Dead Men Tell Some Tales Pt. 2

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"Speaking personally, you can have my gun, but you'll take my book when you pry my cold, dead fingers off of the binding." ~ Stephen King

Hirsi Merhaba was not having a nice night.

And it was about to get even worse.

The ominous banging on his front door echoed throughout the foyer of mansion alerted him to mid-night intruders. He hoped it didn't wake up his wife -- she was annoying enough asleep.

Putting down his full tumbler of gin and toxic, Hirsi grumbled his way to the door, his silk slippers skidding across the floor.

He glanced out a window to see the silhouettes of two people pacing in front of his door. He almost opened the door until he realized who the silhouettes belonged to.

Not these two again.

Obviously, they weren't smart enough to realize that he could have them both thrown in prison for harassing him.

He wasn't called Merciless Merhaba for anything. . .

Hirsi was just walking away from the door when it thudded open with a resounding crack.

A reprimanding voice came through the opened panel. "V.C, I told you to wait! You can't just go around breaking down doors!"

"Oh, hush." A higher, satirical voice floated back.

Merhaba knew both voices quite well. One belonged to that stick-in-the-mud Commander and the other to that hot-but-annoying doctor.

He didn't know what she was a doctor of and frankly, he didn't care.

What he did care about was the splintered mess lying across his entrance floor. He whirled around, pompously striding forward.

"How dare you invade my personal space!" He started, only to freeze mid-sentence when he saw the mobile clutched in the Commander's hand.

The familiar looking mobile. . .

There was no way that they could know about what he had done.

The case was supposed to be closed, Mateo Emblem's killer behind bars.

They were supposed to stop digging! Why hadn't they stopped?!

Merhaba drew a palm to his sweating forehead, wishing he had brought his drink along for the show. He needed it about now.

Behind him, he heard the upstairs bedroom door creak open. There was no way he was letting them get to his wife.

Not that he was protecting her. It was more like he needed to protect himself.

After all, the two annoyances standing in front of him knew about his affair.

Correction: they knew about one of them.

Yanking open the a closed door, Merhaba ushered the trespassers into his private library. He flipped on a light, casting the large room in a yellow glow.

He was quite proud of his library: after all, it held many first editions of published books that few would ever read.

Home to not only books, it almost held his prized art collection. During his travels to the South of France, he had picked up many an art piece.

He had even commissioned a sculptured bust of his head from Christopher Wool. It had set him back a pretty penny, but it was worth it.

The click of the door behind him told Merhaba that he was free from his wife, but not the agents in front of him.

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