The Detective

February 16, 2005: German countryside, 4:04 AM

      It was a quiet night, like nobody had bothered to make any noise. The thick fog contributed to the silence, stifling and choking out even a thought of sound. A large barn stood in a field, looking as if it been abandoned a number of years ago, with parts of the planks it was built of completely rotted through. A small party of four could be seen darting in and out of the fog before disappearing into the barn. Suddenly, lamps lit it up. The people in the barn had been stealing cars and retrofitting them to sell them for twice the price (or more) on the black market for years. The barn was filled with all sorts of makes and models, from a Mercedes convertible to a BMW coupe. They were getting ready to move the cars out that night, leaving the barn without a trace of the operation.
Setting down his night-vision binoculars, the Detective knew that it was now or never.      “Sorry to break in on your little operation, but it’s over now!” he shouted as he burst through the barn doors. He took his gun out and shot the nearest lamp. The still-burning oil splattered over a rotten plank and burst into flames, collapsing. The fire quickly engulfed the nearest wall then gravity took over and the whole barn imploded, destroying every car there. The Detective was already long gone, leaving only a mark, carved into the ground outside depicting a large D. One of the criminals managed to escape as well. He paused outside the inferno, watching the flames as the image of the D seared into his memory.

* * *

Five years later; London, 1:32 PM

     The Detective is in pursuit of a fellow agent now wanted for treason. The man took off down the dirty, rejected back alleys, taking a sharp right turn at the first intersection. He flew by the homeless people that made these alleys their homes. The Agent knew there was someone hot on his trail, his presence never left him as he tore down the maze-like alleys. He reached a dead end with a fire escape leafing to the top of an eight-story building. He climbed up and when reached the top, he dove behind a chimney that was spouting white smoke. He was intending to wait for his pursuer, and then jump him. He waited. He waited some more. All was still. He thought that his pursuer had climbed the fire escape like he had but then he started to panic. What if he had scaled the building and was sneaking around him right now? He broke cover and ran for the fire escape. That was when the Detective made his move, tackling him; they both hit the ground hard. As they struggled, the edge of the building was getting closer by the second. They broke away from each other, and both rolled to their feet.      “ So, you decided to come after me?” said the Agent.
     “ Yes,” said Detective.
     “ You can’t and never will catch me, Detective!”
     “ But I already have.” He said.
     The Detective took out a pair of handcuffs that glinted in the afternoon sun. He ran toward the Agent to strap them on him. But something strange happened. As he was running, a trip wire snapped, and he hit the ground again. While he was down, the Agent took his chance and fled.
     The Detective got up slowly, took a small device out of his vest and pushed a button. A minute later, a helicopter rose up above the building. It hovered there, making an almost-silent purr as the rotors sliced through the air. He hopped in and turned to the helicopter’s controls. The helicopter was fully computerized, which meant that it could fly by itself. All you had to do was press a button on the key fob, and it located you and came to that destination. Once in the helicopter, you could fly manually or just go on autopilot. That was what the Detective did now, typing in “HQ”. He sat back to think about what had just happened. It occurred to him that things like this had been happening with alarming frequency. He had not caught as many criminals as he had in previous years. Someone has clearly been sabotaging him.
     The Detective was a freelance agent, skilled at solving crimes. He had been at it for over ten years and was known for his trademark D he left at the scenes. His real name was Jon Black, but nobody called him that, after the name “Detective” stuck. He lives alone, apart from his housemaid that comes once a week to clean. He was abandoned as a child, and raised in an orphanage. Unfortunately, they just used him to do their chores and all their work, so he ran away at the tender age of nine. He came to know the meaning of hardship, and was hungry and homeless for much of his teen years, stealing to stay alive. Whenever he stole, he always vowed that he would never do it again; since it was only out of necessity that he took things.
     His one, big break from that world came when he went to a house planning to steal something warm to wear against the cold. Unbeknownst to him, there were two MI6 (British Secret Intelligence Service) agents on a top-secret mission. He got dragged into the case and ended up saving one of the two agents lives, and helping to catch the criminal. After that MI6 picked him up, where he went to training camp and eventually graduated to become an agent. After long years in the force, he became a freelance detective and inventor, which was when he bought his house and made some… improvements. His house is on a bluff overlooking the city, and it has all sorts of technology connected to it. The house is quite modern, with two stories and a slanted roof to the south. It is connected to the MI6 network, with which he works with sometimes. He built underground tunnels, and when his helicopter lands, the pad descends into a large, central cavern. The copter and his house are loaded with special equipment of his own creation; such as a face-recognition system, laser gun on the copter, and windows that double as computer touch screens.
     His thoughts come to a close as the copter lands with a thud. The Detective gets out and walks to the elevator, taking it to his living room on the first floor. As he exits the elevator, a computerized voice greets him:
     “Hello, Jon Black, alias The Detective”
     He turns on the mainframe computer screen and it pops up over the big, plate-glass windows. Just as he sits down, he gets a call. It shows on the screen that it is an “Unidentified Caller”. He answers the call by touching the smooth surface on the window. A voice comes on the line.
     “Hello, Detective,” says a raspy voice.
     “Hello,” he says.
     “I have come to you with a message,” says the voice.
     “And what message would that be?” he inquires.
     “I have come to tell you… that you are going to regret shutting me down,”
     “Who are you?” he asks, trying to keep the slight unease out of his voice, but failing.
     “I am an old friend,” the voice says. Then it breaks out into a loud laugh, ending with a hack and a wheeze that threatens to exceed the sound of a full Boeing 747 taking off. The line goes dead with a click.
     After the call, the Detective’s uneasy feeling gathers in his chest and grows to a large, uncomfortable knot. He connects to the MI6 network to trace the call he had gotten. But to no avail. It seems that the caller had bounced the call to so many different satellites even the MI6 couldn’t trace it. I’m dealing with professionals, he thinks. But will they really come after me? He didn’t believe it for a second. Or did he? Look at me; I’m already contradicting myself. He scolds himself for being so paranoid. Instead of thinking about it, he walks into his kitchen to get some cereal. For some reason, it always calms him down to eat cereal. He finishes the bowl. Then, he becomes very tired. It seems my adventures have gotten the best of me. I… really… need to… get to bed… He stumbles off down the hall, but doesn’t make it to his bedroom. He collapses in the hallway, falling into a deeper sleep than seems natural but his foggy mind can’t figure it out. Just as his sight is fading to black, he sees someone walk down the hallway towards him.

* * *

     When he wakes up, he is in a lab of some sort, and his wrists and ankles are hurting. He looks down and sees that he is strapped to a table, his wrists and ankles bound.
     “Enjoy the ride, Detective?” the familiar raspy voice says.
     “Enjoy it? I don’t even remember it!” the Detective exclaims.
     The Detective looks around at the place where he has been taken. It is bright, white, big and filled with all kinds of science equipment, some looking far from standard.
     “I figured that you would like it here.” The mystery voice says
     “Alright, I’ve had enough!” the Detective says. “Who are you?”
     “I am Bjorn. And I have been making your job a whole lot harder in the recent years,” he says.
     “Why?” asks the Detective.
     “Because I will never forgive you for shutting down my most profitable business!”
     The Detective struggles in his straps.
     “Try all you want to break free, my friend, but you will not be able to,” Bjorn taunts. “Those straps are reinforced with something you created, Dimoiron. Iron strengthened with diamond crystals, infused into the metal. One of your most useful inventions, if I do say so myself.”
     The Detective thought fast. When the MI6 agents tested my Dimoiron, what did they say? Oh! Yes! They said it was great under pressure and heat, but not cold. If it got too cold, it would become brittle! His eyes search the room frantically, and settle on a tank of liquid nitrogen.
     “Hey, Bjorn!” he shouts across the room, for Bjorn had gone to prepare a large, intimidating machine.
     Bjorn came over. “What is it, pest?”
     Just as he came close enough, the Detective spits. The glob sails through the air, catching Bjorn right in the face. He stumbles backwards, right into the tank of liquid nitrogen. The tank wobbles and falls. The top shoots off. The nitrogen escapes the tank and pools on the floor, quickly converting into gas. The room begins to drop in temperature, getting lower by the second. The Detective can feel the Dimoiron around his wrists and ankles changing, getting weaker as it gets colder until he is able to break free. The Dimoiron shatters into pieces.
     Bjorn manages to get up and they face each other. The room is still getting colder, about 10 degrees Fahrenheit. Bjorn dives for a laser gun, and fires at him. The Detective spins away. He spots another laser gun on the table he is crouching under and grabs it. The room is now 0 degrees Fahrenheit, and the nitrogen gas is covering the whole room in a dense, white fog not unlike the night fog at the barn years ago. There is a flash of light from the other side of the room, and the Detective sees a yellow beam hit his right arm. He feels searing pain in his arm, and then it goes numb. He can’t use that arm anymore, and he is right handed. He switches to his left hand. Just then he sees an opening through the fog and fires. Bjorn had seen him too, and also fires. The Detective takes the hit to his other arm, and they now both hanging uselessly at his sides. Before he can see if he has hit Bjorn, the opening in the fog closes. The nitrogen gas is poisoning him, he has to get outside. He stumbles to the doors, and pushes them open. As he gasps for air, he also gasps in astonishment. He is in his own living room.

* * *

     Disoriented, he calls MI6. A few agents arrive quickly and enter the lab to find Bjorn. He had been hit in the chest, but had managed to crawl into a walk-in cooler where he could escape the vapors.
As it turns out, he had been hiding in this secret lab in the Detective’s house for a few months! That’s how he knew his every move and his habits. Bjorn was the ringleader of the car scheme that the Detective had solved 5 years ago, and he had come back for revenge.

     “I’ll get you yet, Detective!” Bjorn screamed as he was being carried away. He was going to jail for a very long time.
     “Sure, Bjorn,” the Detective chuckled, but there was a slight worry in his voice. “Sure…”



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