Catburglars, Inc

The Lonely Japanese Girl

Amaya lay on her bed, wishing the rain outside would drown out her parents' shouting match.

Unfortunately, the big mansion was too well insulated for that. Eighteen years old, first year at Manchester University, and why the hell did she agree to come home this weekend? Her parents had invited her to have a supposedly nice, relaxing time at home. It had all started at dinner. Her ka-san(Japanese for 'mother') had begun accusing her tou-san(father) of transferring company funds for a mistress he had. It was all bullshit, and ka-san knew it. Everyone knew tou-san was too busy being the president of Quaker Product to even have sex. Her father had gotten upset at the accusation, and her mom started arguing with him on several other points as well. Amaya finally decided she'd had enough and went up to her room.
Her parents fought constantly, and Amaya was happy enough to leave the house for college. Even if it was still close by.

She lay on the bed, staring at a poster of Spiderman Far From Home taped to the ceiling. She loved American superheroes, much to her father's consternation. He always insisted that she look to the samurai for inspiration, but Amaya liked the fictional Avengers better. Another rift between her parents. Amaya refused to follow any Japanese customs, which her and her parents constantly argued about. They had hardly paid any attention to her growing up, too busy building a financial empire, and Amaya always felt slighted whenever she looked at small children playing happily with their parents. A little girl holding her daddy's hand while they crossed the street. A young boy giving his mother a trampled daisy, but the mother beaming at her son like he'd given her a boutique of flowers. She felt a little depressed, then scowled. Amaya did have a surrogate Aunt and Uncle of sorts, but they were a mess. Rolling over in bed, she checked the clock. It was only nine.

She closed her eyes and dozed off...

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

Amaya jerked awake, smacking her hand down on the off button.

It was time.

Jumping out of bed, she slid into some blue jeans, followed by a lime green tee shirt, followed by a sport jacket. Yellow socks and white tennis shoes were next. She quickly brushed out her short, silky black hair and checked the mirror. Not that she would be needing makeup where she was going tonight. Lastly she snagged an old looking suitcase from under the bed.

Amaya opened her bedroom window.

It had stopped raining, but a cool breeze chilled her, and she shivered. The wind was in the process of blowing the storm clouds away, revealing a full moon. She crawled out the bedroom window, then shut it and began to walk quietly across the roof. Reaching the lattice, she scaled down it one handed. Landing in a crouch, she straightened up. Amaya Takahashi stands about five feet, four inches tall. She could simply walk out the front door, but this is good practice. She walked casually to the driveway and crawled into her Aston Martin she got for her eighteenth birthday. She had wanted a Ferrari.

Driving along the highway in silence, Amaya pondered several things. The rising crime in Manchester meant there was competition. The Alfonsis were said to be in nefarious activities, but no one, least of all the police, seemed able to find any evidence of it. Those two were slick, that's for sure.
Another thing was this vigilante/supposed do gooder, the so called, 'Outlander'. A man dressed in black who had broken up a drug lab, stopped two muggings, and saved a dog in the past two weeks. The all black intrigued her, because-

Her phone began ringing, playing Katy Perry's Firework.

"Be there in five," Amaya hung up the phone, irritated at the unnecessary call.

It was closer to ten minutes actually when she finally pulled into the parking lot of her destination. An old red brick schoolhouse was before her. It looked to have originated in the forties, and it always creeped her out a little. Entering the building, Amaya darted into the girl's locker room. Ancient, but empty. Laying her briefcase on a bench. She dialed the correct locking combination from memory then pressed her thumb in the right place. With a hiss of compressed the lid opened, revealing its contents. An all black leather suit lay before her, folded perfectly. A black domino mask rested on top. The suit fit like a second skin, but at the same time loose enough it didn't chafe. It was Amaya's pride and joy, and she would never part with it as long as she lived.

She dressed quickly, not out of shame, Amaya was very proud of her trim frame and dressed scandalously, at least from her parents' point of view. She shrugged off their opinions they had drilled in her head for years. Amaya Takahashi was eighteen now, an adult, and they wouldn't tell her what she could and couldn't do. Rather, it was cold in the barren locker room, and a tad creepy. She finished zipping the suit, glad for the warmth it provided. The domino mask came last, and she positioned it just right on her face. It had opaque lenses she would add later, but for now a person could see her pretty brown eyes. The band around her head was stretchable, and fit perfectly. As well it should. Amaya had spent close to three grand on this custom suit. Tucking her gloves under her armpit, she strolled out of the locker room, taking her time.

Coming upon a large room with half glass double doors, she swung them open and announced her arrival by raising her hands up in the air in a theatrical manner, carefully catching her gloves as she did so. A long conference style table lay before her, with around a dozen people sprawled in various casual positions. Some were drinking coffee, others eating cereal, most were doing both. An old leather office chair creaked as its occupant twirled around, and a premature silver mane with a strong face greeted her.

"Welcome, Amaya. We're glad you finally arrived," Allan Trombone said warmly.

Amaya had just entered Catburglars, Inc.



**********************************



Darkness.

Becky couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't hear.

Terror.

She was back in a suitcase again, and her silent screams reached no one. She felt like crying at her helplessness. Becky twisted and turned uselessly.

No escape.

She screamed in anger at her captors, then paused to listen.

Voices. Marta and Violet.

Suddenly the suitcase was unzipped and Alice, her lookalike was leering at her and-

Becky jerked awake, heart racing, back wet with sweat. She wiped a hand across her damp brow. It was a nightmare, nothing more. Her experience traveling to freakin' Oklahoma in a damn suitcase would not be forgotten soon, but she was a Carter, and Carters always persevered. Especially her. A quick glance at the alarm clock told her it was half past three in the morning. It was too early, she had planned on being there at five, but she might as well get up.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

Dressed in light pink Hello Kitty pajamas with pink socks, (so she was still a little young at heart, so what) she padded softly across her bedroom, then down to the kitchen to the Keurig machine. Fifteen minutes later she was back in her room with some fruit and a steaming mug of coffee as she sat at her small writer's desk.
Powering up her laptop, she checked Facebook, and smiled when she saw her new found friend Erin's post. The redhead looked adorable posing in a Daphne costume, apparently trying it out for an upcoming Halloween party. The candy and costume filled holiday was coming up, and Erin had one picked out by the looks of it. She thought of her friend, and the case they had worked on together. Erin was a competent reporter, that was for sure.
She blushed as she thought of the rather uncomfortable position they had been tied together in, and the bomb they'd had to diffuse. Thank god for Steff and that knife. Cass never let her forget about her and Erin being stuck face to face, much to her slight irritation.

After she finished with Facebook, she pulled up video footage on YouTube of a British reporter who was interviewing, of all people, Lorenzo and Marta Alfonsi. The Italian ambassador and his wife had spent some time in England before making the jump across the pond. She figured there should be some financial records, maybe even property purchases during their time in England. A follow-up would definitely be in order. The interview was several years old, but Becky's hope was that she could glean something from it. Becky leaned forward, right hand cupped around her chin, her pretty features in a slight frown. Her grey eyes analyzed the interview, missing nothing. The reporter wasn't very good, Becky didn't mean to be critical, but several good follow ups blew over her head. Lorenzo thought the UK reporter was pretty, Becky could tell. Marta seemed bored, and she answered only a few of the questions. She wondered how Marta was exactly before she met her, and spent several hours bound, gagged, and at this woman's mercy. Maybe there could be a clue in the Alfonsis' past somewhere. The England lead would need a follow-up, fortunately she was pretty good at internet research. She thought of the picture Marta had sent. Becky had locked it away in a safe deposit box, as it was the only tangible evidence she had. Even though technically there was nothing linking it to Marta, at least according to police.

Her eyes narrowed as she thought of the drawing and note. That was why Cass wouldn't be coming tonight. It was too risky. There was no way she'd risk taking her best friend anymore. Things were getting serious. Becky loved her friends, and she could never live with herself if Cass, Maggie, or Isabella disappeared like some of Marta's former employees. A chill ran down her back as she thought of Lieutenant Cooper's words about the one and only witness they had arrested, but was released on bail, 'I haven't seen such a clean vanishing in Manchester for a long time.'

She pursed her lips, nu-uh. That was why Cass wasn't coming tonight, or this morning technically. Maybe never again if Becky could keep her snooping secret. Granted, Cass didn't know what she was up to, otherwise her blue haired bff would have protested and tried to come along. No one knows what I'm doing tonight.

Becky finished her coffee, than closed the laptop. Time to go. She pulled off her jammies, revealing a black sports bra and matching underwear. It was cool tonight, so she pulled some thicker charcoal nylons over her bare legs. The woolish fabric felt a little itchy in the warmth of the house, but Becky knew it would pay off in the autumn chill outside. That was followed by a short black denim skirt that came scandalously(in her mind) over halfway up her calves. Becky has always been more of a conservative dresser, if anything goes above her knees she usually wears pantyhose, with the exception of summer bathing suits and shorts, but even the thought of those almost always make her blush. Which is kind of funny, in a way, as she is very bold, brash, even, when it comes to reporting. She isn't a prude about it though and is cool with how anyone else wants to dress. Becky's just more shy about showing off her body, to which Cass and Maggie say she should show it off, because it looks so great. Isabella, though, her advice was for her to follow her heart. Becky does just that.

It was all black tonight as she slid into a tight long sleeve black cardigan sweater. Pulling her left sleeve up, she slipped her leather watch on her wrist, an expensive lady's watch, a gift from her late dad. She wears it wherever she goes. Lastly, an extremely thick charcoal hoodie, with dark furry trim around the edge and ruffles on the sleeve ends. As she pulled it up, she glanced in the mirror. Her slightly curly blonde hair and freckles were framed prettily by the fur edged hood. Warm grey eyes surveyed her look. Dark enough to blend in the shadows, hopefully. It was a simple retrieval job anyway. Lastly she pulled on brown suede mid-calf boots with zippers on the sides and wedge heels. Hey she wasn't Cass, she didn't have every particular item of clothing in a shade of black. A girl has to look stylish in different colors, right?

Becky grabbed her car keys, purse, and a flashlight, then headed out, careful not to wake her mom and Dakota.



***********************************


"You're late," Mrs. Calder, who taught school over at St. Paul's, a private boarding school, sneered, "And you hung up on me when I called."

Amaya couldn't stand Mrs. Calder, who, back in the day was said to have been a pretty damn good cat burglar. Now she does bookkeeping. And calling to annoy Amaya, apparently. Amaya ignored her, instead going over to the breakfast bar, grabbing apple juice and some cereal.

"We were just discussing about how the funds at CI have been drooping perceptibly," Allan said from his chair.

CI was an acronym for Catburglars, Inc. It was an organization founded by the Trombone brothers, Allan and Rob. The two brothers' relationship with each other was as long and schizophrenic as their criminal careers. Growing up, they both had a childhood obsession with Star Wars. They took their love for the franchise very seriously. Collecting action figures, video games, boxed movie sets, toy lightsabers, and cosplay. Allan was the undisputed leader, and could often get the neighborhood kids together to reenact some scene from the movie. Their life had not been easy, and the brothers had turned to crime, burglary as a matter of fact. It turned out to be successful, as both brothers were fairly athletic and intelligent. Allan hired several people to help them, and with Rob doing the bookwork, they prospered. However, that had all changed after May 19, 1999. That was the day Star Wars Episode 1 released. Amaya couldn't remember for sure, but the feud between Allan and Rob had started over some stupid disagreements over the new movie. She wasn't positive, didn't really care either, but Jar Jar Binks was said to have been a contributing factor to kick start the argument. That and Darth Maul's death. Rob apparently wished he had lived. After that they quit working together.
When Episode 2 came out they agreed to try and work out their differences by going to the movies together. However it was said that Rob, halfway through the movie, made an insult about Obi-Wan Kenobi, and how Darth Maul should have lived instead. He also called it a 'soap opera' and that George Lucas had been coerced into 'making it the biggest disappointment of the Star Wars franchise.' Today Allan admits he overreacted, but at the time he didn't take kindly to the insult about Obi-Wan as that was his favorite character. A shouting match ensued, and they came to blows. After being escorted off the premises by security, the two brothers became sworn enemies.

Amaya poured frosted flakes into her bowl. All for a damn movie franchise. There was more drama to it, between the two families, but that's how it initially started. And she thought her parents were psychos. Allan was a fair employer though, and very kind to his employees.

Rob disappeared from the public eye, and Amaya had only seen pictures of him at the annual CI celebration, when they went over the organization's history, and talked about the future. Rob went by a new moniker, 'The Urban Professional.' A notorious crime boss, said to have a nervous voice at times, then other times he would order people's deaths out of the blue. Whatever suited his fancy. And he still had the same obsession with Star Wars.

What a freak. He was Allan's biggest competition.

Until now.

"The Alfonsi Crime Family has once again returned to Manchester," Allan announced, as Amaya finally took a seat, "And I'll be damned if we let them ruin us. It's not like the old times, where true criminals have honor. The Alfonsis' are very unscrupulous, especially since Marta became involved several months ago," He looked grave.

"I heard of Marta Alfonsi," Amaya interrupted, "I might have to pay her a visit. It would be fun to teach her a lesson or two."

"You will not go anywhere near Marta, Amya. That woman is bad news. So is Lorenzo, even though he appears to be a gentleman."

"Are we gonna take them out?" someone asked.

"For Hell's sake, no! We do not kill. I may be one of the few honorable criminals left, but I will not bend my standards" Allan stated flatly. He went on, "Of all the criminal families I've known, Nathan Norton was one of the best. The original Mr. White, he did a most excellent job and has had a large impact on the criminal underworld."

"Mr. White?" Amaya asked, her mouth full of cereal. She had heard the name before, but nothing more than that. And the occasional odd rumor.

Allan looked disapproving of her manners, then went on, "For another time."

Amaya raised an eyebrow.

"But Catburglars, Inc, will not be bested by anyone, will we?" Allan raised a fist.

A hearty chorus around the table agreed.

Amaya chewed her cereal.

"However there's been a reporter snooping around, I think she knows of our existence. Though she doesn't have our name. Yet."

Everyone stared at Allan.

Amaya took a sip of OJ.

"It's not that she's actively looking for us, but she has been asking questions, at the police station, homeless people."

"How the hell are people finding out?" a middle aged man asked, "Surely not 'them'."

Allan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We all know Owen and Violet wouldn't keep it a secret forever, not after what they did," he looked pointedly at Amaya.

She felt a little sad, "Of course, before you ask, no, neither of them contacted me." Amaya grew distracted as Allan went on about money and how they needed to up their game. His voice droned as old memories stirred, taking her back years....



Eight years ago.

"Daddy! Can we go to the movies tonight?" Ten year old Amaya asked.

Her dad glanced up from the bowtie he was fastening around his expensive shirt. "No honey, you're ka-san and I must go to this important charity ball tonight. We must keep our reputation up." He frowned at her, then spoke in Japanese, "It's tou-san."

Amaya stuck out her lower lip, she was only ten but she knew the way her parents were, it wasn't like most kid's parents. They never paid any attention to her, and it bothered her. "But tou-san!" Amaya pouted.

"Amaya." Her father said sternly, "Stop whining or I will not allow any tv tonight. No American superheroes, only samurai movies." He glanced sideways at her from the mirror, "Emika will take good care of you."

Emika was the family maid, a pretty young Japanese woman who dressed in a traditional black and white maid's outfit. She usually took good care of Amaya, but Amaya wanted something different tonight. She knew better than to argue with her father however, so she left the room, a solemn and sullen little girl. Fifteen minutes later her parents left, barely noticing her as they told Emika what all Amaya required. As if Amaya couldn't take care of herself. She sighed miserably, what a boring evening. Then her face lightened at the thought of a game she could make Emika play.
What fun indeed, to play cops and robbers to achieve another goal.

"Amyaf, lllef mi go!" Emika demanded.

The Japanese maid was tied to a chair, arms tied securely enough to the chair arms, several thin dog leashes kept her wrists and forearms secured.
Expensive cords used to hold enormous window drapes back held her ankles fast, and a long thin dinner cloth napkin was tied off tightly between her lips, thus resulting in her garbled speech. Getting Emika to play the game was easy enough, Amaya was only ten, right? What could a ten year old kid do, right? Well, Amaya let people underestimate her, it's how she always came out on top. Knowing Girl Scout knots in this case certainly helped.

"I'll see you later, Emika!" Amaya chortled.

Emika shook her head, pleading with her eyes and grunts for Amaya not to take off. Her gag was tight enough her lips met, folding over the cloth.
It would probably cost Emika her job, but Amaya didn't care, and she was sick of her parents not paying attention to her. Besides, she smirked to herself, Emika couldn't do anything about anything.
Amaya left through the front entrance of her mansion home, stepping out into a ritzy neighborhood in Manchester. Street lamps brightly lit the street, and she took off in a run. She was running to where? Amaya didn't know, but somewhere someone would care about her. And some new adventure would help. She thought of some of her favorite superheroes. Spider-Man and Spider-Woman. They climbed buildings! Amaya would go high. Hailing a nearby taxi, (she always had one of Daddy's credit cards with her) she convincingly told the driver she had to go uptown.

Arriving in downtown Manchester, Amaya found the closest building with a fire escape, and excitedly clambered up it. Once up top she looked out over the city. It wasn't a high building, but she was above everyone on the street so that counted for something. Up here she could feel a slight breeze, reliving the oppressive summer heat of the day. Amaya imagined swinging from building to building like Spider-Man. What fun that would be! Everyone would notice her then. No more annoying little Amaya, she would make them listen and respect her. Who? Her parents, for starters. Except it would never happen. Her mom and dad had no time for her, and the prospect of getting bitten by a radioactive spider was ludicrous. Things like that didn't happen. A sob racked her throat, and tears began to spill from her eyes.

"There, there girl, don't cry. What's wrong?"

Amaya whirled around in abject surprise. A man and a woman stood before her. It was a white guy and a black woman, standing very close to each other, in a way that Amaya knew to be lovey dovey with each other. What was surprising about them, was the fact that they were in black clothes, with domino masks and beanies. The black woman's beautiful purple hair spilled out from under the beanie, while the man's was mostly hidden.

Amaya wiped her eyes, "What are you guys, cosplayers? Or burglars?"

The man, who had spoken earlier, grinned while the woman leaned her head on his shoulder. They were about the same height. "Second guess, though I suppose it's pretty obvious. We do this for a living. Now I ask you again, why are you up here crying?"

Amaya was surprised how nonchalant he was about announcing their criminal career, but decided to answer his question. Strangely enough, she felt no danger from these two. "I'm running from my parents. They don't care about me."

His grin faltered, "Well kid, been there done that. What say you spend a night running around with us? We could use a small person sometimes."

"Stealing? Isn't that bad?" Amaya asked.

"It's a grey area." The woman said smoothly, "We only steal from the rich, never the poor people."

"So you're like Robin Hood?"

They both looked at each other and laughed, "Heaven's no," the woman said, "We keep it for ourselves. Like he said, it's a living."

Amaya thought about it, here she was wanting something exciting to do, and here it was.

Here it was......



Present Day.

Amaya jerked out of her reverie, Allan was still talking.

"So here's the list of names of new clients" Allan pointed to a whiteboard with his erasable marker.

Amaya scanned the list, "I want that one, Isabella Rodriguez."

"No problem." Allan grinned at her, "Hope she has something worth stealing. She's a teacher at St. Paul's. Mrs. Calder knows her."

"I would like that assignment," Mrs. Calder spoke up from her desk.

"Absolutely not. You already tortured the poor woman enough. Besides, your work is now purely secretarial," Allan stated, leaving no room for argument.

The subsequent YouTube video of the teacher who had been tricked into getting tied up had been hilarious to watch, Amaya had enjoyed it immensely. Unfortunately Isabella's friends did not find it amusing, marching down to the principal's office and demanding Mrs. Calder be fired, or they would write up a story on it. The principal hadn't given in to that, but he had put Mrs. Calder on two week's leave, no pay. The old lady was still angry about it, and wanted to lash out. It was all simply funny to Amaya.

Mrs. Calder turned up her nose, and Allan went back to handing out names to other people at the table.

Amaya always got first pick, because she was the best at what she did. Each member was expected to bring in a weekly haul for CI, then the person would get their cut, 30%, gear, training which included lock picking, martial arts, and safe cracking. Learning how to leave no evidence behind was the most crucial training, and taught very well. Additional benefits included paid health insurance, and early retirement. Allan went on to incorporate catsuits, masks and gloves to better hide any evidence. Members are supposed to wear watch caps or ski masks as well, thus lowering the risk of being caught by any loose strands of fallen hair at a burgled home. Unfortunately Catburglars, Inc had as of late fallen on hard times. CI members were sworn to secrecy, never using the name to members, and above all, never admitting that it existed. Amaya drummed her fingers on the table, annoying several people. She was the last member to join CI eight years ago, no one had since. They were very picky with who they allowed in their ranks, and if it hadn't been for Owen and Violet vouching for her, Amaya never would have had a chance. Of course, those two had been the newest recruits before her. Since their betrayal of CI several years ago, stealing a sizeable chunk of money from the vault, then simply disappearing, Allan was very skittish at the prospect of getting new blood into the organization.

"Allright, well, if everyone has their assignments for the week, you are given permission to leave whenever." Allan said, than got up to get his own bowl of cereal and coffee. It was a tradition that he and Rob had started, a midnight snack to eat while they talked over plans and such like.

Allan's personal secretary and treasurer, entered the room carrying a box.

"You're late Bernie," Allan sounded displeased, then noticed the box. It had R2D2 and C3PO wrapping paper on it.

Amaya felt a twinge of nervousness, surely not.

"No," another person said.

Bernie was visibly sweating, "I found this at the doorstep upon my arrival, sir." he had a British accent, "I ran a metal detector over it, and there's no metal contained.

"What about biological?" someone asked.

"Not his style." Allan snapped, "Set it here."

Bernie set the box down on the table, and Allan ripped open the wrapping paper, revealing a plain cardboard box. Opening the lid, he and Bernie peered inside.

"Oh my god!" Bernie screamed, backing away.

Allan collapsed into his chair, looking grim, but said nothing.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Amaya was the third person to take a glance inside.

She stared in confusion and horror.

A Darth Vader helmet rested inside, half the faceplate missing. And inside, a human head, half visible, with one blank eye staring up at Amaya.

"No. Way."



**********************************



When Becky pulled up to the old warehouse, it was 4:42 A.M. It was an ungodly hour, and she hated mornings, but this was the best time to gather the three voice recorders she had planted at this warehouse. It spoke of her dedication to the craft of investigative work and snooping in general that she put aside her dislike for early mornings to come here. Through a stroke of research luck Becky had discovered that this warehouse was owned by an Italian company which in turn just happened to have money invested in them by the Alfonsis'.

Maybe she could get some solid evidence here. She parked her two door hatchback and crawled out of the driver's seat. Her boots hit wet leaves as she briskly walked to the warehouse. Her wool tights felt a little itchy on her legs, and she scratched her right thigh absentmindedly. A long fingernail caught in the fabric. She jerked it out, ripping only a little of the material. Good thing they were casual tights. She had purposely worn old ones for this warehouse snoop. Coming up to the window she had purposely unlatched after picking the lock to one of the many doors, Becky crawled inside.
It was pitch black and she waited in the darkness, listening for any voices. If her guess and surveillance were correct, the thugs that came here should be long gone.

The bright beam of her light cut through the inky blackness. The young reporter made her way carefully along the hallway, pausing and listening on occasion. Satisfied she was alone, Becky's hooded form moved much more quickly now, and she gathered the recorders she had strategically placed where she thought these meetings might take place. In due fashion she rounded up two of the recorders than went to a large break room in the warehouse where she had put the last one. Coming up to the door, she saw it was shut. Dim light spilled out from underneath it and Becky flicked off her flashlight.

Was there someone inside?

Pulse pounding(snooping always got her adrenaline pumping) she saw the crack might be large enough to see a little bit inside, at least floor level.
Kneeling down on her hands and knees, she put her hooded face on the cold tile floor, grateful her cheek didn't have to feel it directly. Her left eye peeked inside under the crack.

Nothing but chair and table legs bathed in weak light.

Shoot, Becky thought, how am I going to tell if anyone's inside?

An idea hit her, a dangerous one if the room was occupied, but a solution nonetheless. Getting up off the floor, she now knelt on her pantyhose clad knees, grateful now for the thickness of it.

She blinked her flashlight in the crack, one, two times then listened with baited breath.

Nothing.

Hmmm, she thought, now what?

No sound at all, chair scrapes, nothing.

To heck with it, she thought impatiently. She flung the door open, flashlight on and in one hand, the other hovering above her small shoulder purse.
The room was empty. A small lit lamp lay on it's side, casting weird shadows about the room. Becky breathed a sigh of relief as she knelt under the table and peeled the tape away that held the recorder.

She was ready to get out of this creepy place. Besides, with how filthy it was Becky felt like a change of clothes and a shower might be in order.

Out in her car she played the last recorder she had retrieved, then realized it would be better to take it home and remove the SD card to analyze the recording. It would be much quicker on her computer.
All in all a successful mission, Becky told herself as she pulled out of the warehouse parking lot, I finally feel like I'm getting the hang of it. It's been awhile since I was caught snooping, so maybe my luck is changing. Of course, the crowning jewel would be enough evidence to put Marta and Lorenzo behind bars.

She was hoping so much that there would be something, anything on one of those recorders.

At least one small lead, please, Becky begged the universe. She was pragmatic enough to know that there would most likely not be enough on there to get a long prison sentence for Marta or anything, but at least something to go off of. The last while she has had the feeling that someone was following her. Becky couldn't quite catch the person, but they always seemed to be on the periphery of her vision. It was more of a nagging feeling than any actual evidence, but the blonde reporter had learned to trust her instincts, and her intuitive nature. Right now, thankfully, she didn't feel like she was being followed.

Becky felt tired. The last two weeks since getting the painting from Marta had left her stressed out and worried. Mostly for Cass, Maggie, and her mom and sister. As the oldest child, she felt a particular responsibility for Dakota, and her mom, in a way. Adeline Carter was a strong woman, what with having to endure her husband's unexpected death. Just as smart as her daughter, Adeline was a lawyer, and a damn good one at that. She was one of Becky's heroines and role models. However mom and her sixteen year old sister Dakota did not always get along, and Becky was the linchpin in the family. Dad had been, but since his passing Becky felt she should take up the job. Her love for her family was part of the reason she was still at home, having graduated from college six months ago with her bachelor's degree majoring in English and Elementary and Kindergarten education.
For a minor, Journalism, of course. She had wanted to either teach a kindergarten class(she loves little kids) or do what she was currently doing. After graduation, a job offer as a secretary at MDT had been offered, she accepted, as it had been hard to find a job(a girl's gotta eat, right?) From there she had worked her way up to her present job of doing investigative reporting, which sadly seemed to be going out in the age of smartphones and everything getting posted in a matter of minutes after it happened. Thankfully though, Becky was good enough at her job, not to mention passionate, that the editor considered her a valuable asset to the team at MDT. She finally pulled into her driveway, tired but happy with the results of her snooping.

Once back in her room, this time with a steaming caramel latte to keep her company, Becky analyzed the SD cards on her laptop. She had shucked what she jokingly referred to as her, 'ninja clothes', and taken a shower. Now refreshed, she was in a blue v-neck tee shirt and was wearing a light grey turtleneck sweater over it, the soft cashmere fabric complimenting her slim form, white tights with Merino fabric and a dark plaid blue skirt that came to her knees. And her usual black leather banded lady's watch with a square face.

She enjoys trying out different outfits and colors. Hey, fashion statements were everything on a girl reporter. Back to the present matter at hand She told herself. She had places to go, interviews, and articles to write.
Stocking feet resting on her furry carpet as she skimmed through the first two, Becky was disappointed to find not a single one had any voices on it. She didn't have time to play the whole thing, rather skipping through each recorder for now. The last one, however, at around six hours in, had something. There were three voices speaking, for roughly around thirty minutes. Becky was extremely disheartened to discover that it was Italian, which seemed to be the language of choice these days. She thoughtfully touched her chin with a finger, an app could possibly translate it, but the speech was garbled at some places. It was a very distinct possibility that it would be mistranslated.

Becky snapped her fingers. Isabella! Her friend Isabella knew several languages, in fact was quite gifted with them. She pulled her sweater sleeve up, checking her watch.

Shoot, Isabella is probably already at school. Guess I'll have to wait till later. As it is though, I need to get work too.

She gathered up her things then headed downstairs to the kitchen. Mom had already left for the office, and Dakota was still in her PJ's, eating a pop tart. Out of their family, Mom is the only one who's a morning person. Becky wasn't feeling too sociable, after all, she'd only had about two hours of sleep last night. She started the Keurig.

Dakota's reddish blonde hair glistened, it was the same color as Mom's.

"Hey Beck," Dakota croaked from her position on the counter. A Pepsi rested beside her.

Becky raised an eyebrow, "That looks healthy."

"Just as much as coffee!" Dakota snapped.

"This is organic, courtesy of Isabella."

"Leave me alone Beck! Why do you have to mess with me in the morning?!!"

Becky felt her ire get the better of her, "I'm just looking out for you, Dakota! Pepsi is the worst possible choice you could have for breakfast. Why you don't try eating healthier?"

Dakota stormed out of the kitchen.

Becky felt a little bad, she usually was really good with her kid sister. Not this early though, and with so little sleep.

I hope both of us have a good day.


**********************************


Amaya stared at the half-face.

It was a perfect rendition of Allan, made with artificial materials, and it had scared the crap out of Amaya, until she realized it was a fake. She glanced at Allan, just to make sure his head was where it belonged.

Allan looked a little pale, scared, and a tad pissed off, "The fucking Urban Professional found us," He sighed, "Damn it. Now we have to move on top of everything else."

"Why would he warn you?" Amaya asked, "I mean, he hates your guts, right? Why not plant a bomb?" It was rumored but unproven that The Urban Professional liked bombs.

"Do not say such a terrible thing Amaya!" Mrs. Calder shouted from her desk, "You have no idea what that man is capable of!"

Amaya flipped her the finger. She absolutely hated that woman.

Allan appeared worried, "I don't think he would, although we haven't spoken in three years since-"

"Boss!" Bernie had recovered from his shock, and now pulled an old fashioned cassette recorder from the box.

"Play it," Allan commanded.

The old cassette player whirled to life.

Heavy breathing that was unmistakable to anyone familiar with sci-fi movies sounded over the reel. "Hhhhaaaawwwww. Brrrrrrrrrrrr."

Really? Amaya thought, he's doing a Darth Vader impression?

This went on for an agonizing two minutes, then finally a voice came over the line. It was not a voice of strength like Allan's, rather it was a voice of timidness, "He-hello Allan. Thought I was going to play that forever? Naaaa, you know me. And I know you. The gggggame is up Allan, you can't hide your little wannabe badass Catburglars Inc." The Urban Professional's voice took on a new tone, with more strength to it, "I give you one year to start a new business, and shut down CI, tell your people to come work for me, and start a new life, big brother. I hear some of your workers are really good, especially one Japanese girl in your employ."

Amaya's heart skipped a beat, but she did her best to make sure her face remained neutral. She doesn't like showing her emotions in front of other people. Amaya certainly hoped The Urban Professional didn't know her name. He had a creepy voice.

The voice went on, "Have you ever told her, Allan, or any of your people for that matter, what happened that night with Owen, Violet, you and I? My voice gets all choked up thinking about it. From what I understand the two lovebirds are separated these days." he let out a sigh, "A damn shame. But back to you, do as I ask, and no harm will come to anyone, including your wife and daughter. Had to throw in that predictable tidbit." He laughed a little, "And have you heard the Alfonsis' are back in town? Of course you have. These two look to be a real pain in the ass. Marta has been bitten by a bug or something, what with the active role she's currently playing. Unconfirmed rumors suggest, that after a close encounter with the third kind, reporters, to be precise, Marta discovered the joys and thrills of being a dominant woman in her little bondage games. Had two girls stashed in her house till they were rescued. Bet you didn't know that either.
You like bondage, don't you Allan? C'mon admit it. Maybe you and Marta should hook up." He chortled, then stopped. "Anyway, someone will have to take them out too, unless they bow to me. I would end this tape with a Star Wars line, but I'll just say I'm always available for another battle with our old toy lightsabers. We all know who would win. Enjoy the present, it's totally you baby!"

The reel ended, and clicked off. Allan's face was purple with rage. He had his fists clenched, and he spoke through gritted teeth, "Go. Do. Assignments. Now."

"What was he-" Amaya started to ask

"GET OUT EVERYONE!!!" Allan thundered.

Amaya got up to leave, Allan wasn't going to talk, she might as well do her assignment, though it would have to wait until tonight, since it was an hour before daybreak. Amaya Takahashi had class to attend in a few hours. What would become of Catburglars Inc? Amaya hardly saw Allan giving in, but what options did they have? The Urban Professional sounded serious.

Well, Amaya had a job to do this week. She always loved tying people up.



**********************************


Isabella Rodriguez unlocked her apartment door, stepping inside with an armful of groceries from Whole Foods Market. She took the items to her kitchen, then went into her living room, first shucking off her white winter coat, then flopped down on the couch, exhausted.

It had been a trying day.

Twenty-five years old, a pretty latina woman of Cuban descent, single status, with long, soft brown hair and large brown eyes.
She's wearing a light green cardigan over a white tank top, with tight, stylish blue jeans that are washed out light blue in color. Sensible white and pink tennis shoes adorn her feet. Her lush eyelashes fluttered and her cheeks reddened slightly as she thought of St. Paul's, a private school she taught at. Today had been Mrs. Calder's first day back after a two week suspension. It had been roughly two and a half weeks since Isabella had been tricked into getting tied up by her students. She had been helpless, bound, gagged, with no way to wriggle free. Thank God that Mr. Young had come back, albeit two hours later, to untie her. She couldn't stand him for not rescuing her the first time he came, but was still grateful that he at least didn't leave her tied up all night. No, it had been her friends who had done the real rescuing. Becky, Maggie, and Cass had all been very concerned when they heard the story. Becky's temper had flared up, and she had marched straight down to St. Paul's to talk to the principal about firing Mrs. Calder. Maggie and Cass had followed her down there as well. The best the principal would offer was a two week's suspension, with Isabella getting Mrs. Calder's pay. She had been happy with the extra money, but her reputation had taken a plummet since her afternoon welded to a chair had gone viral. Thank God for her friends. They had all been very supportive, especially Becky. She had been the one leading pack and Isabella was very touched by Becky's passionate defence of her.

She sat up off the couch, realizing she was starving. She is a terrific cook, and her friends are always up to come over to sample her cooking.
Even her being a vegetarian didn't stop Cass, who could eat like a horse, from gorging herself on Isabella's fine dining. It was about time to have them over again. She should eat, but first she peeled off her orange and white polka dotted socks, massaging her tired feet, happy to be barefoot. She likes things natural, not in an obsessive way, just as green as she can go. Isabella got up and padded softly into the kitchen to wash her hands. She's five feet three inches, slightly lower than the average American height, with a slender and graceful form that attracts stares wherever she goes.

Going through her groceries, she decided to try a bean burrito, with organic goat cheese and a pinch of cilantro washed down with a glass of all natural grape juice. A light meal, but sufficient for her flat tummy. She smiled as she realized she used the word, 'tummy' instead of 'stomach.'
Isabella was very much at home with children, and even Maggie, who was the hardest to impress, admitted she'd never seen anyone as patient as her. She blushed as she thought of the compliment. Raised the youngest in a large family, Isabella was supposed to have been the spoiled rotten brat most people thought of when they thought of the youngest. Instead a sweet, sincere and very naive girl had grown into a fine young woman. Isabella can think of herself in these terms, because she has no exaggerated pride in herself. Sure, she has dignity, but there's a difference between the two.

Isabella started putting food in her cabinets, as she softly hummed a Spanish tune she remembered from childhood.

"Don't. Move."

Icy cold fear raced up Isabella's spine and the hairs on her arms stood up as something cold and unyielding pressed against her slim neck.

"Wh-who are you?" She gulped nervously.

"You'll see. Hands behind your back."

Isabella obeyed.

What else could she do?