this, and it showed on his face. He had 
strong feelings of shock and pride, and could not find the words to 
express himself. His face was a puzzle of expressions as he struggled 
to find what to say. He tried, but it was like trying to get out of 
quicksand. Eventually he decided to move conversation away from 
himself, and he had an idea. 

"Well he doesn't know this is just between us sir. For all he knows, we
have he whole team on it." This brought a smile to James' face and he 
spoke more merrily now, 

"Hmm. Yes, you're quite right, and he'd probably come back for fear of
being caught. Is that what you were thinking?" 

"Yes sir. Appears we are on the same wavelength." 

"Ye-es. But, he is of course very clever. Perhaps clever enough to work
out this is not an official operation, and that we won't in fact have 
the whole team to help us?" 

"I suppose we can only wait." Both men sat in silence, contemplating
ideas. The room was silent, but rain drops could be heard, tapping on 
the roof above like a non stop rhythm. A constant beat. A beat of no 
sense or timing. It was an elemental beat, played by the clouds. The 
world was their drum, the raindrops their millions of tiny drum sticks. 
The clouds played a short beat until all their drumsticks were gone. 
When the beat had finished, James and Paul still sat in the room. The 
heating was on, circulating precious warm air, making the room a haven, 
tucked away from the cold outside. Suddenly, the door opened, jerking 
both men from their peaceful thoughts as a blizzard of cold air flew 
into the room. A young woman stood in the doorway, and she spoke in a 
confused voice. 

"Umm, sir. There's a man to see you. He says he has a witness statement,
but will only give it to you." The two men exchanged puzzled glances. 
James replied, "OK. Send him in." The woman walked off, and James 
turned to Paul, 

"You don't think it could be-" He was cut short as Mickey walked into
the room wearing a dark hat and sun glasses. 

"I do," replied Paul. Mickey came in and swung the door closed, smiling.
He smiled like a child hiding something, but both James and Paul put it 
down to his jokey nature. They themselves were grinning slightly, 
relieved to see Mickey there. 

"Am I missing something fellas?" He asked. 

"Oh no. A little private joke." Replied James, smiling. 

"Ah right. Fair enough." Mickey admired the large room, taking in the
details like a connoisuer. He walked breifly around the room, examining 
things with seemingly medical precision. As he walked, Paul talked in a 
puzzled and interested voice. 

"So Mickey. You came back. Get up to anything interesting?" Mickey
stopped his walk in front of James' desk. His cat like eyes took in 
it's features, and as he replied he picked up a rectangular name stand. 


"Ah no. Only one day. Can't do much in that time." He looked at the name
stand and placed it back on the table, "James Harrison, head of N.S.T. 
We finally meet. I have to say, you're doing a great job with the 
team." He sat down in a large armchair, slung off his hat and shades, 
and continued, "Look, I'd like to apoligise about doing a runner. I 
just kind of panicked, like. I thought you were gonna stitch me up or 
something, but after I slept on it..." He trailed off, his face now 
serious. 

"Well. I'm sure we're all glad you did," said James. 

"Yeah. Well, we still have the orignal terms, and I think the sum is
quite fair," added Paul. 

"Heh, yes, quite fair indeed," replied Mickey. "So look, I have some
good news for you. I thought about the assassinations this guy has 
done, and they all seem my style. I wondered why they were all in such 
close proximity, then it hit me, there is one position from which you 
would be able to do all the shootings from. I was near by yesterday, so 
I gave it a look." 

"And?" queried Paul. 

"And, there were ammo casings all over the place! He'd been using it for
target practice as well, or something like that. I think I saw the 
sniper, but I didn't want to get myself killed, so I scooted. I reckon 
I might be able to set up a meeting though. Like you were saying Paul, 
he seems to be following in my footsteps. If I went to the place, he'd 
probably be dead chuffed to see me, and I could get him off guard and 
all, then you burst in, and we take him down." Paul and James exchanged 
glances, and James spoke. 

"So where is this place?" 

"Old abandonned car park or something. Maybe a shopping centre." Paul
gave James a questioning look. 

"Yeah," said James slowly, "I know. Old car park, I'm sure. Well, If you
can get there tomorow?" 

"Sure boss," said Mickey, happily. 

"Great. Then you give Paul a ring if he shows up, we'll give you a
mobile." 

"OK. Is Mickey gonna be needing a weapon?" asked Paul. 

"I don't think we can really do that," replied James. 

"No worries mate, I should be OK. The whole point is that this guy likes
me remember?" "That's true. We would offer you Graham and John, but 
they are off due to injuries." Paul said, smiling, as he took a mobile 
phone from his pocket and handed it to Mickey, "Here, take his. And 
we're all sorted then." Mickey got up to leave but Paul stopped him, 

"Wait up Mickey, I just remembered. You'll need to clip this to your
shoe." He again reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black 
device, "Tracker. Once it's on you must not take it off, or we will 
immediately send units to apprehend you." He handed it to Mickey who 
clipped it on to the sole of his right shoe, then continued speaking. 
"And I'm afraid you'll have to stay overnight here, to minimize chance 
of you running away again." 

"Fair enough," replied Mickey, who was grinning cheekily. He swept up
his hat and glasses again and slipped them on, "Disguise," he chortled. 


"See you in a minute sir," said Paul as he led Mickey away. 

James Harrison and Paul Dillon sat down in James' room. The heating was
off now, and the room had a slight chill about it, like ice coating a 
wall. It wasn't overwhelming cold, merely a layer of it, enveloping the 
room. Paul began talking. 

"Well, he came back. Do you think we were right? 

"About him fearing capture? I don't see any other explanation." 

"I suppose so, but with him anything's possible." 

"Quite true from what I've heard. I'm sure he wouldn't of stayed away
for long. All the assassinations have been on friends and partners of 
his. From his old days as a London crook." 

"Ah yes. Hmm. I'm sure you're right, but I just don't know..." His voice
faded, as he got lost in the labyrinth of his own words. 

"Well anyway, it won't matter. You'll take him out once you get the
sniper right? It'll be good to get rid of such a criminal as well as 
capturing the sniper." 

"So we're still keeping to the plan?" 

"Of course. If you're up for it. Two birds with one stone my friend." 

"Of course. The money is sorted?" 

"Yeah, all real, just in case he checks." 

"Great." 

Mickey lay in his cell, on a slab like bed, the only light coming from a
dim bulb swaying above as if in a breeze. He pressed a few buttons on 
his phone, then lay it underneath his bed. He turned on to his back and 
lay still waiting, like a heron. He was a heron that waited for hours, 
just for a chance to catch his fish. After three hours or more, the 
sound of the vibrating phone was heard from beneath the bed. It only 
buzzed softly, like a small cricket lurking in the bushes, but Mickey 
heard it. He swung himself round and picked it up. He answered it 
quietly, 

"Hello mate. Yeah fine. Good good. Yeah they gave it to me to call
tomorow. How did you get the number? Oh right. Ingenious mate. I'm 
still at N.S.T HQ. No don't worry, I had it on silent. Oh, well sorry, 
I didn't even know I was gonna get a phone, till a few hours ago! OK. 
You got it? Good. Of course I do! Oh I see. Well, I expected as much. 
Really? Well that's good. Be pretty pointless otherwise. Yeah tomorow. 
About midday I expect. Yeah I still got it, they haven't even searched 
me. Well cheers. Yeah, bye." He lay back to get some sleep, as even the 
greatest of warriors need rest. He got a few hours sleep, and woke up 
early in the morning and was driven to the train station by Paul, where 
he got the train the rest of the way. Then he waited like the heron, 
for his fish was about to leave home. 

"OK Paul, you ready?" 

"Well, body armour, pistol, ammo. I think so." 

"Right. Taking your own car yeah? I might need mine" 

"What on earth for? I thought you'd left the action life behind.
Strictly paperwork now?" 

"You never know. A big hit like this, you just never know." 

"I guess." The two sat in silence for a while, but were loudly
interrupted by the ringing of Paul's phone. The tone split the air like 
a knife, launching shockwaves around the room. Paul looked a the 
screen, then at James, 

"It's Mickey." He answered, "Mickey, Hi." He mouthed wordlessly to
James, who began typing some details into his computer. Mickey answered 
in whispers, 

"Yeah, hi. Look, I got him right here. I told him I was going to look
for a toilet." 

"OK, nice work. Try and stall as long as possible got it?" 

"Yeah I can try, but it might be hard, I don't think he's doing much
today, he might be packing up soon. We're on the top floor though, so 
it'll take time getting down." 

"Hang on a sec Mickey," Paul looked at James who nodded, "OK, never
mind. I'll see you in ten." He flicked the phone off and put it in his 
pocket. 

"Yeah, traced to the old car park. He aint bluffing." Said James. 

"Great. Well, I best be on my way." He cocked his pistol, and began to
walk out, "Wish me luck." 

"Good luck mate," replied James. 

Mickey stood on the edge of the top floor, looking out over the city. It
reminded him of the day he became an assassin. There was a wind picking 
up, and it sent his hair off in different directions, blowing wildly, 
spread around his face, a moving picture frame. His clothes shook in 
the air, creating vivid patterns like the ripples of water, flowing 
freely. His face held a far away expression, and he moved slowly, hair 
still blowing back, trailing behind him. He walked through the opening 
where a door once stood, and pulled out a pistol from his back pocket. 
He screwed on a silencer, the sound echoing around the empty space like 
grinding bones. He paced the rooms slowly, waiting like the heron for 
his fish would soon be coming into his waters. 

James Harrison sat at his desk, like an office manager. He finished
typing up a report, and gazed around the room critically. Before he 
could finish his survey, a thought came to him, falling from nowhere, 
like a rain drop. He pulled his phone near him, and dialled a number. 

Paul Dillon sped through the London traffic like a ray of light. He was
in a very happy mood as he always was before a mission. He was barely 
five minutes away from the target building, when his mobile rang. He 
wasn't a big fan of speaking and driving, so he swerved like a 
boomerang, and travelled down an alternate road, where he could keep to 
a slower speed, 

"Sir?" he said noticing the number. "Oh hang on, I've got low battery,
so try to be quick." 

"OK," replied James on the other line. "I just wanted to check you had
the directions." 

"Oh yeah, I was thinking of ringing you, just to check. I'm just coming
up Timberlake Road." 

James carried on his survey of the room, moving on to the desk as he
talked to Paul, 

"OK, you just head straight for a while. Then you get to a big
roundabout." 

"Ah yeah, I know it." 

"Good, then you turn right, left, then second right, and you'll be at
the rear entrance to it. Mickey should be there, top floor." 

"Ah thanks. I just got another warning. My battery might go any second
now. So what you want me to do with Mickey's body?" 

"Oh I dunno, just get rid of it. He annoys me greatly. The sooner he's
of our hands the better." James continued his visual search, "Ugh, he 
didn't even put my name stand back straight." He picked up the stand, 
and as he went to place it back down in the correct position, a small 
black item fell off the underside of it, and into James' palm. He 
instantly recognised the device, and his eyes flashed like shining 
silver in an instant of shocking understanding, 

"Paul!" he began, in a panicked voice, "Mickey didn't come back because
he was scared of being caught!" There was no answer, he was too late. 
The battery had already gone. 

"Paul!" His cries were useless now. How much had Paul heard? "Goddamit!"
he said aloud as he rushed from his room. 

Mickey perked his ears like a dog as he heard the sounds of a car from
outside. He cocked his head and squinted for a second before moving to 
the edge to get a look. He peered down cautiously, taking care to stay 
hidden amongst the shadows. He crept across the derelict flooring, the 
air tight with dust. The many cobwebs glittered as they caught the 
sun's rays, bouncing light around like a pinball table. He moved to the 
stairs, ducked behind a large tank, and cocked his gun. He waited like 
a heron, for his fish was coming closer and closer. Footsteps echoed up 
to the top floor like fireworks, spinning higher and higher, until they 
eventually died out. As the sounds got nearer, the atmosphere became 
tenser. Dust swirlled in the air, hovering and making the room seem 
alive with movement. The footsteps approached the final staircase, and 
still Mickey stood still like the heron, for his fish was nearly here. 
Every step sent dust into the air, swarming like a mushroom cloud and 
then exploding into nothingness. Paul reached the final step, and 
Mickey moved swiftly like the heron, for his fish was here. A whistle 
and a snap sent the gun hurtling from Paul's hand, and he spun around, 
dropping the case. His gun hit the floor and began spinning slowly 
towards the wall, as if on ice. It came to rest against the wall, still 
spinning slowly. The case toppled down a few stairs and stopped, lying 
on it's side. Paul's face lit up, as though a torch of fear had been 
shone upon it. He calmed slightly when he saw who it was, but still 
remained tense, like a coiled spring waiting to expand. A car screeched 
to a halt outside, and a door opened then slammed quickly. 

"Mickey?" questioned Paul. 

"Ay. It's me." 

"What the hell is going on?" He looked around briefly, as footsteps came
from below, "Where's the sniper?" 

"The sniper? He's my own brother!" Mickey laughed and he and Paul heard
James' astonishment from below. He was getting closer. 

"But, the killings. They were all your friends!" 

"Ah you know, me and my associates have quite a range of acting skills.
Policemen, paramedics, coroners. You'd be amazed." Loud footsteps 
echoed as James came round the corner at the bottom of the stairs. He 
had a gun but Mickey was faster. He turned and ducked in one move, and 
as a bullet flew over his head, he fired a shot straight into James' 
chest. His gun slid over the edge, and bounce down, every collision 
sounding like a scream for help. Mickey turned to see Paul pointing his 
gun at him. Mickey kissed his teeth at him, 

"Uh-uh Paul, I wouldn't be doing that." He turned to observe James who
was lying against the wall, gasping. "Good," continued Mickey, as the 
gun fired behind him. He spun around to face Paul, who was now on the 
floor, his hand bleeding. "Now you're both alive, but incapacitated, so 
I have no distractions. Oh Paul sorry, my bullet was lodged with the 
ammo, so when you fired, my bullet caused the others to explode, and 
well, you see the consequences. Nasty. Anyway, yep the killings were 
fake. Me and my associates staged it to get me out of jail. My brother 
was acting as assassin. Everyone involved is getting a share of the 
money." 

"Nice one Mickey," mumbled James as his head fell down on to his chest.
There was no hope for him now. 

"As for James," continued Mickey. "I planted a listening bug in his
office, just to make sure your intentions were actually bad. I wouldn't 
want to go killing you for no reason. Anyway, I suppose he found it, 
and was on his way to warn you." Paul panted with pain, and stood up, 
caressing his hand. 

"But, I don't get it. Why Mickey? How?" Mickey pointed his gun at Paul's
heart, smiled and gave a shake of his head, 

"You can put anything past those folk at the N.S.T, eh Paul?" Mickey
slowly pulled the trigger and the hiss of air from the silencer filled 
the room like an orchestra, as Paul slumped to the floor with a slight 
smile. Mickey O' Rourke trotted down the stairs, stooped down to pick 
up the black suitcase and left the old car park, swooping away like the 
heron, for he had caught his fish. 


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