Wherever he was, it was dark, quiet, and room-temperature; that's the first thing McKinley was aware of as he came to. There was a faint scent of turpentine, and other industrial-strength odors in the air, combining into something just short of offending one's sense of smell. After that, it was the fact that he was leaning forward against his restraints. "Probably rope," he thought to himself. Investigative reporters sometimes ran into these kinds of circumstances, where they get too close to a story, and someone decides to intervene, offering the peaceful option of walking away with no trouble, sometimes adding financial incentive. Or, there was the more direct, hard way of threatening physical violence, with a few nasty bruises for good effect. McKinley was a record-holder in the regard of how often he woke up to familiar settings like this. It was a little different this time in that he felt like he was coming out of a normal, deep sleep. No lingering taste of chloroform in his mouth, no pain from or memory of a taser shock, nothing he expected. The only discomfort he felt was leaning forward while tied up in a chair, which he must've been doing for at least an hour.
Before giving away the fact that he was awake, it crossed his mind that he would fake sleeping for as long as he could, to hear what his captors might say; something that nearly saved his life the first time this had happened to him. His ears were very receptive; no one was talking, but he could sense someone was near. He thought about remaining that way, to see if there was a way to wiggle or break free of the ropes, assuming he was dealing with amateurs. But he wasn't Houdini or some other elaborate escape artist. What troubled him more was the memory of what happened near the time he would've been taken.
Hours, hopefully hours before, he'd been tracking an urban myth, McKinley's pet-project for almost a decade. Much of his success and reputation in his field came from other big cases he was assigned to, but some were connected to this one case that could make him a legend. His inability to help going after the crazy stories was what kept him chasing the myth for so long. Tracking down Keyser Soze as a clueless civilian, or Mulder chasing aliens and government conspiracies seemed an easier pursuit. And yet that night from the shadows of a building across the street, he finally caught some kind of break, taking photos of a well-dressed couple or pair on a date get into a black limousine parked outside a Manhattan jewelry store. It looked as a late purchase had been made; the owner inside didn't seem distressed as he began closing up, so more than likely it wasn't a typical robbery. McKinley assumed that the jewels were a gift for the woman who served as the myth's latest squeeze, or a ruse for some kind of transaction. He made a note of the jewelry store, something to look into for later.
Before they got in the man and woman talked. The almost blondish man was dressed in an expensive black suit, and the woman wore glasses and a forest green dress that looked stunning against her ebony skin, just like the jewelry she'd just bought there. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but hoped where they were going was better information for him. The driver opened the door for both of them, and they got in while the driver returned to his seat. But he hadn't closed the door for his passengers; it just remained open. No one made an effort to close it, or complain about it. Cars passing by fortunately missed the door, so no accident was caused. It was as if they were waiting for someone else to join, patiently. It finally occurred to the reporter than the door open was parallel to where he stood in the shadows.
By then he figured he was noticed, and was unofficially invited to join them. He couldn't be certain, but the longer he stayed in the darkness, the longer he thought about if it was a good idea, if it was legitimate or a trap, or both, and started to reason that it would be better to just get in the limo. With every step he questioned if it was a good idea to approach to get in. Reaching the street lights, he worried about being seen; if he were to break this case, maybe getting into the car could be perceived wrong by any of the public who could identify him. He guessed it was his curiosity that carried him forward, which seemed foolish, because he blanked out as soon as he entered to sit down, unable to see anything as his eyes shut, feeling like he'd been covered with a blanket made of sleep.
He came back to his current state where footsteps sounded, clearly a set in front of his chair. They moved toward him, and the sound of a switch blade being unsheathed was even louder than the footsteps. Panic came over McKinley, trying to keep up the appearance of unaware, but he hesitated with a sharp intake of breath, the warehouse scents almost turning his expression to one of disgust. He braced himself as his leg was gripped and the tip of the blade softly pierced through his pants and into his flesh. The reporter couldn't feign any longer, and raised his head to meet the blonde man smirking down at him, applying exact pressure to the knife with a steady hand. The blonde man received a smirk back from his captive. After a minute, the blade was raised, and the captor took a few steps back.
"Apologies," the blonde said in a German accent. "Your reputable patience seemed very accurate; it's not something shared unfortunately."
Every last detail of the German was taken into consideration, from his height and build, similar to McKinley's, to his choice of high-class men's wear, posture, body language, even comparing him to his surroundings. They were in the middle of a warehouse, stocked with goods that were unfamiliar with the reports he'd linked to the myth. Overhead lighting was bright, but thankfully not blinding like they could be for an interrogation. It didn't take him long to go for broke and make a deduction.
"Your boss told you of my patience?"
"I would know first-hand, Mr. McKinley, the way you've gallivanted all over the country and sometimes the globe chasing after a silly myth, something you believe me to be."
"What's silly is you trying to keep up this charade, Hans," he claimed, spouting a name for the man sarcastically. "You're an enforcer, not a boss. Those cuff-links are expensive, but not that expensive. Your cologne is much cheaper than expected, too cheap in-fact. The 'myth' I've been chasing surely doesn't gravitate to violence that easily, not enough to come at me with a knife. You carry yourself like a soldier which you clearly were, or technically are, never getting past the rank of major in whatever army you served, meaning you're not a general, meaning you would only have a few guards surrounding you and packing more than a knife which you're not right now. And to reiterate, it goes without saying that a man of "your" methods works in ways other than violence, mostly, making you a contingency with someone else pulling the strings, letting you do what you really want to do if need be. So, to quote an old American TV show you might not be familiar with, 'who's the boss?'"
Hans, as McKinley called him, stood in-place, glaring at the man, but not moving a muscle. That was confirmation enough for his captive of his theory, otherwise they might not even be talking right about now. He looked at the imposing man for so long, it took him seconds longer than he was used to to feel a pair of hands running over his shoulders from behind.
"Absolutely nothing gets by you, Mr. McKinley."
This new presence plainly distinguished himself from what was in-front of him. The accent behind him was soft, of some African descent he guessed, and feminine. He looked down to see one of the hands holding him; dark, ebony skin with short, dark-red nails. She even came with her own scent, jasmine; despite his apprehension, he at least appreciated her aroma temporarily overruling the surrounding volatile odors. His shoulders were squeezed, as if trying to match Hans' introduction of acute, slight pain with womanly, sensual pleasure.
"And you are?" McKinley said looking forward, trying not to show how the woman's talons made him more fearful than the German's knife.
"You would be the Pulitzer-prize winning reporter desperately looking to be well-versed in so-called international criminal activity. You tell me."
She circled his chair, and finally came into view - the woman who entered the same limousine he did earlier in the evening. She had natural, raven, frizzy and short curls that almost bounced with every step and shined a little in the light. Her dark, blemish-less skin had a healthy glow to it, looking quite tantalizing set against the long sleeveless green halter dress. The slits on its side teased her legs; the dress overall subtly teased her body, creating an attractive allure for anyone close enough to admire her. His male, primal side was tempted to look below her face to have a better look at the body he admired for a few seconds from afar, but he focused on her face more. McKinley tried in his head to go over the possibility another stand-in, a decoy claiming to be the one in-charge. If it wasn't for her introduction, he would've first assumed she was a dedicated secretary of the one he chased, emphasized by the Gucci glasses she wore. The only expression she chose to give McKinley was that of a Bond villain. She exuded confidence through every pore, eyes twinkling behind the lenses, and bore the smile of someone coming face to face with a competitor, but knowing, fully believing they had the upper hand. Either she was an excellent actress, or McKinley's search the world over was finally over.
"Y-."
McKinley's voice caught in his throat.
"Y-!"
He tried forcing it out, shaking his head, focusing, but he couldn't even begin to say what he wanted.
"Y-. Yyyy-. A-!"
He looked up to see a bright-eyed smirk shone down on him, unsurprised yet ecstatic to see him struggle with his words.
"Never thought I would see the day McKinley would have trouble speaking. Even dangerous situations never seem to keep your mouth shut. This is not exactly that, but I think we have made due," she spoke teasingly, but with proper English, the way a strict language teacher would articulate.
The journalist screamed, and tried several more times to yell out the name of the myth. Maybe no one on earth spoke her infamous name more than he did, which frustrated him to no end for his inability now.
She looked over at her accomplice, seeing him smile nearly as wide as he ever had.
"How did you know his name was Hans?" she queried in curiosity.
