I have decided to upload "A Love Worth Stealing" for all of you who have not read it... It is the prequel to "All About the Benjamins"... I highly recommend reading "A Love Worth Stealing" before you read "All About the Benjamins" to get a better understanding of the international jewel thief that is Rebel Savage.
So please sit back and enjoy,
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Chapter 2
(One Year Later)
(The scene opens at The Huntington Hills Country Club.)
Could there be any doubt that Rebel Savage was innately a gentleman?
Rebel's father had been a member of the Huntington Hills Country Club, and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the World, a prosperous, wealthy man, and at Rebel's birth, his father had proposed his son's name for membership. It took many years to get into the ultra-exclusive club, Huntington Hills. there was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pull could alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their sons' names for membership when they were born as religiously as they entered them upon the city's birth register.
At twenty-one Rebel was elected to membership; and, incidentally, that same year, graduated from Harvard. It was Rebel's desire that he should enter his father's business and learn it from the ground up, and Rebel, for four years thereafter, had done just that. Then his father died. Rebel had leanings toward more artistic pursuits than business.
He was credited with having received a very snug amount from the sale of his safe manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life, in the house that his father had left him on Riverside Drive; his mother had been dead many years. He kept enough servants to run his ménage smoothly, and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitably inclined.
Was there any doubt that Rebel Savage was a gentleman, an innate gentleman?
It was evening, and Rebel sat at a small table in the corner of the Huntington Hills Country Club dining room. Opposite him sat Hank Wilson, a man of his own age, about thirty five years old, a leading figure in the newspaper world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor within the short space of a few years had been almost meteoric.
Rebel was leaning back in his chair, his radiant blue eyes fixed interestedly on his guest. Hank Wilson, intently engaged in his café latte, looked up with an abrupt laugh.
"No; I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime," he said whimsically; ”that would never do. But I don't mind admitting quite privately that it's been a positive regret to me that he's gone."
"Made too good a story to lose, I suppose?" suggested Rebel quizzically. "Too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like that for him --The Silver Bullet-- rather unique! Who stuck that on him... you?"
Hank laughed, then, grew serious. He leaned forward toward Rebel.
"You don't mean to say, Rebel that you don't know about that, do you?" he asked incredulously. "Why, a year ago the papers were full of him. He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime." said Wilson reminiscently, after a moment of silence.
"Rebel, he was the king-pin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him, or dare-devil isn't either. I used to dream nights about those confounded silver sticky-notes of his, --that's where he got his name; he left every job he ever did with a little silver slip of notepaper, fashioned bullet-shaped, stuck somewhere where it would be the first thing your eyes would light upon when you reached the scene, and..."
"Hold on... don't go so fast," smiled Rebel. "I don't quite get the connection. What did you have to do with this-er-Silver Bullet fellow?"
"I had a good deal to do with him," said Wilson grimly. "I was a reporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, after I began really to appreciate what it took to catch him... and I nearly did, half a dozen times, only--"
"Only you never quite did, eh?" Rebel cut in. "How near did you get, old man? Come on, now, no bluffing. did The Silver Bullet ever even recognize you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game?"
Wilson answered, with a wry grimace. "He knew me, all right, confound him! He favored me with several sarcastic notes! I'll show 'em to you some day-explaining how I'd fallen down and how I could have got him if I'd done something else." Hank Wilson's fist came suddenly down on the table. "And I would have got him, too damn it, if he, had lived."
"Lived!" exclaimed Rebel. "He's dead, then?"
"Yes... He's dead."
"Hmm!" said Rebel facetiously. "I hope the size of the wreath you sent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation."
"I never sent any wreath. For the very simple reason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said he was dead because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger."
"Rotten poor evidence, even for a newspaper." commented Rebel. "Why not give him credit for having, say-reformed?"
Hank shook his head. "The Silver Bullet wasn't an ordinary crook-he was a classic. He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man like that could, no more stop, than he could stop breathing. He's dead... there's nothing to it but that... he's dead. I'd bet a year's salary on it."
"Another good man gone wrong, then." said Rebel capriciously. "I suppose, though, that at least you discovered the ’woman in the case'?"
Hank looked up quickly, a little startled, then laughed shortly.
"What's the matter?" inquired Rebel.
"Nothing," said Hank. "You kind of got me for a moment, that's all. That's the way those infernal notes from the Silver Bullet used to end up: 'Find the lady; and you'll get me.' He had a damned patronizing familiarity that would make you squirm."
"Well, and how about this woman? old man." prodded Rebel.
"The woman?" Hank smiled. "Nothing doing! I don't believe there was one... he wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters on to finding her if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course. He worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success, according to my way of thinking. There was never so much as an indication that he had an accomplice in anything he ever did."
Hank Wilson starred thoughtfully at his café latte cup. "He was the prince of thieves, and the father of originality," added Wilson abruptly. "Half the time there wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things he did, than there was getting at the Silver Bullet himself."
He pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it-and pushed back his chair. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "It's nearly half-past nine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have to hurry; we're a morning paper, you know, Rebel."
"What! Really! Is it as late as that?" Rebel rose from his chair as Hank stood up. "Well, if you must."
"I must," said Hank, with a laugh.
He accompanied Hank downstairs to the door of the club, and saw his guest into the newspaper company's limo; then he returned inside, sauntered through the billiard room, and from there into one of the card rooms, where, pressed into a game. He played several hands of poker before going home.
Special thanks to Population_TS3 for the use of her Sim Grant Hill to play the role of "Hank Wilson" and for the use of Kyng Diamond as an extra... Another special thanks to LNL for the use of Miguel Gutierrez... The other sims, in Chapters 1 and 2 are by WendyPan.
Chapter 3
It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Rebel arrived at his house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant.
"Hello, James," said Rebel pleasantly. "You still up? "
"Yes, sir," replied James, who had been valet to Rebel's father before him. "I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a messenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, and--"
"James!" Rebel flung out the interruption, sudden, quick imperative. "What did she look like?"
"Why -- why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir." stammered James, taken aback. “Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance, and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face."
"Hair and eyes-what color?" demanded Savage crisply. “Nose, lips, chin-what shape?"
"I don't rightly know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take particular notice." gasped James, staring at his master.
"It's too bad you weren't a younger man, James." commented Rebel, with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. "I'd have given a year's income for your opportunity to-night, James."
"Yes, sir," said James helplessly. "The letter is on the table in your study, sir."
"Thank you, James," said Rebel, his hand closing with an appreciative pressure on James' shoulder. Good-night, James."
Upstairs on the first landing, Rebel opened a door, closed and locked it behind him-and the light switch clicked under his fingers. A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. There were green cozy, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather covered sofa, and an easel with a half-finished painting; the walls were paneled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in the centre of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor was a dark, heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great, old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room.
For an instant Rebel remained quietly by the door, as though listening. Then abruptly he walked across the room to the table, picked up an envelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest lounging chair.
There had been no doubt in his mind, who the letter was from. It was precisely what he had expected from almost the first word James had spoken. It was the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same old haunting, rare, indescribable fragrance about it. Rebel's hands turned the envelope this way, and that, as he looked at it, striving to decipher the message within.
He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. a single written sheet fell into his hand. He read it slowly, critically. then re-read it over again; and then, his eyes, starred intently on the rug at his feet... he fed the note into a paper shredder by the desk. his fingers dipped into the shreds in the waste basket and tore them over and over again, tore them until they were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet.
Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them down in a little pile, and set them afire. then he crunched and scattered them with the brass handled fender brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, he removed a large painting, that covered a custom designed safe--one of his own design and planning in the years when he had been with his father.
He turned the dials with the hands of a surgeon, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch alone, and the door swung open, and then from the interior he took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied together with thongs. With the bundle under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor. divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark tweed coat, with black loose-fitting, pants, and a black turtleneck shirt from his wardrobe, and began to put it on.
He turned to the leather bundle that he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out to its full length. the leather strip made a wide utility belt, It was not an ordinary belt; it was full of stout-sewn, upright little pockets all the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blued-steel, highly tempered instruments... a compact, powerful burglar's kit.
The dexterous, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a thin, flat metal case. This, Rebel opened, and glanced inside, were little slips of silver, bullet-shaped notepaper with an adhesive edge.
Rebel snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for examination.
"Pretty good shape after a year," muttered Rebel, replacing it.
He put on the belt, then his coat. from the drawer of his dresser he took an automatic revolver and a flashlight, slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs to the garage where awaiting him was his 2012 Silver Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder.
The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum was the last major commission of Frank Lloyd Wright before his death. Wright passed away before it opened in 1959.
Chapter 4
Rebel drove across town, passed the town square, and headed for Main Street, but Rebel, to all appearances, was quite oblivious. His thoughts
were in the past. It had been a year since he had last seen her, and a year since she had written him. She! Rebel did not smile, his lips were pressed hard together.
He remembered the last letter, apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her. It was a year ago now, and the letter had been hardly more than a note. The police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Silver Bullet, the papers had grown absolutely maudlin, and she had written, in her characteristic way:
"Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Rebel? Let's let them cool for a year."
Since then until to-night, he had heard nothing from her. It was a strange contract that he had entered into with her, so strange that he could never have known, could never know a parallel so unique, so dangerous, so bizarre, it was all that and more.
He had meant to set the police on their ears, using his silver, bullet-shaped notepaper device as an added barb, he had meant to laugh at them and puzzle them to the verge of madness, and he had succeeded. And then he had gone too far... and he had been caught, by her. It was "Friedman's, the big jeweler's" heist which she had held over him.
She had caught him... how he did not know... he had never seen her, did not know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energies for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morning following the 'Friedman's' affair, indeed, before he had breakfast, James had brought him the first letter from her. It had started by detailing his every move of the night before... and it had ended with an ultimatum:
"The cleverness, the originality of the Silver Bullet as a crook lacked but one thing." she had naively written, "And that one thing was that his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels that were worthy of his genius."
In other words, she would plan the whole operation, and he would act at her dictation and execute them... or else how did twenty years in prison for that little 'Friedman's' affair, appeal to him? He was to answer by the next morning, a simple "yes" or "no" in the personal column of the morning News.
Threaten a man like Rebel was like flaunting a red rag at a bull, and a rage ungovernable had surged up. then cold reason had come. He was caught. there was no question about that. she had taken pains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Dishonor, shame, humiliation, and a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, and there was but one alternative... to link hands with this unseen, mysterious accomplice.
And so, in the next morning's News paper, Rebel had answered "yes." And then had followed years, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail, those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs that Hank Wilson had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the old Police headquarters to its foundations, until the Silver Bullet had become a name to contend with. And, yes, it was quite true, he had entered, into it all. stretched the limits, with an eagerness that was insatiable.
Rebel had reached the lower end of Main Street, and stopped two blocks from his destination. He never parked to close to his intended target. In this case, his intended target was... "The Guggenheim Museum."
Rebel crouched beside a large tree as he watched a dark figure pace back and forth in the shadow of the building. It was her alright. Rebel's heart almost shot into his throat as he saw her curvaceous, killer body pacing back and forth in the night air as if she owned it. he eyed her carefully. He knew what he was doing. His mind was fast. His body nimble. A perfect cat burglar. before she knew it, he was standing behind her.
"Torie Roberts!" he quipped abruptly.
She screamed like someone had jumped out from behind a tree. Torie spun around in the direction of the voice. It wasn't just hearing his voice that startled her, but the fact that she had not immediately sensed the presence of another person. Rebel quickly put his hand over her mouth. swiftly jerking his hand away she sternly scolded:
"You scared the shit out of me Rebel, what's the matter with you?" she bent over, putting her hand on her chest.
"You deserve it... after what you did to me." He snapped, marked by a feeling of bitterness. "What happened to you? where have you been for a year?"
The past came flooding back like an ocean of memories. Her heart raced. She hadn't seen him in over a year -- since the day she left, effectively crushing every dream he had in the process. Torie swallowed hard, and tried her damnedest to put forward airs of coolness, and calmness. she tried, but she knew she would not fool the man who now stood before her,
"You're right, and I'm sorry." she said, hiding her embarrassment with a tone of irritation. "I've been to India."
"India?" He felt his eyes open wide and his jaw drop. "Whatever for?"
"I've been working with an archeologist."
"In India?" He asked again, stunned. "Should I guard against an irate boyfriend or husband?" he asked with that soft voice of his.
Torie swallowed back a welling of tears as she sadly shook her head. Her reaction must have caught him off-guard. He took a couple quick steps toward her but stopped.
"Come on, we've got a lot of work to do before daylight."
She looked up at Rebel with her beautiful greenish-blue eyes. A petite frown created a delightful wrinkle between her brows, And she did looked adorable in those black Capri jeans, black turtleneck sweater, and matching gloves, like a modern day, Katharine Hepburn.
After she explained, in perfect detail their objection, Rebel told her to go wait in his car.
"No way." she replied. "We're in this one together."
"What?" Rebel protested. "You've never done a job with me, and you're not going to start now."
"Why not." she looked truly puzzled. "I have to make sure you get the right stones."
Torie stared at him. He was so cock-sure of himself. She could use that. Nothing about this fool plan of hers felt right. Only, she had no other option. her archeologist would die if she didn't act and act soon. They’d given her a tight deadline.
Hand over the Stones of Sankara by Friday or they would kill him. No negotiation. No excuses. Do it or he dies.
"Okay," He said. "But you do everything I tell you. follow me, and don't touch anything."
"It’s a deal." she said.
A tingling of unease crept down Rebel’s spine. He glanced back at Torie. She was following along behind him, stepping where he stepped through the dimly lit alleyway. Her concentration was fierce. Still, something bothered him about this job.
Even now, just steps from the museum’s back entrance, she only seemed anxious. Couldn't she taste the excitement gurgling all around them or smell the sweet cash waiting to be paid by his fence that would buy the Stones of Sankara?
Her focus was the deadly kind. Like this was a life or death kind of game they were about to play.
"Take a deep breath," He whispered. "And relax... I won't let anything happen to you."
"Let's just get the stones and get out of here," she returned with a harsh whisper.
"Okay... okay... let me get to work on the lock."
Rebel had the lock unlatched within a few seconds. He tucked his lock-pick tools back into his utility belt and turned his attentions to the more challenging part of the break in--fooling the alarm system.
This was where crime blended into art. The door, was armed with magnetic contact switch near the top hinge. If he were to swing the door open, the circuit would be broken and the alarms would blare. Though these were generally simple systems to fool, he still had to be careful. Luckily for them there was a little window in the steel door. He supposed it was there to give the guards low-tech way of monitoring the alleyway during deliveries. Like many private museums in the city, this one was in need of a security overhaul.
He etched a circle about ten inches in diameter on the glass. With several taps with the end of the glasscutter, the window cracked along his mark, and he was able to ease the broken piece out with a suction cup. His arm just fit in the opening. He reached up and unscrewed the magnetic part of the alarm from the door. Careful to not break the contact, he taped it to the switch on the wall.
"One down, three more to go," He said as he swung the door open without tripping off any alarm systems.
Torie rewarded him with a brisk nod and a deep smile.
Rebel led the way, avoiding the interior security cameras and photoelectric eyes, and dashed down a long hall that opened into the special exhibit area. Torie's gaze latched onto the golden Stones of Sankara shining under the glow of the soft museum display lamps. Her eyes grew wide and she started toward it as if pulled by the golden glow.
No! She was about to ruin everything! Rebel wrapped his arms around her waist and held onto her before she could cross the threshold into the exhibit space.
"Don't move," He breathed as silently as possible in her ear. He held his breath, waiting. Nothing beeped, no alarms blared... but then again some alarms were silent ones. He backed up slowly, dragging a stiff Torie with him.
"Forgot the alarm," She said. Her voice was nearly as silent as his. "Sorry."
"Don’t move." He released her and let go of the breath he’d still been holding. His heart was pounding in his chest.
More angry at himself than Torie for nearly getting them trapped in the middle of a museum, Rebel tore off the small black backpack and dug around in it, searching for the transducer. Because the special exhibit room contained priceless treasures, the museum had installed an ultrasonic alarm system. Ultrasonic waves sound flowed out into the room in an elliptical pattern. Nothing moving in the room, the wave would return to the system without change. Walk into the room and disrupt the ultrasonic pattern, the alarm would be triggered.
Sensitive buggers.
They irritated Rebel. He'd rather play with fancy lasers than ultrasonic waves any day. He taped the transducer he had built just for this purpose, to the chassis of a disassembled remote control car and wrapped it in a piece of soft carpet padding to absorb the ultrasonic waves.
He pulled a remote control from his backpack and pressed several buttons. The dressed-up transducer glided very slowly into the room. It hugged the wall as it inched ever closer to the mounted alarm system. The transducer moved into place. Rebel checked his watch. It had taken a little more than eight and a half minutes. They were on schedule.
If he had done his job correctly, the special transducer should mimic the ultrasonic frequency the alarm system was emitting and render the alarm harmless. If it were one decibel off, the alarm would sound. Rebel looked at Torie, she gave him a nod and he flipped a switch.
Nothing happened... at least nothing audible to human ears. Good. That meant the transducer might be working. With a light step, Rebel crossed into the room. Torie followed on his heels.
No alarm.
They were safe, for the moment. There was just one barrier left... the display case. The case couldn't be lifted because of the foil alarm around the base of the Plexiglas. One rip in the foil would break the alarm circuit and set it off. They couldn't break the case, because the force needed to smash into it would likely tear the foil.
"Easy now," Torie said as Rebel crouched down and drilled a small hole near where the wires ran from the foil down into the floor.
He eased back on his heels and heaved a deep breath once the drill had broken through. He handed her a wire that she fished down through the hole. With tape hooked to the end of a skinny probe she latched the wire to both sensor terminals, bypassing the foil.
Together they lifted the case. Rebel was just thinking about what a good team they made together when Torie pushed him out of the way and snatched up the Stones of Sankara. The gold sparkled as it dipped under the display lights.
An odd look flashed in her eyes as she held her prize. It looked like relief. That wasn’t the emotion he’d expected. Why did it mean so much to her to hold these artifacts? They were just going to sell them. She stroked the stones and murmured what looked like a wordless prayer.
"What?" he whispered.
"Soon." She said and looked up, blinking, as if suddenly realizing he was standing next to her. "Let's get out of here."
Then, Rebel once again, from the belt came the thin metal case. He opened the case, and lifted out a silver-colored, bullet-shaped slip of notepaper, then clapped it to the front of the display case, sticking the seal conspicuously into place.
Rebel backtracked to the alleyway. It wasn’t his cleanest burglary, but Torie had time constraints, so he hadn't been able to plan and execute this robbery with his usual ghost-like flare. This was sloppy and he didn't like it. That nagging bad feeling kept creeping back up his throat and tingling through his spine. No matter how hard he tried to shake it off, he just couldn't seem to get over feeling that something was wrong.
Dead wrong.
A shadow moved in the alley. A second one joined it. Rebel crowded Torie back toward the door from where they’d just emerged.
"Shhh... We're not alone." Rebel whispered.
Shit.
"Sorry," Torie said.
He turned just in time to watch her slam a small club into the top of his head. He sank to his knees.
Shit.
"I'm really sorry." Torie’s voice sounded strange.
The alleyway swirled in and out of focus. Shadows advanced like hungry wolves.
"She has it." A shadow said.
"Where's Jason? You said you’d free Jason." Torie sounded frantic.
A shadow swept over her, silencing her.
"What about this one?" Something slammed into Rebel’s side. It felt like the toe of a heavy boot.
Rebel moaned and curled in on himself. The darkness began seeping into his brain. Everything
sounded like the night sky, vast and empty.
"Better take him, too."
Take him where? Rebel couldn't seem to get his mind to work after that last thought screamed through his head.
(The Scene Fades To Black.)
To WendyPan for shooting all the photos taken in chapters 1-3
Thanks to Julie J for the large floor safe from which she converted from Sims 2 to Sims 3
Sets and interior of Rebel's house are by WendyPan.
Rebel's house is the California Mansion by Curtis Paradis.
Lamborghini is by Fresh Prince.
Guggenheim Museum is from TSR by EricMesa1179.
Poses by IMHO, Maximum Sims, and I don't recall where I got the Ninja poses.
__________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 5
Torie sat with her chin propped against her hand and stared out into the dark waters. The boat bobbed and tilted as it made its way toward a cargo ship looming like a small city on the horizon. The shimmering stars above her winked mischievously and made her think of Rebel.
She looked over her shoulder. He was still there, lying in a motionless heap. Guilt flooded her chest, bringing tears close to the surface. She'd used him. He didn't understand the danger. Each time he’d regained consciousness in the past several hours, he'd fought the kidnappers and taken a harsh beating. Dried blood had clumped in his blond hair and was smeared across the side of his bruised face.
Poor, poor Rebel. He was so like her brother. Good hearted, but greedy. The last time consciousness brightened his eyes, she had begged him to remain still. He'd told her to shut up.
"I told you I would keep you safe, and I will." He’d said right before getting smacked in the side of the head with the butt of a rifle.
Not even once did he look worried. That arrogant grin of his had remained plastered on his lips as the kidnappers made sport of his determined spirit. She supposed she should have expected him to act that way. He was like her Jason. Everything was a game... a challenge to be savored.
Keeping low, she scooted across the deck to Rebel's side and caressed his bruised cheek.
"I should have never bullied my way back into your life." She said.
"But then you’d be short one knight-in-shining-armor just about now." He said, and she smiled.
His voice cracked, sounding terribly hurt and raspy. He peeled open one eye and then the other. Despite the beatings he'd suffered life sparkled as brightly as ever in those shimmering blue eyes of his.
"What, no shadowy figures lying in wait to use me as a punching bag?"
"Oh, Rebel..." She couldn't imagine how he could joke at a time like this. With some degree of difficulty, he pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Just tell me one thing," He said, peering out into the darkness. "Were you planning all along to bash me over the head or was that a last minute decision you’d made to cut me out of the profits?"
Torie stared at him for several moments, speechless. The Stones of Sankara was the least of their worries.
"Come now." Rebel's voice caught a dangerous edge. "The truth can't possibly be that difficult to spit out."
"Um..." What could she say? She'd used him and wasn't proud of herself for it.
"I see."
"No, I don't think you do." She tried to grab his hand, but he jerked it away before she could get a good grip.
He groaned as he worked his way to his feet. He shuffled a staggering gait to the boat's railing.
"Good luck with these shadow-men of yours."
Good lord, he was going to dive overboard.
"They kidnapped my brother." The words spilled out easily now that it looked like she was about to lose what felt like her only friend in the world.
"They said they’d kill him if they didn't get those stupid Stones of Sankara back. What was I to do? The government had told me all about due process and not giving into terrorist's demands. What can I say? I needed your help, but I was afraid you wouldn't do it for free."
He paused at the railing and turned. A frown pinched his lips together. He looked like a different man, a hardened soul.
"You could have warned me." The words fell flat onto the deck between them. "We were in a museum filled with priceless trinkets, Torie! I could have picked up something in addition to your blasted stones to cover expenses. And I certainly wouldn't have left my back exposed like that if I’d known there were others interested in what we were doing."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have trusted you... if only a little."
His gaze strayed back to the swirling waters.
"Don't leave me." Torie cried barely above a whisper.
His eyes met hers.
"I'm a very good swimmer, you know." He glanced at his watch. "We can't be more than a mile or two from shore. I can make it."
"I can't leave my brother." she said, sounding braver than she felt. "He needs my help."
"Have you seen him?"
She shook her head.
"He might be on the cargo ship," He said, his frown grew deeper, his voice more deadly. "He might not even be alive."
That wasn't what she wanted to hear.
"He's my brother." She said, hoping he would understand why she couldn't give up on Jason no matter how bleak the situation. "What am I supposed to do?"
Rebel shrugged. He eyed the water again. She held her breath, expecting he'd jump overboard.
He didn't. He only frowned harder.
She brought her arm around him, leading him away from the railing... Then pushed herself up onto her toes and gently pressed her lips to his. They slowly wrapped their arms around each other, kissing deeply.
They continued to embrace for a minute or so, then reluctantly pushed her away, grabbing one of the ship’s Lifebuoy rings from the wall.
"C'mon, now’s our chance," he whispered, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
Torie took another breath and looked down at the floor. She turned her eyes up to his and twisted her lips from side to side, as if she were mulling something over.
"Rebel, I..." she mumbled nervously.
Rebel waved his hand and cut her off.
"Yeah, I know... You can't leave your brother." he said sternly, leaning over the ships railing.
Her heart was pounding, and she felt herself on the verge of tears.
"Hey!" a voice from a deck above them shouted. "Move away from there!" Heavy boots clanked on metal stairs as a team of armed men dressed in army fatigues descended from the cabin above.
Chapter 6
(OUR NEXT SCENE OPENS ON THE CARGO SHIP.)
Torie hugged her brother, who'd jumped to his feet after three armed men had pushed Rebel and her through the door into a cramped cabin on the cargo ship, and the clanking of a metal door. She sobbed loudly. It was a heartrending scene.
"So you're Jason." Rebel said. He narrowed his aching gaze on a slightly chubby man who looked to be in his mid forties. Jason hadn't taken good care of himself, though. He was corpulent and needed to exercise.
Rebel would have probably had kinder thoughts about her dear, kidnapped brother if he'd looked half as beat up as Rebel felt. There wasn't even a nick on this man's smooth skin. Jason wrapped his meaty arms around his sister and peered at Rebel over the top of her golden-dark blonde hair.
"Who's this guy?" his grumbly voice sounded terse--suspicious.
"That’s Rebel." Torie managed to say between sniffles.
"He's the thief, I told you about, remember?"
"Oh." Jason snarled at Rebel and then kissed the top of his sister’s head. "They told me," he said. "I don’t know how you managed it, but they're pleased to have the Stones of Sankara back under their control."
"Who are these people?" Rebel asked. He strived to keep his voice calm, which was a challenge. He had stayed with Torie, picturing her brother needing all the help he could get. In fact, he'd pictured Jason suffering all sorts of dire tortures. And here, Jason didn't seem like he was in danger at all while Rebel certainly wasn't too convinced about his own safety.
"What are they planning to do with us?" Jason ignored the question. He placed his hand on Torie, squeezing her delicate shoulder. "You are okay, aren't you?" he asked her. "You didn't let this filthy sneak-thief seduce you?" Jason glared at Rebel.
"What?" "Let's not start calling names. I suppose you got those Stones of Sankara you’d sold to the museum through completely legal means."
"I paid for 'em."
"From a crooked archeologist, I'm sure." Rebel advanced, flexing his fists. Jason quickly ducked behind Torie. "And just think, I gave up my chance to escape to save you." He muttered.
Torie held up her hands, and stayed between her brother and Rebel. "Stop this," she said. "Rebel is Rebel. He's harmless." That stung. Harmless generally meant an easy target, a doormat to be walked all over or (he rubbed the back of his sore head) a cat burglar to be used and tossed aside.
"Tell me, Jason. What’s going to happen to us?" she asked, echoing Rebel's earlier question. Jason sighed deeply.
"I worked a deal with Kalam. He will take us with him back to India. There, I've promised to identify the men who stole the golden stones in the first place."
"But they have the stones. Why would... Kalam--really, Abdul Kalam’s behind this? Why would he kidnap Rebel and me?"
"I’m sorry, sis. You’re here to serve as extra incentive for me to hand those men over to them." At least Jason had the good sense to look like he regretted involving family in his dirty dealings.
"So they hold us until they get their hands on the men who sold you the stones. Is that it?" Her voice was growing tight.
"Yes," Jason mumbled. "They plan to hold you and me until they deal out their vigilante justice."
"And what about Rebel?" Jason shrugged.
"What about me?" Rebel asked as he pushed Torie out of the way and advanced on Jason. The door flew open behind them before he could beat an answer out of Jason. A slim man, his skin darkly tanned, entered behind three guards each with a submachine gun slung over a shoulder. The man's suit was a neatly tailored hand-stitched, expensive piece of work.
"You complicate my life," the man said, wearily.
"My sister delivered the Stones of Sankara. You should be pleased."
"Jason, you should have never smuggled them out of India in the first place." He crossed the room with a lazy stride and stopped in front of Torie. He caressed her cheek with an intimacy that left Rebel gnashing his teeth.
"Abdul," Torie said, with a deep purr. "It’s been a long time."
"Too long." the words slipped like velvet from his mouth. "You remember my brother." He gave a nod to one of the guards.
"Hello, Avul." Torie’s bluish green eyes hardened as her gaze settled on Kalam's bigger and uglier brother. "Are you still torturing baby animals?"
The guard answered with a menacing snarl.
Kalam chuckled. "We don't have any baby animals on this ship. He’ll just have to make due with your cat burglar, here."
"Wait a minute." Rebel said as the other two guards grabbed each of his arms.
"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been able to get those stupid stones."
"He was just a tool. Wasn't he, Torie?" Kalam asked. Torie looked at her brother, then Kalam, and finally her eye's met Rebel's.
"He was a tool." those glossy lips said. Rebel spat out an ugly curse, his anger directed more toward himself than at Torie. He should have expected all along that an angel like her would be the one to swing his final deathblow.
The lemony cologne Abdul Kalam favored tickled Torie's nose. At one time that exotic scent would have turned her knees all quivery. Now it just turned her stomach. She reached out and took Abdul’s neatly manicured hand.
"These men Jason purchased the Stones of Sankara from." she asked, "They stole them from of your vault?"
He nodded. "It was a great insult to my power. It must have been an inside job. Such a betrayal cannot go unpunished."
Abdul sold drugs to his little corner of the world. It had made him a very rich and powerful man. That kind of power held a certain allure. She ran her hand up his arm. There was very little muscle tone. His strength came from the men he'd employed to enforce his will.
"You always respected honesty." She said with a soothing tone. She eased up onto the tips of her toes and placed a gentle kiss on his mouth.
"Torie!" Rebel's plaintive cry hit her like a blow.
"Get him out of here." Abdul said as he snaked his arm around Torie's waist. She slid her hand into his suit coat, caressing his chest. "Have your sick way with him, Avul. Just be sure to toss whatever's left of the body overboard before we reach port."
The door squeaked as someone opened it. The yelp that followed nearly brought Torie to her knees. It took all of her willpower to keep from rushing to his side. Avul chuckled when Rebel cried out a defiant, but pained, curse. Torie buried her face in Abdul's coat, not wanting to know what Abdul's monster of a brother had planned for Rebel.
With a smooth motion she swept the semi-automatic pistol from Abdul's shoulder holster and pressed its barrel against his forehead. Abdul narrowed his eyes and glared as the guards advanced.
"Tell them to back off." Torie said. "Or I just might have to put a hole in your head."
"Everyone back off." Abdul ordered. A bit of his shiny tan drained away.
"Rebel?" Torie said. She prayed he was still in the room. She didn't dare take her eyes off her target to look.
"Yeah... Torie?" His voice sounded thin, weak.
"Avul and those two guards are going to hand you their guns. Aren't they, Abdul?"
"Do it." Abdul barked. The men grunted and huffed. It must have torn at their villainous warriors' hearts to give up their weapons.
"That's a good boy, and let me see what's in your boot there." Rebel said, sounding much more like his arrogant self again. "I've got three submachine guns, two knifes, and one bloodied brass knuckle."
"Okay, this is the plan." Keep talking, she told herself. Keep in control. "Abdul, you're going to lead us to that yacht you’ve got hoisted over the side of this ship. You’re going to lower it and ride ashore with us. Do you understand?"
"Torie, don’t make me your enemy." He warned.
"I'm not trying to be your enemy. You've got your treasure, but you didn't hold up your end of the bargain. I'm simply working on self-preservation....... Rebel?"
"I'm here." He touched her shoulder.
"Shoot anyone who comes too close to us, okay?"
"Got it."
With the guards backed far away from the door, Abdul led them to his yacht. It was the same one they'd used to ferry Rebel and her out to the cargo ship. Jason followed along, grumbling about how they were making a huge mistake. Torie had to finally tell him that he had no business lecturing her about mistakes.
Once on the yacht and safely moving away from the cargo ship, Torie's muscles turned to water. Abdul's gun slipped from her fingers and clattered to the deck as she collapsed. Rebel's arms were suddenly around her, supporting her.
"We're almost there, darling." He said and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Jason, tie up your friend before he hurts someone."
Torie closed her eyes and hung on to Rebel for several minutes, savoring the security of his masculine arms.
"Thank you." She whispered. "You owe me." He said. As the first rays of the new morning sun broke over the mountain tops Jason steered the yacht toward port.Torie had radioed the police, and the flashing lights waiting for them had been visible from quite a distance.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Torie asked again.
"Yeah." He said. But it was a lie. He didn't know what hurt worse, his battered head, or her betrayal. For some foolish reason, he'd begun to see a future with her. They'd travel the world in style. Partners in crime. A perfect match. Yep, he was damned fool. At least she was too squeamish to let Kalam and his buddies kill him in cold blood. For that, he supposed he was grateful.
The yacht bobbed in the water as several police officers tied it up to the dock. The FBI agents were the first ones to rush onto the boat. Three greeted Torie as if she were an old chum. Rebel supposed it was her sunny personality that had that affect on men.
A stone-faced FBI agent named Nick Russell approached him. "Lets Go," He said as he latched his arm around Rebel's. "Needless to say, we’ve got a lot of questions we need answered."
"He needs medical care." Torie shouted out, as she was lead in one direction and Rebel in another.
Jason was nowhere in sight. He must have slipped away in the confusion, just as Rebel should have done. Damn, his instincts were slipping. Another agent joined the first one and said.
"There's an ambulance waiting. Torie had insisted you needed one, and I can now see why. We’ll talk while the EMT's take a look at you."
"Great, just great," Rebel muttered.
He turned and caught Torie staring at him. Their gazes touched, and in that brief moment he forgave her. She'd done what she needed to do to save her brother. Her bravery had been noble. Who was he to find fault? He'd been the one who was fool enough to follow along.
Chapter 7
Rebel couldn't believe his luck. The FBI agent Nick Russell had given him a stern lecture. He even threatened to send him straight to prison, but Abdul Kalam, it seems, was a big fish. One with big teeth. The FBI was thrilled to have finally netted him, thrilled enough to not dig too hard about the museum break-in. They took the glory and Rebel got to keep his freedom.
Seemed like a fair trade-off.
(THE SCENE NOW SHIFTS TO THE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.)
Rebel gave the rather plain, slightly plump airport security guard waving a wand over his waist his most charming grin. She didn't smile back. Ah well, she was just one woman. That was no reason to go running, and screaming in front of the nearest bus.
He had a one-way ticket tucked in his pocket, as he wove through the busy holiday crowd in the airport. A family with four excited children nudged ahead of him as he closed in on his gate. Rebel exhaled a long breath.
"She didn't even say goodbye that night on the yacht." He thought to himself. That was one thing he thought he'd always regret. he was convinced he'd never see her again. "Get on that plane and forget about her and your thrumming instincts." he muttered to himself.
"Excuse me?" the businessman beside him looked up from his newspaper and asked.
"Nothing..." Rebel mumbled.
A voice on the loud speaker placed a last boarding call for his flight, reminding him that he needed to forget his past and get on that plane.
"Can I help you with that bag, sir?" an airline flight attendant with long, ebony hair and legs that seemed to go on forever asked. Her hand brushed his as she took his small carryon bag and stuffed it into the overhead compartment. She blinked her deep brown eyes that should have left him melting. Rebel cleared his throat.
"Thank you." He said, stiffly, and tamped down an urge to flash her one of his trademark grins.
As Rebel settled into his seat by the window and stared out onto the runway, he thought about a new life, a new beginning. He felt that life had given him a second chance. He wasn't going to blow it. It was the straight and narrow for him. It wouldn't be glamorous or exciting. But he was getting too old for all that anyhow. And he certainly didn't need a woman.
He sighed, knowing the last was a lie.
"Excuse me," A sultry voice of a fallen angel sang. Rebel closed his eyes, unable to trust his hearing. "I believe this is my seat." She affirmed.
Slowly, he looked up for some reason,
"You’re on this flight?" He asked, stupidly. Of course she was. Torie was standing right in front of him, wasn't she? He blinked, and rubbed his eyes not able to believe his luck.
"I'm going home." she said, taking her seat next to him.
"Where, back to India." He quipped in a tone of sarcasm.
Torie took Rebel's dexterous hand in hers. tracing little circles over the tops of his knuckles. His heart did a flip when she replied.
"Home with you, silly! to Bridgeport."
Ah well, Rebel thought as the plane raced down the runway, this was one woman whose love was worth stealing.......
A special thanks to LNL for allowing me to use Miguel Gutierrez who played Abdul Kalam, and to Julie J for her Sim Nick Russell who played an FBI agent... A many great thanks to all those cc creators and pose creators for their hard work... IMHO, Maximum Sims, Cloudwalker for the 'crime and punishment' pose pack, and for the Ninja poses, I can't remember where or who, but thank you to everyone.
I especially would like to thank WendyPan for Torie Roberts, and her many other wonderful Sims she furnished for my humble story, for without her collaboration, this story would not have been possible.
So please sit back and enjoy,
"A Love Worth Stealing"
Chapter 1
(The scene opens at a conglomerate business section of town.)
At almost midnight, the street was, at first glance, deserted; it was dark and dreary, with stores and lofts on either side. Quick as a cat, active, lithe, he was over a six-foot fence in the rear of a building in a flash, and crouched, a black shape, against the back door of a pretentious, immaculate, jewelry store.
From a utility belt around his waist, he took a black silk mask, and slipped it on; and from the belt, also, came a little instrument that his deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping sound followed. He put his weight gradually against the door. a slight rasping of metal-then the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been Rebel Savage vanished, and the door closed again.
Rebel stood tall. at almost 6 feet 4 inches, and 240 pounds, Muscular in every line of his body, like a well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about him-the grace and ease of power in his poise. As the light fell upon him now, was serious-a mood that became him well... the firm lips closed, the blue, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped.
A round, white beam of light glowed for an instant-and disappeared. Rebel moved cautiously-and the flashlight in his hand showed the way for an instant-then darkness again. Every movement was quick, sure, accurate... with not a wasted second. It had been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. The ray of Rebel's flashlight swept the interior, and rested on an antique, ponderous safe.
Under the mask Rebel's lips parted in a smile that seemed almost apologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little more than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came the thin metal case. He opened the case, and lifted out a silver-colored, bullet-shaped slip of notepaper with an adhesive edge, then with is latex gloved hand clapped it to the front of the safe, sticking the seal conspicuously into place. Rebel's calling card insignia bore no fingerprints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many a time regretfully assured the police of that fact.
And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. It was dark, pitch black-and silent. Not a sound, save the shrill whine of his micro-mini drill. Rebel worked fast. He drilled a hole through the face of the old-fashioned safe-and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every faculty tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward.
What was that?
From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in the utter darkness, Rebel listened... there was a scraping noise in the rear some one was climbing the fence that he had climbed!
In an instant the tools in Rebel's hands disappeared into their respective pockets in his utility belt, and the sensitive fingers shot to the dial on the safe. one ear close to the dial, listening as the tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly.
Came a footstep, a ray of light. the newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had been tampered with. Nearer came the steps, still nearer, and then the safe door swung open.
There it was. just what he came for. 'The Idols Eye diamond' the Idols Eye is a famous pear shaped diamond, its polished size weighing in at 70.20 carats. The name of the stone came from a legend claiming that the Sheik of Kahmir stole it from an idols eye to pay the Sultan of Turkey a ransom for Princess Rasheetah.
In a flash the diamond disappeared into a zippered pocket beneath his vest and Rebel, that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted towards the door... but he had delayed a little too long.
Suddenly, the door swung open, a flashlight swept full on Rebel. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a second would have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all his life Rebel had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring, he leaped full at the light and the man behind it. The rough voice, in surprised exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry, expired in a gasp.
There was a crash as the two men met, and the other reeled back at the impact. onto him Rebel sprang, and his hands flew for the other's throat. It was a Police officer in uniform! Rebel had felt the brass badge as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile on Rebel's tight lips.
The officer was a smaller man than Rebel, but powerful for his build-and he fought now with all his strength. This way and that the two men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; every muscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Rebel, with great brute strength, lifted the lawman over his head, and hurled him, sending the officer sprawling onto the floor of the office, and in the winking of an eye, had slammed shut the door and turned the key.
There was a bull-like roar... and a shattering crash of breaking glass, as the policeman fired a 9mm cap through the office window, and past Rebel, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously past his head.
Out on the street dashed Rebel, whipping the mask from his face, and glanced like a hawk around him. For all the racket, the neighborhood had not yet been aroused... no one was in sight. In a hundred-yard sprint, Rebel disappeared into the darkness.
(The scene opens at a conglomerate business section of town.)
At almost midnight, the street was, at first glance, deserted; it was dark and dreary, with stores and lofts on either side. Quick as a cat, active, lithe, he was over a six-foot fence in the rear of a building in a flash, and crouched, a black shape, against the back door of a pretentious, immaculate, jewelry store.
From a utility belt around his waist, he took a black silk mask, and slipped it on; and from the belt, also, came a little instrument that his deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping sound followed. He put his weight gradually against the door. a slight rasping of metal-then the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been Rebel Savage vanished, and the door closed again.
Rebel stood tall. at almost 6 feet 4 inches, and 240 pounds, Muscular in every line of his body, like a well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about him-the grace and ease of power in his poise. As the light fell upon him now, was serious-a mood that became him well... the firm lips closed, the blue, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped.
A round, white beam of light glowed for an instant-and disappeared. Rebel moved cautiously-and the flashlight in his hand showed the way for an instant-then darkness again. Every movement was quick, sure, accurate... with not a wasted second. It had been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. The ray of Rebel's flashlight swept the interior, and rested on an antique, ponderous safe.
Under the mask Rebel's lips parted in a smile that seemed almost apologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little more than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came the thin metal case. He opened the case, and lifted out a silver-colored, bullet-shaped slip of notepaper with an adhesive edge, then with is latex gloved hand clapped it to the front of the safe, sticking the seal conspicuously into place. Rebel's calling card insignia bore no fingerprints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many a time regretfully assured the police of that fact.
And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. It was dark, pitch black-and silent. Not a sound, save the shrill whine of his micro-mini drill. Rebel worked fast. He drilled a hole through the face of the old-fashioned safe-and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every faculty tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward.
What was that?
From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in the utter darkness, Rebel listened... there was a scraping noise in the rear some one was climbing the fence that he had climbed!
In an instant the tools in Rebel's hands disappeared into their respective pockets in his utility belt, and the sensitive fingers shot to the dial on the safe. one ear close to the dial, listening as the tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly.
Came a footstep, a ray of light. the newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had been tampered with. Nearer came the steps, still nearer, and then the safe door swung open.
There it was. just what he came for. 'The Idols Eye diamond' the Idols Eye is a famous pear shaped diamond, its polished size weighing in at 70.20 carats. The name of the stone came from a legend claiming that the Sheik of Kahmir stole it from an idols eye to pay the Sultan of Turkey a ransom for Princess Rasheetah.
In a flash the diamond disappeared into a zippered pocket beneath his vest and Rebel, that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted towards the door... but he had delayed a little too long.
Suddenly, the door swung open, a flashlight swept full on Rebel. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a second would have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all his life Rebel had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring, he leaped full at the light and the man behind it. The rough voice, in surprised exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry, expired in a gasp.
There was a crash as the two men met, and the other reeled back at the impact. onto him Rebel sprang, and his hands flew for the other's throat. It was a Police officer in uniform! Rebel had felt the brass badge as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile on Rebel's tight lips.
The officer was a smaller man than Rebel, but powerful for his build-and he fought now with all his strength. This way and that the two men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; every muscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Rebel, with great brute strength, lifted the lawman over his head, and hurled him, sending the officer sprawling onto the floor of the office, and in the winking of an eye, had slammed shut the door and turned the key.
There was a bull-like roar... and a shattering crash of breaking glass, as the policeman fired a 9mm cap through the office window, and past Rebel, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously past his head.
Out on the street dashed Rebel, whipping the mask from his face, and glanced like a hawk around him. For all the racket, the neighborhood had not yet been aroused... no one was in sight. In a hundred-yard sprint, Rebel disappeared into the darkness.
___________________________________________________________
Chapter 2
(One Year Later)
(The scene opens at The Huntington Hills Country Club.)
____________________________________________________________________
Could there be any doubt that Rebel Savage was innately a gentleman?
Rebel's father had been a member of the Huntington Hills Country Club, and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the World, a prosperous, wealthy man, and at Rebel's birth, his father had proposed his son's name for membership. It took many years to get into the ultra-exclusive club, Huntington Hills. there was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pull could alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their sons' names for membership when they were born as religiously as they entered them upon the city's birth register.
At twenty-one Rebel was elected to membership; and, incidentally, that same year, graduated from Harvard. It was Rebel's desire that he should enter his father's business and learn it from the ground up, and Rebel, for four years thereafter, had done just that. Then his father died. Rebel had leanings toward more artistic pursuits than business.
He was credited with having received a very snug amount from the sale of his safe manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life, in the house that his father had left him on Riverside Drive; his mother had been dead many years. He kept enough servants to run his ménage smoothly, and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitably inclined.
Was there any doubt that Rebel Savage was a gentleman, an innate gentleman?
It was evening, and Rebel sat at a small table in the corner of the Huntington Hills Country Club dining room. Opposite him sat Hank Wilson, a man of his own age, about thirty five years old, a leading figure in the newspaper world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor within the short space of a few years had been almost meteoric.
Rebel was leaning back in his chair, his radiant blue eyes fixed interestedly on his guest. Hank Wilson, intently engaged in his café latte, looked up with an abrupt laugh.
"No; I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime," he said whimsically; ”that would never do. But I don't mind admitting quite privately that it's been a positive regret to me that he's gone."
"Made too good a story to lose, I suppose?" suggested Rebel quizzically. "Too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like that for him --The Silver Bullet-- rather unique! Who stuck that on him... you?"
Hank laughed, then, grew serious. He leaned forward toward Rebel.
"You don't mean to say, Rebel that you don't know about that, do you?" he asked incredulously. "Why, a year ago the papers were full of him. He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime." said Wilson reminiscently, after a moment of silence.
"Rebel, he was the king-pin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him, or dare-devil isn't either. I used to dream nights about those confounded silver sticky-notes of his, --that's where he got his name; he left every job he ever did with a little silver slip of notepaper, fashioned bullet-shaped, stuck somewhere where it would be the first thing your eyes would light upon when you reached the scene, and..."
"Hold on... don't go so fast," smiled Rebel. "I don't quite get the connection. What did you have to do with this-er-Silver Bullet fellow?"
"I had a good deal to do with him," said Wilson grimly. "I was a reporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, after I began really to appreciate what it took to catch him... and I nearly did, half a dozen times, only--"
"Only you never quite did, eh?" Rebel cut in. "How near did you get, old man? Come on, now, no bluffing. did The Silver Bullet ever even recognize you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game?"
Wilson answered, with a wry grimace. "He knew me, all right, confound him! He favored me with several sarcastic notes! I'll show 'em to you some day-explaining how I'd fallen down and how I could have got him if I'd done something else." Hank Wilson's fist came suddenly down on the table. "And I would have got him, too damn it, if he, had lived."
"Lived!" exclaimed Rebel. "He's dead, then?"
"Yes... He's dead."
"Hmm!" said Rebel facetiously. "I hope the size of the wreath you sent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation."
"I never sent any wreath. For the very simple reason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said he was dead because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger."
"Rotten poor evidence, even for a newspaper." commented Rebel. "Why not give him credit for having, say-reformed?"
Hank shook his head. "The Silver Bullet wasn't an ordinary crook-he was a classic. He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man like that could, no more stop, than he could stop breathing. He's dead... there's nothing to it but that... he's dead. I'd bet a year's salary on it."
"Another good man gone wrong, then." said Rebel capriciously. "I suppose, though, that at least you discovered the ’woman in the case'?"
Hank looked up quickly, a little startled, then laughed shortly.
"What's the matter?" inquired Rebel.
"Nothing," said Hank. "You kind of got me for a moment, that's all. That's the way those infernal notes from the Silver Bullet used to end up: 'Find the lady; and you'll get me.' He had a damned patronizing familiarity that would make you squirm."
"Well, and how about this woman? old man." prodded Rebel.
"The woman?" Hank smiled. "Nothing doing! I don't believe there was one... he wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters on to finding her if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course. He worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success, according to my way of thinking. There was never so much as an indication that he had an accomplice in anything he ever did."
Hank Wilson starred thoughtfully at his café latte cup. "He was the prince of thieves, and the father of originality," added Wilson abruptly. "Half the time there wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things he did, than there was getting at the Silver Bullet himself."
He pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it-and pushed back his chair. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "It's nearly half-past nine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have to hurry; we're a morning paper, you know, Rebel."
"What! Really! Is it as late as that?" Rebel rose from his chair as Hank stood up. "Well, if you must."
"I must," said Hank, with a laugh.
He accompanied Hank downstairs to the door of the club, and saw his guest into the newspaper company's limo; then he returned inside, sauntered through the billiard room, and from there into one of the card rooms, where, pressed into a game. He played several hands of poker before going home.
________________________________________________________________
Special thanks to Population_TS3 for the use of her Sim Grant Hill to play the role of "Hank Wilson" and for the use of Kyng Diamond as an extra... Another special thanks to LNL for the use of Miguel Gutierrez... The other sims, in Chapters 1 and 2 are by WendyPan.
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Chapter 3
It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Rebel arrived at his house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant.
"Hello, James," said Rebel pleasantly. "You still up? "
"Yes, sir," replied James, who had been valet to Rebel's father before him. "I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a messenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, and--"
"James!" Rebel flung out the interruption, sudden, quick imperative. "What did she look like?"
"Why -- why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir." stammered James, taken aback. “Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance, and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face."
"Hair and eyes-what color?" demanded Savage crisply. “Nose, lips, chin-what shape?"
"I don't rightly know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take particular notice." gasped James, staring at his master.
"It's too bad you weren't a younger man, James." commented Rebel, with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. "I'd have given a year's income for your opportunity to-night, James."
"Yes, sir," said James helplessly. "The letter is on the table in your study, sir."
"Thank you, James," said Rebel, his hand closing with an appreciative pressure on James' shoulder. Good-night, James."
Upstairs on the first landing, Rebel opened a door, closed and locked it behind him-and the light switch clicked under his fingers. A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. There were green cozy, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather covered sofa, and an easel with a half-finished painting; the walls were paneled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in the centre of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor was a dark, heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great, old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room.
For an instant Rebel remained quietly by the door, as though listening. Then abruptly he walked across the room to the table, picked up an envelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest lounging chair.
There had been no doubt in his mind, who the letter was from. It was precisely what he had expected from almost the first word James had spoken. It was the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same old haunting, rare, indescribable fragrance about it. Rebel's hands turned the envelope this way, and that, as he looked at it, striving to decipher the message within.
He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. a single written sheet fell into his hand. He read it slowly, critically. then re-read it over again; and then, his eyes, starred intently on the rug at his feet... he fed the note into a paper shredder by the desk. his fingers dipped into the shreds in the waste basket and tore them over and over again, tore them until they were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet.
Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them down in a little pile, and set them afire. then he crunched and scattered them with the brass handled fender brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, he removed a large painting, that covered a custom designed safe--one of his own design and planning in the years when he had been with his father.
He turned the dials with the hands of a surgeon, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch alone, and the door swung open, and then from the interior he took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied together with thongs. With the bundle under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor. divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark tweed coat, with black loose-fitting, pants, and a black turtleneck shirt from his wardrobe, and began to put it on.
He turned to the leather bundle that he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out to its full length. the leather strip made a wide utility belt, It was not an ordinary belt; it was full of stout-sewn, upright little pockets all the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blued-steel, highly tempered instruments... a compact, powerful burglar's kit.
The dexterous, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a thin, flat metal case. This, Rebel opened, and glanced inside, were little slips of silver, bullet-shaped notepaper with an adhesive edge.
Rebel snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for examination.
"Pretty good shape after a year," muttered Rebel, replacing it.
He put on the belt, then his coat. from the drawer of his dresser he took an automatic revolver and a flashlight, slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs to the garage where awaiting him was his 2012 Silver Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder.
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Solomon R. Guggenheim
The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum was the last major commission of Frank Lloyd Wright before his death. Wright passed away before it opened in 1959.
Chapter 4
Rebel drove across town, passed the town square, and headed for Main Street, but Rebel, to all appearances, was quite oblivious. His thoughts
were in the past. It had been a year since he had last seen her, and a year since she had written him. She! Rebel did not smile, his lips were pressed hard together.
He remembered the last letter, apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her. It was a year ago now, and the letter had been hardly more than a note. The police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Silver Bullet, the papers had grown absolutely maudlin, and she had written, in her characteristic way:
"Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Rebel? Let's let them cool for a year."
Since then until to-night, he had heard nothing from her. It was a strange contract that he had entered into with her, so strange that he could never have known, could never know a parallel so unique, so dangerous, so bizarre, it was all that and more.
He had meant to set the police on their ears, using his silver, bullet-shaped notepaper device as an added barb, he had meant to laugh at them and puzzle them to the verge of madness, and he had succeeded. And then he had gone too far... and he had been caught, by her. It was "Friedman's, the big jeweler's" heist which she had held over him.
She had caught him... how he did not know... he had never seen her, did not know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energies for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morning following the 'Friedman's' affair, indeed, before he had breakfast, James had brought him the first letter from her. It had started by detailing his every move of the night before... and it had ended with an ultimatum:
"The cleverness, the originality of the Silver Bullet as a crook lacked but one thing." she had naively written, "And that one thing was that his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels that were worthy of his genius."
In other words, she would plan the whole operation, and he would act at her dictation and execute them... or else how did twenty years in prison for that little 'Friedman's' affair, appeal to him? He was to answer by the next morning, a simple "yes" or "no" in the personal column of the morning News.
Threaten a man like Rebel was like flaunting a red rag at a bull, and a rage ungovernable had surged up. then cold reason had come. He was caught. there was no question about that. she had taken pains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Dishonor, shame, humiliation, and a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, and there was but one alternative... to link hands with this unseen, mysterious accomplice.
And so, in the next morning's News paper, Rebel had answered "yes." And then had followed years, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail, those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs that Hank Wilson had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the old Police headquarters to its foundations, until the Silver Bullet had become a name to contend with. And, yes, it was quite true, he had entered, into it all. stretched the limits, with an eagerness that was insatiable.
Rebel had reached the lower end of Main Street, and stopped two blocks from his destination. He never parked to close to his intended target. In this case, his intended target was... "The Guggenheim Museum."
Rebel crouched beside a large tree as he watched a dark figure pace back and forth in the shadow of the building. It was her alright. Rebel's heart almost shot into his throat as he saw her curvaceous, killer body pacing back and forth in the night air as if she owned it. he eyed her carefully. He knew what he was doing. His mind was fast. His body nimble. A perfect cat burglar. before she knew it, he was standing behind her.
"Torie Roberts!" he quipped abruptly.
She screamed like someone had jumped out from behind a tree. Torie spun around in the direction of the voice. It wasn't just hearing his voice that startled her, but the fact that she had not immediately sensed the presence of another person. Rebel quickly put his hand over her mouth. swiftly jerking his hand away she sternly scolded:
"You scared the shit out of me Rebel, what's the matter with you?" she bent over, putting her hand on her chest.
"You deserve it... after what you did to me." He snapped, marked by a feeling of bitterness. "What happened to you? where have you been for a year?"
The past came flooding back like an ocean of memories. Her heart raced. She hadn't seen him in over a year -- since the day she left, effectively crushing every dream he had in the process. Torie swallowed hard, and tried her damnedest to put forward airs of coolness, and calmness. she tried, but she knew she would not fool the man who now stood before her,
"You're right, and I'm sorry." she said, hiding her embarrassment with a tone of irritation. "I've been to India."
"India?" He felt his eyes open wide and his jaw drop. "Whatever for?"
"I've been working with an archeologist."
"In India?" He asked again, stunned. "Should I guard against an irate boyfriend or husband?" he asked with that soft voice of his.
Torie swallowed back a welling of tears as she sadly shook her head. Her reaction must have caught him off-guard. He took a couple quick steps toward her but stopped.
"Come on, we've got a lot of work to do before daylight."
She looked up at Rebel with her beautiful greenish-blue eyes. A petite frown created a delightful wrinkle between her brows, And she did looked adorable in those black Capri jeans, black turtleneck sweater, and matching gloves, like a modern day, Katharine Hepburn.
After she explained, in perfect detail their objection, Rebel told her to go wait in his car.
"No way." she replied. "We're in this one together."
"What?" Rebel protested. "You've never done a job with me, and you're not going to start now."
"Why not." she looked truly puzzled. "I have to make sure you get the right stones."
Torie stared at him. He was so cock-sure of himself. She could use that. Nothing about this fool plan of hers felt right. Only, she had no other option. her archeologist would die if she didn't act and act soon. They’d given her a tight deadline.
Hand over the Stones of Sankara by Friday or they would kill him. No negotiation. No excuses. Do it or he dies.
"Okay," He said. "But you do everything I tell you. follow me, and don't touch anything."
"It’s a deal." she said.
A tingling of unease crept down Rebel’s spine. He glanced back at Torie. She was following along behind him, stepping where he stepped through the dimly lit alleyway. Her concentration was fierce. Still, something bothered him about this job.
Even now, just steps from the museum’s back entrance, she only seemed anxious. Couldn't she taste the excitement gurgling all around them or smell the sweet cash waiting to be paid by his fence that would buy the Stones of Sankara?
Her focus was the deadly kind. Like this was a life or death kind of game they were about to play.
"Take a deep breath," He whispered. "And relax... I won't let anything happen to you."
"Let's just get the stones and get out of here," she returned with a harsh whisper.
"Okay... okay... let me get to work on the lock."
Rebel had the lock unlatched within a few seconds. He tucked his lock-pick tools back into his utility belt and turned his attentions to the more challenging part of the break in--fooling the alarm system.
This was where crime blended into art. The door, was armed with magnetic contact switch near the top hinge. If he were to swing the door open, the circuit would be broken and the alarms would blare. Though these were generally simple systems to fool, he still had to be careful. Luckily for them there was a little window in the steel door. He supposed it was there to give the guards low-tech way of monitoring the alleyway during deliveries. Like many private museums in the city, this one was in need of a security overhaul.
He etched a circle about ten inches in diameter on the glass. With several taps with the end of the glasscutter, the window cracked along his mark, and he was able to ease the broken piece out with a suction cup. His arm just fit in the opening. He reached up and unscrewed the magnetic part of the alarm from the door. Careful to not break the contact, he taped it to the switch on the wall.
"One down, three more to go," He said as he swung the door open without tripping off any alarm systems.
Torie rewarded him with a brisk nod and a deep smile.
Rebel led the way, avoiding the interior security cameras and photoelectric eyes, and dashed down a long hall that opened into the special exhibit area. Torie's gaze latched onto the golden Stones of Sankara shining under the glow of the soft museum display lamps. Her eyes grew wide and she started toward it as if pulled by the golden glow.
No! She was about to ruin everything! Rebel wrapped his arms around her waist and held onto her before she could cross the threshold into the exhibit space.
"Don't move," He breathed as silently as possible in her ear. He held his breath, waiting. Nothing beeped, no alarms blared... but then again some alarms were silent ones. He backed up slowly, dragging a stiff Torie with him.
"Forgot the alarm," She said. Her voice was nearly as silent as his. "Sorry."
"Don’t move." He released her and let go of the breath he’d still been holding. His heart was pounding in his chest.
More angry at himself than Torie for nearly getting them trapped in the middle of a museum, Rebel tore off the small black backpack and dug around in it, searching for the transducer. Because the special exhibit room contained priceless treasures, the museum had installed an ultrasonic alarm system. Ultrasonic waves sound flowed out into the room in an elliptical pattern. Nothing moving in the room, the wave would return to the system without change. Walk into the room and disrupt the ultrasonic pattern, the alarm would be triggered.
Sensitive buggers.
They irritated Rebel. He'd rather play with fancy lasers than ultrasonic waves any day. He taped the transducer he had built just for this purpose, to the chassis of a disassembled remote control car and wrapped it in a piece of soft carpet padding to absorb the ultrasonic waves.
He pulled a remote control from his backpack and pressed several buttons. The dressed-up transducer glided very slowly into the room. It hugged the wall as it inched ever closer to the mounted alarm system. The transducer moved into place. Rebel checked his watch. It had taken a little more than eight and a half minutes. They were on schedule.
If he had done his job correctly, the special transducer should mimic the ultrasonic frequency the alarm system was emitting and render the alarm harmless. If it were one decibel off, the alarm would sound. Rebel looked at Torie, she gave him a nod and he flipped a switch.
Nothing happened... at least nothing audible to human ears. Good. That meant the transducer might be working. With a light step, Rebel crossed into the room. Torie followed on his heels.
No alarm.
They were safe, for the moment. There was just one barrier left... the display case. The case couldn't be lifted because of the foil alarm around the base of the Plexiglas. One rip in the foil would break the alarm circuit and set it off. They couldn't break the case, because the force needed to smash into it would likely tear the foil.
"Easy now," Torie said as Rebel crouched down and drilled a small hole near where the wires ran from the foil down into the floor.
He eased back on his heels and heaved a deep breath once the drill had broken through. He handed her a wire that she fished down through the hole. With tape hooked to the end of a skinny probe she latched the wire to both sensor terminals, bypassing the foil.
Together they lifted the case. Rebel was just thinking about what a good team they made together when Torie pushed him out of the way and snatched up the Stones of Sankara. The gold sparkled as it dipped under the display lights.
An odd look flashed in her eyes as she held her prize. It looked like relief. That wasn’t the emotion he’d expected. Why did it mean so much to her to hold these artifacts? They were just going to sell them. She stroked the stones and murmured what looked like a wordless prayer.
"What?" he whispered.
"Soon." She said and looked up, blinking, as if suddenly realizing he was standing next to her. "Let's get out of here."
Then, Rebel once again, from the belt came the thin metal case. He opened the case, and lifted out a silver-colored, bullet-shaped slip of notepaper, then clapped it to the front of the display case, sticking the seal conspicuously into place.
Rebel backtracked to the alleyway. It wasn’t his cleanest burglary, but Torie had time constraints, so he hadn't been able to plan and execute this robbery with his usual ghost-like flare. This was sloppy and he didn't like it. That nagging bad feeling kept creeping back up his throat and tingling through his spine. No matter how hard he tried to shake it off, he just couldn't seem to get over feeling that something was wrong.
Dead wrong.
A shadow moved in the alley. A second one joined it. Rebel crowded Torie back toward the door from where they’d just emerged.
"Shhh... We're not alone." Rebel whispered.
Shit.
"Sorry," Torie said.
He turned just in time to watch her slam a small club into the top of his head. He sank to his knees.
Shit.
"I'm really sorry." Torie’s voice sounded strange.
The alleyway swirled in and out of focus. Shadows advanced like hungry wolves.
"She has it." A shadow said.
"Where's Jason? You said you’d free Jason." Torie sounded frantic.
A shadow swept over her, silencing her.
"What about this one?" Something slammed into Rebel’s side. It felt like the toe of a heavy boot.
Rebel moaned and curled in on himself. The darkness began seeping into his brain. Everything
sounded like the night sky, vast and empty.
"Better take him, too."
Take him where? Rebel couldn't seem to get his mind to work after that last thought screamed through his head.
(The Scene Fades To Black.)
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I would like to extend many thanks to all the cc creators.To WendyPan for shooting all the photos taken in chapters 1-3
Thanks to Julie J for the large floor safe from which she converted from Sims 2 to Sims 3
Sets and interior of Rebel's house are by WendyPan.
Rebel's house is the California Mansion by Curtis Paradis.
Lamborghini is by Fresh Prince.
Guggenheim Museum is from TSR by EricMesa1179.
Poses by IMHO, Maximum Sims, and I don't recall where I got the Ninja poses.
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(THE SCENE NOW OPENS TO A LARGE YACHT IN THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.)
Chapter 5
Torie sat with her chin propped against her hand and stared out into the dark waters. The boat bobbed and tilted as it made its way toward a cargo ship looming like a small city on the horizon. The shimmering stars above her winked mischievously and made her think of Rebel.
She looked over her shoulder. He was still there, lying in a motionless heap. Guilt flooded her chest, bringing tears close to the surface. She'd used him. He didn't understand the danger. Each time he’d regained consciousness in the past several hours, he'd fought the kidnappers and taken a harsh beating. Dried blood had clumped in his blond hair and was smeared across the side of his bruised face.
Poor, poor Rebel. He was so like her brother. Good hearted, but greedy. The last time consciousness brightened his eyes, she had begged him to remain still. He'd told her to shut up.
"I told you I would keep you safe, and I will." He’d said right before getting smacked in the side of the head with the butt of a rifle.
Not even once did he look worried. That arrogant grin of his had remained plastered on his lips as the kidnappers made sport of his determined spirit. She supposed she should have expected him to act that way. He was like her Jason. Everything was a game... a challenge to be savored.
Keeping low, she scooted across the deck to Rebel's side and caressed his bruised cheek.
"I should have never bullied my way back into your life." She said.
"But then you’d be short one knight-in-shining-armor just about now." He said, and she smiled.
His voice cracked, sounding terribly hurt and raspy. He peeled open one eye and then the other. Despite the beatings he'd suffered life sparkled as brightly as ever in those shimmering blue eyes of his.
"What, no shadowy figures lying in wait to use me as a punching bag?"
"Oh, Rebel..." She couldn't imagine how he could joke at a time like this. With some degree of difficulty, he pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Just tell me one thing," He said, peering out into the darkness. "Were you planning all along to bash me over the head or was that a last minute decision you’d made to cut me out of the profits?"
Torie stared at him for several moments, speechless. The Stones of Sankara was the least of their worries.
"Come now." Rebel's voice caught a dangerous edge. "The truth can't possibly be that difficult to spit out."
"Um..." What could she say? She'd used him and wasn't proud of herself for it.
"I see."
"No, I don't think you do." She tried to grab his hand, but he jerked it away before she could get a good grip.
He groaned as he worked his way to his feet. He shuffled a staggering gait to the boat's railing.
"Good luck with these shadow-men of yours."
Good lord, he was going to dive overboard.
"They kidnapped my brother." The words spilled out easily now that it looked like she was about to lose what felt like her only friend in the world.
"They said they’d kill him if they didn't get those stupid Stones of Sankara back. What was I to do? The government had told me all about due process and not giving into terrorist's demands. What can I say? I needed your help, but I was afraid you wouldn't do it for free."
He paused at the railing and turned. A frown pinched his lips together. He looked like a different man, a hardened soul.
"You could have warned me." The words fell flat onto the deck between them. "We were in a museum filled with priceless trinkets, Torie! I could have picked up something in addition to your blasted stones to cover expenses. And I certainly wouldn't have left my back exposed like that if I’d known there were others interested in what we were doing."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have trusted you... if only a little."
His gaze strayed back to the swirling waters.
"Don't leave me." Torie cried barely above a whisper.
His eyes met hers.
"I'm a very good swimmer, you know." He glanced at his watch. "We can't be more than a mile or two from shore. I can make it."
"I can't leave my brother." she said, sounding braver than she felt. "He needs my help."
"Have you seen him?"
She shook her head.
"He might be on the cargo ship," He said, his frown grew deeper, his voice more deadly. "He might not even be alive."
That wasn't what she wanted to hear.
"He's my brother." She said, hoping he would understand why she couldn't give up on Jason no matter how bleak the situation. "What am I supposed to do?"
Rebel shrugged. He eyed the water again. She held her breath, expecting he'd jump overboard.
He didn't. He only frowned harder.
She brought her arm around him, leading him away from the railing... Then pushed herself up onto her toes and gently pressed her lips to his. They slowly wrapped their arms around each other, kissing deeply.
They continued to embrace for a minute or so, then reluctantly pushed her away, grabbing one of the ship’s Lifebuoy rings from the wall.
"C'mon, now’s our chance," he whispered, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
Torie took another breath and looked down at the floor. She turned her eyes up to his and twisted her lips from side to side, as if she were mulling something over.
"Rebel, I..." she mumbled nervously.
Rebel waved his hand and cut her off.
"Yeah, I know... You can't leave your brother." he said sternly, leaning over the ships railing.
Her heart was pounding, and she felt herself on the verge of tears.
"Hey!" a voice from a deck above them shouted. "Move away from there!" Heavy boots clanked on metal stairs as a team of armed men dressed in army fatigues descended from the cabin above.
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Chapter 6
(OUR NEXT SCENE OPENS ON THE CARGO SHIP.)
Torie hugged her brother, who'd jumped to his feet after three armed men had pushed Rebel and her through the door into a cramped cabin on the cargo ship, and the clanking of a metal door. She sobbed loudly. It was a heartrending scene.
"So you're Jason." Rebel said. He narrowed his aching gaze on a slightly chubby man who looked to be in his mid forties. Jason hadn't taken good care of himself, though. He was corpulent and needed to exercise.
Rebel would have probably had kinder thoughts about her dear, kidnapped brother if he'd looked half as beat up as Rebel felt. There wasn't even a nick on this man's smooth skin. Jason wrapped his meaty arms around his sister and peered at Rebel over the top of her golden-dark blonde hair.
"Who's this guy?" his grumbly voice sounded terse--suspicious.
"That’s Rebel." Torie managed to say between sniffles.
"He's the thief, I told you about, remember?"
"Oh." Jason snarled at Rebel and then kissed the top of his sister’s head. "They told me," he said. "I don’t know how you managed it, but they're pleased to have the Stones of Sankara back under their control."
"Who are these people?" Rebel asked. He strived to keep his voice calm, which was a challenge. He had stayed with Torie, picturing her brother needing all the help he could get. In fact, he'd pictured Jason suffering all sorts of dire tortures. And here, Jason didn't seem like he was in danger at all while Rebel certainly wasn't too convinced about his own safety.
"What are they planning to do with us?" Jason ignored the question. He placed his hand on Torie, squeezing her delicate shoulder. "You are okay, aren't you?" he asked her. "You didn't let this filthy sneak-thief seduce you?" Jason glared at Rebel.
"What?" "Let's not start calling names. I suppose you got those Stones of Sankara you’d sold to the museum through completely legal means."
"I paid for 'em."
"From a crooked archeologist, I'm sure." Rebel advanced, flexing his fists. Jason quickly ducked behind Torie. "And just think, I gave up my chance to escape to save you." He muttered.
Torie held up her hands, and stayed between her brother and Rebel. "Stop this," she said. "Rebel is Rebel. He's harmless." That stung. Harmless generally meant an easy target, a doormat to be walked all over or (he rubbed the back of his sore head) a cat burglar to be used and tossed aside.
"Tell me, Jason. What’s going to happen to us?" she asked, echoing Rebel's earlier question. Jason sighed deeply.
"I worked a deal with Kalam. He will take us with him back to India. There, I've promised to identify the men who stole the golden stones in the first place."
"But they have the stones. Why would... Kalam--really, Abdul Kalam’s behind this? Why would he kidnap Rebel and me?"
"I’m sorry, sis. You’re here to serve as extra incentive for me to hand those men over to them." At least Jason had the good sense to look like he regretted involving family in his dirty dealings.
"So they hold us until they get their hands on the men who sold you the stones. Is that it?" Her voice was growing tight.
"Yes," Jason mumbled. "They plan to hold you and me until they deal out their vigilante justice."
"And what about Rebel?" Jason shrugged.
"What about me?" Rebel asked as he pushed Torie out of the way and advanced on Jason. The door flew open behind them before he could beat an answer out of Jason. A slim man, his skin darkly tanned, entered behind three guards each with a submachine gun slung over a shoulder. The man's suit was a neatly tailored hand-stitched, expensive piece of work.
"You complicate my life," the man said, wearily.
"My sister delivered the Stones of Sankara. You should be pleased."
"Jason, you should have never smuggled them out of India in the first place." He crossed the room with a lazy stride and stopped in front of Torie. He caressed her cheek with an intimacy that left Rebel gnashing his teeth.
"Abdul," Torie said, with a deep purr. "It’s been a long time."
"Too long." the words slipped like velvet from his mouth. "You remember my brother." He gave a nod to one of the guards.
"Hello, Avul." Torie’s bluish green eyes hardened as her gaze settled on Kalam's bigger and uglier brother. "Are you still torturing baby animals?"
The guard answered with a menacing snarl.
Kalam chuckled. "We don't have any baby animals on this ship. He’ll just have to make due with your cat burglar, here."
"Wait a minute." Rebel said as the other two guards grabbed each of his arms.
"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been able to get those stupid stones."
"He was just a tool. Wasn't he, Torie?" Kalam asked. Torie looked at her brother, then Kalam, and finally her eye's met Rebel's.
"He was a tool." those glossy lips said. Rebel spat out an ugly curse, his anger directed more toward himself than at Torie. He should have expected all along that an angel like her would be the one to swing his final deathblow.
The lemony cologne Abdul Kalam favored tickled Torie's nose. At one time that exotic scent would have turned her knees all quivery. Now it just turned her stomach. She reached out and took Abdul’s neatly manicured hand.
"These men Jason purchased the Stones of Sankara from." she asked, "They stole them from of your vault?"
He nodded. "It was a great insult to my power. It must have been an inside job. Such a betrayal cannot go unpunished."
Abdul sold drugs to his little corner of the world. It had made him a very rich and powerful man. That kind of power held a certain allure. She ran her hand up his arm. There was very little muscle tone. His strength came from the men he'd employed to enforce his will.
"You always respected honesty." She said with a soothing tone. She eased up onto the tips of her toes and placed a gentle kiss on his mouth.
"Torie!" Rebel's plaintive cry hit her like a blow.
"Get him out of here." Abdul said as he snaked his arm around Torie's waist. She slid her hand into his suit coat, caressing his chest. "Have your sick way with him, Avul. Just be sure to toss whatever's left of the body overboard before we reach port."
The door squeaked as someone opened it. The yelp that followed nearly brought Torie to her knees. It took all of her willpower to keep from rushing to his side. Avul chuckled when Rebel cried out a defiant, but pained, curse. Torie buried her face in Abdul's coat, not wanting to know what Abdul's monster of a brother had planned for Rebel.
With a smooth motion she swept the semi-automatic pistol from Abdul's shoulder holster and pressed its barrel against his forehead. Abdul narrowed his eyes and glared as the guards advanced.
"Tell them to back off." Torie said. "Or I just might have to put a hole in your head."
"Everyone back off." Abdul ordered. A bit of his shiny tan drained away.
"Rebel?" Torie said. She prayed he was still in the room. She didn't dare take her eyes off her target to look.
"Yeah... Torie?" His voice sounded thin, weak.
"Avul and those two guards are going to hand you their guns. Aren't they, Abdul?"
"Do it." Abdul barked. The men grunted and huffed. It must have torn at their villainous warriors' hearts to give up their weapons.
"That's a good boy, and let me see what's in your boot there." Rebel said, sounding much more like his arrogant self again. "I've got three submachine guns, two knifes, and one bloodied brass knuckle."
"Okay, this is the plan." Keep talking, she told herself. Keep in control. "Abdul, you're going to lead us to that yacht you’ve got hoisted over the side of this ship. You’re going to lower it and ride ashore with us. Do you understand?"
"Torie, don’t make me your enemy." He warned.
"I'm not trying to be your enemy. You've got your treasure, but you didn't hold up your end of the bargain. I'm simply working on self-preservation....... Rebel?"
"I'm here." He touched her shoulder.
"Shoot anyone who comes too close to us, okay?"
"Got it."
With the guards backed far away from the door, Abdul led them to his yacht. It was the same one they'd used to ferry Rebel and her out to the cargo ship. Jason followed along, grumbling about how they were making a huge mistake. Torie had to finally tell him that he had no business lecturing her about mistakes.
Once on the yacht and safely moving away from the cargo ship, Torie's muscles turned to water. Abdul's gun slipped from her fingers and clattered to the deck as she collapsed. Rebel's arms were suddenly around her, supporting her.
"We're almost there, darling." He said and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Jason, tie up your friend before he hurts someone."
Torie closed her eyes and hung on to Rebel for several minutes, savoring the security of his masculine arms.
"Thank you." She whispered. "You owe me." He said. As the first rays of the new morning sun broke over the mountain tops Jason steered the yacht toward port.Torie had radioed the police, and the flashing lights waiting for them had been visible from quite a distance.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Torie asked again.
"Yeah." He said. But it was a lie. He didn't know what hurt worse, his battered head, or her betrayal. For some foolish reason, he'd begun to see a future with her. They'd travel the world in style. Partners in crime. A perfect match. Yep, he was damned fool. At least she was too squeamish to let Kalam and his buddies kill him in cold blood. For that, he supposed he was grateful.
The yacht bobbed in the water as several police officers tied it up to the dock. The FBI agents were the first ones to rush onto the boat. Three greeted Torie as if she were an old chum. Rebel supposed it was her sunny personality that had that affect on men.
A stone-faced FBI agent named Nick Russell approached him. "Lets Go," He said as he latched his arm around Rebel's. "Needless to say, we’ve got a lot of questions we need answered."
"He needs medical care." Torie shouted out, as she was lead in one direction and Rebel in another.
Jason was nowhere in sight. He must have slipped away in the confusion, just as Rebel should have done. Damn, his instincts were slipping. Another agent joined the first one and said.
"There's an ambulance waiting. Torie had insisted you needed one, and I can now see why. We’ll talk while the EMT's take a look at you."
"Great, just great," Rebel muttered.
He turned and caught Torie staring at him. Their gazes touched, and in that brief moment he forgave her. She'd done what she needed to do to save her brother. Her bravery had been noble. Who was he to find fault? He'd been the one who was fool enough to follow along.
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Chapter 7
Rebel couldn't believe his luck. The FBI agent Nick Russell had given him a stern lecture. He even threatened to send him straight to prison, but Abdul Kalam, it seems, was a big fish. One with big teeth. The FBI was thrilled to have finally netted him, thrilled enough to not dig too hard about the museum break-in. They took the glory and Rebel got to keep his freedom.
Seemed like a fair trade-off.
(THE SCENE NOW SHIFTS TO THE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.)
Rebel gave the rather plain, slightly plump airport security guard waving a wand over his waist his most charming grin. She didn't smile back. Ah well, she was just one woman. That was no reason to go running, and screaming in front of the nearest bus.
He had a one-way ticket tucked in his pocket, as he wove through the busy holiday crowd in the airport. A family with four excited children nudged ahead of him as he closed in on his gate. Rebel exhaled a long breath.
"She didn't even say goodbye that night on the yacht." He thought to himself. That was one thing he thought he'd always regret. he was convinced he'd never see her again. "Get on that plane and forget about her and your thrumming instincts." he muttered to himself.
"Excuse me?" the businessman beside him looked up from his newspaper and asked.
"Nothing..." Rebel mumbled.
A voice on the loud speaker placed a last boarding call for his flight, reminding him that he needed to forget his past and get on that plane.
"Can I help you with that bag, sir?" an airline flight attendant with long, ebony hair and legs that seemed to go on forever asked. Her hand brushed his as she took his small carryon bag and stuffed it into the overhead compartment. She blinked her deep brown eyes that should have left him melting. Rebel cleared his throat.
"Thank you." He said, stiffly, and tamped down an urge to flash her one of his trademark grins.
As Rebel settled into his seat by the window and stared out onto the runway, he thought about a new life, a new beginning. He felt that life had given him a second chance. He wasn't going to blow it. It was the straight and narrow for him. It wouldn't be glamorous or exciting. But he was getting too old for all that anyhow. And he certainly didn't need a woman.
He sighed, knowing the last was a lie.
"Excuse me," A sultry voice of a fallen angel sang. Rebel closed his eyes, unable to trust his hearing. "I believe this is my seat." She affirmed.
Slowly, he looked up for some reason,
"You’re on this flight?" He asked, stupidly. Of course she was. Torie was standing right in front of him, wasn't she? He blinked, and rubbed his eyes not able to believe his luck.
"I'm going home." she said, taking her seat next to him.
"Where, back to India." He quipped in a tone of sarcasm.
Torie took Rebel's dexterous hand in hers. tracing little circles over the tops of his knuckles. His heart did a flip when she replied.
"Home with you, silly! to Bridgeport."
Ah well, Rebel thought as the plane raced down the runway, this was one woman whose love was worth stealing.......
THE END.
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A special thanks to LNL for allowing me to use Miguel Gutierrez who played Abdul Kalam, and to Julie J for her Sim Nick Russell who played an FBI agent... A many great thanks to all those cc creators and pose creators for their hard work... IMHO, Maximum Sims, Cloudwalker for the 'crime and punishment' pose pack, and for the Ninja poses, I can't remember where or who, but thank you to everyone.
I especially would like to thank WendyPan for Torie Roberts, and her many other wonderful Sims she furnished for my humble story, for without her collaboration, this story would not have been possible.
Thank you so much for uploading this story. I never tire of reading it. It has action, romance, and a twist at the end. What more could you ask for? :) :)
ReplyDeleteThank you WendyPan for your support... You're the Best!
ReplyDeleteThank you very much, for posting your great story here!!!!! I enjoyed to read it again!!!
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