Wrap me in a bolt of lightening
And send me on my smiling
Maybe this is the way I should go
Straight into the mouth of the unknown
Ed slowly ran his thumb along the silver edge of the dog tag that dangled from his fingers. Across the cruel curves of Gin's real name, over the ridges of his blood type, across the jagged numbers of his birthday, and around the harsh angles of his regiment number.
Bitter grief had already burned its searing trail across his heart, leaving a constant agonizing ache that made him clench his teeth every time he drew in a deep breath. It drowned the pain of his bullet wound, to nothing but a dull throb, and sometimes forced him to scream just for the savage joy of hearing his own voice filling the emptiness and silence that Gin had left behind.
Bitter grief had already burned its searing trail across his heart, leaving a constant agonizing ache that made him clench his teeth every time he drew in a deep breath. It drowned the pain of his bullet wound, to nothing but a dull throb, and sometimes forced him to scream just for the savage joy of hearing his own voice filling the emptiness and silence that Gin had left behind.
"Why…why would you ever leave me…when you promised you wouldn't,"
A memory blazed across his mind so vividly that he almost choked.
Gin was standing beside him a sniper rifle slung over one shoulder a half smoked cigarette dangling from his lips the smoke wreathing his face. Stripped to the waist his dog tags caught the searing rays of the sun as it sank against the sands. He took a long drag from his cigarette and grinned letting the smoke wisp from between his teeth,
"Don' worry bout a fuckin thing man, you know I got your back, I'll neva leave ya…promise"
Ed grit his teeth,
Liar…mother fuckin filthy liar….
Against his will tears of fury spilled from his eyes, so heavy with confusion, and anguish that when they fell they did not grace his face but spattered against the marble floor. He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and slumped forward and ran his hands down his face smearing blood from his forehead down to his jaw.
The memories that he had of the night he had been shot were distorted, blurred from two bullets in the chest. Randomly jagged pieces of what happened would suddenly strike him like bolts of lightning, and with such force that he wouldn't be able to breathe.
The first time it had happened he had jerked so hard that he pulled the I.V. and heart monitoring patches off his body causing the machines to crash. Amidst the accidental chaos that ensued; a memory vibrate and lucent had burst across his vision with an unforgiving fury.
Gin had his arms wrapped loosely around his neck pressing kisses to his mouth…
Over the following week's snatches of what happened whirled across his weary conscious. Gun shots, shattered glass, moonlight spilling onto Gin' face, screaming, soft kisses against his throat, and against his lips.
But he couldn't make sense of it; the threads of his memory were tangled in a mess of blood and anarchy. He couldn't forget either; the healing wounds in his chest were a constant reminder that it all hadn't been a hideous nightmare. .
The day when he had awoken alone, in a foreign bed, he immediately had become aware of how torturous it was when he drew in a breath, and the whirs and beeps of the machines monitoring his life support had assaulted his hearing, and his mouth was filled with the acrid taste old blood.
Green eyes glazed from morphine had flicked around the room with the agonizing fearful swiftness of the wounded. They had settled of the small gleam of silver that sparked though the crypt like gloom.
Swallowing back the panic that swelled from his aching chest he reached for it his fingers closing around cool metal. Gins name glimmered before his eyes softly clinking against the tag engrave with his own name.
That was all Gin had granted him…
That was all Gin left him…had left of him….
Blood dribbled from his fingers, spattering against cold marble floor their essence mixing with his tears. He closed his eyes against his grief, and drew in a heaving breath, wincing at the pain that pitched against his chest.
When Ed had staggered up to his room after being released from Lake Side Hospital he had found that the room he had shared with Gin had been stripped of the blonde's belongings. Everything had been taken, even the ragged blood stained Armani suit that had been carelessly shoved into the back of the closet. Everything…it was as if Gin had never existed, there had been nothing left.
Ed could tell that all of this had been deliberate; none of his belongings had been touched. He also knew that his grandfather had nothing to with it, that old fucker would not have been this subtle of affectionate. Who ever had been in his room had been professional, they knew what they were looking for and they knew what to not lay their hands on.
Sighing Ed leaned down and snatched the tags off the floor; crimson tainted, they flared with the fires of the setting sun. For a moment he contemplated throwing them away, and just like all the other times dismissed the idea. Ed chewed on his lower lip, absent mindedly threading the chain through his tapered fingers.
His gaze flickered across the only physical thing that had bound him to Gin, as a brother in arms, and now a final gift form a lover. He began to slowly trace Gin's name again, further smearing the dull silver with gleaming blood. His fingers slid around the back, brushing against a surface that had been worn smooth from constantly being pressed against Gin's chest.
On a whim he turned the tag over running a bloodied thumb across the ashen back. He watched as his blood blurred his distorted reflection, it beaded across the silver like droplets of ruby tainted water. He tipped the pendant forward and watched as his blood trickled into shallow grooves that had been etched into tarnished metal.
The heir blinked and tilted his head, watching as the vague, elegant letters of ICA appeared; blood washed against the gilded tag, and beneath this, faint indentations of a bar code glistened to sight.
Ed licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry he had seen those letters before, but he never thought that it meant anything, it was just a chimerical name meant to intimidate. It was something that mob bosses whispered in the smoky rooms of their manors to terrify their men into being flawless in carrying out orders. It was a menacing threat hissed by the rich elite to frighten enemies when a deal went awry and someone important was accidently killed.
He also knew that ICA was a constant vexation for his grandfather; Ed also was aware that many of Wuncler's men had been found expertly sniped, with bullet holes between their eyes, or their throats sliced open. These were grisly warnings that the senior Wuncler was encroaching on another's territory, or had let his tongue slip.
Ed felt a cold shiver snap against his spine, and a memory lucid and horribly vivid crawled from the back of his mind and dug its fetid fingers into his conscious.
Seething rain trickled down French windows that arched against the torrid heavens, the icy tears of angels, baptismal, and consuming prisons to the fire that danced across the sky. Lightening sparked a silver flare that briefly turned their wet surfaces into smoky, haunting mirrors. In these hazy, distorted reflections was the pale face of a young man.
Dressed in a tailored black suit, he stood rigid against the roar of thunder, his eyes a vivid elixir green made even more vibrant by unshed tears. His face was handsome, but was scared by the harsh kisses of death, and grief. He drew in a breath that rattled in his chest and deafened his ears, drowning out the quiescent whispering of the swath of people draped in black, in the main room behind him.
The repugnant fragrance of flowers curled around his body, the sweet embrace of lingering death. It caused a shutter to pitch through him and he clenched his teeth against the anguish, tears spilling from his eyes.
He softly wept.
The foundation of his very life crumbled as lightening flared and cast back his shadow. Everything was unraveled, the figure that he was to become, the man that he had been died when his parents had drawn their last breath.
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window allowing the fury of the storm to wash over him. Grief spun through him like gossamer wrapping around his throat threatening to consume him. Time trickled by on the ancient grandfather clock that stood like a featureless guardian beside the door way.
When the hour softly began to peal against the darkness and rain did he quiet his bitter tears and straighten his back. He turned back to the door and paused, against the sloe mourners, was the figure of man he had never seen.
He was dressed in a sable colored suit that was tailored to fit the curves of his lithe body. The white silk of his under shirt stood out in harsh contrast to his ebony jacket, a tie the color of fresh blood was fastened at his throat and stopped just above the silver of his belt buckle. His features were angular, aristocratic, and savage. He had hair the color of tarnished silver that held back from his face. He was staring at Ed with eyes that were the deadly color of gun metal. Gazing at him with such a ferocious intensity that it rivaled the storm that raged outside.
He graced the heir with a brief, mocking smile, one that tore though the sorrow thick air like a bullet. His gaze still locked with Ed's he nonchalantly slid his hand into the inside of his jacket. Time unraveled to a dull throb and then ground to an unsteady halt, Ed's breath stalled in his throat. There was no possible way that fucker had managed to sneak a gun in, there were far too many guards checking.
In on swift motion the man's hand fell free of his coat his fingers held in the parody of a gun, his thumb twitched down like a mock hammer falling against the firing pin. Ed felt as if he had been backhanded across the face, fury and revulsion collided in the pit of his stomach and he felt his lips curl away from his teeth in a snarl of silent rage. He began to move forward his ire smoldering through his veins, intent on ripping that jeering grin off the man's face.
He softly cursed when his view was blocked as a one of his grandfathers patrons passed across the threshold of the door, when the room once again came into view the man was gone; leaving behind a whisper of his vexatious grin.
Ed was motionless staring at the place the man had been standing. He could still feel those gray eyes burning into him, taunting him, jeering at him. He had never seen that man before and he was sure that his Grandfather had never laid eyes on him either. Silently he stepped into the room, gracefully slipping between people, hardly hearing the gentle words of solace that spilled from meaningless rich mouths.
As he passed through the room he flicked his gaze to the many elite guards that casually stood beside doorways. They seemed to meld with the antique wood in the walls, silent watchers, and deadly killers. There were many here who had enemies whose influences stretched over the vast oceans. Wuncler Sr. was not ignorant of this; he himself was on the black lists of many wealthy foreign powers, and so he surrounded himself with assassins dressed in Armani suits.
Ed moved past them, his presence acknowledged with a brief nod. He had to get away from all these empty condolences, the putrid smell of expensive flowers, the merciless eyes of the guards, the emptiness of the manor, an abyss that could never be filled with the translucent essence of the wealthy. He rounded the corner into the main atrium, and brushed past the men guarding the main stair case to the upper floors.
The gold banisters glinting in the somber amber light of the wall sconces that lined the wall, their gleaming surfaces reflecting Ed's scowling face. The image of those harsh, severe features were burned in his memory, the flare malice, as those gunmetal gray eyes stared at him, a killers gaze. When he reached the top he could hear the faint echo of the harsh tone of his grandfather's voice. It was curling down the hallway like cigar smoke, mingling with the darkness before slipping of f into the night.
Wuncler I office was down the hallway from the staircase a room of grandeur that was attached to the older business man's bedroom. It was a thing of elegance and refined beauty, French windows stretched from the marble floor to the ceiling that offered a view of the well manicured estates stretched behind the manor. The walls were adorned in painting that had made the voyage across the sea from England to the American before the blood of patriots had been spilled to liberate the fledgling country.
The floors were covered in thick Turkish rugs fringed in gold, pushed against the far wall next to the fire place was an antique mahogany desk. Scattered about its centuries old surface were silver pens, crystal bottles filled with ink, and an ashtray with a half smoked cigar resting against the rim. The flawless, polished surface of the desk had reflected the faces Wuncler men lost to the dusky realms of the past and now cast in its gleaming surface was the face of Edward Wuncler the I.
There was a fire place against the far wall, the mantle lined with many expensive liquors, and above the sparkling bottles was a portrait of the first Wuncler to set foot on American soil, his severe features the only witness to the many bloody deals that were scattered throughout the Wuncler's family history… and they all began with him.
Wuncler's office was a place where blood payment crossed hands and where contracts containing names of those soon to be dead were signed. Now it was occupied by Wuncler sitting behind his desk and before him were four others, faces cast in shadow, their chairs situated in an arch before the seething billionaire, and behind them hidden in the darkness were five armed elite.
"What I can't seem to understand is how…
He tapped his insignia against the ledge of his desk,
"Is how this became so fucking inexplicably messy…"
This was a question that required silence and so the room remained infuriatingly quiet. When spoke again his tone barely contained his simmering rage,
"I was informed…no I was assured that this agency could far surpass the efforts of ICA."
There was the sound of fabric rustling against leather as a few of those seated before hi shifted against his scathing words.
Wuncler paused, his fury finally breaking loose and slammed his fist down on his desk causing the many pens and crystal ink bottles spread across its surface to rattle.
"But apparently those words are a mother fucking lie!"
Ed paused is hand resting on the scrolled door knob of Wuncler's office as his grandfathers livid voice reached his ears. Slowly he opened the ornate door just enough so the light of the fire spilled across his feet and face.
"It couldn't be helped Wuncler, ICA was already there when our men arrived. They had already preformed half the hit that you ordered….,"
This was spoken by a man with a light, refined English accent his response was advocated by another,
"He is right sir, ICA had already spilled blood, but the hit had been messy half the officers in Paris were at the Budapest Hotel when our man arrived."
"He is right, they had found a mob boss floating dead in the bloody pool, and an Italian Don was found shot in his shower,"
"It was too late to call off our hit…,"
Wuncler's soft voice interrupted him,
"And so, in a show of brilliance, you went ahead with it anyway? Worthless god-damned excuses, the orders were clear and so was the fucking hit, I paid your worthless agency twice as much as ICA asks and your inefficiency is staggering. A one eyed, blind gunman would have served me better then the trifling carcasses you surround yourself with and have the NERVE to say they are elite."
He stood from his desk and began walking toward the door picking up his smoldering cigar as he went; he made a swift motion with his fingers almost absentmindedly. In an instant his guard had stepped forward the dull metal of their guns gleaming in the weak light.
"You see gentleman…the thing is that ICA can improvise, even if one of their men fucks up. They can still operate a clean hit, more or less exactly following the orders that were given to them. Fiber wire may have to be exchanged for a bullet through the skull, or a syringe full of poison to the neck but they manage to get the job done without causing their client unnecessary grief…and more importantly wasting their money. I have buried two bodies today that I shouldn't have…."
He reached into the inside of his jacket and a lighter flashed in his grip he snapped the top open and relit the seething end of his cigar. He took a long drag, smoke slipping from his mouth as he continued talking.
"However gentlemen, I can assure you that tonight I will bury four more, and these will be necessary,"
There was the sound of four bullets, stripped of their death ring slicing though the air, and slamming into skulls then nothing except the crackle of the fire. Wuncler exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke,
"Make sure they don't bleed all over the damned rugs when you move them,"
Ed felt his breath slip between his teeth at the absurdity he just witnessed. His brain reeled for a moment trying to grasp what he had just heard and then the door was being pushed open. He staggered back flinging himself into the meager darkness, hoping that it would hide him.
Soft light flooded the hallway and Wuncler stepped into the hallway, a guard trailing him.
"Send a message for me Number 48, I want the tongues of all those lying jerk off's sent to their society, perhaps it will teach them not to waste the time of a Wuncler."
Ed let the memory trail away, fighting down the nausea that threatened to over take him. That was when he learned the trade of his family, what they did to keep absolute power from slipping through their fingers and that was by staining their hands with blood.
He sighed and glanced at the dog tag idly turning over the piece of metal so that Gin's name was visible again blood streaked in the moonlight.
(Finally chapter one is completed *dances*)