Sara

9

About half an hour later, Sara left the bar with Michaelson, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as she leaned against him. They had made small talk for about twenty minutes after Sara had joined him in his booth, Michaelson ordering a round of drinks which Sara had only sipped at. She had kept her hands occupied playing with his blonde hair, running her fingers through it and curling some of the slightly longer strands around her index finger, anything to give her an excuse to keep her hands off her drink.

Then, after conversation had been exhausted, Michaelson had kissed her.

Sara had wanted to bite him, scratch his eyes out, yank his hair out by the roots, but she couldn't do that yet. So she had kissed him back, not flinching at all when his arms tightened around her waist, drawing her closer into him. Instead, she had wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers still in his hair.

"Let's go back to my place," Michaelson had crooned between kisses, his breath hot on her face, smelling slightly of alcohol. Sara had nodded, kissing him again before speaking.

"Oh, yes."

Oh, damn.

So now they walked down the alleyway through the blanket of fresh snow, snowflakes landing in Sara's dark hair. Michaelson was pulling his keys out of his pocket as he steered her toward a new Mercedes-Benz, gesturing grandly. "This is my ride."

"Ooh, it's so pretty," Sara enthused, inwardly cringing at the admiration in her voice. I hate myself so much right now.

Michaelson opened the passenger door for her, helping her in before heading around to the driver's side. Sara buckled her seatbelt and tapped her hand reassuringly against her pocket as he swung into the car, flashing his white smile at her again.

Sara angled her body towards his, reaching up and running her fingers through his hair again as Michaelson started the car, forcing herself to continue with the rhythmic motion, later laying her head against his arm as he drove, gritting her teeth. He just chuckled and continued driving, but occasionally squeezed her leg with one hand, as if to assure her of his affection.

Affection, my foot.

When he finally pulled up in front of a two story house, driving his car into the garage, Sara straightened, waiting until Michaelson got out of the car before stepping out herself. The first thing he's going to do is take off your coat, she told herself. So you need to be ready, to be faster than him.

Deep breath. Here goes nothing.

He'll kill you if this goes wrong, the little voice inside her cautioned.

Then I just got to make sure it doesn't go wrong.

Sara moved around the front of the car, seizing Michaelson's hand in hers as the garage door closed behind them. He led her up to the door leading into the house, his fingers curled around hers. She wanted to rip her hand away, punch him in the nose, kick him where it hurt, but she couldn't. Not yet.

Not much longer. Just endure it a little bit longer and then it's over, you're done.

Michaelson opened the door and tugged Sara's hand. "We're here," he said with a smile, his eyes again glittering with the look that made her stomach turn. "At long last."

Sara just smiled at him, not trusting herself to speak. She might end up cursing him out prematurely.

The door closed behind them, the house still dark. Sara felt Michaelson's arm snake about her waist, under her coat, and mentally readied herself. This is it.

For Leah.

His lips pressed against hers and Sara returned the kiss, knowing she had to keep his mind entirely on her. That won't be hard. But she needed to move quickly, quicker than he did. Hopefully, she would have the advantage.

She felt the tugging on her coat; Michaelson was trying to take it off her, just like she had anticipated.

Now!

Sara thrust her hand into her coat pocket as she allowed him to pull her coat off her other arm, her fingers clutching around the pistol. Drawing it out of her pocket, Sara shed her coat and stepped forward, pressing herself against him, her mouth still on his.

With her free hand, she pressed the muzzle of the pistol to Michaelson's chest.

The handler froze and Sara pulled away from him, her lips set in a straight line. She resolutely kept the gun to his chest, finger on the trigger. She had already turned the safety off.

"What is this?" Michaelson asked quietly, his eyes hardening.

"An interrogation," Sara told him, her own voice quiet and hard. "You answer my questions, or you get shot. It's as simple as that."

Michaelson barked a laugh. "Oh, really? Newsflash, darling: I can't answer your questions if you shoot me, so –"

Before Sara could even really think about it, she lowered the gun and fired, Michaelson letting out a yelp of pain as the bullet struck his thigh. As he started to fall, Sara grabbed his shirt and shoved him backwards, into the nearest wall, returning the gun so it pressed against his chest.

"I never said I'd shoot you dead. Not yet. Not if you cooperate."

Michaelson met her eyes, the realization dawning on him that Sara meant business. "What do you want?"

"I need information on Darius Madden."

His eyes widened slightly. "What?"

"Darius Madden," Sara hissed, pressing the gun harder into his chest. "You're his handler, correct? Tell me what he staged his wife's murder for. Why did he do it?"

"She knew too much," Michaelson said carefully, watching her closely. "Darius had no choice."

"But why?" Sara pressed. "Darius let himself get caught; why?" When Michaelson didn't answer, she screamed, "Tell me!"

"Okay!" Michaelson exclaimed, obviously frightened she would shoot again. "Okay. He had a job, a job he needed to be in prison to pull."

A job he needed...so that's the second murder. He just hasn't committed it yet.

"You mean someone he needed to kill?" Sara clarified.

"Yes!" Michaelson exclaimed.

So Darius really is a hitman.