Criminal Intent: Murder, Mayhem and... Battenberg?

One

"When someone asks where I live, I say Hell is my home, and the Devil is my neighbour."

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of high heels on marble floor echoed around the halls, bouncing of the walls, alerting all the guards she was here. Many would think this was bad for a criminal, yet everytime Isadora Thorne comitted a crime, she got away with it, using the same forward approach.

Click. Click. Click.

More steps, counting down the seconds. The guards paled, knowing full well who was coming. They had heard all the stories, seen the threat, and now they were going to witness the destruction this demon brought.

Click. Click. Click.

She was there, a devilish smirk on her blood red lips and a dangerous glint in her pale eyes. A black lace dress covered very little of her body, showing off her slim legs and elegant arms. She wore lace gloves as well, the black patterns bold against her skin - they were mostly for hiding her prints, but they did look nice too.

"Hello, boys." She gave a mock salute, still baring her sharp teeth, like a predator attempting to scare its prey. They all cocked their guns. She tutted.

"That's not the way to treat a woman." She shook her head, pulling a disappointed look to match her disaproving tone. The three men stood still, each holding their breaths, almost a competition to see who would last the longest. Their guns were still trailed on the woman. One let out a breath. And all hell broke loose.

The woman whipped out a gun, shooting them each in the head, without even giving them time to react. The bullets flew silently through the air, landing square between the guards eyes. Blood dripped from the holes in their foreheads, decorating their slowly paling faces. Blood decorated the floor around their heads, like halos. She smirked once again, happy with the results, before she continued her way down the corridor.

Her strides were long, each step made to show off even more - she was happy with her body, more than that, she wanted other people to know how beautiful it was.

Upon reaching the main room, she bit her lip. The young woman had already killed, already brought England to it's knees and she was only 23.

That made her smirk even more.

She pushed open the door, stepping confidently inside. Her eyes darted around the room, quickly evaluating the situation. Five guards, two women and the man she came to see. Damien Ambroise. He sat at a large desk in a leather chair, in a room with books lining the walls - most likely all about law and psychology knowing Damien. A large rug covered the wooden floor, creating a different sound as to when her heel clicked on the marble floor. A large window stood behind the desk, revealing the elaborate hedge maze behind the mansion, alongside flower gardens with little lamps strung between trees.

"Ah, Madamoiselle Thorne. Comment allez-vous?"

Ah, Miss Thorne. How are you?

He spoke, his french accent clinging to his voice as if for dear life. His dark hair fell in front of his face, hiding his equally dark eyes.

"Amende. Bien que, cette balle enroulée tu m'as fait mal encore comme l'enfer."

Alright. Although that bullet wound you gave me still hurts like hell.

She replied, her french fluent, although English was her first language. The man let out a deep laugh,  standing up. The women on either side of him clung onto his arms desperately as he attempted to brush them off. Eventually doing so, he stepped over to the woman.

"Que voulez-vous, diablesse?

What do you want, she-devil?

His tone was suddenly serious, threatening almost, but Isadore continued staring up at him, determined to get what she wanted. He brought a finger to her cheek, tracing her jaw, across to her lips. She took a sharp breath.

"Vous savez ce que je veux. Et vous l'avez préparé."

You know what I want. And you have it prepared.

Her eyes flickered down to his pocket, where the distinctive outline of a memory stick could be seen. He pulled his hand back, smirking as the female once was.

"You shouldn't have come alone, Miss Thorne." He spoke in broken English, barely understandable, it was buried underneath the french accent. He fingered the memory stick in his pocket, walking back to his seat.

"You know me, Damien. No need for others." She said coldy, face emotionless like a robot. The girls once again placed themselves on Damiens lap, giggling. They were french, and didn't understand a word of what the two were saying now.

"There's nobody?" He arched an eyebrow, his fingers tapping along the large mahogany table.

"I work alone." She said, thinking back to how all who said that ended up working on a team sooner or later.

"Not just teams for work... You've never met someone to settle down with?" His other eyebrow joined the first suggestively. The two girls must understand a little English, as they suddenly became more protective, their half dressed bodies pushed up against Damiens. Isadora just groaned and rolled her eyes. Why he endorsed himself in mindless woman, she would never know...

"My line of work means I can't settle down, you know that Damien. Sentimental attachments aren't my thing." She replied, frowning now. "Anyway, you're already taken by these two, uh... lovely ladies." She glanced at them, disapproving. Damien shook his head.

"It's unfortunately time to cut the small talk. I need that memory stick, and I will shoot you to get it, if it ever comes to that." The guards stood more alert now, and Isadora bet, underneath those helmets, they were wearing similar expressions to those she shot outside.

"You can have it. You will cancel the destruction commands, yes?" Ah, yes.  The commands she had lined up on her computer, reading to blow this building to pieces as soon as she was safe.

"Of course." She smiled. She also lied.

"Good." He chucked the memory stick across the room to her, and she caught it in one perfectly manicured hand, each nail painted a dark crimson. She turned to leave without another word, her signature smirk appearing once again on her face.

As she left the room, she heard Damien call out behind her.

"Au revior, Madamoiselle Thorne. Till the next time." A low chuckle escaped her lips.

"My darling, there won't be a next time." She whispered to the empty corridors, which would confuse most people, and get them lost forever in these identical halls. But not Isadora. She had a brilliant memory, a brilliant sense of direction. A brilliant mind.

And soon she was at the door, glancing up at the crystal chandelier hanging above her, the precious rocks swinging only slightly. She was almost sad to blow this place up. Almost.

She pushed the door open and stepped outside, making her way to her blue 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500. It was her favourite. Of course she had many more at home, but this was a real beauty.

She placed herself in the drivers seat and turned on the engine, before blasting the the Ramones through the speakers. Life was good, for Isadora Janet Thorne.