"You plan on endangering my brother?!" the blonde slammed her palm against the table. Chiyoh, watched as she silently recounted the items she would once again replace after this outburst. This week alone, having to replace a lamp four times.
"Well missy, I can't really do much with this situation, can I?" A blasé reply from the middle-aged mercenary. His legs spread without care, as he used a lazer pointer, aim precisely in between the brows of a printed image pinned against a white board.
"You do not speak to me that way! You do not touch my things and you will not harm a single hair on my brother's head, understand?" The blonde skulked closer to the man. Anger ebbed out drop by drop, threatening to burst.
"Loud and clear, like the siren of a firetruck." Abel raised both his hands in mock defeat, as she came to face him, only inches between them.
"Chiyoh, this time, you come with him."
"What?!" The dark-haired women uttered, shocked and uncomfortable to work with such an . . . Peculiar man.
"Retrieve my brother." Mischa uttered plainly, as if stating an immovable fact.
"And what about the rest?"
"Destroy everything if you have to. No evidence."
"Right, no evidence. So~ dramatic." Abel cooed, his playful attitude was laced with a certain degree of malice.
"Do you think this is a game?" Chiyoh piped up, unnerved by the man's company.
"No, but I think the blonde has a screw loose."
"Look, the man is famous for offing a lot of people you know. I can't really kill a target with a shield standing by his side. Maybe use your brain a bit—" The mercenary added, before abruptly stopping as a cold metal cylinder pressed against his throat. Mischa glared at him, as Abel's skin felt the pressure of the nuzzle marking his skin. One bullet from this point-blank vantage is a sure-fire way to die, and Abel knew that very well.
"Right, right, my bad. I'm sorry." Abel muttered half-heartedly.
"He has a point." Chiyoh uttered, slowly traversing the mood swings of her employer.
"I told you!" A triumphant tone masking his goal.
"Look, I'm gunna give you a few fun facts that you aren't gunna like. First, your brother has a bounty on his head since the nineties, and like the economies of third world countries, its inflating every year. Second, the man is famous, if I kill him, I get more money than what your offering. The man is basically untouchable, even without you. . . 'Protection'. And third, do you really think your brother would happily come with you, able bodied and all?" The mercenary added.
"What are you suggesting?" A slightly bewildered expression plastered on the blonde's face.
"Triple the money, and I get to injure him at least. Maybe break a few bones? You have read Misery, right?" Finally, the mercenary revealed his true aim.
"Well that's a shame isn't it? Anyway, I'll be the Annie and your sweet older brother would be Paul." Abel replied, after no one indulged his question after a beat of silence.
"Misch—" Chiyoh tried to call for logic and assessment, but as abruptly cut off by the impulsive single-minded focus that her employer had.
"I agree to your terms."
"Then, send the money." A jovial tone and a smirk marked the mercenary's being.
"Not until you accomplish our deal. Kill Will Graham, and take my brother . . . Alive." The mercenary sighed loudly as if to comically irritate the woman.
"Your wish is my command." Gideon uttered in a deadpanned manner, before waving three fingers overhead in Chiyoh's direction, and headed out of the vicinity.
'We're leaving in three hours' Chiyoh passively decoded. She had to prepare for this unprecedented trip immediately. She spared a glance at her employer who seemed conflicted. The inner child in the blonde slowly dribbling out of her shell.
"Why did we hire him out of all the available mercenaries?" The blonde muttered, pressing the bridge of her nose, clearly aggravated by the mercenary.
"Because, even if he is . . . Unpleasant, he accepts and finishes the job as fast as possible. Just like you requested." Chiyoh spared no excuse, making the younger woman glare at her.
"If he fails, we have to call the 'that' and give him a gift." A chill crept up the dark-haired woman's spine. Another child would be sullied by the twisted mechanism of 'that's mind. A living monster, even amongst the lowest of society.
"I sincerely hope we are successful."
"Hannibal." The bellowing voice called from one of the artificial and manufactured scented corridors.
"Jack, nice to see you once more." The assassin replied; hands raised in a placating manner. As he slowly turned to face the head security officer.
"You finally showed up, after all the mess you made!" A growl of anger pinned every word like a curse.
Hannibal passively assessed the situation, and lamented on the older man's words finding it as fact. If fate did not meld his world with the millionaire's maybe both of them would be out of danger. Maybe he could've given Will a decent, albeit boring peace.
"I don't intend to fight you Jack." Hannibal replied, as he watched a raised glock aiming at directly at him. And around them, the medical staff seemed to flinch at the sight of the gun. One nurse opting to call security at the rather tense moment.
"But I do." Jack uttered, pressing the trigger.
The assassin found it all this anger rather trivial. His death would not be the solution to the current ailment of the their mutual situation. In fact, it would be counter productive to fight with the actual people who have the information needed to supplement their protection.
Hannibal skillfully dodged the trajectory of the bullet, using the glossed floor to move his weight to his chosen momentum. The shit missed by mere inches. The bullet loudly shattered the glass of a window, eliciting screams from passersby.
"For fuck's sake!" Bedelia muttered under her breath, the familiar sound of a gun being fired echoed near. The woman looked at Abigail's direction, and a muted conversation happened. As Bedelia, although was technically able bodied, the bullet wound on her leg, still ached from freshness.
A twisted part of her wanted Abigail to face, what the handler thought was Mischa's men. To finally gain what the teen wanted, even under the behests of her and her uncle. 'Maybe this would finally erase that unsightly naïveté' Bedelia thought, as a strip of residual anger painted Abigail's image.
Abigail being the flesh and blood of a deranged woman, has tainted her image in Bedelia's mind. She was no longer an endearing youth, but a cursed existence. And yet, she could not truly hate that youthful curiosity and search for identity.
The older woman snapped out of her thoughts, as she received a nod from the teen. Who peeked through the door to see the exact moment her adoptive father run towards the agent in a full-bodied tackle.
The assassin effectively disarmed the older man. As Abigail saw a gun slid just past her on the floor. Shouts and watchers scurried around, as she watched her father and Agent Jack Crowford struggle on the ground. The teen using the chaos as a curtain to crawl and retrieve the gun that slipped passed her.
As she reached for the item, she took a glance at her Father, who was currently perched on top of the older agent, trying to detain him. Jack threw a punch that connected with her father's jaw, thankfully unbroken, as the older man wasn't given enough space to pull back his arm for stronger impact. The teen flinched at the scene. It was as if it was her first encounter with actual bare fisted violence.
She never knew how sheltered she had a small taste of the violence she could have received if she was ever at the wrong place, or at the wrong time. She watched as her father retaliated, kneeing the agent's abdomen with enough strength to elicit a cough. Hannibal used his forearm to press on the other's neck, not enough to snap the trachea, but given enough pressure, could sedate the agent.
In all honesty killing the agent would have been fairly easy at the moment, as it was obvious that her father had the upper hand. But the eyes and gawking audience around, it was troubling to off a man in this public exhibition of violence.
But for a moment, a chilling realization dawned itself, as the Agent's movement became slower and more languid, until it finally stopped.