[A/N- Yep, pokey again. This chapter did not turn out as planned. The FB stuff got added, and half of what I'd written got pushed to chapter 9. Eh- so it goes. As always, thanks for the feedback. And nope- I probably don't have any other stories anyone would be interested in. Hm- and I like the flashbacks, so you'll still be getting them. Heck, this chapter wallows in FB. It also wallows in lots of violence, because I was in a mood. On the plus side, we discover that I'd actually meant this story to have a plot! Here it be- though someone actually guessed what it was quite a while back! Last note- I'll be switching this back to an 'R' rating next update, so look for it there. You can also sign up for e-mail updates on witchblade-fic.com Hope you enjoy.]
Chapter 8
Strange cars with government plates were parked in the driveway. Something was very, very wrong. Ian had known it as soon as the phone had rung, Frank's voice telling him to get over to the house. He should have sensed it, he should have known. Irons wouldn't have needed a phone. Jameson shouldn't either. He could taste his failure, bitter in the back of his throat.
Not slowing to knock, Ian stormed through the front door. Dark suits turned at his approach, hands reaching for weapons. His automatics were already out, targets locked. A little more pressure and men would start dying.
"Hold it! He's one of mine!" Jameson sat hunched on the living room couch, tired and haggard and years older than he'd been the day before.
The suits stood down, not liking it when Ian didn't. Only when he received a weary nod from Jameson did he holster his weapons.
"Is he licensed to carry?" a dark suit in a red tie asked. Ian could tell from his stance he was the senior man. Fed. Probably F.B.I.
"Shut up," Jameson snapped, waving for Ian to follow as he rose from the sofa made his way toward the study. "He's in charge of my personal security. I want him here more than I want you."
Ian could feel their eyes following him, suspicious and angry as he fell in behind his boss. That was fine by him. He didn't trust them either.
Pulling the door firmly shut behind him, he stood in the center of the room, impatiently waiting for Jameson to tell him what was going on. The older man seemed in no hurry to do so. Sitting silently behind his desk, he stared blankly at a silver framed photo.
"Ian, do you believe in fate?"
"I fight against it every day."
Jameson snorted a humorless laugh. "I believe in fate, too. I believe it's why you're here. Someone took Jenny. You are going to get her back."
The littlest one. Of course. Ignoring the first flush of heat beneath his skin, Ian bit back a pointless apology. "What happened?"
"She was safe. Perfectly safe. A damn youth group trip to the movies. Vacation Bible school, if you can believe it. How fucked up is that?" Robert buried his face in his hands, as if not looking at the world would make it go away.
Ian could have told him that wasn't how the world worked. Instead, he tamped down his mounting irritation and sidled closer to the desk. "Robert, I need details if I'm going to help."
Robert didn't look up, but he took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself. "They came out of the theatre and were walking back to the bus. A van pulled up, the side door opened, and two men wearing ski masks grabbed her before anyone had time to move. Bobby was up ahead with one of his friends, or they might of gotten him too. According to the F.B.I. guys, it was well planned and executed and there's no doubt my kids were the target."
"Did they get a plate number on the van?"
"Yea. The chaperones were on the ball. Got a good description of the van, the full license plate, called 911 on a cell 10 seconds after it happened. None of it helped. Jenny just disappeared. Gramaldi, the A.D. handling the case for the feds, told me the van came back stolen. They think it was dumped somewhere almost as soon as they got out of the parking lot. They still haven't found it, but it probably won't help when they do. The consensus is these guys are pros."
"That's a good thing, Robert. Professionals can be dealt with rationally." Professionals meant Jenny wasn't dead. Not yet. Ian felt his jaw clench, shied away from the images of tiny bodies in shallow graves. Not yet. Not ever. He's going to kill them slow and make them scream.
"Gramaldi said the same thing. Ian?"
"Ransom demands?" He pretended it didn't hurt to ask, hurt to think. Information was important now. Information was life.
"They want half-a-million. The call came in just after Frank called you. The feds ran a trace, but no luck. The voice was electronically distorted, but they're still working on it. No other instructions, just the fact I have three days to gather the cash. The only other lead we have is the possibility one of the kidnappers spoke Russian. LeAnne Reyes, one of the chaperones, thought the driver of the van yelled 'hurry up' in Russian. She wasn't sure, though. Could hardly make out the voice at all, and besides, she's a Spanish teacher. Russian isn't her strong suite."
Russians? Russians could be good. "Can you gather the money?"
Robert nodded, then opened his desk drawer and gingerly took out a folded sheet of paper and placed it in the center of the desk. "I can get it. Liquidate some assets. But I don't think money is their main objective. Susan was out shopping when the whole thing went down. I called her, and when she ran out to the car to come home, this was waiting on the dashboard. So far, only you, me, Susan and Frank know about it. It hasn't been dusted for prints, so be careful."
"There won't be any fingerprints," Ian replied, being careful anyway. Quickly, he read over the note. The X-12 smart bomb project. That was a prize worthy of professionals.
"Susan thinks we should tell the feds. Frank thinks we should tell the feds to go fuck themselves. I want to know what you think."
"The F.B.I. will shut you down as soon as they learn about this. The X-12 is highest clearance. They won't risk it. Not for one child, not for a thousand. Tell them nothing."
"Ian, you aren't cleared for that project. You shouldn't even know about it." Robert's eyes were dull as he stared at him, and if there was a hint of suspicion in his voice, Ian refused to hear it.
"I know everything about Am-Tech Air, Mr. Jameson. I have since the first week I was hired. Does that pose a problem?" Ian locked his hands behind his back and dropped his head. The children should have never been left vulnerable in the first place. His responsibility. His fault. He deserved whatever blow Jameson dealt him.
A deep sigh and the faint squeak of leather as Robert leaned back in his chair. "No, Ian. It's no problem. Hell, it's not even a surprise. The problem is, I spent 20 years serving my country. I'm not sure I can betray it and I know I can't lose my daughter. Please stop staring at your God damn feet and tell me you can fix this."
Ian felt the shark's grin slide across his face. "I can fix it. If I can find them, I can fix it."
"You've got less than three days before I have to decide."
Irons would kill him- if he were lucky. But Irons couldn't stop him. Not in three days. "I have the contacts, sir. We have a satellite uplink at the main office. By tonight, I should know something."
Robert looked at him for a long moment, then rubbed his hands together as if chilled. "Do what you have to. Get her back for me, Ian. And if they've hurt her- in any way- I want you to bring me their heads on a fucking plate. Can you do that for me?"
The fire began to pulse at the base of his skull. He could do so much more than that. "Of course, sir. It will be my pleasure."
********************
Ian nodded brusquely to the shift commander and took a seat behind a remote terminal. The room was all but deserted, just a skeleton crew trying hard not to stare at him. "Clear the room," he called softly, and their sense of relief was palpable as the men rushed for the door.
It was the smile on his face that did it, the one that wasn't supposed to be there. A faint reflection of the anger, but one that immediately called his sanity into question. He'd believed there were only two people on earth who could inspire that particular emotion, that particular smile. The discovery he'd been wrong tilted his world on its axis.
He rested a hand on the keyboard, found it was shaking so hard he was worried he'd break something. Closing his fist, he dug his nails into the meat of his palm and fought to focus. She was just a little girl. A month ago he hadn't even known she existed and wouldn't have cared if he had. Human beings didn't come any more expendable. Now he was planning the apocalypse he would throw in her name.
Irons and Sara and little Jenny Jameson. His new holy trinity. No matter what the wielder thought of him, it was proof he was more man than monster.
When the memories rushed in, Ian was forced to admit it was proof of no such thing.
********************
Poetry.
"Is he going to live?"
"I think so," Dr. Immo replies as he smoothes down the bandages covering the left side of Irons' face. "It was touch-and-go, but he made it through the night. His constitution... He should heal, Ian. Given time, he should heal."
Violent, bloody poetry.
"Who was responsible for the explosion?"
For the first time since he walked into the room, Immo meets his eyes. "Now is not the time, Ian. You're tired, you're angry, you just got back in the country. Wait until Kenneth wakes up. Let him decide how best to handle this."
An epic in crimson, an ode to pain. He's going to carve it into their flesh, take his time doing it.
"Don't make me repeat myself, Doctor."
Immo clears his throat, takes a half-step back. "I don't know, Ian. Security isn't my area. If you want the details, ask Devain."
So pale and so still. Touch it and it will shatter like rotted ice. This ... thing spread out helpless and weak across starched white sheets cannot be his master.
Touch it he does. Prove that it's not real. The forbidden familiarity makes his breath hitch in his throat. With infinite care, he runs his index finger along the ridges of the scar. Circles within circles, flaring with the every pulse of his father's blood.
The heat blossoms in the center of his chest, a low, simmering boil. It's like nothing Ian has felt before and nothing he wants to feel again.
"Devain," he murmurs, reaching up to brush pale hair back from an even paler face. "He was in charge of your safety, wasn't he? I told you I was ready. Why didn't you let me come home?"
"Ian?" Immo sounds worried, an unusual lapse.
Ian looks up at him and smiles. "I believe I'll have a talk with Mr. Devain."
********************
A memory of movement, a nothing shadow. He takes the sentry with one swipe of a darkened blade and is gone before the body hits the ground.
Years of training, of waiting, of tests and trials. It all comes down to this. His existence, crystallized in a single moment, and he knows he's a failure just as surely as he knows he doesn't care.
The second guard, dispatched as easily as the first. If Devain had been telling the truth, that leaves two more outside. Ian has no doubts about Devain's honesty. When the screams are that loud, you believe them.
And a third man dies.
Slower now, creeping forward. He savors the moment, wanting to own it in the same way that Irons owns expensive cars and beautiful women and him.
Sensei would be so disappointed.
He snaps the last man's neck. Quick. Clean. Silent. Honoring his training instead of the fire that burns in his brain. Of course, the guards had been no more than drones. No autonomy, no culpability. No satisfaction in their deaths.
Ian's satisfaction will be found inside, and there will be nothing of honor about it.
Sensei would learn to live with the disappointment.
He avoids the hidden cameras, snips two wires on the security panel, and is in. The katana returns to its sheath. The shotgun takes its place. Vulgar and ugly, it is a mockery of all he has been taught. It is exactly what he wants, ruin and riot and blood splattered walls. He's going to send a message that will never be forgotten.
Two men awake, the last of the security team. He can hear the faint murmur of their voices down the hallway to his left. Laughing and unconcerned, they are... sloppy. They are very fortunate they don't work for Irons.
Ian eases the kitchen door open with the barrel of the shotgun and waits for the guards to notice him. He can feel the smile on his lips, and wonders whether it is the smile or the weapon that puts the fear in their eyes. He'll never know for sure, because the gun is bucking in his hands, booming like a cannon, and eight-gauge buckshot turns men into meat before he realizes he's pulled the trigger. Noisy and messy and he fires three more rounds just to watch the bodies jerk.
So much for subtlety.
He sprints to the main staircase, ramming home shells as thick as his thumb. Takes the steps three at a time, and bedroom doors are just starting to open when he hits the landing. The fury erupts and Ian Nottingham proceeds to elevate slaughter to an art form.
********************
Cautiously, Ian slips through the bedroom door. It's been a week since his return, a week since his 'outburst', as Immo insists on calling it. The fact that Irons hasn't summoned him until now could mean just about anything.
Keeping his features expressionless, Ian settles in beside the door, his hands behind his back and his head down. Irons takes no notice. Propped up against half-a-dozen pillows, he flips through a stack of photographs and sips his morning coffee. The only evidence he'd been injured is the pink flush of new skin and an arm that lays at his side like a dead weight.
Within five minutes, Ian is bouncing on the balls of his feet. Just enough to be noticeable. Just enough to be annoying. If Irons doesn't acknowledge him soon, he's going to start humming.
"Stop that and come here."
Victory of a sort.
"You've grown" Irons grants him a small smile. It's genuine, it's rare, and no matter how much trouble he's in, it means everything will be okay.
"I'm still not as tall as you are. Not yet." Tiny gibe, because he's home, because he can.
"You will never be as tall as I am, Ian. Though I must admit, this latest display of yours has left me..." Irons holds one of the photos up to the light, squinting to make out the details. "Is that the Chinese symbol for 'chaos' carved into his chest?"
Leaning in to look, Ian's a bit impressed by all of the blood. He should have expected the bodies to drain out after he'd left them hanging from the stair rail like that. "Yes, sir. It seemed appropriate at the time."
"Appropriate?" Irons lays the pictures out, one by one. Lined up across the breakfast tray, they look like some sociopath's tarot reading. The portents are not happy ones. "'Excessive' would be a more apt term."
"I'm sorry."
"One of these days, I really must teach you to lie. You do it so badly." The words are said fondly, the touch on his shoulder light. It is no less a command, and Ian goes to his knees beside the bed, his stomach clenching in anticipation. Irons in a good mood can be more dangerous than Irons enraged.
A quirk of thin lips, as if Kenneth can read his every thought. Which he can. Ian ducks his head, instantly submissive and very glad he hadn't gone through with the humming. He can't help but flinch when those tapered fingers run through his hair, releasing it from the leather bands that tie it back. Irons takes no offense, just continues stroking until Ian relaxes, resting his cheek against cool sheets and making a mental list of people he can chop into tiny bits on the off chance that he might earn this one more time before he dies.
"Surely such artless carnage is not what I sent you to Japan to master?" Softly purred, prelude to the kill. It's Irons' favorite question- the one with no correct answer.
Ian doesn't rise to the bait. He focuses on the irony, the fact that silence sounds defiant. One more oxymoron in his life, it joins a growing collection.
No answer is also a wrong answer. The hand knots in his hair, and with one ruthless twist his throat is exposed. Soft underbelly. Bug beneath a rock.
"Emotion is a weakness, young Nottingham. Discipline is your only defense."
The fingers are around his throat now, leaving no air for him to breathe. It doesn't matter, not as long as he has his impossible truths. Irons cares. About him. Irons cannot die. Ever. The wielder will come. And he will serve them both.
Ian opens his eyes to watch the final irony. It's almost funny, but laughter requires oxygen he doesn't have. Red haze and the room fading to black and Irons' face the only thing he sees, Irons' voice the only thing he hears. "The wrath of God is mine to dispense, Ian. Don't forget again."
Gasping, choking, down on all fours. Ian huddles in on himself and breathes. Air in his throat like sandpaper over broken glass and he wipes the snot from his nose, feeling like he's eight instead of eighteen. Which had undoubtedly been the point of this particular lesson.
"I believe it is time you returned home," Irons says, rubbing absently at the back of Ian's neck as the younger man attempts to straighten up. "All you have left to learn, I will teach you."
It's all good and it's all right and the only thing he regrets is that he didn't go with the humming option in the first place.
********************
"Shift commander said you were still here."
Ian looked up from the monitor, eyes widening in surprise. It wasn't often someone entered a room without him noticing. "Frank," he acknowledged, giving a brief nod.
"What're you up to?"
"Considering the merits of patricide." Kenneth's face stared back at him from the screen, all seeing and all knowing, even when filtered through a thousand miles of empty space. That alone was worthy of hatred. Ian didn't bother shutting down the connection. This was a war he was going to lose, but he wanted someone to know he'd fought it.
"Smug looking bastard," Frank commented as he rolled a chair over and straddled it. "I hope that's not daddy dearest?"
"So do I."
Frank pulled two cigars out of his breast pocket, muttering "Ooh! Sounds like a soap opera. Do tell," as he lit one.
Ian shrugged and took the proffered smoke. "The man is the king of lies. I've learned it's best not to ask."
"Thought the devil was the king of lies?"
"You haven't met Kenneth." Ian sputtered on the smoke and burst out coughing.
"Pure Cuban tobacco, Ian. Don't waste it." Spinning his chair around, Frank kicked his feet up on a desk, his gaze drifting around the room.
"I've breathed teargas that tasted better."
"Sorry, kid. All out of teargas. So... I don't suppose this is even remotely connected to getting Jenny back?"
"I did something foolish last night. There was no good reason for it, but I did it anyway," Ian said by way of reply.
"You didn't hurt that girl, did you?" Frank's voice was flat and careful, but he was staring at Ian's bandaged left hand like it wasn't the first time he'd wanted to ask the question.
"Who? Oh... no. No, I don't think so. I made a phone call."
"Hm..." Frank nodded, managing to not quite sound relieved.
"I did something foolish again today. Now I'm waiting to see if I had a good reason." Reaching out to the computer screen, Ian lazily trailed a finger down the center of the flickering image. "Won't matter, of course. He'll come regardless- and he finds it offensive when I've been foolish."
"Fuck your pretend dad, Ian! Your old man shows up, I'll kick his ass. This isn't about him, it's about Jenny."
Ian dropped his hand. "I know it is, Frank. She's my good reason."
Frank engrossed himself in blowing a smoke ring. "Yea, well... Just checking. And you know I got your back. Right?"
"You and Robert both. I know. And if it makes any difference, if he orders me to kill you, I'll say 'no'."
"Gee Ian, that's real big of you." Frank smirked. "Nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
"I'll probably end up doing it anyway," Ian replied, just before he put his fist through the monitor. With an angry electric hiss, the cracked screen went black.
Frank paled, but forced a smile that wasn't a grimace. "What's sad is it's still the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
Ian shook his head and flicked away a fragment of glass. "Why are you here, Frank? You should be home with Robert and the family."
"Thought you might like the company. You know, in case you needed an excuse to break expensive computer equipment or soliloquize about your paternity or not kill anybody who's actually on our side or something."
Ian shot him a look and smashed the still smoldering cigar in his hand. Both men pretended not to notice the smell of burning flesh.
"And of course, the watch commander did call Bobby," Frank continued, as if that had been his intent all along. "Charlie said you came down here four hours ago, scared the shit out of all the boys, and have been holed up ever since. I believe the words 'postal', 'unstable', and 'homicidal maniac' might have been bandied about."
"Where would he get an idea like that?" Unleashing the smile full force, Ian blew the ash out of the palm of his hand.
"Beats me. Guy's obviously delusional. I mean, not like you're planning on killing somebody, are you?
"Of course not, Frank. I'm planning on killing a whole lot of somebodies."
"And that's gonna make you feel better?"
"It always has before."
Frank hissed out a slow steady stream of smoke, watching as the blue cloud rose toward the lights. With a regretful sigh, he dropped the cigar to the floor and pulled a .38 S&W from a holster at the back of his waistband. Placing it carefully on the desk beside the broken monitor, he gave Ian a smile that matched his own. "Sounds like a good plan. Can I come?"