Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twelve: The Hit Men, the Little Girl, and the Cab Driver
Hey, Zeb finally gets to check out the Louvre museum in this chapter! How 'bout that. I guess I should make a note that I have never had the pleasure of visiting this museum (or Paris, or any part of France for that matter). Someday, maybe I will, one can only hope, after all. But, getting back on track, if anyone out there HAS been to the Louvre museum before, please feel free to give me some descriptions of the place. It'd be much appreciated. That way, I can go back and correct any mistakes I may have made. Merci!
- - -
Stephan Damiano was not one to accept bribery. No, that was a lie. Half a lie, he decided. He would accept bribery but not CHEAP bribery. He was not won over easily and would only perform acts if the right price came along. So when the excitable, one-armed CIA agent (looking like a hippie wannabe with his long blonde hair, Damiano had noted in disgust) had come along asking him to commit murder, Damiano had calmly countered:
"How much are you willing to pay?"
Stephan Damiano had grinned in satisfaction when the agent had proceeded to make a fool of himself by nearly dropping the prosthetic arm he had been holding and making a mad dash to retrieve it before it hit the floor.
He had been skeptical about lending a hand to the CIA. After all, if they had hired a nervous wreck like the American before him, then that didn't exactly increase his already paltry respect for the agency.
But then the agent had offered him fifty thousand dollars in return for his services. And all he had to do was murder someone. Clean and simple. Easy.
Damiano couldn't help but feel that there was always a problem with everything he did. No matter how cautious he was or how carefully he planed things out, something always seemed to find a way to worm itself into his plan and create chaos. Well . . . maybe not chaos. Not every time, anyway. But a problem always managed to show up. No matter how big or small his job, there it was.
This job was no exception. It had just as many flaws as his previous ones. One was just how the CIA intended to pay him. Now, he was used to the 'half now, half later' deal, but he was usually told to go and kill whoever the next day – or even that very night – and he then received the rest of his payment the day after -- sometimes even sooner. But things were going differently this time. The CIA agent had yet to tell him when he wanted him to kill, where he was supposed to kill, and, most importantly, whose longevity he was shortening. Understandably, Stephan Damiano was growing impatient. He wanted the rest of his money and soon.
The CIA must have realized that he would not sit still for long. Stephan glanced up from his newspaper when he heard the scraping of a chair and the slight creak indicating that someone had sat down. Like the agent he had met before, this one was blonde and had a moustache. Unlike the previous man, however, this agent's hair was noticeably (and reasonably) shorter and the moustache he wore was far more impressive.
"Anything interesting?" the man asked, nodding to the newspaper in Damiano's hands.
"No," he sighed in reply, "just the usual nonsense. No real news just information about pop culture."
"And what do they have to say this week?" asked the agent, a shadow of a grin on his face.
"Ohhh, Paris Hilton made another video –"
"Bet she doesn't know how this one got out either, right?"
"That's what she says. And the paparazzi's going out of their way to stay in Johnny Depp's bad books."
This caused the man across from him to raise an eyebrow.
"The pirate guy?"
"Yes," Damiano said carelessly as he folded his paper, "Apparently one of them tried to photograph his kids again. He was pissed, naturally. Says that he doesn't care if they take pictures of him or his girlfriend but when they go after his kids –"
"– it's a whole other ball game," the agent finished then smiled again. "Stephan Damiano?"
The hit man nodded.
"So nice to finally meet you, Agent Sands."
- - -
"Wonder if they have any of Lautrec's work here," Lynné said thoughtfully, tilting her head to better examine a painting by one Leonardo DaVinci. "There weren't any the last time I was here but things change."
"I'm more of a Monet fan, myself," Zebbidy informed her as she let her green eyes sweep over the artwork. "Never knew the Mona Lisa was so small."
"Yeah, its size always comes as a surprise when someone sees the actual thing for the first time," Lyn agreed.
'Funny,' she thought, 'I seem to recall thinking the same thing about several men . . .'
When Zebbidy began to snicker, Lynné turned to acknowledge her curiously.
"What?"
The quiet laughter abruptly came to an end. Zebbidy looked at her with large eyes.
"Didn't you . . . you mean, you didn't . . . never mind. Forget it."
"No," Lyn pressed, not one to forget anything, "What was that about?"
"I just . . . like to laugh," she said offhandedly.
The other woman arched her eyebrows disbelievingly but she went back to scrutinizing DaVinci's painting relieving Zebbidy of some of her anxiety.
'Like to laugh . . . Smooth, Zeb, real smooth . . .'
"I never did ask you . . ." Zebbidy began cautiously, "that man, the one who went after me in the elevator . . . whatever happened to him?"
"Dead," Lynné replied promptly without missing a beat, "After he told us as much information as he knew, of course."
"Which was . . . ?" Zebbidy prompted.
"Nothing new," Lynné sighed staring into the dark eyes of the Mona Lisa and becoming lost in her thoughts as she did.
- - -
Several strands of hair had slipped past Sands' ears and were now hanging in his face, obscuring his vision. Hastily brushing the strands back, Sands pointed the muzzle of his gun directly at his captive's forehead.
"Last chance, if you have anything you want to say, anything at all –"
"—speak now or forever hold your peace," Lynné finished, also aiming her gun at the man.
He kept his eyes tilted towards the ceiling for a moment before Sands regarded his sister with narrowed eyes.
"Like that wasn't where you were heading," Lyn said, waving her hand nonchalantly.
Sands turned back to their captive but kept his glare in place.
"Honnête à Dieu, c'est tout ce que je sais!" (Honest to God, that's all I know!) the man sputtered in rapid French. Blood was trailing down his face, gushing from the cuts that were made when Sands had hit him with the side of his gun. Rings from the handcuffs he wore had been cut into his wrists like permanent bracelets. His face was swollen and discolored greatly enhancing the man's appearance of a gory Halloween mask.
"Should we believe him?" Lyn asked of Sands.
"I just don't know," Sands answered lightly. "He could be telling the truth . . . then again, maybe not. Either way, his outcome isn't gonna be pretty."
The assassin's dull eyes widened. Suddenly they appeared much brighter, as thought something had sparked in his mind, igniting a fuse that set off thousands upon thousands of ideas, each one depicting his graphic and painful fate.
'Well, y'know what they say,' Lyn thought absently, 'Nothing quite brings out the zest for life in a person like the thought of their impending death.'
Sweat was collecting on the man's face, shining in the dim light she and Sands had focused on him. He was getting rather ripe in Lynné's opinion. She didn't know if it was just the mixture of fear and perspiration he was emitting, or if the guy had merely pissed himself. Lyn bet on the former; she and her brother weren't that intimidating.
What about that one guy? You sent him into cardiac arrest.
Fluke, that was all. Besides, nobody knew he had a weak heart. If he had only told us, then none of that would've happened. Therefore, I am not to blame.
"I'm not sure he is telling the truth," Sands remarked, looking Zebbidy Samhain's would-be killer up and down with distaste. The man shook his head violently, making drops of sweat fly like miniature missals. Lyn just barely held back a cringe.
"J'ai dit vous tout que je sais, je ne cela jurerais que!" (I have told you all that I know, I would swear by it!)
"You would," Sands agreed casually, "except that right now you aren't, which makes me doubt you very much."
The man blanched as his eyes stretched in fear.
"Je -- je vous ai déjà dit—"(I – I already told you --) he started but Sands cut through.
"Yes, yes, we know you told us -- several times, in fact." He sighed, deep in thought. "And that's what makes me think you're lying."
"Que?" (What?) gasped her captive.
"No," Lyn spoke up suddenly. "We've learned all we can from him. I'm sure of it."
"What?" Sands asked, looking at her incredulously. Lyn rolled her eyes, shifting her gun from her right hand to her left.
"We've learned all we can," she repeated, annoyed. "I don't think there's anything else he can tell us."
"And just how can you be sure of that?" Sands questioned cynically.
Lyn's only answer was to gesture at the assassin with the barrel of her gun. The man winced, crunching his eyes together, but he slowly opened them when he realized that he wasn't going to be shot. Not yet.
Sands followed his sister's arm – amazing how both of his were coated with blood while each of hers were perfectly clean -- her gun, and his eyes finally landed on the man. Lynné's weapon was pointed directly at their captive's head. Sands' gaze lingered on the attacker's eyes for a fragment of a second before they reverted back to Lynné.
A look passed between them, one that let them know they had reached a term of understanding. The man before them was telling the truth. He had given them all the information he could, told them all that he knew. He had served his purpose and now he had to be disposed of.
"Do you wanna do it, or shall I?" Lyn murmured quietly.
Sands waved her off. "You do the honors, darlin', I've been having all the fun."
Raising an eyebrow, Lyn asked, "You sure?"
"Oh, yeah," Sands told her confidently, with a grin and a nod.
His sister returned the gesture with a shrug.
"Okay."
She cocked her gun slightly, readying herself, and prepared to fire. She was just about to pull the trigger when suddenly she lowered her weapon.
"Hand me that silencer, wouldja, dear?" she said, looking at Sands.
Her brother grabbed the attachment from the bed and tossed it to her without a word. He remained sitting on the piece of furniture, not wanting to be nearby when things got messy.
Lynné twiddled with the silencer for a moment, finally securing it to her gun. She then lifted the small, jet-black pistol, tilting her head back as she did so in order to get a better view of her captive.
On the bed, Sands absentmindedly flicked through a magazine. He didn't even look up when a dull, strangled shot rang through the air.
Gazing with eyes that held no trace of remorse, Lyn steadily lowered her gun. When she had fired the results had been instantaneous. The bullet pelted through the air and in a matter of seconds it had pierced through the head of her captive. At once blood had spouted from the hole like a fountain, spattering all over creating. It stained everything a dark crimson, including Lynné.
Ahhhh . . . she hissed to herself, of all the days I chose to cover myself in blood – I liked this shirt!
She glanced down at the top she was wearing. It was a T-shirt, bright yellow in color that had the words 'Natural Blonde' splashed across it in neon green lettering. Lynné wore the shirt without a wig despite the fact that complete strangers would stop to ask her if she knew that she was, in reality, a brunette. It was exceptionally funny if she could piss off a few blondes she knew.
Sands finally looked up from his book to catch a glimpse of his sister, wondering who she would look like: Stephen King's 'Carrie' or someone out of 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre'. Turns out, Lyn resembled neither. Her hair was a mess; all stringy and tangled. Of course her clothes were covered with blood, that was expected. But it was the way the attacker's fluids had sprayed all over her face that intrigued Sands the most. His sister's image now bore large freckles where the drops of scarlet had landed. Some of it trailed down her cheeks, some of it remained stationary. Still or moving, the blood against her pale skin gave her almost a haunted look. And when Lynné turned to him and grinned, Sands thought she looked absolutely insane.
- - -
Zebbidy gasped, clutching her chest and staring up at the painting in front of her with blank eyes. Lynné had gone off to sit on the bench behind her and was now thumbing through the glossy pamphlet she had swiped from the museum.
It seemed so strange to her that the agent could go about things so calmly when just weeks ago she had killed a man – stood placidly and killed a man. And her brother, Sands, had just sat there and let her do it! Zebbidy didn't believe a person could do such a thing.
'But they couldn't just let him go.' She tried desperately to be reasonable, hoping to find some kind of explanation for why the two agents had just up and killed a man. 'They could have used him as ransom though . . . Oh, that wouldn't work. He was probably just some thug hired and paid in full to kill me. He wouldn't be any value to . . .' She faltered on the last word in her sentence, not wanting to finish.
'It's over and yet it has begun again,' she thought faintly, as if reciting an epic or a poem all about despair and memories past. 'But, hell, I'll get over it; I always do.'
- - -
"Listen, Damiano . . . I will call you when we're ready. No one has made a move yet, and until someone does, we're not going to make ours, capisca?"
From across the table his hit man glared at him. Sands sighed inwardly and rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. It seemed like all the assassins he had ever hired kept to a strong silent act and only spoke when they absolutely had to. And then they were either short and to the point of sharp and sarcastic; either way they all had a certain, irritating wit about them that just about pushed him to the edge. Then Sands reminded himself that he needed those sons of bitches to do the dirty work whenever he was busy, so that kept them alive.
'For a while, anyway,' he smirked silently.
"It's all . . . very . . . complicated," Sands told him, trying to sound like he was being reassuring while keeping up his careless composure. "I'm sure you –"
"You think I would not understand?" the man shot at him, his Italian ethnicity seeming more present than it had before. Damiano could feel his muscles flexing underneath the brown tailored suit he wore. He was a very well built man, certainly much more toned than the CIA agent across from him. He could probably snap Agent Sands in two if he wanted. Damiano knew that Sands was well aware of this, however, the agent didn't seem worried in the least. He said whatever he wanted and did whatever he felt like doing and he didn't care what anybody thought about it.
"I didn't say that," the agent said, a smile tugging on his lips.
"We are free to think whatever we like, Agent Sands," Damiano spat, narrowing his brown eyes in vexation. Across the table, Sands smirked and nodded slightly, more to himself than to his hit man.
"Yes . . ." he agreed with quiet amusement, "we are."
- - -
Zebbidy filled her line of vision with a painting that she could not take her eyes off of. It wasn't an exceptionally fancy piece of artwork; just a nice pond with several water lilies floating on its surface, surrounded by reeds and cattails and marshy grasses. It was a very pretty scene; very peaceful and trainquil. Relaxing. It reminded her of something, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what. Before she could do as she always did (think up lyrics to a song that would fit the occasion) Zebbidy heard a short yelp from behind her.
"Goddamn kid, stop stalking me!"
"Mais, mademoiselle – " (But, miss --)
"Why are you following me?"
"Je – " (I --)
"Did someone pay you? Agent Grosse, that scheming fuckwad; he put you up to this, didn't he? Do you know someone named Grosse?"
The little girl shook her head, her fair curls swinging wildly around her pale face.
"Non."
"Then why the hell are you . . . "Lynné held up a hand. "Hold on."
Quickly rising from the bench, she hurried over to Zebbidy, taking long, silent strides as she went.
'Is there even a kid at all? How the fuck do I know that I didn't just make her up?' she wondered frantically.
Relax, Lynnie, you're not going crazy – crazier, the voice corrected itself at once. You've just been reading into that Stephen King novel too much.
This was true. After finishing the second story in 'Four Past Midnight' Lynné thought about her voice and the new people she encountered more and more. The story had a twist to it that made all the more paranoid. It had given her new thoughts about her voice and she had been wondering about disorders like schizophrenia and MPD ever since.
"Who's she?" Zebbidy asked the moment Lynné reached her. The other woman shrugged.
"Don't know, don't care, just wanna know why she's following me around," she muttered with a half glance at the little girl. Said child was staring around frantically, her already large eyes magnified with confusion. Zebbidy watched her for a time in a kind of transfixed wonder.
"Is . . . is something wrong with her . . . ?" she asked Lynné in a hushed toned.
The agent's only response was a shake of her head.
'I think she might be blind.'
"Blind?" Zebbidy breathed, appalled.
Lyn gave her a strange look.
"She's blind, isn't she?" Zebbidy add-libbed to cover her slip up. "The little girl."
'Damnit, why can I only catch bits of her thoughts?' she demanded of herself.
"I have the sneaking suspicion that she is," Lyn confided quietly.
"Excusez-moi ?" (Excuse me?)
The girl seemed to have located Lynné by the sound of her voice. She was now tugging on the CIA agent's arm with all her might.
"Mademoiselle, vous devez vous dépêcher! Quelqu'un est après que vous!" (Miss, you have to hurry! Someone is after you!)
"What – who? Who's after me?" Lyn demanded, crouching down so she was eye-to-eye with the child.
"Mon oncle et mon grand-père!" (My uncle and my grandfather!) she cried in a frantically quiet voice, as though she knew it would be wrong to draw attention to herself. The girl looked around even though she could see nothing and pulled harder on Lynné's sleeve and ignoring Zebbidy completely. "Et une femme," (And a woman,) she added in a hiss of a whisper almost as if she was forbidden to speak of such things.
'Probably is if she knows Poisson,' Lyn thought spitefully.
"Okay, look, kid –"
"Je ne peux pas!" ( I can't!) she informed Lynné. With a stamp of her foot her hands were on her hips and she was glaring up at the American woman as though thoroughly irritated that she was not listening.
"Right, right, sorry," Lyn apologized quickly. "How do you know Poisson's after us? More importantly, why are you telling us this?"
"Mon oncle, il ne se soucie pas de moi; il veut sa nièce et il vous veut mort!" (My uncle, he doesn't care about me; he wants his niece and he wants you dead!)
Lynné stopped dead.
"Is your uncle Édouard Poisson?" she asked weakly. Beside her, Zebbidy paled.
The little girl shook her head impatiently.
"Non, il est mon grand-père. Son fils, Alphonse, est mon gardien." (No, he's my grandfather. His son, Alphonse, is my guardian.)
Lyn raised an eyebrow at her. A second later she reached out and took the girl by the wrist.
"Come on," she ordered determinedly to both the child and Zebbidy.
Without a word of explanation, she marched out of the room. Down the halls of the museum Lynné went, dragging the little girl with her and leaving Zebbidy to hurry along behind them.
- - -
"Déposez-nous juste à l'extérieur de la ville," (Just drop us off outside of town,) Lynné informed the driver feverishly, not wanting to bother with hiding her knowledge of the French language. Roughly and ignoring all protests, she pulled the little girl inside the taxicab. Silently, Zebbidy slid inside after her, all the while watching the cab driver in the rear view mirror. He was the same one from before. Coincidence? She thought not.
"How did you know it was me they were looking for if you're – " Lyn started.
"J'ai entendu votre voix! La première fois que je vous ai rencontrés j'ai appris par coeur votre voix, ainsi quand je vous ai rencontrés de nouveau je savais qu'il était vous. Alors, la nuit dernière j'ai entendu ma conversation d'oncle Alphonse et ensuite ils ont joué un . . . un enregistrement?" (I heard your voice! The first time I met you I memorized your voice, so when I met you again I knew it was you. Then, last night I heard my uncle Alphonse talking and then they played a . . . a recording?) The child looked up at Lyn with uncertainty.
"They have a recording of me?" she asked in amazement.
The girl nodded vigorously.
"Oui, c'est tout. J'ai reconnu votre voix, la Mlle! Et ensuite ils ont dit que vous étiez une femme du gouvernement américain et que vous étiez un problème et avez dû être gardés . . ." (Yes, that's it. I recognized your voice, miss! And then they said that you were a woman from the American government and that you were a problem and had to be taken care of . . .) She let her voice fade, not wanting to finish.
"And we all know what that means," Lyn completed for her.
Up front, the driver raised a gloved hand.
"Je sais que je fais," (I know I do,) he put in dryly. In the mirror she saw the corner of his mouth twist into an eclipse of a smile.
Is that bastard mocking you?
I'd bet on it.
Lynné glared at him. Beside her, Zebbidy's eyes were slanted with irritation as well. The only difference was, she could see the man's eyes behind his dark glasses while the other woman could not. Zebbidy's sharp gaze penetrated the thin lenses that hid his eyes from her. They were brown. A color common in many people but it was the shade of the man's eyes that made them so intriguing. They were dark, extremely dark, and intense. But several weeks ago when she had run into the man's hotel room after nearly being suffocated by one of Poisson's assassins . . . she could have sworn his eyes had been green.
"No comment from you, mister," Lynné was saying sternly. "Just drive."
All sound was extinguished in the car as the driver leaned forward and turned on the ignition. The engine purred lowly in the front of the vehicle, and in a matter of seconds they were off. The moment the taxi began to move, Lynné spoke again.
"And the next time you're going to try and follow me, Sands . . . . I'd appreciate it if you at least found a decent moustache to wear because that one is absolutely unbelievable."
- - -
Hmmm . . . so Sands was the cab driver all along, huh? Who'da thought it? Meh, I'm being annoying again, right? (waves hand dismissivly) Okay, okay, I'll stop before Sands whacks me over the head with a baseball bat. -.9;
Sands: (lowering a bat with disappointment) It's for your own good. u.u
Sidney: -.e You mean your own good. XP
Sands: (raising a brow at her) Such a lady. 9.9
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
DragonHunter200: I know what you mean; I really don't think Sands has gotten to manipulate anybody in this story. Not that much at least. Hopefully he had fun messing with minds in this chapter, though. ) (pictures Sands and Liam "bonding") Riiight about there is when the winged pig flies by and then world comes to an end.
Dawnie-7: lol, womanly bonding, I guess you could call it that, although I don't know if Lyn's ever bonded with anyone. And someday, Lynné will be appreciated. u.u o.o If all goes as planed, at least. O.o'
SexySparrow7: (waves) Hi, new reviewer! Nice to hear that you like my stories. ) Heh, if you were thinking the cab driver, you were right. It was kinda obvious, especially after I put that author's note at the end, wasn't it? Ah well. And my Sands is an ass? (looks around) Yes! That means I'm keeping him in character hopefully! Very hard thing to do. 9.6;; Just for curiosity's sake, what's the other OUaTiM fic that you like? Is it on or another site? O.o? Thanks for reviewing, in any case. )
The Gilatas Monster: (holds up hands in defense) Fine, fine, okay, you caught me. I did that on purpose. Don't sue me, Steph, you know I don't gots any money. Well . . . actually I do have some cash on me. I just don't flaunt the fact. u.u
Oh, and one more thing. I recently read on a web site ) a quote said by Mr. Depp himself:
"I don't care if they take my photo – although I don't know why anyone needs another picture of me, I don't care if they get Vanessa's photo, but when they take one of my kids, that I can't support."
Obviously, this is where I got the idea for the newspaper article Stephan Damiano read to Sands earlier on in this chapter. But, more importantly is 's idea that if we don't go out and buy magazines that contain pictures of Johnny's children, then their value will go down and hopefully the paparazzi will realize that no one is interested and will leave Johnny and his kids alone. Hopefully if we all refuse to show interest in those tabloids things will slow down a bit. And even if they don't, we'd still be respecting Mr. Depp's wishes.
Fight the power, guys!