Ma Soleil
Chapter Sixteen: The Hit
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
The door opened, and a an in full Thief Guild regalia walked in. "It's time," he muttered, and held out a pair of Genoshan cuffs.
"I'm not a m. . ."
"You are in our books."
Warden shrugged and allowed the Thief to snap them on, and lead him out of the room, down a hall, to an elevator, which he opened with a password on a keypad. After a few moments inside, the doors slid open and they walked out into a pristine office building. "Was that a teleporter?" his guard didn't say anything; he didn't even bother looking at him, and shoved him through a door into an office. Behind the wide maple desk sat Guillaume l'Rivière, scribbling notes in a planner and adding his signature of authorization to a select few documents. After a few moments, he looked up.
"Ah, bonjour, M'sieu' Warden. Woul' y' like some coffee?"
"Yes, please."
"'Ow do y' take it?"
"Black. With sugar."
"All righty, den," l'Rivière nodded to the Guilder, who hurried out and returned momentarily with the requested liquor.
"So what's going on with the op, then?"
"In fifteen minutes, de homme's gonna be comin' up t' dis office. Y're gonna be sittin' in dat chair, an' you're gonna fire two shots. Dat'll 'ave t' kill 'im, but y'll 'ave t' move fast. . .dis homme is a merc, one of y'r own, as dey say."
"Anyone I know?"
"P'r'aps, mon ami. . ." l'Rivière pulled a package of Silk Cut from his desk and morphed momentarily into Pete Wisdom, lighting the cigarette with a hot-knife before sliding back into his own skin. "D'ya wan' 'is name?"
"Yeah, that would be nice. . ."
"All right. It be Garrett Clyde."
"Clyde? He's one of the most notorious assassins in the North Territory." Warden's eyes narrowed. "It'll be a difficult hit. I hope you've planned this well."
"'Ave, mon ami. I'm a Lord, after all." He grinned complacently.
"True as that might be, have you disarmed him? Mentally, I mean. Have you lulled him into a false sense of security so the last thing on his mind is that you'd want to kill him?"
"I've tried. 'E won' be expectin' dis t'day. I've already paid de homme, after all."
"What for?"
"Fo'e an op. Don' matter what it was, but I jest want y' t' know dat 'e went bad. 'E t'inks it came off all right, but 'e slipped up an' killed de wrong femme."
"So this is over a woman, then?"
"Somet'in' like. Not what y' t'ink, doe, Warden. She wasn' m' chère ami."
"And you're telling me this. . .why?"
"B'cause I don' wan' y' rattin' dis off t' Soleil b'cause y' t'ink I'm heartbroken. It's an ache of a different sort."
"Did you want me to tell her something?"
"Sure. Tell 'er dat it's fo'e Nynie." He shrugged, and, putting a hand into his desk again, he drew out a small police-issue nine. "Y' be a professional, non? Handle it wit' dis."
"I can do that." Chris tucked the gun into his belt. "Is the clip full?"
"Non, mon ami. . .dere be two shots in dere. Jest t' make certain Clyde's bit de bullet. No pun intended." He grinned sexily, winked at the merc. Warden would have blushed if he weren't so terrified. He was, admittedly, one of the best assassins in the Merc Community, but he hadn't killed anyone in over three years and Clyde was something of a shining star in the business. As though he'd read his thoughts, Guillaume muttered, "You can do it, Warden. Make R'becca proud, hien?" and he walked out of the office.
Chris leaned back in the chair, opened a few drawers, just to be sure there weren't any explosives contained therein, and frowned when he found not even a cigar. Everything was organized neatly, though upon closer inspection he could tell that the papers on the desk were mock-ups of business deals to give the office an authentic feel. There were pale, latex-free rubber gloves sitting on the desk, and Warden tugged them on, erasing his fingerprints from the gun on his shirt. Sitting back and checking to see that the safety was removed, he waited for his prey.
Not moments later, the desk-phone buzzed, and he picked it up.
"Mr. Garrett is here to see you, are you ready for him?" a crisp, professional woman's voice said.
"Yes, I am. Send him in, please." Warden replied, taking a deep breath. He hung up the phone and prepped himself mentally and physically. A shadow approached the ground glass at the office door, and the handle turned. Warden leveled the gun before Garrett even stepped in, and the moment he saw the pair of brown eyes, he fired one shot into each. The man crumpled instantly, bleeding profusely from the skull. Warden laid the gun on the desk and stepped toward the body, eyes vacant. The doorway filled again, but this time he was looking at l'Rivière, who was grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
"Well done, mon ami." He laughed. "I never believed de ratin's y' get, but kudos t' y' fo'e surpassin' all my expectations. I t'ink y' might even be as good as I was back in de day." He chuckled again, this time more quietly, and his green eyes turned to foresty steel. "I guess y' can call R'becca now, den." Pulling a cell-phone from his pocket, he hit an auto-dial number and handed it to Warden. The Crime-lord snapped his fingers, summoning a dozen hulking body-guards. "Clean dis up, mes amis," he shrugged, and left the office.
Warden held the phone to his ear, trembling a little, and not quite sure what he was going to say. When it was picked up, he closed his eyes and exulted silently. "H. . .hello? Guillaume? Is that you?"
"No, Becky, it's Chris."
"Warden! What the hell. . .?"
"It's over. I did the op. It was Clyde Garrett."
"Standard hit?"
"Nah, I couldn't resist giving it my trademark. A bullet through each eye."
"Damn. You know. . ."
"They're never gonna find the body, you know. Or they will, only it won't BE his."
"Right. l'Rivière's a genius that way, you know?"
"Hell, he runs the biggest Crime conglomerate this side of anywhere."
"So are you. . .are you all right?"
"A little hungry. And I feel like noshing someone to have them drain this nitro out of my system."
"It'll drain itself. It releases itself through your pores within seventy-two hours. He did the same thing to me, once."
"Oh, shit."
"What?"
"I just realized what's wrong with you."
"Ha bloody ha, Chris. So, are you gonna. . .will you meet me in New York?"
"Your little Institute? Xavier's? Are you kidding?"
"Yeah. No, no I'm not. He's coming home soon, and I want you to meet him. It'll do you good to be put on his roster. That way, he'll be able to look out for you in a way our associates can't."
"Do you mean Cerebro?"
"Yeah. . .not so much anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because. . .I'll tell you when you get here. Listen, put Guillaume on. I want to tell him something."
"If you're wondering how much we're getting for the op, he's not robbing us. Hell, I'm pretty sure I would have taken the job if he'd have just asked straight-up."
"He has ways about him. . .don't ask him. Just. . .would you put him on?"
"If you insist." Warden stepped beyond the huddle of Guilders cleaning up the body, and out into the hall, where l'Rivière was going over some paperwork with an intern. "Hey, l'Rivière, she wants to ask you something."
"If it's 'ow much y' be gettin' paid fo'e de op an' kidnappin', it's forty mill."
"I told her, but I don't think that's what she wants."
"Hum. All right, give de phone 'ere." Snatching the cell from Warden, Guillaume crooned into the receiver. "'Ello, chère. Long time, no see. 'Ow y' doin'?"
"Where are you?"
"At m' office."
"It was Garrett?"
"Oui. Why d'ya ask?"
There was silence on the other end for some time. 'You didn't have to do this, Guillaume."
"Lissen, I didn' off de homme fo'e y', I did it fo'e a business deal. 'E killed Nynie, an' de benefit t' y' was incidental."
"He. . .he WHAT?!"
"Y' 'eard me. 'E killed 'er. Stupid American."
"Huh. I'm. . .I'm so sorry. Have you had the funeral?"
"Wit'out y'? Course not, chère! Why, Nynie'd roll over in 'er grave if she knew dat y' weren't present. After all, she was de one dat wan'ed me t' marry y'."
"That's true. . .listen, I'm really sorry. I. . .I don't know what to say."
"Dat's all right, chère. Don' sweat it, as y'd say under extreme duress."
She chuckled over the phone, but her voice was lower, deeper. The news had stuck a sensitive chord in her. "All right, I'll see you later. Hey, will you do me a favor?"
"Any't'in', chère."
"Jet Warden over here, will you? Quickly? I wanna make sure nothing like this ever happens to him again."
"Oooh, burn!" Guillaume forced a smile into his tone. "All right, chère. 'E'll be dere in two seconds."
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Can't y' take ANY'T'IN figuratively, chère?"
"Yeah, sure. If you're going to be all hissy about it. I suppose I'll see you when I do. Would you give me back to my partner, now?"
"Sure." He handed the phone to Warden, who was standing round with his hands in his pockets.
"Hello?"
"Chris, l'Rivière is going to ship you up to me. Just follow him, and if he tries anything stupid, tell me later so I can run wild on his mindscape."
"All right, babe. I'll see you later, kay?"
"See you, Chris. Be safe."
"I'll try. Oh, hey, do you think Northstar's in New York?"
She hung up.
XXX
Chapter Sixteen: The Hit
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
The door opened, and a an in full Thief Guild regalia walked in. "It's time," he muttered, and held out a pair of Genoshan cuffs.
"I'm not a m. . ."
"You are in our books."
Warden shrugged and allowed the Thief to snap them on, and lead him out of the room, down a hall, to an elevator, which he opened with a password on a keypad. After a few moments inside, the doors slid open and they walked out into a pristine office building. "Was that a teleporter?" his guard didn't say anything; he didn't even bother looking at him, and shoved him through a door into an office. Behind the wide maple desk sat Guillaume l'Rivière, scribbling notes in a planner and adding his signature of authorization to a select few documents. After a few moments, he looked up.
"Ah, bonjour, M'sieu' Warden. Woul' y' like some coffee?"
"Yes, please."
"'Ow do y' take it?"
"Black. With sugar."
"All righty, den," l'Rivière nodded to the Guilder, who hurried out and returned momentarily with the requested liquor.
"So what's going on with the op, then?"
"In fifteen minutes, de homme's gonna be comin' up t' dis office. Y're gonna be sittin' in dat chair, an' you're gonna fire two shots. Dat'll 'ave t' kill 'im, but y'll 'ave t' move fast. . .dis homme is a merc, one of y'r own, as dey say."
"Anyone I know?"
"P'r'aps, mon ami. . ." l'Rivière pulled a package of Silk Cut from his desk and morphed momentarily into Pete Wisdom, lighting the cigarette with a hot-knife before sliding back into his own skin. "D'ya wan' 'is name?"
"Yeah, that would be nice. . ."
"All right. It be Garrett Clyde."
"Clyde? He's one of the most notorious assassins in the North Territory." Warden's eyes narrowed. "It'll be a difficult hit. I hope you've planned this well."
"'Ave, mon ami. I'm a Lord, after all." He grinned complacently.
"True as that might be, have you disarmed him? Mentally, I mean. Have you lulled him into a false sense of security so the last thing on his mind is that you'd want to kill him?"
"I've tried. 'E won' be expectin' dis t'day. I've already paid de homme, after all."
"What for?"
"Fo'e an op. Don' matter what it was, but I jest want y' t' know dat 'e went bad. 'E t'inks it came off all right, but 'e slipped up an' killed de wrong femme."
"So this is over a woman, then?"
"Somet'in' like. Not what y' t'ink, doe, Warden. She wasn' m' chère ami."
"And you're telling me this. . .why?"
"B'cause I don' wan' y' rattin' dis off t' Soleil b'cause y' t'ink I'm heartbroken. It's an ache of a different sort."
"Did you want me to tell her something?"
"Sure. Tell 'er dat it's fo'e Nynie." He shrugged, and, putting a hand into his desk again, he drew out a small police-issue nine. "Y' be a professional, non? Handle it wit' dis."
"I can do that." Chris tucked the gun into his belt. "Is the clip full?"
"Non, mon ami. . .dere be two shots in dere. Jest t' make certain Clyde's bit de bullet. No pun intended." He grinned sexily, winked at the merc. Warden would have blushed if he weren't so terrified. He was, admittedly, one of the best assassins in the Merc Community, but he hadn't killed anyone in over three years and Clyde was something of a shining star in the business. As though he'd read his thoughts, Guillaume muttered, "You can do it, Warden. Make R'becca proud, hien?" and he walked out of the office.
Chris leaned back in the chair, opened a few drawers, just to be sure there weren't any explosives contained therein, and frowned when he found not even a cigar. Everything was organized neatly, though upon closer inspection he could tell that the papers on the desk were mock-ups of business deals to give the office an authentic feel. There were pale, latex-free rubber gloves sitting on the desk, and Warden tugged them on, erasing his fingerprints from the gun on his shirt. Sitting back and checking to see that the safety was removed, he waited for his prey.
Not moments later, the desk-phone buzzed, and he picked it up.
"Mr. Garrett is here to see you, are you ready for him?" a crisp, professional woman's voice said.
"Yes, I am. Send him in, please." Warden replied, taking a deep breath. He hung up the phone and prepped himself mentally and physically. A shadow approached the ground glass at the office door, and the handle turned. Warden leveled the gun before Garrett even stepped in, and the moment he saw the pair of brown eyes, he fired one shot into each. The man crumpled instantly, bleeding profusely from the skull. Warden laid the gun on the desk and stepped toward the body, eyes vacant. The doorway filled again, but this time he was looking at l'Rivière, who was grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
"Well done, mon ami." He laughed. "I never believed de ratin's y' get, but kudos t' y' fo'e surpassin' all my expectations. I t'ink y' might even be as good as I was back in de day." He chuckled again, this time more quietly, and his green eyes turned to foresty steel. "I guess y' can call R'becca now, den." Pulling a cell-phone from his pocket, he hit an auto-dial number and handed it to Warden. The Crime-lord snapped his fingers, summoning a dozen hulking body-guards. "Clean dis up, mes amis," he shrugged, and left the office.
Warden held the phone to his ear, trembling a little, and not quite sure what he was going to say. When it was picked up, he closed his eyes and exulted silently. "H. . .hello? Guillaume? Is that you?"
"No, Becky, it's Chris."
"Warden! What the hell. . .?"
"It's over. I did the op. It was Clyde Garrett."
"Standard hit?"
"Nah, I couldn't resist giving it my trademark. A bullet through each eye."
"Damn. You know. . ."
"They're never gonna find the body, you know. Or they will, only it won't BE his."
"Right. l'Rivière's a genius that way, you know?"
"Hell, he runs the biggest Crime conglomerate this side of anywhere."
"So are you. . .are you all right?"
"A little hungry. And I feel like noshing someone to have them drain this nitro out of my system."
"It'll drain itself. It releases itself through your pores within seventy-two hours. He did the same thing to me, once."
"Oh, shit."
"What?"
"I just realized what's wrong with you."
"Ha bloody ha, Chris. So, are you gonna. . .will you meet me in New York?"
"Your little Institute? Xavier's? Are you kidding?"
"Yeah. No, no I'm not. He's coming home soon, and I want you to meet him. It'll do you good to be put on his roster. That way, he'll be able to look out for you in a way our associates can't."
"Do you mean Cerebro?"
"Yeah. . .not so much anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because. . .I'll tell you when you get here. Listen, put Guillaume on. I want to tell him something."
"If you're wondering how much we're getting for the op, he's not robbing us. Hell, I'm pretty sure I would have taken the job if he'd have just asked straight-up."
"He has ways about him. . .don't ask him. Just. . .would you put him on?"
"If you insist." Warden stepped beyond the huddle of Guilders cleaning up the body, and out into the hall, where l'Rivière was going over some paperwork with an intern. "Hey, l'Rivière, she wants to ask you something."
"If it's 'ow much y' be gettin' paid fo'e de op an' kidnappin', it's forty mill."
"I told her, but I don't think that's what she wants."
"Hum. All right, give de phone 'ere." Snatching the cell from Warden, Guillaume crooned into the receiver. "'Ello, chère. Long time, no see. 'Ow y' doin'?"
"Where are you?"
"At m' office."
"It was Garrett?"
"Oui. Why d'ya ask?"
There was silence on the other end for some time. 'You didn't have to do this, Guillaume."
"Lissen, I didn' off de homme fo'e y', I did it fo'e a business deal. 'E killed Nynie, an' de benefit t' y' was incidental."
"He. . .he WHAT?!"
"Y' 'eard me. 'E killed 'er. Stupid American."
"Huh. I'm. . .I'm so sorry. Have you had the funeral?"
"Wit'out y'? Course not, chère! Why, Nynie'd roll over in 'er grave if she knew dat y' weren't present. After all, she was de one dat wan'ed me t' marry y'."
"That's true. . .listen, I'm really sorry. I. . .I don't know what to say."
"Dat's all right, chère. Don' sweat it, as y'd say under extreme duress."
She chuckled over the phone, but her voice was lower, deeper. The news had stuck a sensitive chord in her. "All right, I'll see you later. Hey, will you do me a favor?"
"Any't'in', chère."
"Jet Warden over here, will you? Quickly? I wanna make sure nothing like this ever happens to him again."
"Oooh, burn!" Guillaume forced a smile into his tone. "All right, chère. 'E'll be dere in two seconds."
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Can't y' take ANY'T'IN figuratively, chère?"
"Yeah, sure. If you're going to be all hissy about it. I suppose I'll see you when I do. Would you give me back to my partner, now?"
"Sure." He handed the phone to Warden, who was standing round with his hands in his pockets.
"Hello?"
"Chris, l'Rivière is going to ship you up to me. Just follow him, and if he tries anything stupid, tell me later so I can run wild on his mindscape."
"All right, babe. I'll see you later, kay?"
"See you, Chris. Be safe."
"I'll try. Oh, hey, do you think Northstar's in New York?"
She hung up.
XXX