Dive Deep into Creativity: Discover, Share, Inspire
Inspired by the song version Minor Key All I Want For Christmas is You - Kurt Hugo Schneider with original characters (no names, I'm allergic apparently).
CW: Kidnapping, gun violence
Red and green lights blinked through the window blinds. Christmas music echoed from the street below. Gloved and shaking hands pulled red yarn from tack to tack. Photographs, sticky notes, news articles, emails.
The detective stared. Head pounding. Swigged the cold and bitter coffee. Jittery. Cold.
A month. It'd been more than a month since the thief's last known activity.
It just didn't make sense.
"Where are you," he whispered.
It wasn't like they owed him anything. Not the little gifts they would leave after a heist, nor the postcards mocking him for being one step behind.
Not the flirtatious moments that just… Refused to leave his mind.
They'd given him a souvenir of the last heist, just before disappearing. A thick and heavy gear, uniquely shaped, wrapped in a box. He'd shoved it into his bottom drawer with the other odds and ends the thief brought them.
He scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes. It meant nothing, he tried to tell himself. No news was good news, right? The thief was lying low after kicking the hornet's nest.
It had only been a month. They'd turn up. They always do.
Yet the hours ate away at him. They'd… Promised to stop by on Christmas Eve. Rookie mistake. Never trust a con artist to follow through on their honeyed promises.
Yet…
The thief's last target had been none other than a mob boss. They'd been missing since shortly after the heist.
If… If the detective could find some sign, some single shred of evidence they were okay, that they were safe, he could sleep.
He tried not to think the worst.
He took a shaky breath.
He couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Couldn't function.
Time to call on an old family… 'friend'.
Hopefully she was in a good mood.
He pushed through the cold and crowded streets. He went down a much quieter alley to a door with a small and faded sign.
The door to the shop jangled.
"Hey! Look who the rat dragged in," the shopkeep rasped. She hacked a cough and limped over to him.
"C'mere, you!"
She pulled him into a back-cracking hug.
"Ohh! Merry Christmas, sugar plum! I haven't seen you since, what? Last year? You look thin. Have a cookie."
The detective shook his head. "I just need some information, then I'll be out of your hair."
The shopkeep pursed her lips.
"Oh. I see. I'd hate to keep you, mister important detective man. No time to visit your auntie anymore. Not even on Christmas."
"You shot at me last time."
"Warning shots. Ought to teach you not to stick your nose where it don't belong."
"…Yeah." The detective sighed heavy. "I… Speaking of that." He withdrew a photograph and slid it to her. "Recognize this face?"
The shopkeep squinted. "Oh, yeah, that thief character. Stole my favorite mug. Little beagle on the front. Said 'You're the Doggon Best' on it."
Oh. The thief gave him that mug. He used it every day.
He shifted his gaze awkwardly, opening the door to a grandfather clock pendulum.
"Have you seen anything of them recently?" He asked.
"I heard they're not going to be a problem anymore," the shopkeep sniffed. "Quit fiddling with that old clock. You'll break it."
An old and matted cat mewled and stretched, and she scratched his head. "Does Mr. Biscuits want his num nums?" She cooed.
"What does that mean," the detective hissed, stepping between the shopkeep and her cat. "What do you mean, they're not a problem anymore?"
"You get between me and Mr. Biscuits, and we'll have ourselves a problem," the shopkeep growled, pushing past them. "Your friend messed with the wrong people. Forget about them."
"You know something," the detective demanded. "That mob boss has them, right? Where are they?"
"Dead," she rasped. "Dead, as far as you're concerned."
The detective sucked in a breath.
He leaned against the glass display for support.
No. No, they couldn't be dead. If the item the thief stole was worth their life, they wouldn't do away with them until they found said item. They were currently worth more alive.
"I don't believe it. Tell me your sources"
"I don't owe you that. Believe what you want."
"Where…" The detective pulled out a notepad. "Where is the boss's last known location?"
The shopkeep's eyes went wide, nostrils flared.
"No. You're looking for a fool's end, and I want no part in it," she said, walking by and pulling him by the sleeve.
"Take this cookie and get out, you fool boy." The shopkeep pushed a gingerbread into his hands and shoved him out the door.
The streets were colder as the night grew darker. Crowds thinned and the festive lights went out. The detective found a bench to sink into.
Something began to build in his chest. A cold, sad laugh.
He was laughing.
Crying.
God, he needed to get ahold of himself.
"Hey, uh," a voice caught his attention.
The detective hastily scrubbed away his tears.
"Heard you're looking for a friend," the gaunt figure grunted. "I can help."
Their eyes flicked to the cookie, and they swallowed. "For a price."
The detective held out the cookie for them. They blinked wide-eyed, then snatched and scarfed it down. A moan of satisfaction.
"The mob boss is hosting the Christmas party in their cabin." They smacked their lips. "That's just outside of the abandoned diner, cut right after the old winery. You'll find an unmarked path with a fork, go left. Tell em you're making a delivery."
They shoved a package in his hands. Cookies.
"I can't trust myself with 'em." The stranger grinned crookedly. "God, I've been so tempted for a nibble all day. Fresh baked this morning. A special something in the butter. God, just smell that." He sniffed the box deeply. "Tell em Ol' Shakylegs sent you if they ask."
The detective reached the address long after dark. Vehicles parked back to back all the way down the driveway and across the lawn. Anyone parked farther in was stuck. What a nightmare. He parked his motorbike close to the side.
There was a side entrance where staff went in and out. He made his way over and an event planner all but snatched the parcel away.
"You're late," they barked.
"Apologies," the detective said.
"Well? Move it! Clear out!"
"Where's the restroom?"
The planner scoffed. "Second door on your right. There's a line."
The detective nodded. Then went left, towards the party. He slipped into the crowd, eyes darting around for familiar faces.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
"You're not supposed to be here," a hefty man grunted. "Party guests only."
"I'm a detective, and I found something of interest for your boss," the detective said. He handed a photograph of the gear the thief had left them.
"This looks like junk." The man held the photograph. Squinted. "Stay right here."
The detective peered around the room. Suspicious eyes flicked back. He recognized some. Some recognized him. He waved and forced a smile.
The man returned. "Come with me," he said. He grabbed the detective by the shoulder in an iron grip and pushed him through the murmuring crowd.
He reached a private study and shoved the detective inside. A few more men blocked the door.
"I'm told you have something of mine, detective," the mob boss said, tapping the photograph of the gear. "A Christmas gift, perhaps? This isn't extortion. You're much too smart."
"I need the whereabouts of a certain thief," the detective said. "Tell me where they are, and I'll wrap that gear in a pretty little bow for you before Santa comes to town."
The boss tapped his desk. "I need the blueprints, too."
"Only they have that information." The detective wet his lips. "I can get them to talk. Let me see them."
"Afraid that's not how this is going down." The boss made a gesture and one of the grunts pulled the detective to his knees, gun barrel digging into his temple. "You bring me the gear and the blueprints or my boy's'll make like Picasso with your brains."
Silencer. Plastic wrap on the floors and furniture. Fridge-sized gift box. He wasn't joking.
"Replicating the gear will take years," the detective said, voice stronger than he felt. "You need it now. Let's be reasonable here. Only I know where it's hidden. Blueprints won't help if you don't have all the pieces."
The boss stepped around the desk like a panther stalking for the kill. He looked down at the prone man with a bloodthirsty glint in his eye.
"Do you have family, detective?" The boss asked. "You look like a family man. You have a wife? Husband?"
The detective sucked in a breath.
"No." He looked down. "No, I have no one."
"No." The boss patted his cheek. "No, of course not. You don't know what it takes to raise a family. A happy family. What the cost is."
He gripped the detective's hair and forced him to meet his eyes.
"You get between me and my livelihood, you threaten my family. Understand? You come to me the day before Christmas and you threaten my livelihood with my family just outside--"
"Tell me they're alive," the detective pleaded. "Tell me they're alive. Give me some proof they're alive. Or…"
He took a shaking breath. "Or I won't care what you do to me."
There was a shift. The boss released his grip.
"You care for them," the boss whispered in revelation.
The detective's throat bobbed.
"You came for them… Because you have feelings for them."
"They're all I have," the detective whispered.
"That's why you have the gear," the boss said, everything clicking into place. "They care for you, too."
A pang in the detective's heart. Did they?… They never really confirmed-…
"Bag him. Take him to the basement," the boss said. "I'll deal with him later."
The detective yanked himself out of the grunt's grip and dodged a swing to the back of his head. One hit the other. The boss shot at him, missed and hit the second grunt. The detective grabbed a bottle of brandy and broke it, and held the broken glass to the mob boss's neck. A bead of blood trickled from where he pressed too hard.
"I will destroy you," the mob boss hissed. "I will destroy everything you love."
"You have MORE TO LOSE," the detective roared. "You have a family? I have one person. ONE PERSON I CARE ABOUT! WHAT ELSE CAN YOU TAKE?! TRY ME!!!"
He grabbed at the boss's wrist and bit into it until he released the gun. The boss wailed.
"YOU'RE INSANE!" He screeched.
"Tell me where they are," the detective said. "Tell me where they are now."
"In the abandoned warehouse near the pier," the mob boss said. "But you will never--"
Grunts stormed in from outside. They trained their guns on him.
The detective aimed the gun towards the ceiling, and shot the light. He ducked and rolled in the ensuing chaos.
"He's escaping! Get him! GET HIM, YOU IDIOTS!"
The detective burst into the room filled with festivities and barreled through the back entrance.
"Grab him! SOMEONE GRAB HIM!"
The detective pushed a chocolate fountain over. The grunts skidded and fell behind him.
Shots fired. The staff hit the floor.
Glass shattered. A bullet grazed the detective's side. He ran out the back and mounted the motorbike.
Too many cars parked. The grunts scattered in panic, trying to work a car free.
Precious time lost for them. The detective chuckled. That was a lesson in crowd management.
It was well after midnight when he reached the pier. Someone must've phoned he was coming. Grunts all around the perimeter.
They didn't expect him to be so brazen.
He barreled through a crowd of grunts who dove away with a cry. He shot at the deadbolt, but it held firm. A waste of bullets, a waste of time.
Something hit the back of his head.
The detective came to with a bag over his head. Hands tied behind his back, feet tied to a chair.
"Detective? You awake?"
His heart fluttered.
The thief's voice.
"I… It's you," the detective was overcome with emotion. "I heard you were dead."
"You came looking for me anyway?" The thief huffed. "You… Why would you do that? For me?"
"No, I was just looking for my wallet," the detective said. "You stole it again, remember?"
Laughter. "Lot of trouble for a wallet," the thief said. "You know you can request new cards--"
The detective drew in a sharp breath.
"What? What is it?" The thief sounded worried. "Did they hurt you? What?"
"N-nothing," the detective said, voice rough. "I…"
Thought I'd never see you again, he couldn't say.
"Merry Christmas," he said instead.
The thief snorted. "Yeah. Merry Christmas."
A click.
"Touching reunion," the mob boss said. "You two seem close. Let's test that relationship."