Post by JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS on Jun 20, 2011 13:58:08 GMT -5
Morons.
He was surrounded by bumbling, blubbering morons.
James shoved one of the men he was supposed to be working with out of the way, tossing him rather carelessly off the patio. Technical wizards indeed. James kneeled in front of the security system and closed his eyes. He had been watching the house for some time now, knowing what artifacats lay inside. More than once he had seen someone enter the security code, each time catching a different portion of the ten digit password. His mind worked quickly, recalling each memory and piecing them together in an instant.
With a gloved finger, James tapped 4589762531.
Two beeps later and the security system disengaged and James turned to the door. The lock was easy to break, all the owner's money had gone into the security system and not into a good old fashioned lock. Typical.
Scoffing, James opened the door and entered first, silently. The two men who were still there followed behind him, making too much noise with each step. Stopping and rolling his eyes, James motioned for them to be quiet and to move apart. They were standing too close together, the idiots. A liability, proximity.
Hoping that the men knew their jobs, James excused himself to the room he had been wanting to see for ages. Inside there were several original works of Picasso, each one valued at over $20 million dollars. The security system was easy to break, like the first one had been, and the art just hung there, primed for the taking. Sliding each piece from it's frame carefully and into the portfolio that James had strapped to his back, James worked at his usual efficient pace.
Just as he was sliding the last picture, a self-portrait, into the portfolio, there were steps behind him and a metallic click. James turned slowly. One of the idiots decided to rebel. Rolling his eyes distastefully, James rose to his feet and held up his hands in mock surrender (not that the fool could tell the difference). The gun was shaking, the boy obviously didn't do this often.
James walked to the boy, speaking calm nonsense to distract him so he could take the gun from him. It had a supressor so at least the boy was thinking a little. Tucking the gun away, James hid his lividity and directed the boy out of the house.
The job was done.
How dare those two plebians plot to take the loot! James seethed as he reset the security system, the two traitors behind him. That wasn't in the arrangement at all. They didn't know their manners, or who they were working with apparantly. Straightening up, James retrieved the gun and aimed quickly, executing each of them with a quiet effectiveness that belayed the fury inside.
He was James Moriarty, Criminal Mastermind, genius, and executive in all things black market. People didn't just go against him without garnering some sort of punishment.
"Fools," James spat, stepping over their bodies smoothly and walking away. The other, the one tossed from the patio, was trying to climb back up, tripping over himself, trying to figure out what had happened. James dispatched of his as well and discarded the gun. He had let no trace evidence on it, he knew. The leather gloves kept him from giving away anything in particular and Professor Edwards had no connection what so ever to the three dead men.
Feeling a sick pride, James returned to his car and drove off, over $100 million in his passengerside seat.
He was surrounded by bumbling, blubbering morons.
James shoved one of the men he was supposed to be working with out of the way, tossing him rather carelessly off the patio. Technical wizards indeed. James kneeled in front of the security system and closed his eyes. He had been watching the house for some time now, knowing what artifacats lay inside. More than once he had seen someone enter the security code, each time catching a different portion of the ten digit password. His mind worked quickly, recalling each memory and piecing them together in an instant.
With a gloved finger, James tapped 4589762531.
Two beeps later and the security system disengaged and James turned to the door. The lock was easy to break, all the owner's money had gone into the security system and not into a good old fashioned lock. Typical.
Scoffing, James opened the door and entered first, silently. The two men who were still there followed behind him, making too much noise with each step. Stopping and rolling his eyes, James motioned for them to be quiet and to move apart. They were standing too close together, the idiots. A liability, proximity.
Hoping that the men knew their jobs, James excused himself to the room he had been wanting to see for ages. Inside there were several original works of Picasso, each one valued at over $20 million dollars. The security system was easy to break, like the first one had been, and the art just hung there, primed for the taking. Sliding each piece from it's frame carefully and into the portfolio that James had strapped to his back, James worked at his usual efficient pace.
Just as he was sliding the last picture, a self-portrait, into the portfolio, there were steps behind him and a metallic click. James turned slowly. One of the idiots decided to rebel. Rolling his eyes distastefully, James rose to his feet and held up his hands in mock surrender (not that the fool could tell the difference). The gun was shaking, the boy obviously didn't do this often.
James walked to the boy, speaking calm nonsense to distract him so he could take the gun from him. It had a supressor so at least the boy was thinking a little. Tucking the gun away, James hid his lividity and directed the boy out of the house.
The job was done.
How dare those two plebians plot to take the loot! James seethed as he reset the security system, the two traitors behind him. That wasn't in the arrangement at all. They didn't know their manners, or who they were working with apparantly. Straightening up, James retrieved the gun and aimed quickly, executing each of them with a quiet effectiveness that belayed the fury inside.
He was James Moriarty, Criminal Mastermind, genius, and executive in all things black market. People didn't just go against him without garnering some sort of punishment.
"Fools," James spat, stepping over their bodies smoothly and walking away. The other, the one tossed from the patio, was trying to climb back up, tripping over himself, trying to figure out what had happened. James dispatched of his as well and discarded the gun. He had let no trace evidence on it, he knew. The leather gloves kept him from giving away anything in particular and Professor Edwards had no connection what so ever to the three dead men.
Feeling a sick pride, James returned to his car and drove off, over $100 million in his passengerside seat.
