10. Riddick: On The Job

He had been crouched in the alley for three hours already, patiently awaiting his quarry. The man would come eventually.

He'd taken advantage of the "downtime" to think about his current situation and the last week of his life. He was going to have to make some changes, he realized. His usually- meticulous plans were in severe danger of coming unraveled if he wasn't careful.

Not that he blamed Jack in any way. It wasn't her fault she'd grown up; it certainly wasn't her fault that she'd turned into someone he wanted to fuck. She seemed completely oblivious to his growing distress, which was both a good and a bad thing.

That stupid tickle session had been his first real warning of how profoundly things had changed. She'd shrieked in mock-fear and run from him, as she had years ago, letting him corner her and tickle her until she was breathless. It had been an old game of theirs, a completely innocent one. He hadn't been at all prepared for the sudden surge of lust he'd felt when he'd really looked at her gasping, prone body below his. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to prevent things from getting completely out of hand, and to keep her from knowing how close to the edge they'd gone.

They'd finished their breakfast without further incident and he was recovered by the time they were done.

Thing was, he was pretty sure she didn't feel it. She seemed blithely unaware of any sexual subtexts that appeared; all the more reason for him to keep himself under control. He was a lot of things but he was no rapist, and Jack was far too precious to him anyway. He had no intention of hurting her.

He really should have seen this coming. He'd always known she was going to be a beauty, hadn't he? He'd figured that eventually he'd be stuck beating back the wolves from her door, but he'd never realized that he'd be _one_ of them.

The bathroom had been their next problem. He hadn't lived with anyone for four years and his habits were a bit lax. Jack, meanwhile, was accustomed to sharing facilities, but only with other girls. They'd embarrassed each other several times before they got the rules straight. Bathrobes on at all times on the way to and from; door closed when the room was in use, always. Riddick had never been particularly body-conscious, and Jack didn't seem to be either, but it had to be done this way or he was going to end up doing something he was sure both of them would regret.

The newest rule had been imposed just this morning. Jack had had a violent nightmare the night before and her screams had wakened him. He'd rushed into her room and gathered her into his arms so quickly that he didn't realize at first that she was every bit as topless as he was. The only thing separating their upper bodies had been the thin, sweat-soaked sheet from her bed.

They'd had a heavy argument about it in the morning. Riddick still couldn't bring himself to tell her the real reason he didn't want her wandering around half-naked, so he'd retreated into a plausible, convenient excuse.

"You need to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment's notice, kid," he'd told her. "We won't necessarily get much warning before we have to vacate. You remember that from before. So you'd better be ready to head out in whatever you have on. And naked ain't inconspicuous."

It had backfired on him a little; now _he_ had to wear an undershirt to bed, too. He really hated doing that.

He snapped back into alertness as a silhouette appeared at the end of the alley. Was this his man? Nah... just some kid lighting up... Guy wasn't due yet, anyway.

Tomorrow he would be checking Jack into the Regen clinic, which would give him a few days to get a little perspective. They'd still do their breakfasts; he'd promised her that. He'd be at the clinic every morning at 6 a.m. and they'd spend their traditional hour together over eggs and toast or whatever godawful food the clinic provided. She'd be bedridden for a week after the process began. It would be an excellent time for them to continue their re-acquaintance without any dangerous subtexts.

And his nights would belong to him, again. He had some serious plans for them, too.

First, though, this little piece of business. If he wasn't mistaken, his mark was approaching.

Yes, the man entering the alley was Benicio Godot, the drug dealer he'd been hired to kill. No bodyguards with him, either. This was way too easy. He'd hoped for more of a challenge, he realized. Bodyguards, body armor, weaponry, something.

Instead, all he had to do was rise to his feet as Godot passed and slide his shiv into the man's Sweet Spot. He stepped away as blood fountained out from the man's back. He'd hit the artery spot-on. The man crumpled soundlessly to the pavement.

Sighing, he cleaned his shiv off on the man's pants leg. Too damned easy. Jobs like this were the equivalent of found money to him.

He waited a few minutes until the body began to cool, then removed the man's thumbs as requested and put them into a plastic bag. Time to go collect his pay, and then get back to Jack. She'd be horrified if she knew what he had done, but he didn't plan on telling her.

"Never tell me," she'd said once, years ago. "I don't want to have to think about that stuff. I know you do it, but I want to be able to pretend you don't."

He still honored her request. He was actually fairly particular about the jobs he took; he only X-ed out crime kingpins. He wouldn't touch their families. He never took contracts on women or children. His first preference was to take contracts on people who were as dangerous as he was, but those were hard to come by. He'd been offered his own contract once or twice, something that never failed to amuse him.

But Jack would never know anything about these jobs. In his current guise, she wouldn't recognize him anyway.

He was wearing his Stan Kaplan disguise today. There really had been a Stan Kaplan once, who hadn't been a bad slice artist, until the day he'd gone after Riddick and met his untimely end. Riddick had held onto the man's papers and had slowly arranged to assume his identity. Now he performed his periodic hatchet jobs under that name. Just enough to keep Stan alive in everyone's minds and keep his coffers full.

"Stan Kaplan" entered the lobby of the Richelieu building and headed over to the bank of antique-style elevators. He rode up to the eighth floor and entered a small, unmarked door at the end of the hall.

The secretary inside smiled at him, seeing a green-eyed, sandy- haired man with a very deep tan and an expensive suit. Some millionaire playboy who spent all of his time on resort beaches, that's what Stan Kaplan looked like, when he wasn't out slumming. Layers and layers of truth, each more dangerous than the last. Below the millionaire playboy lurked a seedy hatchet man. And below the hatchet man lurked the most feared man in the galaxy.

Sometimes he thought it was the layers of deception that entertained him most, and were the reason he continued with the disguises at all. He smiled back at the secretary, enjoying how completely she was taken in by his appearance.

She motioned him to go through the inner door and he did so. Now he was in Vincenti's office.

"Got your package," he announced without preamble.

Vincenti was a man of few or no words, just like him most of the time. The man just held out his hand for the bag. Riddick turned it over. He waited in silence while Vincenti ran the thumbprints through a scanner. When the confirmation came up, the crime lord nodded in satisfaction.

"Very good, Mr. Kaplan. Most impressive. Would you have time for another assignment?"

"Sorry, I'm afraid not. I have some family business to attend to."

Vincenti merely raised an eyebrow. It was a statement that could be taken a myriad of ways. After a moment, however, he simply shrugged and let it go. He reached down and drew a briefcase out from under his desk. Opening it, he withdrew an encoded credit chip. "Your fee."

Riddick nodded, giving a tight smile. "Thank you. It was a pleasure doing business with you."

Vincenti nodded back to indicate that their meeting was over. Riddick turned and left.

He went immediately to the nearest cred machine and plugged in the card, starting his fee on its long, round-about journey to its ultimate destination -- his carefully-hidden accounts. Once the card had been emptied of value he broke it in half and pocketed it.

An hour and two disguises later, he disposed of his Kaplan costume, including the broken card, in the bowels of a foundry. Now he could head home to Jack. And now her operation was paid for in full.

Blood money, sure. But she'd spilled enough of her own for him already. He owed her. If she asked, though, he was going to tell her he'd been watching a play at a local theater.

He even knew which one he'd claim he'd seen.