Chapter Three
Alister fumbled with the seatbelt, struggling to make it work with just one hand. Pierre watched him worriedly, not really aware of the gunmen in the car behind them. But that was just as well. He would find out soon enough. At last Alister managed to get the child strapped in and he went to work attempting to fix his own seatbelt, all while the cab driver was frantically trying to steer them away from the dark limousine behind them. He hissed, first being thrown forward and then being slammed against the door, jarring his wounded shoulder.
Pierre yelped in alarm. "What's wrong, mister?" he cried, grabbing the folds of the trenchcoat again and then just clinging to Alister's close-fitting tank top. A bullet shot past the window, breaking the mirror on the driver's side.
Alister struggled to ignore the pain in his shoulder and pulled his trenchcoat's collar up around his neck before putting an arm protectively around the child as he bent over. "They're not giving up," he replied, hearing the back windshield starting to crack after being struck with another bullet. Quickly he wrapped part of his coat around Pierre to guard him against the glass that was certain to break.
It did only a moment later. Pierre shrieked in confusion and fright and Alister held him close as shards bounced off his back. In front, the cab driver cursed and swerved frantically around a corner, hoping to get a head start and evade their new enemies—but the limousine, following at a close pace, seemed unable to be shaken. It continued to chase the taxi through crowded neighborhoods, dark alleys, and vacant streets, the driver and his passenger still shooting every now and then.
The taxi driver's knuckles were white. "I guess I should be grateful they don't have a machine gun," he gulped, wondering why none of the bullets had hit his tires yet. This was too much excitement for his normally lazy mind to cope with. He longed for another routine drive to a hotel or a fancy restaurant—anything except being shot at! He made a silent vow never to allow this strange redhead into his cab again—well, providing that either of them made it out of this alive, that is.
The rapidfire shots that came a moment later signaled to Alister that they did, indeed, have a machine gun. He growled low, continuing to hunch down to avoid being shot and protecting Pierre as best as he could. Once or twice he thought he felt pieces of glass digging into the back of his hand, but he ignored it for the time being.
Raphael glared coldly at the partition separating the back of the limo from the front, which he had closed so as to help prevent any more guns being pointed at him and Hilda. He hated sitting by and doing nothing while the two assassins continued to fire madly at the vehicle in front of them. The feeling of uselessness was one that he had no purpose for. He looked around the space, idly wondering if there was anything he could use to throw at the gunman on his side of the limo. If he could knock the gun out of his hand, or even just render it unusable—and if Hilda could do the same with the one on her side—maybe they would stop the vehicle and Raphael could get the better of them. But the only possible things he could see to throw were Hilda's champagne bottles.
"Hand me one of those," he ordered.
Hilda started and looked over at him in confusion. When she saw what he was pointing at, she frowned and remarked, "Isn't it the wrong time to decide to have a drink?" Besides, she had always known that Raphael didn't drink (even though she had offered him one earlier). What could he have in mind?
"Just give me the bottle," Raphael growled. Blinking in surprise, Hilda handed it over, then immediately yelled in disbelief as Raphael threw it out the window with careful precision. It struck the gun hard, shattering and cutting the hitman's hand—not to mention quickly rendering the weapon useless as it became covered in the sticky, bubbly liquid. The man cursed, dropping it in favor of tending to his wounds. His partner then cursed at him in disgust.
"What do you think you're doing?" Hilda burst out angrily, glaring as Raphael rolled up his window again. "Do you know how much that cost?" She gripped at her wrap as it started to be jolted away from her as they went over a bump. "I paid good money for that champagne!"
Raphael grunted. "I don't know how much it cost," he admitted, "and I don't care. But someone's life is worth more than your cheap ideas of pleasure." He pointed at Hilda's window. "Get another bottle and throw it at the other gun." But he had the feeling that perhaps getting the second gun away wasn't going to be as easy, not if the other assassin was half-prepared for an attack.
"Are you kidding?" Hilda snapped. "I'll do no such thing. That champagne is expensive. Besides, they probably have other artillery that they can use, even if we can disarm them for the moment."
"Whether they do or not, if we can distract them the other car may be able to get away." Raphael's patience was being seriously tried. As always, Hilda's love of material possessions was getting in the way of something being able to be accomplished. He himself had never cared much for temporal possessions, even less so after being stranded on the island for years. Really, all he cared about right now were his friends—and stopping these assassins from killing someone while driving Hilda's hijacked limousine. "Look, if you won't use a champagne bottle, take your shoes off and throw those." He glanced down at Hilda's high heeled pumps. The heels looked to be almost three inches long, Raphael observed in disbelief. How could anyone walk on those without damaging their feet?
Hilda gaped at him. "Then I wouldn't have anything to walk on!" She crossed her arms. "Unless you would agree to carry me inside when we reach Paulette's."
Raphael's eyes narrowed. He was about to reply when Hilda abruptly spoke again.
"Never mind. These shoes cost me almost fifty dollars. I'm not going to toss them out the window like they mean nothing."
In complete irritation Raphael undid his seatbelt and got up, grabbing another bottle and pushing Hilda aside to throw it out the window. She cried out in protest, but Raphael paid no heed. When the hitman hissed in pain but only held the gun tighter, the blonde growled and reached for a third bottle. But that was when the limo jerked to a halt and he was thrown onto the floor without warning.
Hilda frowned at him. "Now we're both in for it!" she complained. "You've wasted two bottles of champagne and now you're going to get us both killed!"
Raphael grunted, pulling himself up onto the seat and preparing himself to fight when the door would be opened, as it surely would be. "I think I remember now why we drifted apart as children," he said, only half sarcastically. "You were always blaming me for everything that went wrong." Not to mention that Hilda was just too superficial for him to be able to stand at times. Her incessant whining about the champagne bottles, under the current circumstances, was enough to drive him utterly mad. Why, she acted as if it was more important than anything else!
He sighed, leaning back against the dark wall and crossing his arms. Valon had asked a question that he didn't know how to answer—he had asked if they would ever escape. He didn't even know why he was talking to the brunette, really. But he supposed it was because there wasn't anything else to do. And somehow, it was nice—to have someone familiar there with him, before he died. He was sure he would. How would they be able to escape? There was no escape from this holding area. And when their souls would be fed to Leviathan, it would all be over.
"I don't think we're going to get away, Valon." He spoke matter-of-factly and emotionlessly, as was normal with him. He saw no reason to run from this truth.
Valon sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah . . . you're probably right, mate." He was silent for a while and then an ironic smile tugged at his lips. "You know . . . I never would've thought that I'd ever wind up dyin' here . . . with you."
"Is that such a horrible prospect?" Alister looked at him slightly, lowering his shades. They were only associates, not close by any means. And yet . . . there was a certain bond between them, something he couldn't explain. Maybe it was because they and Raphael had been together for so long as Doom's top soldiers. He didn't know. But it seemed a bit strange, when he and Valon could usually never get along for more than a short period of time.
Valon laughed hollowly. "I dunno . . . maybe not." He shrugged, giving Alister a sidelong glance. "I guess . . . you and Raph are probably the closest things to chums I have." It seemed strange to say that, but Valon supposed it was the truth. He had never been with anyone else for such a long time, except for Mary, the nun. Naturally he would grow close to people he had been around for ages, especially when they treated him well. So many of the people he had known had been cruel and heartless. Most of the street gangs he had been with in the past had been like that. But Alister and Raphael were not, by any means. Oh, certainly it was hard to get along with Alister sometimes, but at least he never tried to beat or hurt Valon. And Raphael was generally quite tolerant of his oddities.
Alister looked at him, his gray eyes betraying his surprise. "Well . . . if I'm the closest thing you have for a friend, you're in trouble," he remarked flatly.
Valon burst out laughing. "Yeah . . . I guess you're right." He sobered again, leaning against the wall as well. "But hey . . . Alister, if . . . if we ever do get away, what happens to us then?" He spoke slowly, hesitating, not entirely sure he wanted the question answered. He was sure he knew what would happen. They would all go their separate ways, never to see each other again. He would be alone once more, as he had always wound up alone. He hated being alone. . . . He hated it so much. . . . And whether he was consciously willing to acknowledge it or not, he wanted to stay with Alister and Raphael.
Alister thought about Valon's question and frowned, pondering on the answer. But he had no answer. "I don't know," he replied honestly. Did he want to know? Did he even believe he could think about it, when he was convinced of their destruction? He sighed. In a way, he also found the idea nice—staying with Valon and Raphael. At least then he wouldn't have to be constantly alone with his thoughts of the past and of how he could have possibly prevented so many deaths of those he cared about. But on the other hand, he didn't want to be around the other two. He didn't want to put them in possible danger or worry that if something were about to happen to them, he wouldn't be able to stop it. It was one of his worst fears—that if he became close to someone (or two someones) again, they would be taken from him.
The green light of the Orichalcos abruptly interrupted their conversation. Someone else was arriving—another captured soul. Both Alister and Valon came to attention. As the light faded and the tough blonde's form was revealed, Valon gasped in shock and Alister's eyes narrowed. So Raphael had failed as well. . . . Now they would most certainly all die together.
"Mister! Mister, please, wake up! Come on!"
Vaguely Alister was aware of the innocent voice calling to him, but he found it almost impossible to drag himself out of the state of senselessness he had been in. Though his dream's events had happened so long ago, it seemed to him as if they were happening anew right now. He remembered it all so clearly—his conversations with Valon while they were trapped, Raphael's sudden appearance . . . learning the truth about their misfortunes. . . .
"Please! You gotta wake up. You can't . . . you can't die!" Alister felt a small hand grab at his uninjured shoulder and shake him gently. "Come on! Naptime's over now. Wake up!"
Alister managed a groan and at last succeeded in becoming aware enough to open his eyes. He looked right into Pierre's eyes that were full of horror and fear. He couldn't remember what had happened at all or why he needed to wake up. Had he passed out from blood loss or had he hit his head on something? Yes, it must be the latter. His right temple was throbbing. And so, he realized, was his wounded shoulder. "I'm alright," he tried to reassure Pierre, even though he really didn't feel that alright.
The boy brightened immensely and scrambled onto Alister's lap, having undone his seatbelt in order to do so. "The car went really fast around a corner and it went Boom! Crash!" he reported, gesturing wildly to demonstrate. "You hit hard on the door and then you went to sleep." His lip quivered and tears filled his eyes. "You wouldn't wake up!"
Alister struggled to sit up straight. Briefly he massaged his bruised temple and then put his arm around the frightened child. "I'm sorry," he said gently. He would've tried to explain about unconsciousness, but he was certain that Pierre wouldn't understand. Besides, there were most likely other things to worry about. He was awake now and that was what mattered. "Do you know what happened to those men, Pierre?"
The boy shook his head. "They stopped shooting, but then we crashed," he announced. "They're not behind us now."
Alister looked back through the broken windshield. Indeed, the limo was gone. When he glanced back at the front, he discovered that the cab driver was also gone. He frowned darkly. "Is the driver coming back?"
"No," Pierre replied. "He got scared and ran away."
Alister growled. There was no way he could drive the taxi himself, not with his right shoulder improperly treated and his arm almost completely useless. If he tried to use it now, especially for some strenuous activity such as driving, he might damage it permanently. Either they had to find a cab driver with backbone or they would have to walk. But it didn't look like they were in a very rich area. It would probably be a long walk.
Valon nervously paced the floor of the hospital waiting room, his thoughts tumbling over each other as no news of Sandy's condition seemed forthcoming. It was strange—the things that were coming to his mind. All he could think of was when he, Alister, and Raphael had been trapped in the holding area for the captured souls. It had been a confusing, alarming, and downright mystifying experience—but on the other hand, Valon had never felt closer to the other two bikers than he had then. Even he and Alister had been able to converse without getting into arguments every two minutes. He had actually enjoyed their time together, he realized.
And he wished the both of them were with him now. Maybe this would all be less nerve-wracking if he didn't have to go through it alone. As it was, the only other person with him in the room was Michael, who certainly didn't want his company. Valon didn't especially want his, either.
"Stop your pacing," Michael growled at last. "It's making me edgy." He didn't like the Australian being there at all, but it wasn't as if he could make him go away. He had no jurisdiction on what Valon could or couldn't do. But that didn't stop him from vowing that Valon's death would be slow and painful if Sandy died.
"I'm not afraid of you, you know," Valon replied, standing in front of him and crossing his arms. And of course he wasn't. He didn't really fear people—he feared things. Above all, he feared being alone and uncared about, especially after having experienced at least a bit of caring from Alister and Raphael—especially Raphael. Valon was certain that Raphael had been a good older brother to his two siblings, judging from the way he always treated him and Alister.
Michael's eyes narrowed and he looked like he was about to reply something along the lines of "You will be," when a concerned nurse came into the room and looked at them. She recognized them both as being the ones worried about Sandy, so she walked over closer and addressed them both. They then asked to know about Sandy's condition.
"She's still alive," the young woman said quietly, "but it doesn't look good for her. There's a possibility that she may wake up paralyzed, with amnesia, or . . ." She hesitated before finishing her sentence. "Or she may not wake up at all," she concluded. "The possibility is still very great that she may not survive. She took quite a bad spill."
Michael stood up, clenching his fists. "I want to see her," he demanded. "Alone." Valon, knowing that Michael had more of a right to see her than he did, didn't protest.
He watched as the nurse led Michael down the hall and around a corner. Then his shoulders slumped and he leaned against the windowsill. Of course if he'd never joined the stunt artists in the first place, Sandy probably wouldn't have gotten hurt. She wouldn't have known his dangerous antics and therefore wouldn't have tried to copy them. And she wouldn't have grown fond of someone she could never have.
I can't ever do anything right! he berated himself. Then he weakly smirked, imagining what the other two Doom bikers' reactions would have been if he had said that statement to them.
Alister probably would have risen an eyebrow and said flatly that if Valon wanted to believe that, it wasn't his business. Valon supposed that, in Alister's own way, he would be saying that thinking such a thing was ridiculous. Alister was like that. If taken in one context, his words could sound rude—but if taken in the other context, they would mean quite the opposite. Valon usually wound up thinking Alister was being rude. That was how so many of their quarrels got started.
Raphael, on the other hand, might have actually told Valon that it wasn't true and not to beat himself up over what had happened to Sandy. The Australian could picture the blonde man gruffly laying a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. He smiled a bit. Raphael looked extremely cold and rough, but he was actually a gentle, kind person. Heck, he had even owned a couple of cats during the time they were with Doom.
Then Valon sighed. He missed them both—Alister and Raphael. When he thought of them, he could almost feel as though they were still with him. It still wasn't the same as if they really were physically with him, however. It wasn't the same at all. And he wished desperately that it was.
The door flew open, just as Raphael knew it would. The driver of the limousine stood threateningly in the doorway, ignoring his bleeding hand and pointing his gun straight at them both. Hilda tensed and froze on the spot, her heart racing. Raphael simply glared frostily at the hijacker, prepared to leap up in an instant to fight if it was necessary. The gun probably wouldn't work anyway after being coated with champagne, but he didn't want to take any chances.
"You think you're funny, don't you." The voice was low and gravelly and filled with only hateful emotions. The assassin took a step forward. "We almost had that kid!"
His partner joined him now, wrapping his tie around his injured hand. He looked at Raphael equally as nastily, his violet eyes flashing with anger. "If we could've caught up to them and killed the redhead, the kid would've been ours!" he growled. "Do you know how much money we could've made from holding that brat for ransom!" He was quickly elbowed in the ribs for these remarks. There was no need to tell their captives everything, even though soon they would both be dead anyway.
But Raphael's attention had already been piqued. "'Redhead'!" he repeated, his own eyes narrowing darkly. He knew it was likely impossible and preposterous to even begin to assume that Alister was the one they were speaking of, but still . . . still he couldn't let this go unchecked. Alister loved children. If he had stumbled upon a child in danger, Raphael knew that his friend would try everything in his power to rescue him or her. Wouldn't it be a strange and disturbing coincidence if Alister truly was the one they had been shooting at?
The criminal blinked at him in confusion. "Yeah, that's what I said."
Raphael gave them both a deathglare. "Who is this redhead?" He could feel Hilda's eyes upon him questioningly, but he ignored her. He only cared about getting the answer to his query—and quickly. If that had been Alister, by any small chance, than Raphael had been so close to finding him without even knowing it! In all likelihood, he had saved his friend's life.
The first gangster climbed into the limousine now, pointing his gun at Raphael's heart. "What does it matter?" he snarled. "Keep asking questions and you're gonna die a whole lot sooner." His eyes bored into Raphael's own. "He was just a random loser interfering in our plans."
Hilda had never seen Raphael get as angry as he did then. In one swift motion he knocked the gun from the hitman's hand and pinned him down on the car's seat, kicking the weapon underneath it. His blue eyes were aflame with rage. The other criminal just stood by, watching in shock. "If he's who I think he is, he's anything but a loser," Raphael rumbled. "Tell me who he is!"
The assassin struggled in vain to get free. "I don't know, alright?" he yelled. "He was just some guy running around in a black trenchcoat and pants and a weird shirt that showed his waist." He grabbed Raphael's wrists, trying to pry the strong hands away from his coat. "Let me go!" He cursed Raphael viciously. Raphael retaliated by delivering a harsh punch in his face, swiftly rendering him senseless.
Now the blonde man looked up at the gangster's companion. "Don't think I'm gonna let you off the hook, either," he growled. He climbed out of the car and lunged, though the other criminal tried to get away. He didn't make it in time and soon was being held in a headlock by Raphael, who turned to look in at Hilda. "I hope your vehicle is equipped with a phone," he said coldly, pressing just enough on his victim's throat to cause him to pass out from lack of oxygen. "The police need to be called." Raphael released his grip now. There was no need to be cruel. All he wanted was for the criminals to be indisposed long enough to tie them up.
Hilda shakily reached for the phone. "What was that all about?" she cried, dialing 911 in lieu of the local police department—whose number she didn't know. "Why were you so insistent on knowing about some hoodlum redhead!" Raphael baffled her so much. Again she wondered what was going through his mind. The last hour or so that she had spent with him had been more active than anything that had happened during the entire previous week that she had been in this city. She wasn't entirely sure she appreciated it.
Raphael set about tying the two men up with their own ties. His eyes narrowed in anger at Hilda's term of "hoodlum." She didn't even know Alister. How could she possibly try to judge him from what a couple of actual hoodlums had said? "He's not a hoodlum," he said in a quiet, angry tone. "He's one of my only two friends in this world." He looked out the open door, wondering where Alister was right now and if he was safe. It was highly possible that he was wounded—perhaps seriously—but Raphael wouldn't concentrate on thinking that. He wouldn't jump to conclusions. He would wait until he found Alister and saw for himself. Otherwise he would only worry himself silly.
In a way, this incident actually gave him hope. Now he knew that Alister was still alive. The person described had to be him! It would be too much of a coincidence if someone else answered to that description right now. Once the police came and took the thugs away, Raphael vowed that he would look all over the city and not stop until he found his friend. Then he would find the other one, Valon, as well. And then, perhaps, they would be a family again.