The smell of decaying flesh and dried blood filled Chang WuFei's nose, as he slowly opened the door to the luxurious condo.
Four bodies lay, strewn across the floor, untouched.
The Triads had probably paid a hefty bribe, along with a few threats to keep the scene as it was, and not trampled by police.
Strolling to the first body, one with both arms hanging on by only a strip of skin. He kneeled down, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Rolling it over, WuFei's eyes narrowed in anger.
This was the body of Gavin Au. An 18-year-old boy with a girlfriend, and a scholarship to Harvard. A gangster father had put him in the Triads. WuFei had always felt sorry for the boy, and the hardships he would have to face with the Triads looking over his shoulders. His eyes were opened wide in shock, and a pathetic, old .38 caliber revolver lay a few inches from his arm.
"But now," muttered Chang through clenched teeth "He has no shoulder to look over."
Gently closing his eyes of the dead boy, WuFei stood up.
A nearby body lay, spread-eagled , a long shard of glass sticking from its abdomen.
Chang WuFei had been a Triad enforcer for the past two years, a military policeman before that. He had seen his share of death, but seeing four men, murdered, massacred in a room altogether was almost unbearable.
With a clenched jaw, Chang made his way slowly towards the second body.
Even with look of pure horror, rage, and pain mixed into one, WuFei still recognized the face. It was an old man, who had been a servant in the house. A kind one, at that. He had often been seen outside, feeding the annoying birds that flapped up and down, leaving their excrements everywhere. Or gently taking bugs from the house, and setting them outside, where they could be free again.
With a grim face, WuFei looked to the ancient dagger clutched in his hands.
"The protector until the end." Remarked Chang coldly.
The knuckles of the Chinese gangster were now milky white, the blue veins showing clearly.
The other two bodies in the room had been good friends, training partners in Kung Fu. Both had had their ribs broken, and their necks crushed.
Forcing his emotions down, WuFei continued on the tour of death around the house, inspecting each and every body.
The emotions suddenly burst out when he saw the body of Lam LoWei, the Triad leader.
His lips pulled back to reveal a vicious snarl, and for a few seconds, he stood, motionless, staring at the body of his former friend and boss.
Finally, his face again impassive, he knelt by the body of Lam. His knuckles showed signs of a fight, and the wooden Tonfa indicated that their had definitely been one.
"At least, old friend, you died fighting, and not on a deathbed." Muttered Chang in his native tongue, Mandarin.
Standing up, the Chinese gangster leaned heavily against the nearby, oaken dresser.
All had been more or less killed with bare hands, save for the old servant, who had had a piece of glass shoved up his stomach.
There were three people, alive, that he knew could do this. Himself, an old friend who he had met during a shooting seminar by the name of Trowa Barton, and…
"Have you found anything?" A man stood, his face sheathed in the shadows. Even with the 'mask', Chang still recognized the voice.
"Well, if it isn't Agent Trowa Barton of the HUMINT division in the CIA. Last I heard, you were in Pakistani, gathering some Intel on a local warlord."
A frown filled Barton's face, as he stepped from the shadows.
"You're not supposed to know that."
With a shrug, WuFei stood up, the smile at seeing his old friend beginning to vanish.
"I just wish we had met under better circumstances."
"As do I." Said Trowa, a sympathetic look on his face.
The two men glared in silence at the floor, thoughts filling their minds.
"All were killed with bare hands."
"All except one, and he was killed with a piece of glass shrapnel."
"That would have taken some skill. The only ones I know of who possess such skill, is you, maybe me, and…you remember Yuy?"
WuFei's face flushed red with anger and shame at the memory.
"Oh yeah," He muttered quietly "I remember Yuy."
1992:
A bead of sweat began to form on Chang WuFei's brow, as a long series of chain punches shot through the air, impacting solidly with the heavy, leather punching bag.
An elderly man stood at the other end of the bag, easily holding the bag still.
From his expression, one could gather that Chang was weak. Nothing could be more untrue. If a man less powerful than Sifu was holding the bag, he, along with the bag itself, would be sent flying across the room.
"Alright, you can stop." Commanded Sifu, as his own arms fell to the side.
The Chinese boy straightened, ignoring the bead of sweat falling from his forehead.
With an aura of power, the old man strolled towards his protégé, clamping him solidly on the shoulder.
"This is an important exhibition, WuFei. I have just found out that your opponent is a Japanese boy named Yuy. His first name is unknown. It is just known that he is a great fighter. Be cautious with him, but do not hesitate to strike the finishing blow if you get even the smallest opening."
"Yes Sifu." Said WuFei simply, his right hand making the fist, flying into the open palm of his left hand. And as he bowed, WuFei rolled his eyes. This would be a piece of cake.
As Sifu returned the action, he spoke again.
"I know what you're thinking, WuFei. That this will be easy. But I've seen this boy fight. He's good. Very good. As I said, be careful."
Frowning, WuFei slowly shook his head. If Sifu was this worried about him, then he had to be good.
"Well, since I see you're beginning to agree with me," Spoke the old man, as he jollily clapped Chang on the shoulder "Good luck!"
"Thank you, Sifu." Said WuFei, a smile breaking through his expressionless face.
A loud bell rang, and both teacher and student spun to the noise.
"It's time."
Both fighters walked forward proudly, their backs straight.
A bright light flooded into their eyes, as a transparent dome stood in the center of the stadium.
"That is where you will be fighting."
Nodding, WuFei simply slid a mouthpiece into his mouth, and strolled towards the dome.
His opponent already stood waiting, not even a sign of nervousness showing.
It wasn't arrogance, but still, no sign of nervousness.
Frowning, WuFei quickly shook his worries away. Bad thoughts on your mind was not a good thing during a fight.
A gong sounded, and Yuy quickly got into a hard Karate stance. With a raised eyebrow, WuFei quickly got into his own favored stance. One that more resembled Western Boxing than any Eastern Arts.
The gong sounded a second time, and both boys rushed forward.
The hard, external stance was a deep contrast to the way Yuy moved, as he flowed gracefully across the ground.
As Yuy neared, Chang quickly pivoted on the ball of his foot, and brought his other leg around in a powerful sidekick.
With ease, Yuy dodged the kick, and reacted in a lower, Thai kick.
Narrowing his eyes, WuFei decided to meet force with force.
Pivoting yet again, Chang brought his other leg around, and grimaced as shin met shin, the sound echoing across the dome.
The audiences groaned in what they imagined to be great pain, and gasped as the two fought on.
Yuy's fist shot forward in a quick jab, and WuFei hopped to the side, deflecting the strike to the side, as he swung his leg around in his own round-house kick.
Showing amazing acrobatic skill, Yuy jumped over the leg, his rear foot coming around in yet another kick.
This time, Chang couldn't avoid it, and the mouthpiece flew from his mouth, coated in spit and blood, as WuFei's head snapped to the side, sending the boy staggering away.
As Yuy coldly neared, ready for another attack, WuFei swung around in a sloppy hook, which was easily dodged by Yuy. But it had been a feint, and with amazing quickness, WuFei brought his knee up, smashing Yuy in the mouth.
As the Japanese boy's head snapped back up, Chang stepped in, firing a nasty straight punch into Yuy's chin. As the Japanese boy stumbled back, WuFei leapt up, bringing his knee into Yuy's face, and as the Chinese fighter began his descent, WuFei brought his arm down roughly onto the crown of Yuy's head, sending him onto his knees.
With a grin, Chang skipped backwards, then rushed forward, intent on making the finishing blow flashy.
Suddenly, the Japanese boy flipped back onto his feet, and in mid-flight, WuFei never even got the chance to dodge Yuy's deadly knife-hand that struck him solidly on the chin.
The blow sent WuFei tumbling down onto the ground, unceremoniously crashing down.
The crowd stood, not one man, woman, or child still in his seat, as exactly 650,051 people stood, open-mouthed at the spectacle before them. In a mere second, the Japanese boy Yuy had turned the tables with ease.
As the Chinese boy struggled to regain his footing, a sudden blow finally sent Chang WuFei into unconsciousness.
2001:
The color of blue veins added nicely to the flushed face of WuFei, as he remembered each and every one of his mistakes.
That had been his first fight, and his only loss since.
"You think it's him?" Asked Trowa, purposely ignoring the flushed face of his friend.
Forcing his face back into its original color, WuFei answered with uncertainty laced in his voice.
"I don't know. I mean, he had the skill, but I just don't know about him making the deaths this gory. When I fought him, every move he attempted was either one that was meant to be a finishing move, or one meant to be followed up by one. This just seems too gory."
"Granted," Said Trowa with a nod "I've checked around the mercenary circles, and Yuy's name came up high and clear. He goes by different names, but he's still recognizable. And he's our only lead."
"Our?" asked WuFei with a raised eyebrow. "You know I prefer working alone."
"Well," said Trowa nonchalantly "When the stakes are this high, your preferences can go to hell."
Duo Maxwell stalked angrily through the streets of Chinatown, his hand closed firmly around the plastic grip of his Glock 23.
While the face was cold and expressionless, the eyes held a maniacal glint. One that was just hoping for a few punks to step out of the shadows to give him an excuse to kill something.
Maxwell quickly rounded the corner, bumping into a young mother. Usually, the cop would have apologized profusely, but now, he only turned around, giving the mother the finger.
Finally, he stopped in front of a classy joint. A bar. 'Bottoms Up' was written in large, neon letters, and below it, stood a pair of well-muscled bouncers.
"Get the fuck out of my way." Growled Maxwell.
The bouncers stood steadfast, their hands nearing the walkie-talkies.
"Ah, screw this." Muttered Duo. Stepping up to the first bouncer, he brought his fist around in a nasty roundhouse punch, which KO'ed the man instantly.
As the second guard neared Maxwell, the cop quickly un-leathered the Glock, shoving it in the bouncer's face.
"Mind your own fucking business." He muttered, as he whipped the barrel across the bouncer's face.
Busting open the door, Maxwell headed towards the bartender, ignoring the busty blonde that was offering her services for the night.
"C'mon mister," she spoke perkily, rubbing herself between the legs. "I do everything from strip poker to gang three ways. I mean, I can get some of my bi friends…"
"Shut…up." Growled Duo, as he spun angrily around. "If you don't, that I'll give you three ways. Three ways that bullets can enter your body!"
A look of fright came over the stripper's face, as she scurried away.
Leaning against the steel railing, Duo groaned, looking down.
"Christ," He muttered, tightening his grip on the railing. "In a few hours, I've become a pathetic maniac with kicking the crap out of everybody on my mind."
But the explosion, the gunfire, the scared screams of his colleagues, and those damn eyes of the assassin replayed itself. Over and over and over.
"Shit." Muttered Duo "Shit!"
Finally, he came to the bartender, instantly speaking with a demanding voice.
"Gimme access to the real bar."
A slight look of fear came over the bartender's face. Duo's situation wasn't a secret. That was for sure.
"What…what you do if I don't?" asked the bartender in a quavering voice. "I hear on news. You go AWOL. You no longer cop."
With a mock, psychotic smile, Duo quickly took hold of the bartender's shirt, pulling him until they were a mere inch from each other's face.
"I'll tell you what. Some of your little customers here will be going…A…W…O…L…from your bar. AFTER I SHOOT THEM!" Screamed Duo, a vicious snarl now on his face.
A squeal of fright sounded from the bartender, and he quickly dug through te drawers, shoving a ticket into Duo's hands.
A cold look bore into the bartender, as Duo spun on his heels, heading towards a pair of guards.
Shoving the ticket in their hands, he gave a sigh of annoyance as a small, black bag was shoved over his head.
For exactly three minutes, Duo was led along, until he came to a door, and the sack was pulled from his face.
The door was kicked open, and Duo was shoved inside.
A pair of girls, no older than 15, danced, dressed in only shoes. A quick glance, and Duo spun away, observing the illegal strip bar.
There was something unique about the bar. Not about its appearance, or its occupants, but the fact that it was still standing. The bar was well known in New York, even among the NYPD cops. But no bribes were given, no threats were fired out. This strip bar was one of the most valuable places for information. Moles and Informants not only traveled here a lot, but anyone who was waiting to sell out some information or tidbits knew where to go. This bar.
Among the policemen of New York City, however, only a few knew of this place. A few who could be trusted by the scum of the city. Not necessarily dirty cops, but ones who would keep their word, and not bring down the bar.
So, in exchange for some of the worst killers, robbers, rapists, and criminals in general of this town, the illegal strip bar that housed under-aged whores was left standing.
"Talk about the lesser evil." Muttered Duo with disgust, as he sauntered through the bar.
Duo Maxwell was a well-known cop among these men. The moles and informants. Usually, there would be some smart-ass remarks spewing from the mouths of these scum, but now, there was none.
Maxwell had earned the nickname 'Death' early on in his career. He had nearly been suspended from the force because of that. It was during a raid on a barren apartment building, that half-a-dozen SWAT members had been shot, including his first partner. A young man named Otto.
Watching seven of his friends murdered had carried a similar effect to watching 19 of his friends murdered. He had gotten really pissed.
The only surviving criminal had described Duo as 'The God of Death himself' before he passed out due to shock.
Later on, the reports diagnosed Maxwell with 'Temporary Insanity'. He had rushed from cover, a scream sounding through the building, the Glock 23 in one hand, and Otto's Colt 1911 in the other. After bursting into the room, 20 shots had been fired. All from Duo's weapons. 10 men had fallen that day.
"Two bullets for each." Duo had muttered coldly, his eyes utterly devoid of any humor. And that had happened. Each man had received a deadly double-tap from the likes of the God of Death himself.
And now, Duo Maxwell's eyes carried that same haunted, angry, maniacal look. And all the drinkers who looked at him knew. Knew that men would fall before the night was over, just like that night, exactly Four years, and two hours ago.
"Three years." Murmured Quatre Raberba Winner, pointedly ignoring the strip show beside him. "Three years."
Staring into space, he unconsciously patted the small Sig-Sauer P239 that lay, holstered in his pocket. It was a small weapon that packed a powerful punch. After that very day, three years ago, Winner had thrown the Beretta in a small wooden box, stowing it away under a pile of junk.
"The round's not powerful enough." Quatre had hopelessly said.
But he knew, deep down, that the only reason he had thrown it away, was because it reminded him too much of his wife, and his own mistake of letting her die.
Seven round of .357 Sig. Thought Quatre absentmindedly. More than enough to blow off someone's head…or my own.
His hand sub-consciously closed around the bottle of beer that sat to the side of him. But he resisted the urge.
"I'm on the job right now." He told himself firmly.
With that, he gazed into the dark glass. A rugged, handsome, yet haunted, angry man stared back out, and he just couldn't look anymore.
He had changed. The Quatre Raberba Winner that sat in a seedy, illegal strip bar was a deep contrast to the sensitive, caring, happy Quatre Raberba Winner that had been the heir to the Winner throne. The family legacy.
Quatre barely felt anything anymore. Not even the hate that had driven him for the first few months. Not even that. Quatre just felt…empty.
With a deep sigh, Winner's hand left the bottle, and rested on his knees.
He had planned to come to this club for information, but had ended up sitting motionless at a table in the corner, reflecting his own, pathetic life.
The door suddenly burst open, and a well-built man was thrown in.
A ponytail hung loosely, and with a quick glance at the dancers, he stalked his way around the bar.
He's heading in my direction. Thought Quatre with a frown as he observed the angry, rage-filled eyes.
Narrowing his own eyes, Quatre sat straight up, as he finally recognized the face.
'Officer Duo Maxwell.' Thought Winner. 'Christ, he's been all over the news. The vigilante cop that's been wrecking havoc for his 19 slain friends.'
Quatre's brow furrowed into an even deeper frown. His contacts in the police force had said that a Japanese man matching Quatre's own description had massacred the many cops.
Leaning in, Winner listened intently.
"Oriental, about this tall, well-built. You know him?" Asked Maxwell irritatingly.
"I don't know what you're talking about. But some green might help." Said Hugh, a seedy, skinny man who was infamous for his own contacts.
"Green?! You want green? I'll show you green!" yelled Duo, as he quickly pulled out a Glock 23, along with a green marker.
"I'll color this goddamn gun green. Is that green enough for you?"
Quatre frowned as he observed the confrontation. Maxwell was acting more like a raving, psychotic lunatic out to kill some people, rather than a vigilante lawman who was out for justice.
"Oh c'mon Duo." Said Hugh weakly, the arrogance now gone from both his face and voice.
"Answer my question." Growled Duo, a snarl clearly evident on his face.
"I…I swear. I mean, I know hundreds of guys matching your description." Squeaked the informant in fright.
This was the opening for his entrance, and with a slight grin, Quatre stood up, and nonchalantly strolled towards the two.
"Would this help?" Asked Winner, his voice loud and clear as he tossed a scrap of paper onto the desk.
With a frown, Duo caught the paper, quickly unfolding it. The frown was replaced with surprise, as the sketched face of the cop killer, the one who had murdered not only 19 of his colleagues, but his own brother in blue, stared back at him.
Quick as lightening, Duo roughly grabbed Quatre on the collar of his vest, hefting the blonde man a good inch off the ground.
"What do you now about him?"
Barely fazed, Quatre coldly stared Duo back in the eyes.
"He killed my wife. Three years ago."
He didn't know what it was, but Duo Maxwell believed the blonde man in his grasps, and he gently set him down.
"Um…guys?" came a quiet, frightful voice.
Both men turned silently to the informant, staring angrily at him.
"I…I think I know who this is. A guy named Jason Yamasaki. He's a hitman. Freelance. At least, I think he's freelance. But no one knows for sure. Yamasaki's not his real name, either. I've seen him before. A few months ago. He was calling himself Hioto Hideno back then."
Silence ensued for a few seconds, and those few seconds felt like an eternity for Hugh the informant.
"Where's he staying?" asked Quatre quietly.
"A…a condo. I know the address. I'll write it down."
"You do that." Muttered Quatre.
Three years. After three years, it would finally end.
Side-by-side, Chang WuFei and Trowa Barton strolled across the sidewalk. One, a proud, Chinese warrior and an infamous member of the Triad. The other, a well-known agent of the CIA. The most unlikely of friends.
"Where's your car?" Asked WuFei quietly, gazing at a group of children playing along the street.
"A few blocks up." Answered Trowa, his eyes on the same thing.
Maybe it was something about the innocence of the children, but they drew the two warriors like magnets.
Prying his eyes from them, WuFei continued on the walk, turning a corner, away from the children.
It was then that, with a noisy screech, a large, black van pulled to a stop in front of them.
Spinning around in surprise, Chang and Barton glanced in worry as five men, all dressed in black, piled out of the car, weapons already in their hands.
"Shit!" muttered Trowa, as he dove to the ground, his hand entering the inside of his jacket, and closing around the grip of his Desert Eagle .50 Caliber pistol.
As his friend dove for safety, Chang WuFei rushed forward, his legs carrying him in almost super-human speed.
As the Chinese warrior neared, he threw himself in the air, one leg upraised, ready to drop onto the head of an enemy in an instant.
But instead of dropping the leg, WuFei quickly reached to his ankle, pulling a Para-Ordanance P10 from the holster.
As the first man, a blonde beach stud with spiky hair raised his USAS12 shotgun, WuFei twisted in the air, finally bringing the leg down.
The sole of his foot impacted solidly with the attacker's forehead, sending him flying backwards into the car, the crack echoed through the day.
As the second attacker brought his own MP5 to bear, Trowa took target acquisition with the Desert Eagle, swiftly pulling the trigger.
The .50 caliber is one of the most powerful rounds in the world, often used for big game like bear. For a frail thing like a human…
The large bullet smashed into the attacker's arm, not only breaking it, but blowing it right off.
Chang barely flinched as his opponent screamed in pain, the bone, skin, and blood of the arm splattering all over him.
Quickly, WuFei brought his leg around, kicking the man in the neck. Even as the armless man fell to the ground, dead, WuFei was already diving out of the way, as the remaining three fired their weapons simultaneously.
As his friend escaped the path of the deadly bullets, Trowa quickly triggered the Desert Eagle, grimly smiling as he watched WuFei pull a second P10 from his second ankle.
All three men fell to the deadly hailstorm of bullets, and as the tires squealed, indicating its escape, Trowa quickly pulled the trigger one last time, the .50 caliber bullet smashing into the tire, blowing it right off.
A desperate scream sounded, and the door was flung open, as a large Asian man rushed out, a Heckler & Koch USP9 spewing 124-grain death.
With lightening reflexes, WuFei fired a shot, and watched grimly as the pistol fell from the driver's hand, clattering on the concrete, followed by the driver himself, groaning as he writhed in pain.
Trowa rushed to his side, the Desert Eagle reloaded once again.
"A gut shot." He observed coldly. "We can definitely use this to our advantage."
Walking slowly to the driver's side, he slowly observed the wound.
"Who sent you?" He asked coldly.
The driver's jaws clenched in determination.
"I…will never…tell." He answered weakly.
"Does this shot hurt?" Asked WuFei quietly.
Puzzled, the driver merely nodded.
"We can end it. A mercy bullet. The pain will end."
Tears now openly streamed down his face, as he hopelessly clutched the wound, sobbing in pain.
"Alright…I'll tell you."
And for the next few seconds, the two men listened quietly as he told of Jason Yamasaki, and the condo.
When it was all done, WuFei simply nodded to Trowa, who chambered a round, and slowly lined up the sights.
"Rest in peace."
WuFei flinched slightly as he walked away, the massive explosion easily reaching his ears.
"So, Jason Yamasaki." Muttered Chang, as a sickening thud sounded behind him. "I will reap vengeance. For my fallen comrades, my slain master, and the many others you have murdered, massacred, and killed."
To be continued…
Four bodies lay, strewn across the floor, untouched.
The Triads had probably paid a hefty bribe, along with a few threats to keep the scene as it was, and not trampled by police.
Strolling to the first body, one with both arms hanging on by only a strip of skin. He kneeled down, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Rolling it over, WuFei's eyes narrowed in anger.
This was the body of Gavin Au. An 18-year-old boy with a girlfriend, and a scholarship to Harvard. A gangster father had put him in the Triads. WuFei had always felt sorry for the boy, and the hardships he would have to face with the Triads looking over his shoulders. His eyes were opened wide in shock, and a pathetic, old .38 caliber revolver lay a few inches from his arm.
"But now," muttered Chang through clenched teeth "He has no shoulder to look over."
Gently closing his eyes of the dead boy, WuFei stood up.
A nearby body lay, spread-eagled , a long shard of glass sticking from its abdomen.
Chang WuFei had been a Triad enforcer for the past two years, a military policeman before that. He had seen his share of death, but seeing four men, murdered, massacred in a room altogether was almost unbearable.
With a clenched jaw, Chang made his way slowly towards the second body.
Even with look of pure horror, rage, and pain mixed into one, WuFei still recognized the face. It was an old man, who had been a servant in the house. A kind one, at that. He had often been seen outside, feeding the annoying birds that flapped up and down, leaving their excrements everywhere. Or gently taking bugs from the house, and setting them outside, where they could be free again.
With a grim face, WuFei looked to the ancient dagger clutched in his hands.
"The protector until the end." Remarked Chang coldly.
The knuckles of the Chinese gangster were now milky white, the blue veins showing clearly.
The other two bodies in the room had been good friends, training partners in Kung Fu. Both had had their ribs broken, and their necks crushed.
Forcing his emotions down, WuFei continued on the tour of death around the house, inspecting each and every body.
The emotions suddenly burst out when he saw the body of Lam LoWei, the Triad leader.
His lips pulled back to reveal a vicious snarl, and for a few seconds, he stood, motionless, staring at the body of his former friend and boss.
Finally, his face again impassive, he knelt by the body of Lam. His knuckles showed signs of a fight, and the wooden Tonfa indicated that their had definitely been one.
"At least, old friend, you died fighting, and not on a deathbed." Muttered Chang in his native tongue, Mandarin.
Standing up, the Chinese gangster leaned heavily against the nearby, oaken dresser.
All had been more or less killed with bare hands, save for the old servant, who had had a piece of glass shoved up his stomach.
There were three people, alive, that he knew could do this. Himself, an old friend who he had met during a shooting seminar by the name of Trowa Barton, and…
"Have you found anything?" A man stood, his face sheathed in the shadows. Even with the 'mask', Chang still recognized the voice.
"Well, if it isn't Agent Trowa Barton of the HUMINT division in the CIA. Last I heard, you were in Pakistani, gathering some Intel on a local warlord."
A frown filled Barton's face, as he stepped from the shadows.
"You're not supposed to know that."
With a shrug, WuFei stood up, the smile at seeing his old friend beginning to vanish.
"I just wish we had met under better circumstances."
"As do I." Said Trowa, a sympathetic look on his face.
The two men glared in silence at the floor, thoughts filling their minds.
"All were killed with bare hands."
"All except one, and he was killed with a piece of glass shrapnel."
"That would have taken some skill. The only ones I know of who possess such skill, is you, maybe me, and…you remember Yuy?"
WuFei's face flushed red with anger and shame at the memory.
"Oh yeah," He muttered quietly "I remember Yuy."
1992:
A bead of sweat began to form on Chang WuFei's brow, as a long series of chain punches shot through the air, impacting solidly with the heavy, leather punching bag.
An elderly man stood at the other end of the bag, easily holding the bag still.
From his expression, one could gather that Chang was weak. Nothing could be more untrue. If a man less powerful than Sifu was holding the bag, he, along with the bag itself, would be sent flying across the room.
"Alright, you can stop." Commanded Sifu, as his own arms fell to the side.
The Chinese boy straightened, ignoring the bead of sweat falling from his forehead.
With an aura of power, the old man strolled towards his protégé, clamping him solidly on the shoulder.
"This is an important exhibition, WuFei. I have just found out that your opponent is a Japanese boy named Yuy. His first name is unknown. It is just known that he is a great fighter. Be cautious with him, but do not hesitate to strike the finishing blow if you get even the smallest opening."
"Yes Sifu." Said WuFei simply, his right hand making the fist, flying into the open palm of his left hand. And as he bowed, WuFei rolled his eyes. This would be a piece of cake.
As Sifu returned the action, he spoke again.
"I know what you're thinking, WuFei. That this will be easy. But I've seen this boy fight. He's good. Very good. As I said, be careful."
Frowning, WuFei slowly shook his head. If Sifu was this worried about him, then he had to be good.
"Well, since I see you're beginning to agree with me," Spoke the old man, as he jollily clapped Chang on the shoulder "Good luck!"
"Thank you, Sifu." Said WuFei, a smile breaking through his expressionless face.
A loud bell rang, and both teacher and student spun to the noise.
"It's time."
Both fighters walked forward proudly, their backs straight.
A bright light flooded into their eyes, as a transparent dome stood in the center of the stadium.
"That is where you will be fighting."
Nodding, WuFei simply slid a mouthpiece into his mouth, and strolled towards the dome.
His opponent already stood waiting, not even a sign of nervousness showing.
It wasn't arrogance, but still, no sign of nervousness.
Frowning, WuFei quickly shook his worries away. Bad thoughts on your mind was not a good thing during a fight.
A gong sounded, and Yuy quickly got into a hard Karate stance. With a raised eyebrow, WuFei quickly got into his own favored stance. One that more resembled Western Boxing than any Eastern Arts.
The gong sounded a second time, and both boys rushed forward.
The hard, external stance was a deep contrast to the way Yuy moved, as he flowed gracefully across the ground.
As Yuy neared, Chang quickly pivoted on the ball of his foot, and brought his other leg around in a powerful sidekick.
With ease, Yuy dodged the kick, and reacted in a lower, Thai kick.
Narrowing his eyes, WuFei decided to meet force with force.
Pivoting yet again, Chang brought his other leg around, and grimaced as shin met shin, the sound echoing across the dome.
The audiences groaned in what they imagined to be great pain, and gasped as the two fought on.
Yuy's fist shot forward in a quick jab, and WuFei hopped to the side, deflecting the strike to the side, as he swung his leg around in his own round-house kick.
Showing amazing acrobatic skill, Yuy jumped over the leg, his rear foot coming around in yet another kick.
This time, Chang couldn't avoid it, and the mouthpiece flew from his mouth, coated in spit and blood, as WuFei's head snapped to the side, sending the boy staggering away.
As Yuy coldly neared, ready for another attack, WuFei swung around in a sloppy hook, which was easily dodged by Yuy. But it had been a feint, and with amazing quickness, WuFei brought his knee up, smashing Yuy in the mouth.
As the Japanese boy's head snapped back up, Chang stepped in, firing a nasty straight punch into Yuy's chin. As the Japanese boy stumbled back, WuFei leapt up, bringing his knee into Yuy's face, and as the Chinese fighter began his descent, WuFei brought his arm down roughly onto the crown of Yuy's head, sending him onto his knees.
With a grin, Chang skipped backwards, then rushed forward, intent on making the finishing blow flashy.
Suddenly, the Japanese boy flipped back onto his feet, and in mid-flight, WuFei never even got the chance to dodge Yuy's deadly knife-hand that struck him solidly on the chin.
The blow sent WuFei tumbling down onto the ground, unceremoniously crashing down.
The crowd stood, not one man, woman, or child still in his seat, as exactly 650,051 people stood, open-mouthed at the spectacle before them. In a mere second, the Japanese boy Yuy had turned the tables with ease.
As the Chinese boy struggled to regain his footing, a sudden blow finally sent Chang WuFei into unconsciousness.
2001:
The color of blue veins added nicely to the flushed face of WuFei, as he remembered each and every one of his mistakes.
That had been his first fight, and his only loss since.
"You think it's him?" Asked Trowa, purposely ignoring the flushed face of his friend.
Forcing his face back into its original color, WuFei answered with uncertainty laced in his voice.
"I don't know. I mean, he had the skill, but I just don't know about him making the deaths this gory. When I fought him, every move he attempted was either one that was meant to be a finishing move, or one meant to be followed up by one. This just seems too gory."
"Granted," Said Trowa with a nod "I've checked around the mercenary circles, and Yuy's name came up high and clear. He goes by different names, but he's still recognizable. And he's our only lead."
"Our?" asked WuFei with a raised eyebrow. "You know I prefer working alone."
"Well," said Trowa nonchalantly "When the stakes are this high, your preferences can go to hell."
Duo Maxwell stalked angrily through the streets of Chinatown, his hand closed firmly around the plastic grip of his Glock 23.
While the face was cold and expressionless, the eyes held a maniacal glint. One that was just hoping for a few punks to step out of the shadows to give him an excuse to kill something.
Maxwell quickly rounded the corner, bumping into a young mother. Usually, the cop would have apologized profusely, but now, he only turned around, giving the mother the finger.
Finally, he stopped in front of a classy joint. A bar. 'Bottoms Up' was written in large, neon letters, and below it, stood a pair of well-muscled bouncers.
"Get the fuck out of my way." Growled Maxwell.
The bouncers stood steadfast, their hands nearing the walkie-talkies.
"Ah, screw this." Muttered Duo. Stepping up to the first bouncer, he brought his fist around in a nasty roundhouse punch, which KO'ed the man instantly.
As the second guard neared Maxwell, the cop quickly un-leathered the Glock, shoving it in the bouncer's face.
"Mind your own fucking business." He muttered, as he whipped the barrel across the bouncer's face.
Busting open the door, Maxwell headed towards the bartender, ignoring the busty blonde that was offering her services for the night.
"C'mon mister," she spoke perkily, rubbing herself between the legs. "I do everything from strip poker to gang three ways. I mean, I can get some of my bi friends…"
"Shut…up." Growled Duo, as he spun angrily around. "If you don't, that I'll give you three ways. Three ways that bullets can enter your body!"
A look of fright came over the stripper's face, as she scurried away.
Leaning against the steel railing, Duo groaned, looking down.
"Christ," He muttered, tightening his grip on the railing. "In a few hours, I've become a pathetic maniac with kicking the crap out of everybody on my mind."
But the explosion, the gunfire, the scared screams of his colleagues, and those damn eyes of the assassin replayed itself. Over and over and over.
"Shit." Muttered Duo "Shit!"
Finally, he came to the bartender, instantly speaking with a demanding voice.
"Gimme access to the real bar."
A slight look of fear came over the bartender's face. Duo's situation wasn't a secret. That was for sure.
"What…what you do if I don't?" asked the bartender in a quavering voice. "I hear on news. You go AWOL. You no longer cop."
With a mock, psychotic smile, Duo quickly took hold of the bartender's shirt, pulling him until they were a mere inch from each other's face.
"I'll tell you what. Some of your little customers here will be going…A…W…O…L…from your bar. AFTER I SHOOT THEM!" Screamed Duo, a vicious snarl now on his face.
A squeal of fright sounded from the bartender, and he quickly dug through te drawers, shoving a ticket into Duo's hands.
A cold look bore into the bartender, as Duo spun on his heels, heading towards a pair of guards.
Shoving the ticket in their hands, he gave a sigh of annoyance as a small, black bag was shoved over his head.
For exactly three minutes, Duo was led along, until he came to a door, and the sack was pulled from his face.
The door was kicked open, and Duo was shoved inside.
A pair of girls, no older than 15, danced, dressed in only shoes. A quick glance, and Duo spun away, observing the illegal strip bar.
There was something unique about the bar. Not about its appearance, or its occupants, but the fact that it was still standing. The bar was well known in New York, even among the NYPD cops. But no bribes were given, no threats were fired out. This strip bar was one of the most valuable places for information. Moles and Informants not only traveled here a lot, but anyone who was waiting to sell out some information or tidbits knew where to go. This bar.
Among the policemen of New York City, however, only a few knew of this place. A few who could be trusted by the scum of the city. Not necessarily dirty cops, but ones who would keep their word, and not bring down the bar.
So, in exchange for some of the worst killers, robbers, rapists, and criminals in general of this town, the illegal strip bar that housed under-aged whores was left standing.
"Talk about the lesser evil." Muttered Duo with disgust, as he sauntered through the bar.
Duo Maxwell was a well-known cop among these men. The moles and informants. Usually, there would be some smart-ass remarks spewing from the mouths of these scum, but now, there was none.
Maxwell had earned the nickname 'Death' early on in his career. He had nearly been suspended from the force because of that. It was during a raid on a barren apartment building, that half-a-dozen SWAT members had been shot, including his first partner. A young man named Otto.
Watching seven of his friends murdered had carried a similar effect to watching 19 of his friends murdered. He had gotten really pissed.
The only surviving criminal had described Duo as 'The God of Death himself' before he passed out due to shock.
Later on, the reports diagnosed Maxwell with 'Temporary Insanity'. He had rushed from cover, a scream sounding through the building, the Glock 23 in one hand, and Otto's Colt 1911 in the other. After bursting into the room, 20 shots had been fired. All from Duo's weapons. 10 men had fallen that day.
"Two bullets for each." Duo had muttered coldly, his eyes utterly devoid of any humor. And that had happened. Each man had received a deadly double-tap from the likes of the God of Death himself.
And now, Duo Maxwell's eyes carried that same haunted, angry, maniacal look. And all the drinkers who looked at him knew. Knew that men would fall before the night was over, just like that night, exactly Four years, and two hours ago.
"Three years." Murmured Quatre Raberba Winner, pointedly ignoring the strip show beside him. "Three years."
Staring into space, he unconsciously patted the small Sig-Sauer P239 that lay, holstered in his pocket. It was a small weapon that packed a powerful punch. After that very day, three years ago, Winner had thrown the Beretta in a small wooden box, stowing it away under a pile of junk.
"The round's not powerful enough." Quatre had hopelessly said.
But he knew, deep down, that the only reason he had thrown it away, was because it reminded him too much of his wife, and his own mistake of letting her die.
Seven round of .357 Sig. Thought Quatre absentmindedly. More than enough to blow off someone's head…or my own.
His hand sub-consciously closed around the bottle of beer that sat to the side of him. But he resisted the urge.
"I'm on the job right now." He told himself firmly.
With that, he gazed into the dark glass. A rugged, handsome, yet haunted, angry man stared back out, and he just couldn't look anymore.
He had changed. The Quatre Raberba Winner that sat in a seedy, illegal strip bar was a deep contrast to the sensitive, caring, happy Quatre Raberba Winner that had been the heir to the Winner throne. The family legacy.
Quatre barely felt anything anymore. Not even the hate that had driven him for the first few months. Not even that. Quatre just felt…empty.
With a deep sigh, Winner's hand left the bottle, and rested on his knees.
He had planned to come to this club for information, but had ended up sitting motionless at a table in the corner, reflecting his own, pathetic life.
The door suddenly burst open, and a well-built man was thrown in.
A ponytail hung loosely, and with a quick glance at the dancers, he stalked his way around the bar.
He's heading in my direction. Thought Quatre with a frown as he observed the angry, rage-filled eyes.
Narrowing his own eyes, Quatre sat straight up, as he finally recognized the face.
'Officer Duo Maxwell.' Thought Winner. 'Christ, he's been all over the news. The vigilante cop that's been wrecking havoc for his 19 slain friends.'
Quatre's brow furrowed into an even deeper frown. His contacts in the police force had said that a Japanese man matching Quatre's own description had massacred the many cops.
Leaning in, Winner listened intently.
"Oriental, about this tall, well-built. You know him?" Asked Maxwell irritatingly.
"I don't know what you're talking about. But some green might help." Said Hugh, a seedy, skinny man who was infamous for his own contacts.
"Green?! You want green? I'll show you green!" yelled Duo, as he quickly pulled out a Glock 23, along with a green marker.
"I'll color this goddamn gun green. Is that green enough for you?"
Quatre frowned as he observed the confrontation. Maxwell was acting more like a raving, psychotic lunatic out to kill some people, rather than a vigilante lawman who was out for justice.
"Oh c'mon Duo." Said Hugh weakly, the arrogance now gone from both his face and voice.
"Answer my question." Growled Duo, a snarl clearly evident on his face.
"I…I swear. I mean, I know hundreds of guys matching your description." Squeaked the informant in fright.
This was the opening for his entrance, and with a slight grin, Quatre stood up, and nonchalantly strolled towards the two.
"Would this help?" Asked Winner, his voice loud and clear as he tossed a scrap of paper onto the desk.
With a frown, Duo caught the paper, quickly unfolding it. The frown was replaced with surprise, as the sketched face of the cop killer, the one who had murdered not only 19 of his colleagues, but his own brother in blue, stared back at him.
Quick as lightening, Duo roughly grabbed Quatre on the collar of his vest, hefting the blonde man a good inch off the ground.
"What do you now about him?"
Barely fazed, Quatre coldly stared Duo back in the eyes.
"He killed my wife. Three years ago."
He didn't know what it was, but Duo Maxwell believed the blonde man in his grasps, and he gently set him down.
"Um…guys?" came a quiet, frightful voice.
Both men turned silently to the informant, staring angrily at him.
"I…I think I know who this is. A guy named Jason Yamasaki. He's a hitman. Freelance. At least, I think he's freelance. But no one knows for sure. Yamasaki's not his real name, either. I've seen him before. A few months ago. He was calling himself Hioto Hideno back then."
Silence ensued for a few seconds, and those few seconds felt like an eternity for Hugh the informant.
"Where's he staying?" asked Quatre quietly.
"A…a condo. I know the address. I'll write it down."
"You do that." Muttered Quatre.
Three years. After three years, it would finally end.
Side-by-side, Chang WuFei and Trowa Barton strolled across the sidewalk. One, a proud, Chinese warrior and an infamous member of the Triad. The other, a well-known agent of the CIA. The most unlikely of friends.
"Where's your car?" Asked WuFei quietly, gazing at a group of children playing along the street.
"A few blocks up." Answered Trowa, his eyes on the same thing.
Maybe it was something about the innocence of the children, but they drew the two warriors like magnets.
Prying his eyes from them, WuFei continued on the walk, turning a corner, away from the children.
It was then that, with a noisy screech, a large, black van pulled to a stop in front of them.
Spinning around in surprise, Chang and Barton glanced in worry as five men, all dressed in black, piled out of the car, weapons already in their hands.
"Shit!" muttered Trowa, as he dove to the ground, his hand entering the inside of his jacket, and closing around the grip of his Desert Eagle .50 Caliber pistol.
As his friend dove for safety, Chang WuFei rushed forward, his legs carrying him in almost super-human speed.
As the Chinese warrior neared, he threw himself in the air, one leg upraised, ready to drop onto the head of an enemy in an instant.
But instead of dropping the leg, WuFei quickly reached to his ankle, pulling a Para-Ordanance P10 from the holster.
As the first man, a blonde beach stud with spiky hair raised his USAS12 shotgun, WuFei twisted in the air, finally bringing the leg down.
The sole of his foot impacted solidly with the attacker's forehead, sending him flying backwards into the car, the crack echoed through the day.
As the second attacker brought his own MP5 to bear, Trowa took target acquisition with the Desert Eagle, swiftly pulling the trigger.
The .50 caliber is one of the most powerful rounds in the world, often used for big game like bear. For a frail thing like a human…
The large bullet smashed into the attacker's arm, not only breaking it, but blowing it right off.
Chang barely flinched as his opponent screamed in pain, the bone, skin, and blood of the arm splattering all over him.
Quickly, WuFei brought his leg around, kicking the man in the neck. Even as the armless man fell to the ground, dead, WuFei was already diving out of the way, as the remaining three fired their weapons simultaneously.
As his friend escaped the path of the deadly bullets, Trowa quickly triggered the Desert Eagle, grimly smiling as he watched WuFei pull a second P10 from his second ankle.
All three men fell to the deadly hailstorm of bullets, and as the tires squealed, indicating its escape, Trowa quickly pulled the trigger one last time, the .50 caliber bullet smashing into the tire, blowing it right off.
A desperate scream sounded, and the door was flung open, as a large Asian man rushed out, a Heckler & Koch USP9 spewing 124-grain death.
With lightening reflexes, WuFei fired a shot, and watched grimly as the pistol fell from the driver's hand, clattering on the concrete, followed by the driver himself, groaning as he writhed in pain.
Trowa rushed to his side, the Desert Eagle reloaded once again.
"A gut shot." He observed coldly. "We can definitely use this to our advantage."
Walking slowly to the driver's side, he slowly observed the wound.
"Who sent you?" He asked coldly.
The driver's jaws clenched in determination.
"I…will never…tell." He answered weakly.
"Does this shot hurt?" Asked WuFei quietly.
Puzzled, the driver merely nodded.
"We can end it. A mercy bullet. The pain will end."
Tears now openly streamed down his face, as he hopelessly clutched the wound, sobbing in pain.
"Alright…I'll tell you."
And for the next few seconds, the two men listened quietly as he told of Jason Yamasaki, and the condo.
When it was all done, WuFei simply nodded to Trowa, who chambered a round, and slowly lined up the sights.
"Rest in peace."
WuFei flinched slightly as he walked away, the massive explosion easily reaching his ears.
"So, Jason Yamasaki." Muttered Chang, as a sickening thud sounded behind him. "I will reap vengeance. For my fallen comrades, my slain master, and the many others you have murdered, massacred, and killed."
To be continued…