Title: Killer Instinct
Author: Skye Firebane
Rating: Still PG-13. Don't be surprised if it is raised later on.
Chapter Summary: Enter Daniel Armada, a pyromaniac arsonist working for the rival cartel.
Fowl Senior, Juliet and Angeline have an 'encounter' of sorts with one of Armada's bombs.
Comments: I'm very surprised with this chapter. Not much violence in it at all. There's not much gore, and no swearing.
Thanks to those who left reviews – I really appreciate them!
***
Chapter Two: Old Flames
Petrol. Check. Detonator. Check. Gunpowder. Check.
Daniel Armada recited the checklist in his head, a score of thoughtful lines furrowing his tanned brow. Blonde hair, too long and grubby, framed his gaunt face and gave him the look of a surfie. But he did not have time to have his hair cut; he did not have time for excessive grooming. Nor did he surf.
A pipe, hidden by the darkness, was routed across the hallway, perhaps two inches above his eye level. The pen-torch he carried in his hand illuminated it for a second, right before his forehead collided with the lead cylinder.
"God damn it," he growled, his voice dangerously low. Not that anyone would blame him. Stuck in the dark, wandering all but blindly, trying to find the electrical switchboard that was to be the location of the bomb he was to plant. Trying.
He rubbed his head and shook himself slightly, making sure he didn't have another outburst. Air-conditioning ducts and plumbing carried sound well. In fact, a past acquaintance of his had met his untimely end after accidentally swearing into a duct that carried the sound all the way to his target's office. He hadn't been told what had happened to his acquaintance, but he knew it had involved a pack of vicious Dobermans and an MP-5.
When he had been handed the assignment at the morning's General Meeting, he hadn't been aware of how large the Tuscan Villa was; it wasn't until he climbed the hill it sat upon he realised. Three stories high with beautiful architecture, filled to the brim with priceless antiques, centuries-old murals and stylish mosaics. The fountain, which was a centrepiece of sorts, rose gracefully out of the sandstone courtyard, the carefully crafted bronze glinting in the glare that came off the horizon. He'd almost hesitated before entering the labyrinthine basement. It would be a pity to destroy such masterpieces.
But the promise of fire and the smell of charcoaled bodies called too strongly. It was that way when you were a pyromaniac. Screw everything for the sake of fire. And that was just fine for Daniel.
He found himself stumbling into a large room, presumably the location of the electrical switchboard. He felt along the wall for a light switch, and smiled a tight, thin smile as he found one, turning it on and illuminating the entire room in golden light. At the opposite side of the room the switchboard stood out from a bare grey concrete wall.
His assignment was an easy one. He recalled the memo, he recalled grinning self-indulgently at the ease of his task. All he was required to do was construct a tilt switch to the biggest damn bomb he could build. He'd had worse missions to do in kindergarten, for Christ's sake.
Daniel worked in silence, imagining the flares of sparks and flames leaping through the corridors. Whilst the villa wasn't exactly the worst fire hazard you could come upon, all of the gas pipes would provide sufficient routes for the explosion to travel through. He screwed the cap onto the pipe bomb and connected it to his unfinished tilt switch. His eyes scanned the room for just the right place to put it. His eyes strayed upon the Propane tank and the scores of pipelines attached to it.
Perfect.
He gaffer-taped the bomb to the cool metal tank and made sure that the wires leading to it weren't tangled. Knotted wires were notorious for leaving trace evidence. He looked about for an exposed wire that was part of the villa's power system, so that he could partially snip it and set off the safety switch. The only one he could locate was the wire connected to the light switch. He swore to himself, and then shrugged. He still had the pen torch.
As suddenly as the light had come on, he was plunged into darkness again. He fumbled for the torch and attached the tilt switch to the power board. As soon as anyone came down to fix the power, and so much as touched one of the switches or fuses… BOOM!
He smiled at that thought. There was a tantalising itch that almost held him back from leaving the property as he spied the speedboat waiting for him down at the beach 500 metres away. He dusted the gunpowder residue from his hands and slung his leather carry case over his shoulder, and ran, never turning back, not even once.
***
The slight breeze that swept across the harbour tousled Artemis Fowl Senior's greying dark hair as he looked out across the bay. Thoughtful, he watched yachts with colourful spinnakers cut through the azure waves. An ocean liner cut across the horizon quickly, its steel structure pushing foam powerfully in its wake, the portholes gleaming brightly as the sun's rays cast themselves out across the view.
"Never get me on one of them again," he remarked softly, his fingers instinctively trailing down to his prosthetic leg. Through modern technology it was almost as functional as an ordinary leg, though Artemis Senior often had cases of 'phantom limb'. And then it was as painful as hell.
Angeline Fowl smiled into her champagne glass, sipping quietly as she raised a delicate blonde eyebrow at her husband, recalling how happy he had been when he had purchased the Fowl Star. Now all she had to do was mention the word ship and he would cringe. She placed the glass on the mosaic table and walked delicately towards her husband. She leant on the balcony rail next to him and sighed.
"And that's why you find it impossible to force Arty into a legitimate occupation?" she asked, a slight bite in her tone. Artemis Senior raised his eyebrows at her and shook his head.
"He'll find out soon enough that doing what he does can knock the stuffing out of you," he gestured with his chin towards his prosthetic leg. The pale cream French doors opened with a small click, and both Angeline and Artemis Senior turned to face the disgruntled visage of Juliet.
"I swear, you are going to sell this house," she snapped, flustered, her blonde hair falling out of a hasty plait, "This is the third time the power has shorted out in two days. Either you have rats chewing the wires, or, with all due respect, this house is a total wreck."
She slumped against the doorframe, wiping her hands on the apron that was tied tightly around her waist. It was evident that she had been cooking only some minutes ago, the soy sauce and fish stock stains fresh on the white linen.
"You know, it might be rats. Although, I did get Arty to take a look at it…" Angeline said gently. She was always wary of stepping in to mediate complaints, especially Juliet's, seeing as though the young woman had a fiery temper.
"I didn't think it was important at first, you know? It was only for a few seconds, but now it lasted about five minutes! The gluten in the noodles has expanded and now they're all gluggy –,"
"What's that?" Artemis Senior interrupted, straightening his back and standing tall. His grey eyes were suddenly alert; as if he had seen something he could fight.
"What's what?" asked Angeline, rolling her eyes impatiently. She never doubted her husband's lucidity for a second, although sometimes he made a mountain out of a molehill.
He opened his mouth to say something, but from the depths of the three-story villa, came a sonorous roar, a rumble that seemed to echo into eternity. Flames leapt through the stairwell inside the villa, and Juliet leapt forwards from the French doors as the glass shattered from sheer heat, propelling herself to the edge of the balcony rail. The heat ate away hungrily at the wood, leaving a charred, blackened mess behind that resembled crocodile skin.
"Jesus Christ," Juliet yelled shrilly, covering her eyes with her hands as the skin on her palms began to blister. The balcony bent at an angle as the metal beams melted and the wood splintered with a deafening crack, slipping further as the fire raged away. With a resigned groan, the beams gave way and fell to the vineyard below; a moment before the house seemed to give in and was engulfed by flames.
White hot metal set fire to the vineyards below, and the glowing embers of the balcony were carried on the sea breeze, whirling upwards into the sun. Angeline Fowl pulled herself up and dusted her clothes; relieved at least there was no damage to herself. The impressive stone structure began to collapse as she turned around, all supports melted or charred beyond recognition. She knew the insurance would pay for the house – and all of the belongings, but there were things in there that just couldn't be replaced. There was a hiss of steam from the courtyard as the water from the fountain evaporated in a split second.
There was a groan from behind. She wheeled about, and in her haste, placed the heel of her shoe sharply in the middle of Artemis Senior's fingers. The groan became more of a yelp, until she stepped off his hand. In one fluid movement, she picked up her husband. His already-scarred arms were cut, slashed even, debris embedded in the flesh. The wounds were bleeding profusely; already his polo shirt was soaked in the crimson fluid.
Remnants of Ming vases, paintings and bronze statues were strewn through the neat rows of vines. Artemis pulled the half-melted leg of a 15th Century bronze horse sculpture from a tangle of creepers. He heaved a sigh.
"Jesus Christ," came a stunned voice behind them. Juliet. She'd become rather fond of that phrase of late, mused Angeline. Perhaps she'd converted.
Her apron was torn, bloodied as well, but only from an array of scratches across her neck. Her white blouse was smeared with dirt, and her expression was one of a person who had come across sixty dead, decomposing bodies. Disgust, fear and utter nausea.
"A bomb?" she suggested, and then seemed to affirm her own question by starting an apology. "Madam Fowl, Mister Fowl, I'm so sorry – I mean…" She stammered on pointlessly, more shocked than ashamed. Her arms flailed about, and then she stopped, staring in horror at her employer's arm. Immediately she removed her apron and tore it into strips, winding them tight against Artemis's arm. Perhaps a little too tight. His hand began to turn red, but that was the least of his problems. Tokens of a lifetime of work were in that house. Of course, there was always more back at the mansion, but who was to say that that hadn't been bombed, too?
He snorted in disgust, and then seemed to gain some of his trademark wry humour. He dusted himself off and began to walk towards town. No doubt the police would want a statement, or something. Not that they hadn't already seen the explosion. Already sirens were wailing in the distance. He turned to his wife.
"Déjà vu, right?" he said dryly, smirking ever so slightly.
***