*~~::The Assignment::~~*

After checking his watch for the fourth time in the past 37 seconds, Anthony Mosley began to think he had been stood up.  That envelope he received was simply someone playing a practical joke on him.   Ha ha, have a good laugh at ole Mosley's expense.  There was no middle ground for the man some had dubbed St. Anthony...either you were on time, or you don't show up, there were many times where he simply couldn't grasp the concept of someone running late. This was one of those times.  Just before getting up from the table, his contact walked through the door, and came directly to the seat across from him.

Mosley: You're late. I hate when people are late.

Contact: Relax, I forgot that their were two McDonalds restaurants in town, and was waiting at the other one when I realized my mistake,  When you didn't show up, I figured you would go to the one closest to your office.  

Mosley: Congratulations, you win the prize.

Mosley wasn't in the mood to hide his irritability.  He studied the contact, committing to memory every facial feature, every muscle twitch, Mosley never knew when he would need to recall the information...stranger things had happened.  Anthony Mosley was a veritable fountain of useless facts, numbers, and faces.  He can recite the license plate number to the White Dodge Caravan once driven by his third grade teacher.  Not that anyone cares, but should the situation arise where he needs the number, he's ready.  Mosley knew his contact was doing the same thing with him, and self-consciously ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair, and rubbed his chin, noting the three days stubble.  He would have to shave when this was over.

Contact: Relax, so it was a little mix up, no harm done.

Mosley: In your letter you said things were urgent and every second counted.

Contact: Touché.  You're right, so let's get down to business.  Will you accept this assignment?

Mosley: Possibly...you neglected one minor detail when you sent me that whole package.

Contact: Your pay.

Mosley: Bingo.

Contact: I can't pay you up front per say...

Mosley: Bye.

With a sigh of frustration, Mosley gets up from the table and turns to leave.  He wasn't too happy about having his time wasted like this.  The contact's hand on his wrist is the only thing that stopped him from leaving.

Contact: Let me finish.  

Mosley: *pausing* Fine, finish.

Contact: Aren't you going to sit down?

Mosley: Depends on what you have to say.

Contact: Fine.  I can't pay you up front, but should you take the assignment, and are successful in your retrieval, then I believe that I could pay you very handsomely for your trouble.

Mosley: You believe?

Contact: A plan is all set, and ready to be put into motion.  But it all hinges on two things...one, your success in this assignment.  And two, there needs to be a favorable out come to a group of people I'm representing in this matter.  If those two conditions are met, then I'm authorized to pay you $500,000 plus any expenses.

$500,000?! That caught Mosley's attention very quickly.  That was more he had made in one job in his entire career as a Private Detective...hell, that was more money he made in half the jobs combined.  His largest payoff had been $100,000 for finding the Governor's daughter.  Slowly, he sat back down at the table, suddenly not too interested in the time.

Mosley: And what exactly would a favorable outcome to this group entail?

Contact: I'm not at liberty to discuss that.  But I assure you, if our intelligence is correct, then it will be a favorable out come in the end.

Mosley: Whether I succeed or not I want $25,000 guaranteed.  

Contact: That's totally unreasonable.

Mosley: And so is asking me to take this job on speculation alone.

Contact: All right then, I can make that happen.

Mosley: I want it in writing.

Contact: You'll have a signed contract faxed to your office before the day is through.  Now do we have a deal?

Hell yeah there was going to be a deal.

Mosley: Fine.  We have a deal.  Is there anything else that I need to know about the whole situation?

Contact: No, everything was in that package.  We've learned nothing new since I sent it to you.  So you know all that we know.  Now it's your job to tell us something that we don't know.

Mosley: It'll get done. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get started.  I'll report back when I find something, and will do routine check-ins every other day otherwise.  

Contact: Very well.  I hope you've read the background on these two men...they're very mentally unstable, and very dangerous.  Do you think you can handle yourself?

Mosley: Don't insult my intelligence.  I know if you chose me for this job then you did your homework on me.  You don't strike me as a man who would go into a situation trusting someone blindly.

Contact: And I can say I picked the right man for the job.  Yes, I do know you've spent seven years on a police force, and have had hand to hand combat training, along with a collegiate football career.  But these men aren't playing football, and the odds are against you if it comes down to hand to hand combat.

Mosley: Thanks, but I have a mother already.  And she worries about me less than you do.  I'll be in touch.

With that, Mosley stands from the table, not bothering to shake hands, and exits the restaurant.

*~~::Success and Failure::~~*
(Two days later)

Shrouded in darkness, Anthony Mosley silently watched the building from his perch in the tree.  The solid oak had offered him ample protection from prying eyes, even in the day time.  It had been hours since the two had entered the building, and it appeared they were in for the night...unless they decided to take a midnight stroll.  With a pair of night vision goggles, Mosley swept the area for the hundreth time, looking for any other signs of motion.  Other than a raccoon looking for some food across the courtyard, there was nothing stirring.  His reconnaissance had told him this building was once used as a university building by the college several miles down the road.  But now stood abandoned, a run down shell of the beautiful architecture it once was.  Well, everyone else thought it was abandoned, but Mosley knew there were at least two people inside...that didn't concern him...what concerned him was the third person he had yet to find.  Was he inside as well? Only one way to find out.  Mosley dropped silently from the tree, and made a crouching beeline for the side of the building.  Using the cracks in the bricks as foothold, Mosley climbs up to a first story window in the three story structure.  Wondering what he had done to be so lucky, he was pleased to find the window unlocked and easy to open.  Entering silently, Mosley let his eyes get accustomed to the darkness, realizing he was standing in what was once a classroom.  He stepped around the broken desks and chairs, and headed for the door.  Out in the hallway, he began to talk softly to himself.

Mosley: Where are they going to be?...The basement...people like this...always the basement.  Just once I want to chase someone in Palm Springs or Hawaii...that would be nice.

Checking any closed doorway, looking for the stairway down, Mosley finally found it on the fourth try.  He climbed slowly down the steps, his ears straining to catch any type of sound, but hearing nothing but the sound of his own scuffling feet.  He reached the landing without incident, and just as he reached for the door into the ground floor, he is scared by something vibrating his entire body.  He mutters a curse and grabs his cell phone out of his pocket.

Mosley: What the fuck do you want?

Contact: Mosley, where are you? Have you gotten anything new on that building yet?

Mosley: Now is not the time to have this discussion God damn it.  *Struggling to keep his voice a whisper* I'm moving in...I've found the perpetrators but no sign of the objective.  I'm in the building searching right now.

Contact:  Jesus H. Christ! What's it like? Have you found them yet? Where in the building are you?

Mosley simply hung up his phone, and wondered why everyone believed Christ's middle name began with an H.  Mosley had never read the bible, and wondered if it had mentioned Jesus' middle name to be Herbie or something.  Jesus Herbie Christ...wouldn't that just beat all?  He shook his head, and opened the door slowly.  The ground floor was pretty much like the first floor, and Mosley was quite dismayed because he had wasted his time scaling the side of the building. He risked pulling out a small flashlight to look around with, and noticed two sets of foot prints embedded in the thick layer of dust and grime on the floor.  The tracks lead to an elevator.  The setting telling you which floor the elevator was on was broken, so Mosley broke out a small vial of powder, usually used for finger printing, and gently blew it onto both the up and down buttons.  Down was the only button with any prints, confirming Mosley's idea of heading for the basement.  Rather than waste time looking for the stairs, Mosley rummaged through the backpack he brought with him, and pulled out a crow bar, and proceeded to pry the elevator doors open.  He gazed down the dark shaft, then reached out to grab the cable to the elevator.  Saying a silent prayer, he began a slow slide down into the darkness.  He reached the top of the elevator and actually managed to land without making a sound.  He was quite proud of himself for that.  Crouching down, he felt around for the trap door leading into the elevator shaft.  All of the sudden his ears registered a faint and peculiar "whooshing" sound, like something moving quickly through the air.  Almost simultaneously all of his warning mechanisms went into over drive as the hair stood up on the back of his neck and his arms.  But it was simply two late as a huge weight came crashing down on top of him, knocking him head first into the large iron connector that held the cable to the top of the elevator.  The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was laughter wafting up from somewhere below him.

To Be Continued...