#this is saved as 'fox with a glock' in my files

[rabb1ttrash]

he's on his way to have a 'talk' with palpabitch :D

[mintyvan]

RED

part one of two

prompt none; this is an original AU fic. van mccann’s charming wit and hatred for authority has put him in danger, and you’re the one who’s after him.

notes lovely banner by @niceboybob

_____

The day the package showed on your doorstep, you had come back from the ropes course ready to shower off the grit and sweat. There it lay on the rough doormat: a pristine black box sealed tight. Scrutinizing your surroundings - left, then right - you carefully lifted the box and brought it inside, locking your door behind you. You knew what this meant.

As soon as the package was inside and away from unwanted attention, you unsheathed the pocket knife you always kept in your bra. You slid it across the black satin tape of the box, cutting a straight, calculated slit all the way around the length of the package.

A ribbon on the side was meant for you to pull. The inner black box slid from the outer shell. Inside, wrapped in fragile black tissue paper, were two items: a small piece of black cardstock the size of a business card, and a black file folder sealed with red wax.

The red wax came away from the folder easily; it was fresh.

You spread the pages of the file over your table and read them silently to yourself, aware of your surroundings.

Van McCann. Born August 1, 1994.

Will be attending Capitol Records opening reception for Halsey’s latest album release with entirety of Catfish and the Bottlemen.

Photo enclosed.

Catfish and the Bottlemen. Band information card enclosed.

Members: Van McCann (frontman), Benji Blakeway (bassist, photo enclosed), Johnny Bond (lead guitarist, photo enclosed), Bob Hall (drums, photo enclosed).

The black card read a dollar amount embossed in gold. Six figures.

*****

Your Louboutins stung the sidewalk as you strutted down a side street from the entryway doors. You’d studied the plan of the block enclosed in the black folder. You knew every alleyway, every door, every window, every escape route possible throughout the mansion this party was being held at.

You stalked up to the entrance of the grand old house, careful not to step on the excess fabric of your trailing black dress while avoiding the throes of paparazzi. They were everywhere, photographing artists stepping out of jet-black limousines with belles and beaus on arms. You made a point to avoid having your photo taken. The doorman’s eyes caught a glimpse of yours for only a moment before you showed your invitation and were let inside.

The foyer was wide, chandeliers looming overhead in the entryway as guests chatted, waiters winding through the crowd with silver platters sprinkled with champagne glasses. A grand staircase to the right spiraled up to the upper entertainment hall and balcony, where most of the guests would settle shortly before 10:00pm, when Halsey would address the party and thank them for their support.

Your eyes swept the crowd a few times. Your eyes grazed Jennifer Lopez in her Rihanna-esque see-through dress (“swarovski crystals, girl,” you thought to yourself), Niall Horan in his sharp dapper suit, and Migos, chained to the nines over all-black ensembles. Capitol Records had a diverse artistry, and it made for a wild party. Target wasn’t in sight yet.

You cautiously ascended the hardwood stairs above to the upper banquet hall, heels resonating on the wood, all the while acutely aware of your surroundings, softly smiling at people so they wouldn’t suspect the glock strapped to your inner thigh, or the razor-sharp comb holding your hair in its perfect half-updo.

You circled the room once, chatting small talk with waiters until you’d made your rounds indirectly examining every guest at the party. There was a mirror on the opposite wall; a perfect way to innocently touch up your makeup while still recording the positions of everyone in the room. From your bra, you pulled your ruby red lipstick, and drew it on your lips painstakingly slowly. Both men and women alike were watching you from the corners of their eyes, enthralled.

Afterward, you needed a drink in your hand to convince everyone you belonged there. You glided to the bar-cart at the back of the room. After surveying the liquor available (expensive it was - but you were used to clientele with money) you decided on a drink. Your hand reached out, nails painted perfectly crimson, and collided with another, clumsier hand, reaching for the same crystal lowball.

“Ain’t that funny. I’m already actin’ drunk and I’m not even on my second,” a warm voice to the right of you said, loudly, in a hybrid Chester accent. You turned to look at the face of the person with the voice, and immediately had to keep cool. It was him. Target, sighted.

You smirked, to save face. You were hardly ever surprised in this business; you wondered where he’d come from, and how he’d managed to slip through the throng of the crowd without you noticing.

“Hi, I’m Scarlett,” you introduced yourself, voice velvety, letting him kiss your hand. Seductress tip number one. His lips were warm.

“Hello, love, I’m Van. Catfish and the Bottlemen. Heard of us?” and at your brief head shake of a no, he continued. “All of us boys are here, celebratin’ with Ash. What’ll ya have?”

“Scotch neat.”

His head ticked to the side, and eyes sparkled mirthfully. In a low, flirtatious voice, he replied, “How dangerous of you.” Tongue between teeth, impressed, he poured you the finest scotch on the cart, and made himself one too.

You rose your glass to his with a clink. You sipped it, smoothly. He took one timid sip and scrunched his face up.

“Can’t handle your liquor?” you said, devilish grin on your face. He was already enamored.

“Not as well as I handle my women,” he replied, and downed the rest in one gulp, winking as he swallowed.

At that, you let out a genuine laugh.

“We’ll see about that,” you spoke, sipping your scotch slowly. You had to keep your wits about you tonight.

“Will we?” he looked up at you from beneath his eyebrows, one cocked up slightly, smirk plastered to his face.

He noticed someone walking at the front of the room, and poked your shoulder with the pointer finger of the hand the crystal glass was in. Some cold condensation dripped on your collarbone, and you shivered. “See him?”

You turned your head slightly, and nodded at the grey fox in the rakish burgundy suit.

“That there’s Joffrey Wingate. Reckon he’s had it out for me for a while,” he told you, chuckling to himself. “The man hates me.”

“And why is that?” you asked, curiosity dancing on the tip of your tongue. Always putting on a show for your prey.

“So like I said I’m from Catfish and the Bottlemen; we’re a band, signed to Capitol like the others here. But I’ve terminated my contract with the label without going through all the hoops, cause I found myself a loophole in the contract, see. Smart one,” he said, tapping a finger against his temple. “But I’ll lose him countless dollars. He’s the CEO of Capitol, right. He didn’t expect that me going back to Communion would be this easy, nor did he think his pockets would be affected.”

“How dangerous of you,” you repeated coyly, and watched his playful smile widen. It seemed he was a fan of your banter. Most men are.

“I always rake up trouble wherever I go. Always have. You gotta do it your way, or don’t do it at all. Anyways -- I see my pal over there, and he looks like he needs to be steered clear of that unsuspecting lass. She looks like she’d do some fatal damage on him, she’s way out of his league” he said, taking a step away from you. He looked back, smiled a teasing smile, and said, “Lovely to meet you, Scarlett… hope we see each other again soon.” He then stalked away to interrupt Larry Lau from making a so-called fatal mistake.

You watched him walk over and cut into the conversation from across the room. He probably knew you were watching; that was your intent, anyways. Let him know you’re “interested.” Seduce and destroy.

He was wearing black slacks over his long, toned legs, with a black blazer. Golden pendant peeking out from the white shirt that wasn’t buttoned all the way up. Hair mussed about, falling into his eyes when he became more animated. Shoes, unshined. Hands drifting about, acting as if he belonged there, because in his mind, he did. He was cleverly underdressed. You sipped your scotch again, shook your head slightly to clear it from the pure alcohol, and prepared for phase two.

This time, you made the rounds to attractive men in the room, using jealousy as your weapon. Liam Payne was without Cheryl Cole, and it made it all too easy to flirt with him. Hand on his arm, laughing at the things he said, casually throwing in some interesting pieces of knowledge; he was hooked. He seemed like the type who craved fame, fortune, and women of status. Dan Smith from Bastille was next; a bit older, but still a catch. You actually enjoyed the conversation you had with him, and it made your act more believable. You made sure Van was eyeing you occasionally; he was making sure you weren’t getting too comfortable with the other men in the room with the drink he made you in your hand.

When you noticed Van staring a little too often, you knew it had worked. So you said goodbye to the man you were speaking with, dropped your crystal glass onto a waiter’s tray beneath your nose, and made your way to the powder room.

It was on the lower floor. Heels echoed down the hardwood stairs again, and across marble flooring. You pushed open the door, and were met with several dashing ladies in jeweled dresses and perfectly primped hair ogling themselves in the mirror, fixing lipstick, bobby pins between teeth, arms pulling down dresses that had hiked too high. You smiled at them, and walked into the bathroom.

Time check: 8:00pm. Two hours before Halsey’s speech. The party had potential to die about an hour after that; 11:00pm was the deadline to get the plan rolling.

The gun strapped to your inner thigh by the lacy black garter was pre-loaded; safety now turned to off. Comb, ever present in your hair.

You popped out of the stall to check your looks one more time, making sure everything was concealed beneath the black swooping dress your body called home tonight.

“Wow. You dress is like… fucking gorgeous,” a drunk girl called out to you from her perch on the loveseat by the mirrors. “This sweetheart neckline…. The bodycon silhouette that drapes all the way down to the floor so elegantly…. God, you’re beautiful!”

“Thank you, dear,” you snickered, and let her feel the fabric on your little sleeve.

“Like, I’m so inspired by this. I’m going to have to get my boyfriend to buy me a dress like this. Where’d you get it?”

“Actually, I had it specifically made for this occasion. Parties like this don’t happen for me this often.”

“Woooow. You’re fancy. I love it!” she squealed, and hopped off the loveseat to rejoin the party.

You adjusted the sleeves a bit, so they draped just right on the sides of your shoulders. You had to admit - in the full-length mirror, you looked incredible. This had been your favorite job outfit yet; the red lip, the red nails, the red bottoms on the shoes, matched with the black just screamed exactly what you were up to. The irony was giving you a power trip.

You put your persona back on, and opened the door of the powder room out to the foyer. Miniature tiramisus were swaying back and forth on waiters’ trays as they corkscrewed through the crowd. You picked up a small tiramisu; it looked delectable.

“Figured you were the type to like chocolate,” Van said, walking from behind you to stand next to you. “Told the waiter myself to bring some over to yous.”

You smiled. “So thoughtful.” He smiled too.

“How is it?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Want some?” you asked. You punctured a corner of the cake with your fork and tore it off for him. “I’ll feed it to you,” you said, playfulness dancing in your eyes.

He opened his mouth, and he used his teeth to retrieve the cake off the fork. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Now that’s fuckin’ delicious.”

You laughed, and used the same fork to feed yourself more cake. A little germiness didn’t matter in the grand scheme of this job. Not that you minded his. He seemed like a relatively clean guy.

“So, Miss Scarlett where you from?” he began, and you knew he was falling for the ruse quickly. You hated that you had to tell him the story of your alias. He was starting to grow on you.

“I’m from a tiny town called Lakeland, Washington. It rains there all the time. Wouldn’t recommend it. Yourself?”

“I grew up in a place called Widnes, in Wales. Me mum and dad had a bed and breakfast. I loved helping them out and generally having a laugh there. Now I live in New York, with me mate Larry, the one you saw me rescue earlier.”

“Ah, yes, Larry. Does he always go for women like that?”

“Well, us both are terrible ‘bout it. We see somethin’ we like and can’t help but latch on,” he said, winking. You felt a blush creep up hot on your cheeks. It did not go unnoticed by Van.

“Shall we have another drink, love?” he asked, and when you nodded, his arm looped through yours. He escorted you up the stairs to the bar cart. The men who’d eyed you previously, even some you’d spoken to, were now staring at you enviously as you walked by with Van on your arm. When you got close to the bar cart, his arm dropped, and instead his hand went to the small of your back, leading you the rest of the way. His hand was warm. You appreciated the touch.

“You still want scotch neat or you want to try something else?” he asked, perusing the contents of the cart.

“How about a red wine?”

“Done and done.” He lifted a bottle by its neck, peeking at the date. His eyes widened. “1947. Alright, gotta be this one. Can’t not take advantage,” he said, and poured two glasses.

A clink resounded again. Van picked up the bottle of wine again, studying it. “What do you say we take this onto the balcony? Get some fresh air?”

“As you wish,” you responded seductively.

He held your hand and drew you both to the french doors that were propped open to the stone balcony that overlooked the front yard of the mansion. He leaned against the railing, sipping his glass of wine, eyes locked on you.

“Van, do you have any cigarettes?” you asked him, batting your eyelashes slowly. He set his glass of wine on the stone railing of the balcony, reached into his pocket and pulled out a package of hand-rolled cigarettes. “Course.”

You put one to your lips, and he lit it for you. You did the same for him; the flame twirled in his eyes, and over his pursed lips. He breathed out a heavy sigh. You were so close to him, breathing smoke in his face. He couldn’t handle the lack of touch.

He placed his hand on your waist, and led you to stand between his legs; you were at eye level with him now. You let your hand come up to smooth down the white collar of his shirt. His lips parted into a smile as he tilted his head up and puffed his cigarette. His jawline was exposed; hard and thick. One move from head to neck and the comb would slice his jugular right through. But you refrained. It wasn’t time yet.

You leaned in to whisper in his ear. Your cold breath blew across it first, and he closed his eyes. “You should come home with me tonight,” you softly said, and pressed your hand against his chest with intent. You let your hand trail up to his collarbones, pressing the chain of his pendant against his skin, leaving tiny indentations, caressing his jaw, and landing on his cheek. His lips parted. Your crimson lips brushed the corner of his mouth, and you felt his thigh twitch. You stood up, pivoted, and walked away.

****

Time check: 9:45pm. Fifteen minutes until Halsey’s speech. She’d been gliding around all night, sequin dress ablaze under the chandeliers, hosting. You knew from the files that she knew Van. That would be your hook to get him where you wanted. You sighed. Your job never got any easier.

You saw Van speaking to one of his bandmates on the outside backyard patio. For the past few hours, he’d been chatting it up with everyone, as if he knew everyone. You’d been watching him for the past thirty minutes from a third floor balcony. It’s not like anyone noticed you slinking away toward the unused elevator on the first floor, and it’s not like anyone knew where it was besides the owner and yourself, because you’d looked at the plans prior to the event. You needed to get away, to survey the back portion of the house where the alleyway with your car was visible behind the fence.

Van would look around every few minutes, surveying the guests for your face. It was honestly making you sad. He had no idea he’d fallen straight into your trap.

PART TWO HERE.