Part 11: Captive

To Whom It May Concern:

So I finally up and made a blog for silhouette. talesinmotion.blogspot.com . I'm going to choose a day and basically post it there on a weekly basis. I swear I'll be consistent. When writing this I was listening to "the nicest thing" by Kate Nash. It has a sick guitar rift that I think is the feeling I was trying to recreate when writing this. Again sorry if there are any errors. I'm having a hard time staying in the present tense. This is the first long piece i written in the present. I'm a past tense kind of writer. Please keep up with the comments. I'm good on the "good stories" and the "Nice's". Those are appreciated. But thank you Nick for your strong feedback on part 9. It was on my mind when writing part 11. Previously on Silhouette: Detective George Thomas was caught in a gripping life and death situation while trying to apprehend his partners killer, when he discovers that this situation may be more complicated than he first surmised!



Now with out any further ado I present Silhouette:

“You don’t follow me, I follow you,” the deranged gloved man laughs. “Do you hear me old man? You fucked up.”

Engine humming, car tires screech, doors open and close. Yes back-up is here, took them long enough.

“Fuck!” the white gloved man kicked the door to the parking lot. He runs out of the stairwell shooting as the car shrieks away. George starts heading down the stairs as fast as he can. What was going on? If that wasn’t back-up who was it?

“Fuck! Ah you just ruined everything!” the white gloved man screams. His shout echoes through the whole complex.

George takes the stairs by leaping flights. Adrenaline overcomes the pain in his back. The door to the first floor bursts open as the Black Yukon Xl rams through the divider. The pieces shatter as sirens howl in the near distance.

Two tires puncture and wheeze as the Black Yukon Xl bounces out of the lot.

“Is everything okay I heard gun shots.” The security guard asks through the crackling speaker.

“I thought I said no one in !” George’s vein bulge out of his neck.

“No ! You said no out.”

Wee-Ooo Wee Ooo

“Damnit! Damnit! Damnit” he walks backward gun pointed at the door.
“What is going on!” the security guard shouts smacking the glass. Her face is the purest expression of fear. Not the fear you feel when in the presence of clear danger, but the fear you feel of the unknown. She eyes the detective prejudicially as she wonders why this had to happen during her shift.

“Stay in there!”

“I wasn’t coming out.”

“If I die, make sure you get a visual of shooter!”

“If you die? What?”

“Don’t argue with me right now just do as I say!”

Sweat drips down the detectives face. His palms moisten. George looked at the door. It seemed ordinary and mundane, but behind it laid possible death. Pandora’s box, he chuckles to himself. He always thought it was a lavish and ornate box made of gold and silver. But he realizes that it was probably cardboard.

Seconds feel like days. Minutes feel like months. A rat scurries down the parking lot ramp.

Bang!

George shoots in its direction.

“What the hell are you shooting at! What the hell is wrong with you? Just shootin shit.”

“I’m sorry,” he yells in his defense eyes focused back on the door.

“You better be sorry, shootin at shit all willy nilly when there ain’t nothing to shoot. If you ain’t lost your mind.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I heard you with your sorry ass. “

“Shut up! I’m jumpy okay. Shut up!”

Just then one police squadron and a black van pull up sirens blaring. They pull up right in front of the security booth, between George and the door. Ugh only one? Didn’t he tell her this was life and death situation? He doesn’t move from behind the booth. His gun is still pointed towards the door.

A chubby cop with a handle bar moustache hops out of the driver seat but doesn’t close the door. He is noticeably grumpy. His belly fights to stay in his pants.

He stops for a moment and notices the detective’s gun drawn.

“Took you long enough!” George spews tensely.

“What seems to be the problem here? “ the jellyroll officer burped. He is a short man with a deceitful stature.

“Sir, Put the gun down.” A lady cop gets out of the car door. Her eyes are alert. She looks around lot, and reaches for her gun. The fat cop does the same.

“No! I am Detective George -“ his words were cut short by the sight of the newly formed hole in the female officers forehead. The blood spurts on her hair as her body falls lifeless. No gunshot just a thud.

“Ah!” the speakers shriek.

“Call for fucking back up!” George says falling to the ground. The bullet went straight through so the shooter had to be up the hill. He is hidden behind the security booth.

“This is a crisis situation!” he continues. Puts his hand out from behind the booth and fires shots up the lots ramp.

The fat officer radios for help. The people in the black van stare out the window. George hears them panicking.

Pssh. Pssh. Pssh. Pssh. Pssh.

Five perfect circles appear on the windshield. The security guards shrieks are constant. The chill of death lives in George’s spine. He ignores the fear and the pain, but can’t escape the horror. What the hell was going on tonight? Everything was moving so fast and he needed to self-reflect.

“Fuck!” the fat cop shouts!

“Can you see him?” George spits out like untested hot soup.

“What?”

“Can you fucking see him!”

“No!”

George thinks to help the people in the car but knows he can’t. If I go over there he’ll kill me for sure.

The door to the black van opens. A beautiful young girl dives out bloody. She wears a black coat that reads CSI in yellow on the back She doesn’t’ say anything. She turns to run out of the lot.

Thud. The puddle of blood draining from her skull leaked towards the fat cop. George shudders. He looks at the lifeless body and thinks of his daughter. That wasn’t his daughter on the ground but she was someone’s daughter. Death couldn’t be arbitrary. What were the odds that this daughter would die tonight? What were the odds that Nathan would be killed and not he? He always thought no one was innocent. He always said that everyone gets it in the end and they get what they earned. What did she do in her life to earn a death like that?

“We’re sitting ducks!” the fat cop shouts

“We can’t just stay here.”

“Back-up is coming,” he confirms

“By the time they get here we’ll all be dead!” George whispers emphatically.

“I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die,” The security guard repeats over and over. She hides under her desk. “ Y’all supposed to be police. Be police!”

George tries to steady his hand. Think cowboy think.

That familiar laughter starts to fill echo through the lot. It was pale and spacious. He can’t hear where it is coming from. He pounds his fist into the ground. He hated that he could only think to run.

“Why couldn’t you have just stayed with your partner? Huh? Did you even wait for a paramedic to show up? Or did you leave your dead partners carcass laying down there to rot alone on the concrete. That’s cold. ”

Silence.

“No, you had to interfere! You had to get involved. Are you some kind of Robo-Cop? Watch a little too many Bruce Willis movies? When did cops get so fucking brave? Hahahahahahaha! You think this is a game don’t you? Call back-up. If more cops come I’ll kill more cops. But this is how this works: I'm going to give you a chance to run, and then I'm going chase you. Don't you get it this is the story where the villain wins. You die in vain. I get away blah blah blah. You've seen this a thousand times.”

More silence.

The fat cop’s breathing starts to quiver. It is chicken night at home his favorite night. Things like this shouldn’t happen on chicken night.

“Do you know this guy?” The fat cops asks.

“No.” George mouths.

“You never answered me; Watch a little too many Bruce Willis movies? Hahaha, huh? Answer me!” the voice thunders. George hears footsteps coming from the ramp.

The silence is broken by the sound of strong metal chopping air quickly. Is that a helicopter?

He puts his arm around the corner and tries to fire more shots that way.

“Hahahahahahahahaha!”

Bullets pass through the car door like an Olympic diver piercing the water. The fat cop looks at George as his greatest fear seizes him. His eyes pop and he chokes up blood. They lock eyes. The fat cops eyes ask am I really dying right now? George’s eyes say rest in peace.

Part 10: Debacle

November 5th 2009

To Whom It May Concern:

I wanted to post the next part sooner than later because it has been so long since I posted. I want everyone to know that I appreciate feedback. If you have something to say please say it. Whether it be a prediction, a complaint an edit, or a reaction to other people's comments. I am building the story as we go along and I am sure the more you all tell me the better a story we can create. I love silhouette for a number of reasons. I think in the last 4 parts I've been able to really raise the stakes and keep the flow believable. I'm dealing with some fun characters who i'm trying to really develop and make 3 dimensions.
1. Who is the guy with the white gloves?

“Listen! My fucking partner just died tonight alright! If you let anyone out you’ll go to jail for interfering with an investigation!”

His heart races as he pushes the button to the elevator. He steps in and presses all the buttons and steps out of the elevator before the door closes. He runs back over to the booth.

“I’m sorry for cursing at you.”

The security guard smiles with the phone to her ear and waves him on. He opens the door to the stairwell cautiously. His heart races uncontrollably as it swings towards him revealing a dank grey concrete stairwell. He swallows hard like an old cowboy does before a gun fight, and thinks of who will make the walk from his driveway to his front door in the morning.

Detective George Thomas steps are strained. I wish these damn pills would kick in, crosses his mind. The blinking lights in the stairwell flickers. He walks up the stairs gun first. He presses his feet lightly making sure not to make a noise. Not one sound can come from him. Think light thoughts he thinks. The full smell of urine penetrates his nose like strong cologne. He steps over the puddles extending from the corner of the platform in between the first and second floor. As he approaches the wall with the bright yellow 2 covering it he ducks. The door is light blue and the paint is chipping. It has a small square of glass in it. He rises up slowly to see out of it.

Ding!

The elevator doors open. He peeks up and surveys the second floor parking lot. Empty. He trots up the steps a little faster this time, still looking up the stairs for movement. Just then a shadow crosses in front of a light. He throws himself against the wall and tries not to breath. He grits his teeth in pain. He peeks out the window into the third level. Empty. His back asks him how many levels are in this complex. He has no answer.

His eyes focus as hard as they can up the stairs. The poor lighting makes it hard for him to see. He tunes out the hum hum humming of the electricity surging through the wires. Did I really see something or is my mind playing tricks on me, he wonders. Get a grip old man. Just then he sees the shadow across the light again. He spots a figure through the space in between the stairs. A hand in a white glove rests upon the railing up the stairs. Bingo, jackpot!

He hurries up the stairs as quietly as possible. He tries to keep from panting, but he needs a breather.
The number on the wall reads 9.

“I see them now,” The white gloved man whispers. He pauses for a moment as if waiting for someone to speak. George suspects he’s not alone.

“Yes, they think they’ve lost me.”

Images bubble and curdle in George’s mind. He’s thinks back to Nathan’s first police appreciation day when Nathan spilled coffee on George’s uniform. It was the first time George met Nathan’s wife, this was before the three children, the new house, and the affair. Everyone knew that Nathan had the most attractive wife on the force; Ally. Hometown girl from Tennessee, he had brought home from college. She had the sweetest southern accent. They strutted up the block looking like the morning view on an open lake. They were young and refreshing and reminded everyone of it with their bright smiles.
It was a beautiful day. The whole city was festive. They had sectioned off the block in front of the precinct. The street was multi-color balloons and signs that read things “like thank you for everything” and “real heroes”. The whole block smelled of hot dogs and funnel cake. The officer’s families were all out. The children ran around throwing balls and laughing. It had the feel of a mini carnival.
George watched as all the boys in blue went at each other’s neck. Nathan received the brunt of it that day. To initiate the new guys the older officers would joke on them pretty bad at their first celebration. It was a little ritual that the administration frowned upon but the officers kept up diligently.

“Nathan!” George spurted as they got close.

“George!” Nathan replied. The lovely couple came over. “This is my wife Ally!”

“Hello Al,” They made eye contact. George noted that was the first time he’d ever coveted his brother’s wife, but it was not the last. He couldn’t have known that Nathan and Ally would become his and Jeanine’s best couple friends. Nor could he have known that Nathan would go and get himself caught up with a coked up high school sweetheart who suddenly reappeared into his life. If someone would have told him that when Ally found Nathan knee deep in another woman one spring afternoon when she came home early from work because Ryan was sick, that she would have came to confide in him he would have died of laughter. He wasn’t laughing when the affair started, and he wasn’t the one who died.

I gave him such a hard time that day. He remembers the day when Nathan first joined the academy. He was a young guy, with the hard-ass of a hardnosed veteran. He was a cocky little son bitch, as George would sometime say, but he was hard working.

George looks down at his clothing covered in blood. He sees the blood on his fingertips. Nathan’s blood is on my hands settles into his mind. He had always heard the term to have blood on your hands but he thought the words never grasped the full meaning of it. His palms were highlighted velvet. Stained like the shirt Nathan ruined that day. His hands stained in death. He looks up at the man in the white gloves, the man who had stolen Nathan from his family.

George is brought back to reality by the raising tone in the white gloved man’s voice. He holds in a sympathetic whimper. What am I doing? I need a plan. I need to see his face, I’ll get enough information to put him away and at least I can identify him, he reasons.

“Black Yukon Xl, uh huh got it…I know…who is this guy?...one of our guys?”

Who was he talking to? He was right, this wasn’t just some young punk with a gun terrorizing a couple through the streets, not with the way this guy was shooting. This was an organization of some sort.

“...What is this some kind of family reunion why are we complicating this? Listen, I’ve told you I’ve already been engaged by the …”

George tries to listen with the discerning ear of a detective. His hands shake. His mouth is dry and tastes of cigarettes and fear.

“take her alive? I can’t do that… I don’t care they blew up Jimmy!” the man in the white gloves strains to control his voice.

“Crap, I think they heard me,” He ducks down. More than one pair of footsteps pitter-pat outside.

George shuffles back clumsily.

“What the!” the white gloved man looks down.

Bang ! Bang! Bang ! George jumps backward down the stairs. He fires back.

“You mother fucker!” The white gloved man screams without restraint. “Change of plans I’ll call you back,” he clasps the phone shut.

Pain buzzes through George’s back but holds his gun firm.

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahah

a!”

“I’m getting tired of that stupid fucking laugh.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bullets come flying through the door at the white gloved man.

“So it’s like this now? I’ll play.” He says giggling. He pulls a second gun out from behind his back and cocks it. He kicks open the door and sends a round of shots that way.

Glass shatters. A car alarm is sound.

“Turn that off will ya!” The white gloved man shouts into the lot. He fires into through the broken glass square in the door. His laugh echoes through the stair well jumping in the spaces that the gunshots forgot.

George thinks to run.

“And you!” bullets ring down around George from above like metal rain. “You must have a fucking death wish! You’re chasing me? You’re following me?”

More shots ring down the stairs. George is stuck, if he tries to run he’ll expose himself. Quick, quick, quick I need a plan. But there was no escaping the moment, it was either kill or be killed. If I can just hold out until back up comes. I wish I would have requested swat instead of a CSI team, he thinks dryly.

“You don’t follow me, I follow you,” the deranged gloved man laughs. “Do you hear me old man? You fucked up.”

Engine humming, car tires screech, doors open and close. Yes back-up is here, took them long enough.

“Fuck!” the white gloved man kicked the door to the parking lot. He runs out of the stairwell shooting as the car shrieks away. George starts heading down the stairs as fast as he can. What was going on? If that wasn’t back-up who was it?

“Fuck! Ah you just ruined everything!” the white gloved man screams. His shout echoes through the whole complex.

George takes the stairs by leaping flights. Adrenaline overcomes the pain in his back. The door to the first floor bursts open as the Black Yukon Xl rams through the divider. The pieces shatter as sirens howl in the near distance.

Part 9: Pursuit

November 2nd 2009

To Whom It May Concern:

Sorry to all my consistent readers that felt the sting of our long awaited absence. As I stated in chapter one silhouette was a project I was doing for class and that class ended. However a year later, I am reinvigorated with the creativity I need to fuel this bad boy back up. First off I wanted to come to some kind of conclusion for these characters. I have sat down for hours. I have re-read all the stories, my personal notes and worked out where this started, and how it will end, and I'm sure you should all be in for a treat. To anyone who wishes to refresh their memory all of the old silhouettes are in my old notes in 2008 under more notes.


without and further ado I present Silhouette:

More shots come from around the corner.

"I told you....I...had....a ...a...hunch..ssshhh," Detective Nathan Ramone gasps out his final breath of air, he looks out to the world, eyes glazed, as his head falls limply into George's lap; lifeless. George clutches his buddies head to his stomach. He presses the right button on the radio to speak, he presses the plastic to his lips. His breaths come in short bursts.

"Nathan!" tears well up in his eyes, "Nathan," he shakes his partner’s bloody body violently. He pounds at his chest splashing with each strike. A snarls forms on his face. He looks up at the corner he had recently fired at. Instinctively he reloads his gun.

He stands slowly then turns toward the corner. He starts off slowly but then takes off in a trot. He jogs with his gun raised toward the man in the white gloves, covered in his best friend’s blood.

Now was not the time to say I told you so, but Det. George Thomas could feel the guilt of death gripping his shoulder. Cold sweat bubbles on his face as his breathing gets deeper. He presses his body to the brick building and peeks around the corner. Nothing. He looks up at the fire escape above him. He tries to survey the street.

The black top reflects the light from the street lamps into his eye. The cars wall glows blue than red and blue continuously like the lights of an out-door rave. He holds his gun firmly. He notices that this side street is less crowded with cars. He looks for the distinctive white gloves, ready to fire. He thinks of the funeral arrangements to come. He thinks of the long walk from the driveway to the front door of his home where his wife sleeps unsuspecting. I just want to go home tonight, but now was not the time to think I told you so.

Bang!

The bullet blows the brick wall apart near his face. Bits of rock shatter on his face as he pulls away.

“Argh!” he fires back wildly into the night. Get control of yourself, Detective.

More bullets follow in similar fashion wedging and ricocheting off of the building. The street is a cacophony of blasting rock and ringing. Where is he? The ringing stops momentarily. George falls to the floor. Whoever this guy is, he’s an incredibly accurate shot. The old pain in his back starts to remind him why he filed for that desk job.

Then the sickening laughter begins once more. It bounces off of the walls; George could feel it surrounding him. Footsteps signaled movement away from him. He peeks around the corner again. The white gloves flash as the man starts to fade into the distance.

Bang! Bang! Bang! George squeezes at the fading figure. He trots forward.

He glances left and right ever so often. What the hell was going on? Maybe I should wait for backup crosses his mind as he remembers his partner’s lifeless body alongside his car in the middle of the street. But he was all impulse, and anger. There could be no turning back now.

He fights the urged to keel over in pain. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a small prescription bottle. It rattles revealingly as he fingers helplessly at the little pills, and shoves too many in his mouth. He chokes it down without water.

He moves as cautiously as possible. He knows that as soon as the drugs kick-in he’ll be able to pursue with something reminiscent of his youthful vigor. He had earned the name cowboy, for his fast drawing antics in the streets. He tries to remind himself of worst times, to curb the growing feeling he wasn’t going to survive this. He looks into the blackened storefront windows. No one was out, no one was awake. Anyone who was in the area must’ve run for cover when they heard gunshots.

The trail was starting to cool as he began to trot. His trot becomes a full sprint. He runs for two blocks. He is stopped abruptly by a clue. On the floor in front of him is a bloody rag, soaked all the way through. He points his gun in all directions as he goes passed a brightly lit parking complex. The open structure glows an off orange red. There are few cars inside. He looks into the florescent bulletproof security booth. He sees a black woman who looks pre-occupied with some kind of screen.

Tap, tap.

She doesn’t move. He looks around frantically.

Tap, tap.

His index and middle finger hit the glass again. This time she looks up. She makes eye contact with George and looks back at the tiny television. He taps again. She points to a sign on the window that reads: PLEASE DIVERT ALL QUESTIONS TO OUR WEBSITE AT FREEPARK24@GMAIL.COM AND NOT THE GUARD THANK YOU

He taps again with annoyance.

She turns on the speaking monitor.

“You can’t read?” she grunts angrily.

He flashes his badge to the window.

“Detective George Thomas Chicago PD.”

“And? I’m trying to watch my pictures.”

“Did you see a man with white gloves run by?”

“What?”

“A man, with white gloves, did you see a one running by about 6’ tall, wore a black-“

“No, I ain’t seen no man with black gloves. Sorry.” She says as she abruptly cuts off the speaker. She turns back towards the television.

He taps once more patienceless. The static click of the speaker turns on once more.

“What is it now?”

“A couple? Did you see a couple come in here in the last I don’t know ten or fifteen minutes.”

“A couple?”

“Yes. A fucking couple.”

“Listen officer you don’t need to cuss at me, I’m a defender of the public as well.”

“I’m sorry, this is a life and death situation, have you seen a couple.”

“Yes I saw a couple.”

“Did you get a good look at them?”

“No not quite, they just came in and took the elevator up stairs. I didn’t pay no mind to it except right
before they came a car had just recently pulled in. But I saw the man driving and his hands didn’t have no white gloves or nothing.”

“That’s all.”

His eyes look over at the metallic door on the far side of the complex.

“That elevator?”

“Yes,” she pauses “you said this was a life and death situation?”

“Yeah,” he shouts as he trots over toward the elevator.

“Should I call the cops?”

“I am the cops.”

He examines the door closely. Blood. He looks down and sees blood on the concrete as well. Did he hit
the man with the white gloves or did this belong to one of the couples? He drops down to feel the blood on his finger tips. Warm. Whoever it belongs to, it’s fresh. He remembers the hurried couple that the man with the white gloves was chasing and wondered how they fit into it.

Just then sirens blare behind him. He turns back quickly, more fire trucks, they must be stuck behind his car.

“Fuck” he whispers under his breath. Going back would mean letting this murdering bastard get away without so much as a description. But there was a building on fire, many innocent lives lay in the balance. He was an old man he was going to get himself killed. Who was he kidding, chasing shooters in the middle of the night with no back-up?…Nathan.

He runs back to the security booth. He notices the woman staring alertly.

“ Is everything okay? I’m nervous.”

“You’ll be fine, in there. Call 911 tell them that you spoke to Detective George Thomas, and he needs a crime scene investigation team immediately. Badge number 9821”

“Okay, this is exciting, I feel like I’m on Law and Order.”

“One more thing, did the couple leave? Did a car pull out since they came?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I have to open the gate manually.”

“If a car comes to leave no matter what happens, don’t let them out.”

“I can’t do that, it’s against policy, if they pay I can lose my job.”

“Listen! My fucking partner just died tonight alright! If you let anyone out you’ll go to jail for interfering with an investigation!”

His heart races as he pushes the button to the elevator. He steps in and presses all the buttons and steps out of the elevator before the door closes. He runs back over to the booth.

“I’m sorry for cursing at you.”

The security guard smiles with the phone to her ear and waves him on. He opens the door to the stairwell cautiously. His heart races uncontrollably as it swings towards him revealing a dank grey concrete stairwell. He swallows hard like an old cowboy does before a gun fight, and thinks of who will make the walk from his driveway to his front door in the morning.

Part 8: Laughter

November 20th 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

It's been a full week since the last installment of Silhouette. That's because I wanted the new changes to have time to sink in with the audience. Last notes comments were pretty funny. For the record drunk commenting is allowed but it is frowned upon lol but thank you Loves. Shout out to Kylie P. who I promised would have a shout out in this note lol. Um yeah so we're at an interesting place in our story, we are following Det George Thomas and his Cowboy-esque partner. I've recently been given a lot of creative inspiration from the new 88 keys album the death of Adam, to the new James Bond: Quantum Solace (thanks box) to some interesting conversations that people have been engaging me in. I hope that people are able to follow on, and I appreciate those who are not afraid to hold my writing to a high standard of expectancy and quality, and ultimately entertainment.


So without any further ado I present Silhouette:

The street they turn onto to head back toward the fire is dark accept from the light from the burning building. They drive slow. Empty cars line the street. The firelight blinds the moon and glares off of the buildings around.The road seems more like an alley than a street but is still two way.They eye a man and a woman walking fast and looking back frequently.

"Look at this," Detective Thomas motions to the jogging couple in the formal attire track suits.

"Haha hot date..."

The small burst of light in front of them draws their attention. Three shots rang out flying passed the car from the dark toward the couple. The two detectives jump ducking lower than the dashboard. George lets out a high pitched yelp.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Shots fire from all direction.

"What the Hell!" Detective Thomas yells, as he watches his partner hops out the car instinctively.

"Just like the old days!" he yells as he ducks behind the door for cover. George stays in the car but reluctantly puts it in park.

"Not like the old days..." he whispers to him from across the front seat. They can hear the sirens low hum in the background as fire trucks start to come calm the blazing skyscraper. The fire spreads onto other floors. For a moment it seems as if they're alone.

"Nathan ...stay in the car! Wait...fuck...", George looks up as more shots lodge into the windshield above him. He tries to watch where Nathan is going.

Nathan posts up behind one of the park cars along the passenger's side of the road. He peeks up and sees the gunman, he is about a half a block away. He shoots.

"Shit, this motherfucker is shooting at us! Back me up!" Nathan yells. He moves down toward the gunman. No wonder that couple was running, he thinks as he creeps along side the road. He looks around for others. He peaks into side mirrors of the car to check behind him. He looks up into the windows of the high rises around him. First a fire, in the middle of the city, and now a gunman shooting in public, I don't know what to expect, he thinks.

"Hahahaha," a hearty sound comes from the other side of the parked cars.

"Nathan," he tries to shout and whisper,"get back in the car lets call for back up." He fiddles with the radio for the dispatcher. His hands shake like a man with Parkinson. Get a hold of yourself old man, he coaxes himself.

Footsteps and gun shots fill the sky. George hears Nathan yell "Chicago PD!". He peaks up and catches a glimpse of the man with the white leather gloves. The gloves shine brightly in contrast with the mans full black attire.

George hops out of the car. He feels the old familiar ache in his lower back. His door is so close to the other side of the road he can't squeeze passed the door. He opts not to close and uses it for cover. He looks around. He can see Nathan but he can't see the shooter. I need a better angle, crosses his mind as the pain in his back screams. He crouches again, gasping in pain.

Four gun shots rang out. They find their rest in brick walls and shattered glass store fronts.

"Nathan!" he yells to his partner.

His life is at 100 mph. He hunches low against the door to the back seat of the four door impala. He inches toward the trunk. The street is so tight, the parked cars create a small metal hallway. He pops up above the trunk, gun drawn.

Bang Bang Bang! He hears the sound of the holes forming in the truck. The thud sounds like small hammers against piping and smell of smoke and burning metal. He feels the cold sweat falling down his face. It's cold enough to see your breath.

He ducks down again. His heart pounding. Deep breath, he thinks, deep breath. He peeks around the side of the trunk.

Bang!

This time the bullet whizzes by him as he pulls back a fraction of a second in time. He sees the tire on the Honda Civic parked next to him slowly deflate. The hissing sound fills the night air. He fumbles for his radio.

"Hahahahaha!"

He hears laughter. It's deep and full. A sinister laugh that you hear in the movies, but more comfortable than a dirty uncle at a Thanksgiving table. The shooter was laughing at him! He feels the anger filling in his chest.

"Nathan!" he tries to say louder this time. It is so dark.

The laughter stops, and then the street is an echo of footsteps. The Footsteps turn into a run. He looks up and sees their assailant heading toward the corner in a full sprint. He fires at the space between the flashing white gloves, as the man runs away. He starts to take off down the street.

"George," he hears his name gasped. He turns and sees the sparkle of the crimson field dripping under neath the parked cars like spilled oil. In the midst his partner lays slumped his head rested against the front tire. His legs bent and crooked under the car adjacent him. He convulses and spits. His movements are sharp breaths and rolling eyes.

"Oh shit, Nathan! Jesus fucking Christ!" He rushes back towards the car and slides into a kneel beside his wounded partner. He looks at the cowboy who lost the draw. Just another day in the wild west?

"Some fire...?" he coughs blood as he thrashes about.

"We got to get you to the hospital, you're going into shock." Detective Thomas fumbles in his pocket to find his radio:10-108...10-108! Officer down!...Officer down! Suspect is a white male in a trench coat with white leather gloves, no facial ID, I repeat no facial ID! Suspect is armed and dangerous!"

No response.

"Take my hand...." Nathan, the cowboy detective, reaches feebly.

Shots can be heard coming from around the corner where the white gloved man just ran. George tries not to be distracted but the sound makes his hair stand on end.

"Sshh! Don't talk, save your energy buddy, it's going to be alright. Stupid!" he fumbles with his coat to try to press it against his chest to stop the bleeding. He adjusts his legs a bit." Why did you get out the car, I told you to stay in the car!" he tries to look anywhere but in Nathan's eyes. His world slows as the kiss of death hovers above.

More shots come from around the corner.

"I told you....I...had....a ...a...hunch..ssshhh," Detective Nathan Ramone gasps out his final breath of air, he looks out to the world, eyes glazed, as his head falls limply into George's lap; lifeless. George clutches his buddies head to his stomach. He presses the right button on the radio to speak, he presses the plastic to his lips. His breaths come in short bursts.

"Nathan!" tears well up in his eyes, "Nathan," he shakes his partners bloody body violently. He pounds at his chest splashing with each strike. A snarls forms on his face. He looks up at the corner he had recently fired at. Instinctively he reloads his gun.

He stands slowly then turns toward the corner. He starts off slowly but then takes off in a trot. He jogs with his gun raised toward the man in the white gloves, covered in his best friends blood.

part 7: Coincidence

November 13 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

Thank you to everyone who helped for the continual inspiration. What we're dealing with here is a new era in the Silhouette series. I have to tell you where I decided to go with it was a bit of a whim, but I think this idea was for the best. I'm trying to prepare you without any spoiler warnings. Someone said Sin City though and they got me excited. Um, for those who care I wrote this section with no music, just me and the commotion of the city. Someone look into the validity of the geographical markers I'm using.



Now without any further ado I present Silhouette:

“It’s a slow night eh cowboy?” The driver turns his face to his partner.

"Yeah a real nerve jerker," they laugh. The cowboy's suit is crisp save the coffee stain on his shirt collar. He wears a navy blue jacket, with black holster that looks like old-fashioned suspenders. His coat is long and button. It is marred with dirt from sliding across dusty floors, and brushes with the concrete.

"Almost forgot to take this off." The driver rests his wrist on the wheel to stair. He blinks at the headlights, then twists the gold band around his ring finger. "The misses would never understand if I lost this thing."

"Oh she'd understand alright: Damnit George you were out at the bars again," they laugh again.

"Yeah, yeah, what about your old lady? You go out to the bar and she's calling my cell: Hello Detective Thomas, Detective Thomas, sorry to bother you but have you seen Na-" he's more interrupted by the sound of the cowboy's hand against the back of his head, than he was the slight sting.

"Eh, knock it out."

"What?"

"That's my wife."

"Whatdya mean? A second ago..."

"Hey," he says with finality as Detective Thomas trails off.

"What?"

"Knock it off."

"Alright, alright, alright already. I'll quit it."

The car smells of old coffee and cigarettes. The leather seating is ripped on the side of the both chairs and starting to fade. The driver looks ahead still filled with the annoying feeling in his chest building. The cars lights blur into a continual stream.

"You want to take a quick spin into the South Side?"

"No I'm not looking for trouble tonight, just wanna get it and get out."

"God bless Chicago."

"Amen."

"Pull over."

"Where?"

"There," he points out the window.

"Dunkin Donuts, really?"

"I need more coffee."

"Uh huh."

"What?"

The car bumps up into the drive through of Dunkin Donuts. The car bounces spilling old coffee out of the old McDonald's cup and onto the ground but neither men pay it any mind. They pull around into the line of the drive through. A group of young girls stands outside, they huddle together in the cold giggling.

"Look at that right there," the detective calls out with a whistle.

"Shut up," a blond one in a red sweater yells back.

"Hello, welcome to Dunkin Donuts can I take your order."

George turns to his partner: What do you want? he asks.

"Give me 3 jelly filled, one Boston creme, and a frosted, and get one for yourself."

"That it?"

"Yeah,"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I thought you said you wanted coffee?"

"What differences does it make, get me a coffee."

"Hello sir can I take your order?"

"Hold on will ya? I want 3 jelly filled-" he's interrupted by the radio in the car:

All cars we have a 2267 may be in process, in the loop off of Roosevelt road.

" Does that complete your order?"

Detective Thomas looks to his partner. The age worn lines in his face wrinkle as he wraps his mind around what the radio is trying to say. He frowns. The sounds of the radio and the voice from the speaker box mangle into a ruckus.

"Did you ear that? We're right around there..." his voice falls into the damp spots of coffee on the car floor. He looks around.

"I don't see a fire?"

All cars emergency, emergency, 2267...

"This has had to have just started."

"Sir does that complete your order."

"Shut up!" they both yell at the Dunkin Donuts speaker box.

"What are we waiting for lets go?"

"I don't know George, I was looking forward to a quiet night, some Dunkin Donuts. We're not on a case, their are tons of units out, I mean its only an Arson."

"We're probably the closest in proximity we have to respond."

"Excuse me, sir, excuse me can you please complete your order or move your car."

With those words floating between them they speed out of the line and onto the street.

"Turn your sirens on!" The cowboy partner insists. They had not been driving for 45 seconds when they saw it. A dazzling blaze spitting out of the windows of a high raiser. They watch as the inferno licks at the side of the building reflecting off of the glass exterior. Things crackle and pop. They race toward the building commotion as everyone speeds away. People in the streets stare and point, while others start to scurry in panic.

"Why are we here we're not not firefighters." Detective Thomas leans forward over the wheel to look up at the flame as they drive closer. They pull up to the building as people come pouring out of the front. They hear fire truck sirens in the distance. They turn their sirens off and continue.

"I don't know pull around back."

They drive a couple one way streets passed the building and spin around.

"For what? What are we doing?" Detective Thomas asks exasperatingly.

"Just pull around, I have a hunch, so pull around."

"You have a hunch? It's a fire, you got a hunch," he mocks sarcastically.

The street they turn onto to head back toward the fire is dark accept from the light from the burning building. They drive slow. Empty cars line the street. The firelight blinds the moon and glares off of te buildings around.The road seems more like an alley than a street but is still two way.They eye a man and a woman walking fast and looking back frequently.

"Look at this," Detective Thomas motions to the jogging couple in the formal attire track suits.

"Haha hot date..."

The small burst of light in front of them draws their attention. Three shots rang out flying passed the car from the dark toward the couple. The two detectives jump ducking lower than the dashboard. George lets out a high pitched yelp.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Shots fire from all direction.

"What the Hell!"

Part 6: Exodus

November 10th 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

Okay this is good we're starting to develop some sentiment towards the characters their thought processes and the decisions they're making. I hope you're ready for this...

I'm looking for another venue or online based community to share this work, so if you think that this is worth investing a little extra online time it'd be greatly appreciated. I like to thank everyone for their comments last note, and I ENCOURAGE YOU ALL TO RESPOND TO EACH OTHER. Reading that is simply inspiring.As always the beginning of the story will be the last few paragraphs of the last story. Big ups to Obama! Yes We Can.

Now with no further ado I present Silhouette:

Where did he go? Anxiety enters with the moonlight. It slithers across the hardwood floor, passed the tapestry, passed the wine cabinet with the phone, and over to Delilah. Panic starts to pull at he. She feels her legs get weak.

She jumps startled as she hears shots fire in the hall.

She falls back in horror, and puts her hands over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. The feel of her own fingers brings to mind the hands that just touched her mouth. His hands, his dead cold hands. Why did she let him go out there? And now that he was gone who was going to protect her. He was dead she knew it, and it was all her fault. Just like the broker, just like Allen. She was a dark omen, with the blood of men on her hands and in her shadow. Don't scream, she screams in her mind. Don't scream; more shots fire. Than all that's left is silence.

The door burst open. She screams and fires four times...

Her hands fall to the side. The freshly fired gun warms her hands. She feels the muscle strain from the recoil. The air still rings with the echo of gun shots.

Death enters the room with the moonlight and the wind. He swoons over his victim and kisses him. Delilah watches. I just killed a man is the first thought she thinks. Then she exhales. The situation dulls the buzz of the wine, and sobers her. I am the hunter, she remembers. Memories of her training at the department flash through her mind:

She could still visualize the dull grey firing range. It was in the basement of the division building in Arizona. She had stood in a line of 25 recruits from all the different sectors of government, business, and the armed forces. She was invited for her skills with technology, but she was selected for her accuracy:

"Two in the head two in the heart" Don screams as she aims at the dummy.

Four shots ring out.

"Very good, Janine."

"Thank you, Don."

"You're going to make an excellent field agent."

She laughs. I'm going to make an excellent field agent she thinks. Her body moves mechanically all her emotions are drained from her. All that's left are instincts and detached thoughts.

"Watch the windows," Anderson had said. She crawls over to the dead body. The first thing she notices is the bowl hat near the head. The man's face was torn and bloody. His clothes quickly soak with blood, quicker than the broker she thinks. She looks into the hallway, remembering Anderson saying that maybe their were more. She peeks her head out the door swiftly and comes back, no one to the left. She sticks her head out once more to the right.

"Delilah."

"Shit..." she gets off of her knees and runs to him. Laying slump in the midst of the hallway lay the wounded lion of a man.

"Good shooting." he croaks bloody.

"Anderson, you're shot."

"Flesh wound." he tries to stand, but groans in pain. He manages to sit forward with her help.

"You're crazy."

"That's how we have to be." He breathes heavy. She examines the wounds, nothing had penetrated any major arteries...he would live. Her hands caress his face tenderly.

"Think we woke the neighbors?" she flashes a smile. He laughs in pain and spits blood.

"They're pretty solid sleepers, but yes."

"I'm glad you wore your vest."

"We can't stay here...." he forces himself to his feet. The wound in his arm and shoulder drip onto the carpet.

"Shhh.. They never send one, its always two. His partner will be here soon when he doesn't check in."

He walks slowly to the dead body in his doorway and looks it up and down. He kicks it once. He kicks it twice.

"What happened?"

"When I came out the door I just rushed him. We fought a bit. Than I lost my footing, and my shoe. He gun butted me and shot me three times. That's when he kicked in the door and you shot him."

"I killed a man."

"Yes a bad man, he shot me, and was going to ki-" she silences him with a bloodied finger to his lips. His blood is sticky between his mouth and her finger.

"It's okay Anderson, I knew the consequences." she pause for a brief moment. "What now?" she asks.

"We get out."

"We have to clean this up somehow."

Delilah runs to the bathroom and grabs cleaning materials. Mop...Bucket... Bleach... 407... Ammonia... Pine for the hardwood. I just killed a man, she thinks once more. Her hands move precisely, she had to be strong. When she returned from the bathroom Anderson had already wrapped the body in plastic, and was putting it into a large duffle bag.

"How'd you like your first week in the field?"

She doesn't respond. She pours pine and ammonia on the floor haphazardly and mops as fast as she can. The world is music and sloshing buckets.

"Turn that music off," she commands. He complies.

Anderson walks back into the living room. They stand across the room from each other, the couch in between. Moments earlier there was a dead body where she stood, now the room looks as inviting as it ever did. As he gets closer she can smell the gasoline on his clothing.She surveys the room. It looks almost as clean as when they first arrived.

They walk to the doorway together.

"Did you leave the pilates on like I asked?"

"Yes."

"Did you call the police from the house line?"

"Yes."

"I just got a text from Don."

"Then shall we?"

The two turn and leave the apartment side by side. As they exit Anderson pulls out two cigarettes. He lights both. He takes one pull of the first. Then he lights the other. He tosses it lightly in the air.
The gasoline meets the cigarette, the embers of the tobacco excite the sodden hardwood floor.

As they exit out the back they hear the room explode. Sirens blare in the distance growing nearer. She clutches to Anderson side, to help him stay afloat.

Vrrm. A bullet whizzes by her head and fractures the building behind her. She throws Anderson to the side and pulls her gun. Two more bullets whiz by...

Part 5: Exposed

November 5th 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

I'm feeling a bit rushed because its late and I want to eat. I was a little disappointed with the poor comment show out on part 4. This is mostly because of the large turnout for part 3. I have been told by some of my consistent following that commenting makes them uncomfortable. Understandable; but I'm putting myself out there with you...so know you're not alone. I've taken everyone's comments into serious consideration. I wanted to wait a bit before putting out this next part because this is going to be good if you're into it. I'm going to be doing a little video about how silhouette has been going from my point of view: thanks to Lindsay Gandolfo (thank you). Trying to be as interactive as possible. I think the best thing you can do to help me out, if you want, is tell a friend about the series :-D. So when we left off someone was outside the door....Thank you so much for your continued support.


Now without any further ado I present Silhouette:

Writing in the Nude

"Where are we meeting Don?" She walks over to meet him at the door.

"We're not." He meets her there with their coats. They snap and button up as they talk:

"We're not? What do you mean we're not? Who are we meeting?"

"I don't know."

"You ...don't ...know?"

"Whoever it is will text me right now we need to get out of the city."

Anderson opens the front door slowly and looks out into the hallway. He peers left before looking right, and quickly closes the door.

"Someone's out there."

"Who's out there," she turns suddenly?

"I do not know."

"What's the matter? Why does it matter that someone's out there?"

"It's not a resident."

"So...what's that mean?" he puts his hand to her mouth and pulls her closely. He stares into her eyes deeply.


"Shh!" he whispers under his breath, "Stay away from the windows. We need to get out of here." He turns sweepingly to the door and peers out of the peep hole. The man stood there in a full suit, similar to the one Anderson wore. He wore a long pea coat that touched his knees as he moved. His movements were subtle and uncontrived. He wore a bowl hat so low that Anderson could not make out his face. He walks slowly toward the door with his hand in his pockets. Anderson turns around to face Delilah. Her face falls despairingly. He feels the despair from her frown more fully than the possibility of the moment.

"Well who is he?" she whispers.

"I can't tell."

"Did he see you?"

Anderson had been wondering that since he shut the door. Hearing it out loud made the thought more real to him. He was certain he wasn't seen, but life's certainties always had a way of turning on him.

"What do we do?"

"Give me a second to think?"

"Do we have a second?"

"You always have a second."

"Don't give me that Anderson shit right now...I'm really sca-..." her words were interupted by Anderson's hand once more. She imagined how many people had felt his hand like this, against their face in all. Was he always this gentle? She knew he had killed people before, with those hands. Yet they felt soft. She shivered to herself.

"Shh! I have an idea. Make sure your piece is ready."

"What are we going to do?"

"We aren't going to do anything, cover me." he pulls out a smooth silver browning 9mmx. He had to have just cleaned it because it reflected the moonlight as he flashed briefly through the moonlight. He knew they must have thought that she had come here alone if they only sent one agent. Either that or the whole building was littered with them. How did they know where he was. They hadn't just blown cover. They had to be set-up. The whole mission was compromised. He attaches the silencer to his piece with mechanical efficiency.

The music in the background played eerily, like a real life soundtrack, as Anderson positions Delilah behind the couch. She thought it was ironic to have the couch between her and him again. Suddenly old thoughts returned. The protector, he was a lion protecting his den. She watched him as he walked gallantly to the door trying to fight images of him being mowed down. She squeezes her eyes tight and tries to push out the vision of the dead broker under the table. One second he is speaking about stock options and analysis' and the next second he's staring blankly at frantic shoes.

It was as if it was meant to be the way the bullet had come through the crowd and found his forehead. She was supposed to be closing a deal and leaving, but the broker had been extremely chatty. She tried to be speedy but he kept going off topic.

"My son turns 17 today. He's my oldest. He's a soccer player" he kept saying in his heavy accent: Anton, he had said his name was

It hadn't made any sense how his head whipped back. His body limp fell to the ground without resisting gravity's pull. Anderson was there before she could realize the plan had botched; Her protector coming to save her from the failed hunt.

"Anderson," she projects her whisper. Tears well in her eyes to the point of breaking, if she were to blink it'd be hopeless. The 45 in her hand wavers shakily.

"Not now..." he mouths as he puts his back to the door. He peeks through the peep hole: nothing. Relief. Maybe it was someone visiting a neighbor. He turns around in relief. Delilah smiles at his relaxed demeanor. He glimpses the clock on the wall 1:13am. That can't be right, he thinks before he crouches slowly. Delilah follows in fashion confused.

She watches him as he places his hand on the knob and opens it slowly sliding a small glass out the door. Her heart races. Her forehead is sweat and fear, she knows that if all goes right she's still going to have to reapply her eyeliner. She blinked and Anderson was gone...the door still slightly ajar.

Where did he go? Anxiety enters with the moonlight. It slithers across the hardwood floor, passed the tapestry, passed the wine cabinet with the phone, and over to Delilah. Panic starts to pull at he. She feels her legs get weak.

She jumps startled as she hears shots fire in the hall.

She falls back in horror, and puts her hands over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. The feel of her own fingers brings to mind the hands that just touched her mouth. His hands, his dead cold hands. Why did she let him go out there? And now that he was gone who was going to protect her. He was dead she knew it, and it was all her fault. Just like the broker, just like Allen. She was a dark omen, with the blood of men on her hands and in her shadow. Don't scream, she screams in her mind. Don't scream; more shots fire. Than all that's left is silence.

The door burst open. She screams and fires four times...

Part 4: Cover

October 30th 2008

To Whom It May Concern

Silhouette has become a fun project not going to lie. Okay since last we left off we found out Allen is dead. So now it's like what does that mean and where do we go from here right? lol I know. So Anderson and Delilah, whats up with them? lol I know. I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I just re-read parts 1-3 so that I can refresh my memory on things. I'm still listening to Ne-yo "lie to me". I'm not going to lie its a good soundtrack to read to...I think I'll have a link to music soon. For people who want the full experience. I see people getting interactive in the comments. Thank you for your time and energy. I like to thank Cara and Toby for generating insightful commenting. Thanks to Brooke for your comments as well. If you're enjoying this guys please tell your friends, and if you read please comment. Thank you,

I'm going to post a note just about the process for writing this note because I think I put a lot of advice from the comments in it and I just want to keep the process open, because this project is really about the whole project. P.S. This part is dedicated to Anu, who even from the other side of the country continues to urge me to be the fighter I was born to be.

Now without further ado I present Silhouette:

Sometimes it's not what's said but what's not said.

"Well did they get the license plate number, at least?...You're kidding...So where is he now? ...You don't know!," he yells. Delilah watches from behind the door molding. She wonders if she's ever heard Anderson raise his voice before, "Find out and call me back do you hear me? Find out and call me back?"

He closes the phone violently and throws it on the couch. He exhales deeply, and turns to see her in the doorway.

"What's the matter?" she asks.

"Nothing, i just hate taking my shoes off and having to put them back on."

"What? Wait? Why?" she asks confused as she scurries back to the couch.

"What is it?"

"It's Allen, he's dead."

"Dead!" her words echo in her head.

"Yes,"

"Was that Don on the phone?"

"Yes. We have to go?"

"We have to go, where are we going?"

"We need to leave."

"Where to? Where are we leaving to? We came here because we had nowhere else to go. This was it, remember, we said we'd never meet here unless we had to. We're here, right? Where do we go now?"

"The department has a place for us."

"He's dead."

"Yes?"

"That little boy,"

"He was 24."

"He's dead?" she walks to the sofa with the paper towels in her hand. She feels her pants moisten, but doesn't care. She hears herself saying the words but doesn't feel her lips moving as she repeats herself over and over.

Anderson slides closer to her and puts his arms on her shoulders and pulls her closer.

"We have to go our cover has been blown, it's not safe here anymore."

"But you told me I was safe with you."

"You still are, but this is how these things work, Delilah."

"Stop calling me Delilah!" she pulls away from him. She tries to stand but stumbles a bit backward and falls down. She feels herself start to well up inside. She sits there a moment in the moment, the music in the background breaths melodrama. She inhales. Anderson is still.

"Are you okay?" he walks towards her and crouches down beside her. She thinks he's going to help her up but he sits next to her. She looks at him, something seems odd about the suit he's in touching hardwood. She likes the contrast.

"I'm sorry Anderson, it's just been a lot today." she rests her head in his chest. She thinks of the first time she saw Anderson. He was wearing a grey fitted suit with a white shirt and black tie. His black shoes were shined to the point of perfection and his hair was trimmed. He had seemed so removed from the rest of the department. The way he walked, the way he talked, all seemed old fashioned and tailored. She didn't know anyone like him.

"It's not always like this." he whispers into her hair. She hugs him. For a moment they embrace.

"You're only wearing one shoe," she whispers somberly.

Her aroma enters his nose. His hands massage, and then caress her lower back and side. She nuzzles her face in his chest and squeezes him tighter. She lets out a slow sigh as his lips stroke her hair. She looks up into his eyes. He sees the warm tears falling from her eyes. They feel cold against his skin. Their world becomes nibbles, bites, and warm breath. Her touch is gentle. She puts her hand on the back of his head. They pull away for a moment and look at each other.

"I didn't know what I was getting into."

"None of us did."

"It's not like the movies."

He lets out a small burst of laughter, "No it's not."

"I drank more than I thought."

"You finished a bottle by yourself."

"I haven't done that since college"

"You okay?" He dips his head low as if trying to look under a table. He's low enough to look up at her under her hair. She looks up and smiles at him.

"Yeah, I'm better."

"Good. I need you working at maximum capacity."

"Are we talk business now?" She says as he helps her to her feet. They brush themselves off and walk back toward the couch. Anderson sits to finish putting on his shoes.

"Yeah, I think we have to, but right now we have to go so we need to walk and talk and be quick." He gets up and goes into the bedroom briskly. Delilah picks up her purse. She stares at the .45 in her purse, before zipping it up and swinging it over her shoulder.

"Okay."

"I deleted all the files on the drive and saved the important things to three hard drives. One for me, one for you, and one was for Allen, but I guess that's a dead end."

"Wait, wait wait. I still don't know what's going on. What happened to Allen?"

"Someone must of found out he was an informant."

"Was it because of me?"

" I don't know."

The words echoed in her head. She thinks about Allen pleading for his life as some black eyed man holds a gun to his head. "I want names," the mental ghost screams at the little fat man. She didn't know Allen at all, but he was kind when she met him. Maybe it was because he was so young she felt responsible.

"Allen," Anderson continues " wasn't a saint. He knew the risks of what he was doing just like you did. He was a sweet kid, but, no one's innocent."

"No mercy, right."

"It turns out my suspicions were right, the congressman wasn't hurt in a skiing accident. He was actually in Bolivia meeting with Bennet."

"The mark?"

"Yes."

"Skiing trip was a cover-up." She walks into the bathroom, she looks into the mirror and reapplies her lipstick. She fixes her hair and adjusts her suit properly.

"Correct." Anderson replies as he moves around the apartment packing a backpack. Laptop, check, first aid kit, check, ...he runs through his mental checklist until he's satisfied.

"Where are we meeting Don?" She walks over to meet him at the door.

"We're not." He meets her there with their coats. They snap and button up as they talk:

"We're not? What do you mean we're not? Who are we meeting?"

"I don't know."

"You ...don't ...know?"

"Whoever it is will text me right now we need to get out of the city."

Anderson opens the front door slowly and looks out into the hallway. He peers left before looking right, and quickly closes the door.

"Someone's out there."

Part 3: Honesty

o Whom It May Concern:

Thank you to everyone who's been active in this process. This way of writing can be stressful but you all have made it a great learning experience. Also, I want to acknowledge some people who have contributed outside of the notes in meebo and in messages: Toby, Laura, Lauren, and Joanne. Your words help motivate me. I'm writing this note to the sultry sounds of Ne-yo: "Lie to me" and "what's the matter". FYI the first two paragraphs are the end of the last section (I remembered Vernon lol) I'll answer some questions now

1. Is Delilah an allusion?

Yes and No... I knew the name's association with the Plain White T's song and the Bible story but what the audience gets is more important

2. What does Anderson do that he gets shot at?

haha keep reading

3. Will you use people's advice on where the story should go?

Fo, sho...I'm even entertaining writing alternate middle strands ...i dunno too much heroes

Other questions are spoilers so ...

Without any further ado I present Silhouette:

Words of a Feather...

"You knew the risks," he continues as he watches her crawl towards him. Her hair falls to the sides of her face, and her gaze is constant. He wonders why the world feels like slow motion. She hears his words and wonders if he was reading her mind.

"Here are the consequences," she whispers into existence, as the irresponsible enters the room with the wind, and the moonlight. As her body moves something inside of her begs to roar.

"Is this what you want?" he says breathlessly.

"There's no doubt...just a lingering need to connect." She crawls close enough to sniff his button down. She inhales as she leisurely raises her head up to his. They look at each other face to face. Her breath is warm on his face. "Connect with me...", their noses nearly touch. They share a brief moment of silence. She wonders if the music is even still playing.

"Interesting day, eh?" she entices. The lioness corners her prey. Successfully bypassing its defenses she prepares to strike.

Ring.

For a moment irresponsibility meets awkwardness: they say hi.

Ring

He looks at her caramel kissed face and smiles. Then looks over to ringing wine cabinet.

Ring.

"You have a house phone?" she asks with a giggle, sinking into the couch. She reaches over and squeezes his arm "Aren't you going to get that?" she scoots backward.

He looks back at her, "if it was important they'd call my cell."

"Oh but of course," she retorts. She looks at his forehead, she thinks she sees a bead of sweat. Could Anderson be losing his cool? She wondered if he would say anything about her sudden change in positioning, but knew he wouldn't. That wouldn't be Anderson like at all.

"You know," he pauses for a moment and looks down. He sees her shoes on the ground, the black leather contrasts the hardwood. Heels, a woman is present, he thinks as he slowly raises his head to meet her gaze, "you're safe here."

"I thought we weren't talking business?" She motions her hair out of her face non-nonchalantly, but it falls back in place. She blows upward and it falls behind her head. She resumes the position, her arms behind the arm of the sofa, chest pursed. She watches as he sits back and adjusts himself.

"We're not, I just didn't want you to think I was being Machiavellian when I said-"

"When you said I knew the risks?"

"Yes."

"It's not like you were lying, I knew the risk." She exhales slowly. The words fell from her mouth more apologetic than confident. She'd been working on appearing confident. However trying to look less shook up, was taking its toll. " I don't know, I guess I didn't really know the risk until this afternoon," she began. She tries to block out the screaming restaurant crowd, but the thoughts replay like a film.

"Tell me something about yourself?"

"About myself or about Delilah?"

"Are we all smoke and mirrors tonight?" He asks as he raises up again. He heads back over to the wine cabinet, and pours another drink.

"Why don't you bring the whole bottle?" She turns to watch him walk pass. She doesn't know what she finds attractive about Anderson. He is not ugly but he is not beautiful. She knows that she loves to watch him move. He made moving an art.

"If that's what you want." he says as he returns from the wine cabinet. He sits back down. Her eyes stalk him as his shoulders and arms as he bends forward. He unties one lace. She looks at the details, which fingers go where.

"Do you bring many people here?" she asks before she finishes her glass. She holds it forward insistently. He reacts accordingly and pours.

"No."

"No? I would thought that you would have women lined up out the door. Save their lives and then whisk them away to your penthouse flat, which is beautiful by the way" She says playfully. She liked him on the defensive.

"Thank you." he's genuinely gracious.

"Your welcome."

"No, I don't have much company here."

"But you do keep company. I could see you now ' Hall, Anderson Hall.'" She imitates him looking into woman's eyes.

"Could you?" His eyebrow raises as he asks. He stares off at the blank television screen. He holds his cup with two hands though he could probably balance it on his head. The wine bottle sits on the table nearly halfway between them, like a line drawn in the sand.

"I don't know, everything is moving so fast." She admits half honestly. "What about you Anderson you shaken up at all. You killed a man today." She looks down. It never crossed her mind that it didn't bother him until now. She knows the answer, " Lie to me" she thinks.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The pigeons in front of the restaurant scattered in fear.

It seemed like fire came from the barrel as it flashed in front of her. She watched from under the table as he stood in the midst of the commotion. There was so much going on. She recalled the little girl crying by the bar. Two men ran out of the door shooting back at Anderson but he didn't flinch. She looked up at him as if through a window. He was in a different place than her. She froze up, she was better than that, she knew the risk. She remembered that as soon as her eyes left Anderson they met the glazed stare of the broker with the bullet in his head. It had taken longer than she thought it would to bleed.

"Anderson, tell me the truth." she lies.

"It never gets easier, but you learn not to think about it," he follows in fashion.

Ring.

"You're popular."

"Bill collectors."

"Ha." she laughs out loud. A bit of wine shoots from her mouth. "I'm sorry, but bill collectors." She continues to laugh at she looks around at the lavish room. "let me get that," she gets up and stumbles a bit towards the kitchen.

"No its okay, it will be fine." he laughs as well.

Ring

"No. I got it. Answer your phone." she continues to laugh. She stumbles a bit around the marble floor kitchen looking for a napkin or a paper towel. What man keeps his kitchen so organized? She finds exactly what she needs above the sink. "Marble counters, plush" she thinks. When she returns from the kitchen Anderson is on his cell phone.

"Well did they get the license plate number, at least?...You're kidding...So where is he now? ...You don't know!," he yells. Delilah watches from behind the door molding. She wonders if she's ever heard Anderson raise his voice before, "Find out and call me back do you hear me? Find out and call me back?"

He closes the phone violently and throws it on the couch. He exhales deeply, and turns to see her in the doorway.

"What's the matter?" she asks.

"Nothing, i just hate taking my shoes off and having to put them back on."

"What? Wait? Why?" she asks confused as she scurries back to the couch.

"What is it?"

"It's Allen, he's dead."

Part 2: Consequences

October 27 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

So for those of you who just checked in, my name is Dusha Holmes II, and I am writing what Nick Torres has dubbed a "Notable", or a story made on face book notes. Everything written for this story is done here. This second section of Silhouette is being written to the sounds of John Legend and Maroon 5. More specifically "don't let me be misunderstood", and "secret", those of you who know those songs may enjoy listening to them while you read. Oh, and crush by Dave. Thank you to all the people who responded so speedily and gave me really great feedback. From my would be editors, to my character developers, I'm not just writing for the sake of craft, but also for your entertainment. Right now I've been concerned with character development, as we get to know Delilah and Anderson better I think we'll better understand the nature of their relationship. This story has not been planned out in advance, but it grows as old questions are answered and new questions arise. So keep with the questions:

Now without any further ado I present Silhouette:

Tales in Motion

"You don't strike me as the 'it's better to be feared than loved type'", she tries to keep the slight dissappointment out of her voice. How could a man be so inspirational but yet lack mercy. She tries to see his eyes but he's still involved with the e-world.

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm Machiavellian or anything, but -" before Anderson could finish his sentence her words fill the air.

" Oh please. What you just said was completely..." she trails off. Her fingers find her lips and outline her mouth slowly. Her silence is full.

"Completely what?" he inquires.

"Honest." she admits wistfully.

"You understand." he confirms.

"You confuse me."

"Why? Do you always show mercy?" Anderson asks. He hears her move on the couch as her mind and body wrestle with his question.

"In the spirit of your honest, I will have to say: no. I don't always show mercy."

"Of course not. Delilah, you're a beautiful woman."

"What does that mean?"

"The feeling that you inspire in men, you must know it. You must see it on their face when they look at you."

"Lust."

"Lust, and torture. You have to be fierce though right. You torture every man you walk passed and I'm Machiavellian. When do you show mercy?"

"Your argument is flawed, but I you make a compelling case."

She doesn't notice the keyboards new found shyness, nor does she hear the silencing of the mouse. What she does hear though is the footsteps slowly tapping towards her. The sound of leather against hardwood bring alertness to her body. She feels her hair stand on end. The lioness' senses sharpen. Soon there will be nothing in between them in the garden, no couch, no pillows. Each click brings the slowly forming reality of his closeness, soon the lion would be beside her. The thought both excites and scares her. She felt powerless around him, like a phony watched wrist in a Zales.

"Finished," he says gracefully plopping down on the opposite end of the couch. He notices the way she's curled on the couch. Arched and fetal, "little spoon" he thinks, as she clutches the pillow. She doesn't bother to look his way. At the computer he couldn't smell her, but her scent was all over the couch: Chanel no. 19, he's sure. It is a confident smell, he lets it dance on his palate.

"Took you long enough," she coos into the pillow. On the table besides him he notices the smear of lipstick on her glass of wine. It's empty.

"Another?" he asks instinctively.

"Take your shoes off, you're home."

"I'm still moving."

"Yes, another will be fine." He gets up and walks to the wine cabinet. It's made of stained oak with glass doors and a little convenient knob on the front. He reaches in and grabs something red.

"Today was a bit intense, huh?", on top of the music the sound of wine pouring into the cup connects them for a moment. Anderson stares intently into the cup as it fills. He watches the swirl of dark red. His movements are deliberate, and calculated. The silver of his cuff links shine in the moon light.

"A bit, Anderson? I was shot at."

"I know." his words are followed with silent understanding. The music keeps them connected, as he returns to the couch. They look at each other, for the first time they make eye contact, her brown eyes. She bites her lip sheepishly as he hands her a drink. Her arms are wrapped behind the sofa arm behind her, and her legs are crossed. Her fitted suit is sleekly follows her every movement like a shadow. This is a lion's gaze, she thinks as Anderson looks her up and down. She sees something primal in his face that normally he would not let show. But for some reason here, in his den, he could be honest.

"I thought I might, die."

"Don't think those thoughts."

"How can you not when the cup you were just holding explodes."

"Another good point."

"I don't know how do you deal with these things?" she crawls toward him. She's surprised somehow the couch seems so much larger with him on it then when he was at the computer. The length of it makes her feel small again, the sense of power starts to return. She remembers the sound of shattering glass and the screams of women and children in the restaurant. In an instant all around her was chaos. Anderson had reacted so fast. It was as if he was a machine, she didn't know what he did first knock her to the floor or return fire.

She had so many questions to ask him, and she really wanted to thank him,but she promised wouldn't discuss business. The lioness is the hunter, the lion is the protector. I almost died today, she thinks, should I not live like I may die tomorrow?

"You knew the risks," he continues as he watches her crawl towards him. Her hair falls to the sides of her face, and her gaze is constant. He wonders why the world feels like slow motion. She hears his words and wonders if he was reading her mind.

"Here are the consequences," she whispers into existence as that which is irresponsible enters the room with the wind and the moonlight. As her body moves something inside of her begs to roar.

Part 1 Elaborate

October 26th 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

I am only writing this little piece right chya, here on face book. That being said I apologize for error, and if you can help a brother out with some editing lol. This story is a project that I am doing for a Creative Spirit class I'm took with Doug Wier (sp), the writer of the hit play In Conflict, here at Temple. I'm hoping that this helps me get passed a massive writers block I've had. In this class I've been keeping a pretty detailed journal of my life, and I've been asked to listen, look around, smell, and taste with a little more care. This project is going to be parts to a story. I don't know if it's a short story, a novel, a trilogy, an epic poem, novella, or a vignette. It's just...a story lol. Thank you to everyone who supports me in my endeavors. I like to give a shout out to my little sister Shay whose new to face book. "What, what." May you use its powers for good.

Now without further ado I present Silhouette:

tales in motion.

The light from the new moon shines brightly into the window of the dark bedroom. Two eyes stare intensely at a glowing screen, darting back and forth, as if following a game of table tennis. Delete.

"What are you doing over their?" an airy voice breaths light. The two eyes momentarily leave the screen to stare off in space, and he smiles.

"Checking my mail."

Delete. His eyes return to their back and forth.

"Did you hear about the congressman from the upper ward?" he asks politely.

"No what happened?" She inquires.

"He's in the hospital, skiing accident." He responds, he clicks through the tabs that he has up on the screen.

"I miss skiing," she rolls back onto the couch playfully. She curls up backwards into the sleek leather sofa. She looks at the living room upside down. A lot of brown, she thought. Her favorite part was the bookcase she decided. It was the only thing that was noble. Everything else, had to be for show: The LCD screen, the aquarium, even the sofa. She was a lioness, in a lion's den. She knew she was playing in the garden of his turbulence.

"So do I," he says slyly.

She kneels forward slowly peeking above the back of the Sofa. Her hands are clenching the top of the sofa, and a pillow is crushed in between her stomach and the back cushion. Her brown hair fell over the side of her face and down her back to her shoulder. She always liked to view him from behind the couch. It was safe, it was his couch, but there was still something between them. Like the couch could protect her from him. It made her feel small, and somehow that made her feel powerful.

"You ski?" she asks incredulously.

There's no way he can ski is what she doesn't say. She tries to imagine Anderson in a ski suit. It wouldn't work. His powerful hands couldn't be confined to mitts, he would look awkward and bulky in a hood. But who was she kidding. She knew somehow he always managed to look natural. He would look more natural in a costume than anyone who'd ever had the profession. After all he was Anderson Hall.

"No, but I miss it." Delete. Delete. She smiles, as he continues at the computer. She looks at his cold face. His lips are taut and his eyes move with certainty. She liked the sharp outline of his jaw, and the way it lay against his collar.

"Have you ever gone?"

"Yes, my cousin's grandparents owned a few homes in gated community in the Poconos Mountains. We occasionally would go for a get away."

"I should have guessed it would be something elaborate like that."

"Elaborate?" His voice flared but not in anger. The consistent tap of the mouse clicking stops a bit. She likes that she has him thinking.

"Yes, elaborate. You know complex, complicated." Her lips mouthed the words and blew them across the room.

"Yeah, I know what the word means, but what do you mean?"

He pressed the button on the mouse firmly. Music started to play softly in the background. He typed expediently for a moment. A cold breeze came in with the moonlight, and sent a chill down her spine.

"I mean you're always so Anderson, I don't know, your life has a kind of poetic, grandiose factor to it sometimes, you wouldn't say." She delivered her words with giggles and laughs but he knew she was serious.

"If he believes enough a man can do anything"

"If he believes enough a man can do anything" she mocked, playfully. She laid back on the sofa arm and pillows and looked up at the ceiling chandelier ensemble. It was still She giggled some more as she cuddle with the pillow. She felt delightfully lazy. A feeling of exuberance washed over her. Lion's den she thought as she continue to scan around.

"You've made your point." Anderson smiled, "I am a bit elaborate."

"What of the young men we saw today."

"Delilah..."

"Don't you 'Delilah me', Anderson. What of the young men we saw today?"

"I told you that I will not discuss business with you."

"Well can you at least tell me if they got what they needed. The little fat fellow seemed very antsy and anxious."

"Who Allen?" Anderson laughed. "Allen has been weighed, measured and found wanting for quite some time now. I wouldn't be surprised if he stayed anxious till he sees the Good Lord."

She intakes his hearty laugh and shoots him back a stern glare. He's a lion, she thinks as she speaks.

"Do you ever show mercy?"

"Mercy is for the weak."