Hi there, everyone. Remember me? Yeah. Ha. I finally finished the story.
I hope it was worth waiting for.
Disclaimer: I own no part of Red Eye, and am in no way earning any profit off this story. It is fan fiction, and is written for enjoyment, not monetary gain.
The building was whitewashed on the outside, in a part of town Lisa knew wasn't very well-off. She watched the windows, but nothing moved inside.
Cynthia and she obeyed silently. Checking her step to be sure the gun didn't show, Lisa opened the door and they walked inside. Their footsteps echoed on the floor in the large, empty room.
"Up the stairs."
"What stairs?" Cynthia inquired.
Lisa pulled her friend in the direction of the back wall. There was a small flight of stairs hidden behind a propped-up board and they found themselves in a basement not unlike the one they'd been held in for those few days.
In the corner, Jackson was standing tied up, a very nasty-looking cut on the side of his face; a gun was pointed on the other side of his head.
"There you are."
Lisa glanced at Cynthia, and then at the man in gray who'd spoken. "Here we are. And now…?"
"Now we have our little chat. Sit."
They sat. The low table was soon occupied by several of the men in gray suits. They looked alarmingly similar. Not identical, but they had the same hair, same color eyes and of course, their clothing. "We are the society which has hired Rippner again and again. He has failed because of you. Why?"
"…You brought us here to ask why you hired a lousy hit-man?" Lisa blinked, trying to form some kind of plan in her mind.
"You will be quiet." he glared at Jackson. "Reisart. His talents are not in question. He has proved himself to be of the best caliber. It is you who are under suspicion."
"You think I'm some sort of spy?"
"You run a hotel." those steely eyes blinked unemotionally. "You are unimportant."
Oh really. "Did you drag me all the way out here to flatter me or dismiss me?"
"To hire you."
She almost laughed, but caught herself in time. "What? Right, sure. No! What are you talking about?!"
"We wish you to join our society and work for us."
Lisa exchanged an incredulous look at Cynthia. Her friend blinked.
"Or you'll kill us?"
"You're smarter than you look."
With a small grunt of annoyance, Lisa cast a glance at Rippner. He kept gesturing to one of the men with his eyes. More specifically at his gun.
"I have to be, I work in P.R." Lisa raised an eyebrow, letting her hand rest on the edge of the table, as if to push herself up and away. "Fine. I'm in. But one thing first."
"I want to be able to shoot him myself." Lisa stood up and pointed at Rippner, who made a small scared noise in the back of his throat. "Bastard's caused me a lot of trouble."
"He is still worth something to us."
"Him or me."
One of the men handed her his gun.
"Do it then. A sign of good faith."
Lisa hefted it, and then sighed. "I can't do it. I think after all this time I've developed some kind of Stockholm syndrome."
"Your friend, perhaps?"
Bingo. Come on, Cynthia. "Take the shot." Please, please, please, take the gun…
Cynthia's eyes were wide as saucers but she took it. She had to hold it with both hands to aim. Lisa took a breath, then a step back, hands folding behind her back. Her fingers touched cold steel and she let her mind go blank as she pulled it out and pulled the trigger.
The room exploded in gunfire.
White ceiling, IV stands, and beeping machines.
"At least you're not waking up dead." Cynthia said, looking down at Lisa with a small smile. She cradled her arm, which was in a cast. "They told me they took about a dozen bullets out of you!"
"I can feel it." her body was stingy and achy. "Where's Jackson?"
"He got bandaged up and left. Just…walked away." Cynthia looked up and away. "You should get some rest."
She rolled over. "Fine." He left without saying anything! I swear to God, Jackson…I WILL find you! And you will suffer! She grunted and rolled her eyes. Men.
And then she noticed it. There was a note tacked to the mattress beside her pillow, with two small lines on it. She smiled.
We'll talk again.