The Gentleman

Sarah Jennings crouched behind a dumpster in Pioneer Square, rainwater seeping through her jeans where they pressed against the wet pavement. The fabric of her tactical vest caught on the dumpster's rusted edge as she leaned forward, tracking movement at the far end of the alley. Her quarry - a low-level enforcer named Martinez - had just ducked into the shadows of a recessed doorway.

She keyed her radio. "Target's stationary at the north end. He's waiting for someone."

Static crackled. "Copy that," Xue's voice came back. "Maintain position. Backup's five minutes out."

Sarah clicked her acknowledgment, then drew her Glock 26. For the third time in as many minutes, she pulled the slide back a fraction to make sure there was one in the pipe. The familiar weight of the subcompact should have been reassuring, but tonight it felt inadequate. If Martinez was meeting who she thought he was meeting...

A rat scurried past her boot, its claws scraping against concrete and metal. The air carried the metallic tang of the remaining Harbor Island steel mill a couple miles away mixed with wet asphalt and rotting garbage. The drizzle had just enough weight that it sounded like electrical static against the pavement.

Movement. Martinez stepped out of the doorway, head turning left and right. Sarah held her breath. After six months of dead ends and near misses, she might finally get eyes on The Gentleman.

The case had consumed her, driving her to the edge of obsession. The Gentleman was a ghost who moved through Seattle's criminal underground with surgical precision, eliminating key figures in the city's criminal power structure. Always in bespoke suits and black calfskin gloves. Always one step ahead of law enforcement. Those who'd seen him described a man who kept his face hidden beneath a fedora's brim, who spoke in measured tones with an oddly damaged voice.

Sarah's earpiece crackled again. "Target's got company."

She saw him then - a tall figure in a black cashmere overcoat, moving with fluid grace despite the wet ground. The Gentleman. Even at this distance, she could see why the name fit. Everything about him spoke of refinement, from his perfectly tailored suit to his precisely measured steps.

Sarah's hand tightened on her weapon as memories crashed through her mental barriers. Michael Donovan - her former partner - this man moved like Michael. But he was bigger. The same economy of motion, the same predator's grace. But this man was at least twenty five pounds heavier. And all muscle. If Michael had been a cheetah, this man was a leopard. Big, unrelenting, strong.

Her thoughts, unbidden, went back to Michael. Before everything went wrong. Before that night three years ago when his family...

She forced the thoughts away. Focus. Martinez was speaking, his voice carrying just enough for her to catch fragments.

"...payment was made... they're asking questions..."

The Gentleman's response was too quiet to hear, but something in his posture changed. Sarah recognized the shift - the subtle tensing that preceded extreme violence. She'd seen it too many times working Violent Crimes.

"Stand by," she whispered into her radio. "Something's-"

The Gentleman moved faster than Sarah thought possible. One moment he was standing still; the next, he was behind Martinez, right arm snaking around Martinez's throat in a practiced motion that sealed off any chance of a warning cry. In the same fluid movement, he twisted Martinez slightly away from him. The Gentleman's left hand produced a fixed blade combat knife, held in an ice-pick grip. As he whipped the blade around to Martinez's chest, an overhead light caught the edge of the darkened steel.

A gash opened beginning under Martinez's left clavicle and running diagonally as the Gentleman pulled the blade with brutal efficiency. Arterial blood sprayed up and away from them both, Martinez's body angled to ensure the Gentleman's suit remained pristine. As he began to crumple, blood spread across Martinez's shirt front – dark against the white fabric. Martinez collapsed to his knees and then onto his side. The Gentleman stepped back, carefully wiping the six-inch blade on Martinez's pants, and then slid it back beneath his coat.

“Martinez is down!" Sarah broke cover, weapon raised. "Police! Don't move!"

The Gentleman turned toward her, and though she couldn't see his face clearly, she felt his smile. "Detective Jennings. I was wondering if you'd join us."

That voice. Something in it tugged at her memory, set off warning bells she couldn't quite place. She advanced slowly, keeping her sights centered on his chest. "Hands where I can see them. Now."

Martinez coughed wetly. The Gentleman didn't even glance at him. “There’s probably no need to call for EMTs, Sarah. He has only a few seconds before he bleeds out. Severed carotid and subclavian artery. Well, and severed vagus nerve – his brain’s not even talking to his heart any more. But, I’m not a doctor though, could be wrong. Interesting choice - save him, or try to take me in?"

"Backup's incoming," she said, but they both knew it wouldn't arrive in time. Not for Martinez, and not to help her make this arrest.

The Gentleman took a step forward. "You're thinking about Michael Donovan right now, aren't you? Wondering if he'd make the same choice you're about to make?"

Sarah's finger moved to the trigger. "How do you know that name?"

"I know many things, Detective. I know you blamed yourself when his family died. Know you spent months trying to prove it wasn't a simple home invasion. Know you never believed the official story about gang involvement."

Sarah kept her weapon trained on The Gentleman, but her eyes flicked to Martinez. His movements had already grown weaker, blood pooling beneath him on the wet pavement. The rain diluted it, creating dark rivers that snaked toward the storm drain.

"You're trying to decide if I'm baiting you," The Gentleman said. "If this is all some elaborate trap. That's good. Michael always said you were the careful one. The methodical one. He used to say you'd make captain one day, if the politics didn't get in your way.”

Martinez shook involuntarily and then stopped moving entirely.

"Shut up." The words came out harder than she intended. "You don't get to talk about him."

He tilted his head slightly. "But I do, Sarah. Because you're here for the wrong reasons. You think catching me will somehow balance the scales. Make up for not being there that night. For not seeing the signs before Michael's family was targeted."

Behind her, the sound of distant sirens grew closer. The Gentleman didn't seem concerned.

"You've been watching me," Sarah said. "Following me."

"Protecting you." He took another step forward. "There are people who don't want you digging into old cases. People who'd prefer certain questions remain unasked."

Sarah's radio crackled. Xue's voice: "Two minutes out. Status?"

She didn't respond. Couldn't take her focus off the man in front of her. The way he moved reminded her of something else now - not just Michael's fluid grace, but the precise movement of special forces operators she'd worked with on some of the terrorism cases SPD had been involved in. The kind of men who could kill without hesitation and sleep soundly afterward.

"That night," she said, "when Michael's family died. You know something about it."

"I know everything about it." Another step closer. "I know who ordered it. Who paid for it. Who covered it up. The same people who've been watching you, Sarah. Waiting to see if you get too close to the truth."

A gust of wind caught his fedora, lifting the brim just enough for Sarah to catch a glimpse of scarred flesh near his throat, a ragged quarter-sized raised lump. The sight triggered something in her memory - a report she'd read about Michael, after he'd disappeared. Something about an injury...

"You're not just some vigilante," she said. "This is personal for you."

"Everything's personal." His voice carried that strange, damaged quality she'd heard described. "Justice. Revenge. They're just words we use to make sense of pain. To give meaning to loss. But, the follow through … that’s always the problem.”

The sirens were closer now. Sarah could see the flash of red and blue at the end of the alley, reflecting off wet brick walls. But The Gentleman remained still, as if waiting for something.

"You have a choice to make, Detective," he said. "You can try to arrest me. Or you can listen to what I have to tell you about the night Michael's family died. About why he really disappeared. About the people who've been watching your apartment for the past week."

Sarah's breath caught. "What?"

"Black SUV. Tinted windows. They park across from your building every night between two and four AM. They have orders to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Just like they did with Michael's family."

The sound of car doors slamming echoed from both ends of the alley. Backup arriving. The Gentleman smiled - she could hear it in his voice even if she couldn't quite see his face.

"Time's up," he said. "What's it going to be, Sarah? The truth? Or the comfort of your illusions?"

Sarah's mind raced. The black SUV - she'd noticed it three nights ago but dismissed it as paranoia. Had deliberately not logged it, not wanting to seem like she was jumping at shadows.

"Last chance," The Gentleman said. His posture shifted subtly - preparing to move. "They're going to come in hard. Standard tactical approach. But you already know that, don't you? Because that's how Michael trained them years ago when they joined the unit."

Footsteps echoed from both ends of the alley. Flashlight beams cut through the rain.

"Detective Jennings!" Xue's voice. "Status!"

The Gentleman's hand moved, a flash of metal appearing from beneath his coat. Sarah's finger tightened on the Glock’s trigger, but he was already tossing something toward her. It landed at her feet with a metallic clink.

A key. Old-style, brass. A padlock key. And attached to it, a familiar leather cover over the round electronic fob she hadn't seen in three years.

"Michael's storage locker key," she whispered. The one that had gone missing after he left the force. The one Internal Affairs had torn the department apart looking for.

“The storage building at Aurora and 95th. Unit 342." The Gentleman stepped backward into deeper shadow. "Everything you need to know is there. Everything he found before they came for his family. But Sarah?" His voice hardened. "Watch your back. And whatever you do, don't trust-"

"Police! Freeze!"

Flashlights and laser sights swept the alley. Sarah squinted against the sudden glare, momentarily blinded. When her vision cleared, The Gentleman was gone. Only Martinez's cooling body and the key at her feet proved he'd been there at all.

"Sarah!" Xue appeared at her side, weapon drawn. "You okay? What happened?"

She stared at the space where The Gentleman had stood, her mind spinning. That voice. The scar. The way he moved. It couldn't be...

"Detective?" Xue's hand touched her shoulder. "We need to call this in."

Sarah bent down and picked up the key, slipping it into her pocket before anyone else could see it. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, call it in. And get CSU down here. Though I doubt they'll find anything useful."

As other officers secured the scene, Sarah stood in the rain, her thoughts churning. The Gentleman's words echoed in her head: "Watch your back." But it was his unfinished warning that truly chilled her. Don't trust... Don't trust who?

She looked around at her fellow officers, people she'd worked with for years. One of them - maybe more - was dirty. Had to be, if what The Gentleman implied was true. If Michael's family hadn't died in a random home invasion...

"Detective?" Officer Reynolds approached, notepad in hand. "We need your statement."

Sarah nodded, but her mind was already on the storage facility on Aurora. On what she might find in unit 342. On whether she was ready for the truth it contained.

"Give me a minute," she said. "I need to make a call first."

But as she reached for her phone, she hesitated. Who could she trust? If The Gentleman - if Michael - was right, then everything she thought she knew about that night three years ago was wrong. And someone in the department wanted to keep it that way.

Sarah sat in her car two blocks from storage facility, rain drumming on the roof. She'd called in that she was following up leads, but hadn't specified where. Standard procedure was to log your location. But standard procedure hadn't saved Michael's family.

The key felt heavy in her pocket. The leather cover over the fob was worn smooth from years of handling, but she recognized the small notch Michael had carved into it. His mark, he'd called it.

Her phone buzzed. Text from Xue: "CSU found nothing useful at scene. No prints, no DNA. Martinez's phone missing. Captain wants update."

Of course he did. Sarah switched off the phone. The Captain had been pushing hard on this case the entire time, insisting they catch The Gentleman. Too hard, maybe. Like someone was pressuring him.

The storage facility's security camera swept across the parking lot. Sarah counted the seconds between sweeps - twelve. Enough time to cross to the entrance if she timed it right. She didn't think The Gentleman would have led her into a trap, but she wasn’t going to be careless.

She waited for the camera to sweep past, then moved. She held the fob against the reader next to the pedestrian entry door. A hushed click as the lock opened. The door made no sound as she slipped inside. The interior hallway smelled of mildew and old concrete. Unit 342 would be on the third floor.

Sarah took the stairs, avoiding the elevator. Her footsteps echoed despite her care. Third floor. The hallway stretched out ahead, fluorescent lights flickering. Unit 342 was halfway down.

The key slid into the padlock smoothly. Removing the lock, she prepared to push up on the rollup door. Sarah drew her weapon with her right hand before pushing up with her left. The door rolled up with a soft rattle.

Inside, a single bare bulb illuminated what looked like an evidence room. Photos and documents covered one wall, connected by red strings. Maps of Seattle marked with locations. Newspaper clippings. Financial records. In the center, a desk held a laptop and several manila folders.

"Hello, Sarah."

She spun, weapon raised. The Gentleman stood in the doorway, his fedora casting shadows across his face. But now, looking closer, she could see what she'd missed before. The way he held himself – the extra muscle he’d put on couldn’t hide it. The slight tilt of his head. A mannerism so familiar it made her chest ache.

He turned and pulled down the rollup door.

"Michael?" Her voice cracked on the name.

He reached up slowly and removed the hat. The face was harder, older. A thick scar ran across his throat - explaining the damaged voice. But the eyes... the eyes were the same.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I needed you to see it for yourself. To understand why I became … this."

Sarah's weapon remained pointed at his chest, but her hands were shaking. "They killed them. Your family. It wasn't random.” It wasn’t a question, but she wanted an answer.

"No." Michael stepped into the unit, closing the door behind him. "They killed them because I found this." He gestured at the wall of evidence. "A network of corruption running through the department, the DA's office, city hall. Money laundering, drug trafficking, murder for hire. All protected by people we trusted. People we worked with. I was supposed to be home that night. My family was collateral damage.”

Sarah studied the wall of evidence, her weapon still trained on Michael. Crime scene photos. Financial records. Surveillance shots. Names she recognized - judges, city council members, senior officers. The scope of it was staggering.

"You've been systematically eliminating them," she said. "Martinez was just another piece."

"Martinez laundered their money through his construction business. But lately he'd gotten sloppy. Started skimming. They were going to kill him anyway - I just got there first."

Michael moved to the desk, touched a folder. "Remember that warehouse fire last year? The one that killed three firefighters? It wasn't faulty wiring. It was ordered by Judge Reynolds to destroy evidence. The same judge who threw out the DNA evidence in the Westlake murders."

Sarah's mind raced, connecting dots she'd never seen before. Cases that had fallen apart for no reason. Investigations that had dead-ended despite solid leads.

"The Captain," she said. "Is he-"

"No. But they own him. His daughter's medical bills? They paid them. Now he does what they want." Michael's damaged voice carried a note of genuine regret. "He's a good man who made one compromise. Then another. Then another."

Footsteps in the hallway. Multiple sets, moving with purpose. Sarah's pulse quickened.

"They followed you," Michael said quietly. "Or they followed me. Doesn't matter now."

"We need to-"

"There's a thumb drive taped under the desk. Everything's on it - names, dates, bank records. Enough to tear their whole system down." He drew something from beneath his coat - not a knife this time, but a compact MP7 submachine gun. "Take it. Get out through the maintenance corridor. I'll handle this."

The footsteps were closer. Sarah heard the soft click of weapons being readied.

"Michael, no-"

"Sarah." His eyes met hers. "I died three years ago in that house with my family. What's left is just the instrument of their reckoning. But you? You can finish this the right way. Make it mean something."

The first impacts hit the roll-up door. Someone was trying to force it open.

Sarah made her decision. She holstered her weapon and grabbed the thumb drive. "The maintenance corridor?"

"Behind that filing cabinet. It'll take you down to the loading dock." He moved to position himself beside the door. "Sarah? When you see what's on that drive... remember who I was. Not what I became."

She wanted to say something - about forgiveness, about justice, about the thin line between right and wrong. But there was no time. The door was starting to rise.

Sarah slipped into the maintenance corridor just as the first shots rang out. The sound of Michael's MP7 was distinctive - three-round bursts, precise and controlled. Professional.

She ran, the thumb drive clutched in her hand, knowing that whatever happened next would change everything. The conspiracy would be exposed. People would fall. And somewhere in the shadows, The Gentleman would continue his work.

Because some scales couldn't be balanced. They could only be broken.

* * * *

Hey, if you liked this short story, shoot me an e-mail and let me know what you liked about it. How do you think this would work as a prequel to a novel-length work about Sarah and Donovan?