Something He Can't Quite Remember

Best In The World

LONDON, ENGLAND/PARIS, FRANCE

Hero let a single crystalline tear fall down her face. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. 

Twenty minutes later, she was unrecognisable. Her hair was no longer dark and long, but cropped and so blonde it was almost white. Her neat suit replaced by a t-shirt, puffa jacket and jeans, she looked like any other tourist in London. 

Two hours later, she was any other tourist in Paris. She checked in to a cheap hotel, speaking perfect French and, finally, sat on the bed, which creaked and smelled of too much soap. She smiled. Perhaps she had been handed a death sentence. But she was the best in the world, and it was because of this that nobody knew about her. None of the world's mafia, none of the billionaire gangsters. Only Jones' crew, and that was because she wanted to stay small-time. 

Both of them. James and Hero, they could have had it all. They were both geniuses, but whereas he was more like the modern-day, friendly Sherlock Holmes, James had always said that she was female James Bond. Then they went into long debates about the misogynistic principles that the character was based on, and finally, laughing, came to the conclusion that she was Superwoman. There was no other option. 

Yes, she was the best at what she did. Best not to think of James, though. Hero needed to concentrate. She was going to die, she was sure of it, but she could bring down Caesar's organisation, raze it to the ground if she had to. Once again, a criminal on the run from criminals. Except this time there was only one boss. 

And that was her. 

With a quick sweep through the Parisian boutiques, she found herself an overnight bag and a change of clothes. All the while she was working it out. 

Who was Caesar, other than her contact with whoever wanted James? What possible reason could they want him for? 

Why had he forgotten all about her and Jones, but seemed to remember everything small about handling himself in the underworld? She had to remain ahead of Jones, James, Caesar, all of them. None of them had all the pieces of the puzzle. But she was the double-agent. She would work it out before all of them, and use that to her advantage. 

As she walked towards la Gare du Nord, her phone buzzed. There was one message on the screen. Caller ID: James Carter. So he hadn't died when he was cut off. Interesting.

RUN. I can't help you. You have RUN. 

 She turned her head. Two motorbikes were weaving through traffic. And they were less than subtly weaving towards her.

She quickened her pace, and dodged into a side-road. The bikes swerved over two lanes of traffic, and followed. She started to run.

Doubling back on herself, and heading back towards the Seine, she looked around desperately for anything she could use to outrun the bikers. Once she had reached the tourist-filled centre of the city she would be able to lose herself in the crowds. But she would never reach the river on foot.

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CARDIFF, WALES

James is sitting in a bedroom he's never seen before, but at the same time he knows it's his. Before he went to America, he thinks. He also knows Hero has just left, and he can finally breathe properly again, which is interesting, because he doesn't feel like that about her. And yet, in his own bedroom that he has no memory of, he watches her through the window as she walks away down the street, and very nearly sighs. Suddenly, a message pops up in his email inbox. He frowns, this is an address he only uses for his less-than-legal activities. Nobody but a few select members of Jones' crew, including Hero, has access to it. And yet somebody named Caesar has emailed him.

Caesar! James woke up with a start, and quietly cursed himself. Meeting Hero seemed to have triggered dreams, dreams that can only be of his past, but whenever something shocked him about his previous life, he jerked out of sleep. He would have to wait to remember who Caesar really was.

He sat up, swinging his feet out of the low bed and onto the bare floorboards. He smiled wryly as he thought of the events of the past few days, starting from the perfectly ordinary to something that belonged in an action-movie. Well, not quite, as he had mostly spent those days sitting in small rooms, hiding. But the concept was there.

And then he thought of Hero, who's life was more like a movie than should have been possible. If she was still alive. The minute he had sent the text, warning her, the phone had left his hand. Caesar had seen fit to take it from him, which James saw the point of, but since Caesar had equipped him with a lap-top computer, the removal of his phone seemed almost useless. He moved over to the lap-top, and initiated the start-up sequence.

Would emailing her help either of them? If she was dead, he knew it wouldn't be doing him any favours to know it. And if she was alive, what good would it do, really?

But then Caesar entered the room, and any chances of communication with Hero pretty much self-destructed.

"Ah, Hercules. You are up, I see."

"Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious."

"No need to be rude, Hercules," Caesar said disapprovingly, but James could see the tiny hints of laughter in his grey eyes.

"My apologies," James replied. "However, if I may be so bold, I would ask that you stop calling me by my ridiculous code-name."

"Fair enough, Mr Carter."

"And to what do I owe the honour of this visit?" James asked.

"Come with me."