New York City

1990

     Ragged breathing interrupted the stillness of the night as two lone boys ran through the deserted back-streets of New York City. They were alone, with no parents and nothing but each other. From an early age they had been abandoned, left to starve and shiver in the cruel world.

     "This way!" the oldest of them whispered, leading his younger brother into the safety of a shadow.

     Hunger tore at their stomachs as they devoured the scraps of food they had stolen. They were being pursued so they had to eat quickly and as noiselessly as possible.

     "Are they gone?" the youngest whispered through a mouth-full of bread crumbs.

     The oldest swallowed, and gasped for breath, while quietly looking around the edge of the cracked building. He could see the towering skyscrapers, glittering with lights like Christmas trees. The oldest was often intimidated by the buildings and their height but at that current moment he had other worries.

     "I think they're-" he started, but stopped when he heard shuffling from further up the street.

     "Ben?" the youngest asked. "Is it safe?"

     "Ssshhh!" Ben whispered, shoving his brother back behind him. "Be quiet!"

     Voices started to become audible from up the streets and they grew in clarity as their talkers got nearer. They seemed to be angry, irritated, and some of them were shouting obscenities at the boys.

     "Ben," the youngest began to sob, "I'm scared..."

     Ben looked at his younger brother's face. It was round an innocent, the fine characteristics of an 8-year-old. His brother's face was smudged with dirt, and bright-blue eyes eagerly stared through the mask. Ben put a hand on his brother's messy blonde hair.

     "It'll be all right Francis," Ben consoled. "Everything's going to be fine..."

     "Look here!" a voice shouted. "Bread crumbs!"

     "Ha!" a voice cackled. "Come out wherever you are!"

     "Little freaks!" another taunted. "We'll show what happens to trash like you who steal food!"

     Ben huddled against the wall, his heart pounding and his body shaking with fear. He clenched his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering and squeezed his eyes closed. There was a moment of silence, with the only sound to him being the quiet breathing of Francis.

     "Hello!" a voice cackled.

     Ben felt his body grabbed and pulled backward. He fell, sprawled on the ground, at the foot of a gangster. Ben shakily looked up at the towering figure and the snaking tattoos that encircled his face.

     "Little freak!" the man taunted, swinging out at Ben.

     Ben dodged and rolled to the side. He frantically looked around for his brother but his sibling was nowhere to be found.

     "Don't move!" the gangster laughed. "You're making this too easy!"

     Ben screamed, seeing a metal bat glint in the moonlight. He ducked and rolled his body away, hearing the object whistle through the air. It collided with the ground in a sickening metallic clang.

     "Damn!" the gangster swore. "It's hard to hit things in the night!"

     Ben rolled around and dodged another swing.

     "Francis?!" Ben called. "Francis?!"

     "Hear that?" someone jeered. "He's calling for help! Hilarious!"

     Ben sprang to his feet, another swing nicking him in the shoulder. He pushed his way underneath the gangster and kicked upwards between his legs.

     "Argh!" the gangster screamed, dropping the bat with pain.

     Ben picked up the bat and swung it. He felt it collide with a limb and saw the silhouette of the figure drop to the ground. Ben stood for a moment, breathing and bewildered.

     "That's it!" someone hollered. "This isn't a game anymore."

     Ben heard the click of a gun and instantly he knew that he had to flee. Out of fear, the boy ducked into an alley and into the night. Hopefully his brother had had the same idea. Maybe he would meet up with him somewhere safer.

     When Ben climbed the fire escape to the top of the building, he looked around for his brother. However, there was no one to be found. Down below, he heard a high-pitched scream.

     Ben's heart nearly stopped, because the scream  could have only come from one person.

     He never saw his brother again.

25 Years Later...

     A man dressed in dark clothing crept his way along the side of the wall. His breathing was silent, and his footsteps could not be heard. He pressed his body up against the wall so he wouldn't trip the alarms. The man paused, looking ahead of him at a peculiar painting.

     His client had called it "Lizard in a Sandstorm", but all the burglar saw in it was a piece of drywall. Nevertheless, it was what would cut the check for him. The man pulled out a canister and sprayed the ground, looking for laser tripwires. A few softly illuminated themselves in front of the painting, so the burglar expertly maneuvered around them.

     His name was Benedict Cain, and he was currently in one of the most exclusive art galleries in New York City. The paintings held there ranged in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, but to him it was like being in a candy store.

     Security had been tight, but after breaking the guards' necks everything had been easy. Ben had tried to disable the security measures around the "Lizard in a Sandstorm" painting, but it was the most heavily guarded. The tripwires around the specific painting were rigged to alert the nearest police department if they were triggered. Ben carefully inched the painting off of the wall and uneasily extracted it from its frame. Next, he unrolled a fake version of the painting and placed it in the old one's place.

     Ben sighed with relief, making his way out of the art gallery. He was almost free...but then he accidentally leaned into one of the lasers.

     "Shit," Ben whispered to himself, as an alarm went off.

     He sprinted out of the gallery as fast as he could, ignoring the other laser trip wires that he ran through. Within seconds, he was bursting down the stairs and pulling off his black ski mask so he could breathe easier. He made it to the bottom level in a couple of minutes and into the parking lot. Hopefully, he hadn't taken too long.

     The nearest police dispatch was roughly two minutes and thirteen seconds away from the art gallery, as Ben had calculated. After configuring how long it would take for the police officers to actually get ready, the estimate jumped to roughly three minutes. But, after looking at his watch, Ben deduced that it had taken him close to four to descale the building.

     "Freeze!" a voice yelled when Ben burst out of the revolving door gasping.

     He had been too slow.

     Ben blinked back at the swirling, multi-colored lights that were being emitted from the police's vehicle. He held up his hand and sighed.

     "Good evening officers," he muttered, setting the painting on the ground and raising both of his hands. "Is there a problem here tonight?"

     A figure with a gun outstretched bustled towards Ben, "You have the right to remain silent--"

     "Everything I do or say can and will be held against me," Ben interrupted. "I know the drill."

     He felt both of his hands being pulled behind him and clipped into cold handcuffs. Ben looked around, but only saw two police cars; only about three police officers had been dispatched. He looked at his officer and smiled.

     There was a way out.

     "Hey," Ben started, craning his neck, "what's that?"

     There was a brief moment of slack, and Ben seized the opportunity. He flipped around and kicked the officer in the face. Then, he pulled one hand out of the half-locked cuffs and grabbed the cop's gun. In a fluid motion, he turned around and fired at his opposer. Then, he whirled around and shot the other two officers with ease as they fumbled for their own weapons. They dropped to the ground with bullet wounds to the head, seeping blood across the pavement.

     "Idiots," Ben murmured to himself, tossing the gun on the ground and retrieving his painting.

     The cool night air wavered past him as he looked upwards into the sky. It was beginning to grey with the eve of dawn, meaning that he needed to get to his client soon. Ben quickly maneuvered past the wavering lights of the police officers and out of the vicinity. He traveled a ways, until he found a grove of bushes offering protection from passing spectators. It was there that he had hid his most prized possession: his car.

     The 1962 Chevrolet Corvette gleamed in the midst of dawn. Its flawless red exterior reflected Ben and his artwork as he gently hoisted the painting into the back. He opened the door and turned the ignition, sitting back as he heard the steady purr of the engine. It had taken months to restore the old beauty, but when he finally did it had meant more to him than life itself. He'd won it in a bet a couple years prior, and its original condition hadn't been something to be admired. Ben backed out of its protective hiding place and drove out to his next destination.

     He was just outside the city, so Ben was able to get a beautiful view of the towering skyscrapers as he drove toward them. Their mighty height was illuminated by the cresting dawn behind them, reminding Ben of a work of art he had glimpsed in the art gallery. Ignoring the thought, Ben flipped on the stereo and gunned the engine, roaring off towards his next paycheck.

     His car roared down the streets like a carnivore stalking its prey. Ben couldn't help but smile, the cool wind whipping him in the face; he loved driving in the open. It pushed away all of his most troublesome thoughts and only left room for the glorious sensation of freedom. As Ben pressed even harder on the gas pedal, he felt like he was flying along the road like an eagle.

     His client had ordered him to be met at some kind of an abandoned aircraft hangar in Upstate, New York. Ben turned in that direction, ruffling around in his pocket for the crumpled piece of paper indicating the address. With the address in mind, Ben turned up the stereo to an even higher setting and drove off towards his client.

**

     "You have the painting?" Ben's client asked, beckoning him to sit at the collapsable table set up inside the hangar.

     Ben's client was a man in his late sixties, with thinning white hair and thick spectacles. He spoke in a thick British accent, and frequently surrounded himself with intimidating bodyguards. When Ben entered the hangar, the bodyguards had assimilated into an unbreakable mass around the client and only moved when told. Upon entering, they'd even searched Ben for weapons and retrieved all but the one slipped into his sleeve. A small gun, nothing special, was his last mode of defense in a time of peril. Ben had learned from an early age never to underestimate the enemy or, more importantly, the man who was writing your paycheck.

     The hangar they were in was old and falling apart. A few months prior it had been the scene of a major bomb assembling project by a terrorist organization. After the event the place had been left to rot, and the client had thought it to be the most secure area to conduct business. Ben's shoes echoed throughout the vacant chamber as he went to sit in front of the client.

     "I retrieved it," Ben assured the man, gingerly setting the painting between them on the table.

     "How exquisite!" the client exclaimed, greedily huddled over the artifact. He traced its edges with his fingers and pulled up a magnifying glass to make sure everything was legit. After he was seemingly satisfied, he sat up.

     "Your work is admirable," he admitted before he waved to one of his bodyguards. "Your donation is much appreciated."

     Ben blinked, "Hold on, a donation?" Ben tilted his head. "I remember quite clearly that we agreed on five-hundred grand."

     His client merely smiled, "My good sir, that was just an incentive. You didn't really think I'd pay five hundred thousand for this piece? My, my..."

     "Mr. Snow," Ben replied, clearing his throat, "I'm not one to be played for risking my life and stealing crap. I'm one to argue that it's in your best interest to give me what we originally offered."

     His client pushed back his chair and one of his body guards snatched the painting, "Good day, Mr. Cain."

     The client began to walk away when Ben called, "What did they tell you?"

     His client paused, turning, "I'm sorry?"

     "Me," Ben repeated, "the people who recommended me to you. I have a reputation; a title that I earned. Many of my associates are aware of it..."

     His client sighed, "I believe they said...to be careful."

     Ben chuckled, shifting in his seat, "Do you have any idea how I got that persona?"

     The client shook his head, seemingly a little annoyed that his time was being wasted, "I haven't the faintest idea--"

     He never got to finish his sentence, because the bullet went straight through his glasses and into his skull. His body flopped to the ground like a dying fish. Blood poured from the wound like a burst pipe, and the body twitched with the last neurological impulses from the brain.

     "I'm not afraid to betray my benefactors," Ben continued, cautiously observing the corpse. "I'm not running a fucking charity organization, Mr. Snow."

     The bodyguards threw themselves at Ben, but he had seen the attacks coming from a mile away. He already knew who was going to attack first simply by looking at the subtle eye movements and muscles twitches. Ben shot his first adversary in the head before using the body as a shield from a barrage of bullets. He clenched his hand into a fist and punched a secondary bodyguard in the face, while also flipping another onto his neck. The fourth was easily shot in the head, but the fifth managed to knock the gun from Ben's grasp.

     "Damn," Ben swore, under his breath, going into a fighting stance.

     The bodyguard threw a punch, but Ben dodged and kicked the man in the chest. He spun and elbowed him in the nose, all before slamming him to the ground with his own body weight. When there was nothing but silence in the hangar, he got up and walked over to his painting. He picked up the expensive artifact and took a good long glance at it.

     "You know," Ben muttered to himself, "this'll work well to cover up the blood stain on my wall."

     He strolled out of the hangar, not a care in the world for the six dead men he had left to rot. 

     Why would he care?

     He was Benedict Cain.