This is hands down the worst date I've ever had.

The man sank to his knees, doubled over in pain. He raised his hands in a pathetic attempt to plead for his life but only earned himself another solid blow to the gut. The pain did not register this time, but the shock certainly did.

"I... I like what y-you've done with... your hair, Miss Harred." He coughed like a fifty year old chain smoker three puffs away from lung cancer. "Centre parting, really suits that mafia vibe you've got going."

The sound of heels clacking against the wooden floorboard was the only warning he had before a fresh pain shot through his scalp. He cracked a defiant pained smile at the woman holding onto his black hair. She grinned back at him with a malicious look on her face. He was doing a poor job acting like it did not hurt, and she was clearly enjoying his dismal performance.

"Mister Jonathan Warner, I'm beginning to think you don't know how many lives you have." The woman's voice was dripping with sadism, a perfect complement to her straight blonde hair, narrow looking eyes, and dark makeup. Pretty much everything about her screamed mafia, right down to the mole in her cheek that twitched ever so slightly in annoyance.

"I showed you goodwill, even personally invited you to dinner. And how did you repay me? By skulking around in our drug factory, the one area I specifically told you not to enter."

She let go of him and waved a hand. Jonathan looked up in fear as the giant of a man beside him choked him with his unblinking stare. He stretched out a hand that was easily larger than his face and slammed him onto a table. Jonathan grunted in pain as the sandalwood pressed against the side of his face.

"Easy, Clara." A soothing, dignified voice drifted into Jonathan's ears. "We don't want the trouble of cleaning up the blood of an informant now, do we? Let me take over."

There was an uneasy pause.

"Yes, father."

Jonathan could have sworn he had heard the slightest sense of resentment in her voice, but this was no time to ponder about their family drama. He felt the pressure on his head ease as he slumped back to the floor. Jonathan looked up into the sunken eyes of the mafia boss squatting in front of him. There was a strange sense of authority exuding from him, one that came with years of hard life and wisdom. And yet, he looked oddly young for someone his supposed age.

Clean living, I suppose.

"One of the best informants in the city, caught like a mere rat in a cellar. Seems you have lost your touch, Warner. Or haven't you?"

"Must be my age catching up with me," Jonathan said lamely, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible. "Got a little tired from scurrying around all the time."

The mafia boss looked at him intently, before turning to his daughter. He signalled to his men to guard her as she stared at him in confusion.

"Take her away. Use the helicopters."

Clara shook the men off in protest. "No! Why won't you involve me? I'm not leaving, father! I'm more than competent enough to-"

"Take. Her. Away." He repeated himself, with a lot more urgency in his voice this time. The men froze, conflicted between their two bosses.

"NOW!" he boomed. Jonathan flinched at the sudden outburst as movement increased around him, scrambling to drag a struggling Clara away.

Sod it! How did he know?

"Come in, Anya. They're escaping. Come in now. Hurry!" Jonathan whispered urgently into his wired microphone.

"What did you say?" The man beside him looked at him suspiciously, pulling out a barely concealed gun.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The mafia boss sat down with his arms crossed. He closed his eyes and sighed wistfully. "Well played, Warner. Well played."

"Boss? There-"

The door burst open and a team of heavily armed police rushed into the room. The startled gangsters immediately pulled out their weapons, but the police were faster. Jonathan yelled in fear as a gunfight erupted around him. He scrambled over to an overturned steel cabinet, cowering behind it as bullets whizzed over his head. The gangster's screams could barely be heard over the deafening gunfire as they dropped to the floor one by one.

It took Jonathan a while to register when the gangsters had stopped firing.

"Hey Jon, are you alright?" a muffled voice found its way through his ringing ears. He turned to look at Senior Inspector Sechina, whose flaming red hair perfectly complemented her softer facial features. She holstered her weapon and shook him again, her bright green eyes burning with worry.

"Answer me, Jon! Did you get shot-"

"I'm fine, Anya." Jonathan stood up with as much machoness he could muster, as though he had not just been screaming and cowering a few minutes ago. "Cutting it a little close there, buddy."

"You're the one who's cutting it close." The twenty-nine year old policewoman folded her arms. "It's the police who should be telling you when to engage, not the other way round."

"Well, they kinda caught on and were about to escape, so I had to do something."

"You must've run your mouth as usual," Anya huffed. "We didn't get Clara Harred, she managed to escape on a helicopter before we could surround the building."

"So that was all for nothing." Jonathan sat down in defeat. "Well, this is just brilliant. Bloody brilliant."

"But we did get her father," Anya said. "We finally caught London's most dangerous man after months of preparation. That's gotta count for something."

"His daughter's the true menace. I'll never forget the time she killed an informant even after he gave her what she wanted. And now I have a target on my back-"

"Detective Anya Mikhailovna Sechina!" a booming voice interrupted him. The inspector scuttled off to meet her boss who was looking pissed off for some reason. Jonathan could not bother to figure out why, so he took a stroll instead.

He looked out the window, watching the police haul Oliver Harred into their van. The mafia boss did not struggle, walking calmly as the men by his side barely pushed him along. Whether Mr Harred saw this coming or had simply given up, Jonathan did not care. He was just glad it was over. The informant turned his attention back to the crime scene.

The police were efficient, that was for sure. Cordoning tapes had already been put up all over the luxurious walls of the apartment while uniformed policemen were stationed to guard the entries and exits. He cautiously stepped over the bullet riddled bodies of the gangsters and scuttled off to find his friend.

"... I believe he still deserves full credit for this-"

"He made me lose Clara Harred, dammit! I don't care how the police do it in your Mother Russia, but we don't tolerate such incompetence in this city, Inspector."

Jonathan peeked from behind the wall. He could see Anya's right foot trembling slightly; a good indicator of what was about to happen. Jonathan leaned back. This was going to be good.

"With all due respect, sir," Anya spoke in a tone clearly indicating she was about to give none. "I was assigned here because your government found me competent enough to handle your problems. I am not, strictly speaking, under your jurisdiction."

Her native accent was starting to slip out. "And if you have a problem with my homeland, I suggest you take it up with them. Perhaps they can be the one to decide if I deserve a place on your team."

"You're lucky I can't touch foreign officers from the mass migration program, inspector." The chief inspector glowered at her. "If you really think yourself competent, then I suggest you crack on with that auctioneer's murder case. Lest you forget, I can still send you back to your academy with a good enough reason. It doesn't matter that you grew up here in the UK."

Jonathan had to put a fist in his mouth to stop himself from laughing as the chief inspector walked past him, scowling like an overgrown toddler with a moustache. He felt a buzz from the device embedded in his wrist as he turned it to check the green numbers etched on his skin. Jonathan frowned.

"Hey Anya, I'm fifty credits short," he complained, walking over to her.

"Figures. I'm sorry, Jon. The chief deducted it because he didn't get everyone."

"What?" Jonathan exclaimed. "I risked my neck for this operation! It's not my fault he couldn't pull it off. This is bull."

"I know, Jon. I know." It was Anya's turn to scowl. "But there's nothing I can do about it either. Perhaps I could give you some cash instead?"

"Cash's been useless ever since the government came up with the credit system. Forget it, I'm leaving."

Jonathan stormed out of the apartment.