A/N: Gun information is at the end of the chapter. Just some clarification of the stats of the weapons I'm using.
-BEGIN FIC-
there are some things I'll live withoutbut I want you to know that I need you right now
suffer my desire
suffer my desire
suffer my desire for you
-In The Arms Of Sleep-
-- 23:15, Yesterday --
The soft glow of florescent light dimly illuminated the rounded form of the binoculars as they were lifted before their user's face. Hazel eyes squinted as they peered through the small lenses, focusing on the greatly magnified image the device provided.
A sly smirk took thin, wiry lips as the hand that held those binoculars tightened its grip on the instrument.
"Bingo."
Chuckling quietly, his rough, dark masculine voice flowing easily from his throat past his lips similar to the purr of a jungle cat, the shadow-shrouded man leaned towards the window he was peering through. Black gloved hand gripping the windowsill; the bare one quickly adjusted its grip on the binoculars.
"And here I'd thought you'd be more careful than this these days, boy. Especially considering that you well know you're being hunted."
Still snickering, the man backed away from the office window even as his subject of study turned sharply, bright aqua eyes focused in his exact direction, blond hair sweeping away from those big orbs with the sudden speed of his spin to face the window of his dwelling. As darkness overtook his form once more, he lowered the binoculars, removing the sight of the narrow-eyed blond boy from his eyes.
Turning on his own heel, the tall black-clothed man walked calmly towards the door of the office he had used as an outpost, stopping for but a moment by the large oak desk that dominated the room to pat the still, shaggy head of the man who sat in the high-backed chair stationed before it.
As the man's brown-haired head lolled loosely forward, the intruder smirked again. "Wonder how pissed they're going to be when they discover you dead at your desk tomorrow morning, Mister Malachi. They'll be damning your soul for committing suicide right in the middle of your legal battle with Narington Incorporated."
The gloved hand slipped the dead man's stiffening fingers around the Beretta 950 Jetfire (1), turning the blood-coated gun towards his stationary, bloodied face.
"Pity I've got to part with such a nice gun, but it's the cheapest one I've got. You're only worth a 950."
With another laugh, turning on his heel and sweeping his long, unbound brown hair behind his shoulders, the man marched confidently out of the office.
He made certain to swing past the incinerator on the way out, quickly donning his clean white t-shirt and blue jeans and burning his blood-splattered black ensemble with the glove he'd used to hold the weapon he'd murdered the stout lawyer with.
With hands stuffed deeply in his pockets and a smile upon his face, the man walked out into the night, vanishing into the alleyways behind the corporate building as easily as a shadow into the darkness of night.
-- 10:49 --
The room's heavy darkness coated everything within its depths, even as the bright sun of the late morning threw its rays about with careless abandon. Barely visible in the dark recesses of the small hotel room, its interior blocking the sun's desperate attempt to light it with dusty mini-blinds, the tall man shuffled over to the ringing phone. Lifting the handset from its base, he pressed the 'on' button and held it to his ear. "Yo," he groggily grunted into the device.
"How did it go, my friend?" the scratchy voice on the other end of the device questioned merrily.
Sitting down on the edge of his bed, the man yawned. "Well as can be expected. No one's tied us to Malachi's death yet and with the precautions I've taken, no one ever will. We've got nothing at all to worry about."
"Any contact with the target?"
"Oh, plenty of it," he muttered into the phone as he swept his hair out of his face, pushing the long brown tendrils behind his ears with callous-covered fingers. "Only thing I fear is that he knew he was being observed. Looked right at me – probably was detecting me."
"You really think his reach can extend that far?" the voice on the other end of the phone wondered.
"I'm certain of it. C'mon, you've worked with him before. You know what his capabilities are."
"Yes, yes. Any other news?"
"We aren't going to be able to eliminate him easily. Not without drawing suspicion. And that's exactly what we're trying to avoid, neh? Especially with Century Discover so prominently thrusting itself into the limelight of the political world right now."
"In other words, you can't simply assassinate him because you don't want your actions to be tied to them."
Chuckling, the man laid down heavily on his bed with a grunt. "Got it. Eliminating him now will do nothing but call upon the rage of the citizen populace of the entire damned Earth Sphere. He's got the love of most of the Nation, you know."
"What do you suggest, then?"
"I'm gonna lay low for awhile. Keep a careful eye on him. Maybe get someone else in there to keep their eyes on him, or get someone else out there to see what's up with their involvement with the old Lunar Base."
"That doesn't give us any sort of plan which will result in our desired end, old friend."
"Yeah, yeah. Let me finish." Sighing as he tightened his grip on the phone, he shook his head. "I'll get someone else to take my position out in the field. I'll keep a close watch on the kid and make certain that I can sully his reputation. Either that, or that I can isolate him and eliminate him on my own. Set it up to look like a suicide."
"Like you did for Malachi?"
"Exactly. No one would question it, considering the stress he's got on his head right now."
"Hm. Always could count on you for a level head and decent plans, old buddy of mine."
With a snicker, he rolled over on his bed, his voice chipper and bright as he chortled into the handset. "Go to hell, Xavier."
"Been there, done that," the voice on the other end of the line laughed.
"Well, I'll talk to you later. I should be getting out of dodge within an hour or so. If nothing else, I can start getting my field replacement. You want him reporting to you?"
"No, no. I'll set up a representative or something."
Chuckling, he propped his chin up on his hand. "Still not willing to face danger yourself are you, you fucking coward?"
"I've faced it more than necessary through my life. I don't want to risk myself any longer. Besides, if you're going to fetch who I think you're going to fetch, then I'd be a fucking madman to meet up with him in person."
"Readin' my mind there, Xavier?"
"Fuck off. Just know that he's in the area, and that you were quite impressed with his skills last time we had to deal with him."
"What can I say? It's no ordinary boy that can escape from OZ security so many times with such incredible ease, infiltrate even Lady Une's trusted cohorts, and aid in bringing around the end of the Eve Wars."
"Of course, of course."
Closing his hazel eyes, the man with the handset smirked. "Yeah, a representative will be good, then. He would recognize you. And I doubt that even the chaos of the wars and the stagnant flow of the last two months since they crashed to their termination have yet to erase your ugly fucking mug from his brain."
"Or yours."
"Heh."
The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. "So, how are you planning to recruit him? You realize he'll recognize you as well."
"Don't worry about me, old friend. I've got my ways."
"Oh great. You're going to bind and gag him in the middle of the night, pump him so full of tranquilizers that he won't be able to see straight for five days, and throw him at my doorstep, aren't you?"
Laughing outright, the man slowly rolled over, reaching towards the plastic rod that was connected to the mini-blinds. Giving it a half turn, he squinted as sunlight poured into the room. "Oh, shut up. You'll see soon enough."
"I'm certain I will. When you fetch him, why don't you send him to Alpha One Niner?"
"You're gonna make me send him all the way out THERE? Gee, why don't you just have me drop him in the middle of the fucking Valley?"
"Oh, come on! It's not that terrible of an inconvenience, is it?"
"I guess not." Closing his eyes against the bright rays of light, he sighed. "I'll do what I'll do. Just be ready for it, Xavier."
"Sure will."
Lifting the phone away from his ear, he pressed the off button and stared at the device for a few moments.
Pressing the on button once more, he slowly dialed a set of numbers.
"Hello?" the young feminine voice on the other end of the line chirped.
"Hi, honey. Just calling to tell you that I won't be home for awhile."
-- 09:10, 3 Days Ago --
Quatre Raberba Winner sighed quietly as he walked into the large office, eyes closed and face downcast. Slowly lifting his head, he cracked his eyes open, squinting as the sunlight that poured in through the giant windows that made up the eastern wall of the room danced about, bounding off the beveled edges of the long glass table at which his board was seated, patiently awaiting his arrival. Walking to the high-backed black leather chair that sat at the head of that long table, Quatre nodded to each as he walked past them. He laid his briefcase upon the table and carefully undid the latches even as he nodded to the two men that had escorted him to the table's end. "You two may go," he said, dismissing the two muscular Arabs of their duty of guarding him. Both bowed their heads before quietly leaving the young billionaire with his board heads.
As he slid into his seat looking nearly lost in the huge cushions of the black chair and almost entirely hidden behind his overstuffed briefcase, the blond teenager smiled cheerfully to the gathering within the room. "Good morning!"
"Good morning, Quatre-sama," one man immediately replied, being echoed shortly thereafter by the rest of the room's inhabitants. "If you don't mind dispensing with the formalities, we need to get this meeting underway as quickly as possible – we're already running quite late, sir."
"My apologies," Quatre stated, bowing his head. "Traffic this morning was fairly atrocious."
"You should have taken into account that the visiting Ambassadors and their constituency would bring higher traffic to the downtown region than usual, Quatre-sama," one man blurted.
"Of course. Once again, I do apologize. So, without any further adieu, let's get to business, neh? Talk to me, gentlemen." Folding his hands over his lap the teen leaned back in his chair, eyes critical and narrowed focusing on those seated before him.
Report after report was made – reports concerning the welfare of each department within the lofty expanses of the corporation known as Winner Industries, of which the young boy at the head of the table was owner and CEO. Reports of employee demands and concerns, reports of funding and budgeting concerns, reports of product successes and failures, of client concerns and wants.
Every crisis, concern, demand, request, each presented in painstaking detail, found its way by form of report to the corporation head's briefcase. Quatre stared into his steadily filling briefcase with complete and utter dismay in his eyes.
Four hours later, he staggered out of the office, overstuffed briefcase held with both hands and being dragged down the hallway, a promise and a nod towards each member of his board that he would have answers to each of their private and department concerns by the end of the work week.
Casting an odd smile at one of his board members, he nodded in his direction. "Especially yours. I shall have an answer for you by the end of tomorrow evening."
Arching a brow, the man smirked and nodded his head slowly. "Thank you, Quatre-sama."
And, lifting his water glass to his lips, that one singled-out businessman watched with narrowed hazel eyes as the blond left the room, escorted by his two burly bodyguards once more.
'Damn you.'
'You've got me pinpointed, don't you?'
'Oh well. On to plan B.'
Packing his own briefcase, the man tossed his thick manila envelope into the carrying case, smirking as its broad expanse neatly covered the Beretta Model 92FS (2) he had laying in its bottom, wrapped in a thinly-crafted lead sheet.
'Maybe another day, dear friend,' he calmly thought towards the gun in his pack. 'He's a bit to wary at this moment for us to strike.'
-- 16:25, 4 Days Ago --
He carefully set his luggage down on the weighing scale. "That's all of it. My briefcase and duffel bag are going as carry-on.
With a smile, the young woman behind the counter nodded. "Very well, sir. Now, let me confirm you flight information. May I see your identification, please?"
"Sure thing." Bringing his wallet out of his back pocket and pulling his card from it, he laid it before the woman, watching as her assistant swiftly tagged his luggage and tossed it onto the conveyor belt that ran behind them.
"So have you been out of Alaska before, sir?"
"I'm not native to this state," he said with a smirk, folding his arms and leaning on the counter. "I moved up here nearly a year ago."
"Oh really?" Smiling, she continued to type information into her terminal, nodding. "Come up here for the scenery? Or maybe for the weather?"
With a sharp bark of laughter, the man brushed his hair behind his ears. "If I'd ever come up here, it'd never be for this fucking lousy weather. Too damned cold for my tastes. But it's where she wanted to live, so here we are."
"You're married?"
"Nah. Not yet." With a nonchalant shrug, he reclaimed his offered identification, an Alaska driver's license, and shoved it into his back pocket.
"Well, here's your ticket. You make certain to call her when you reach L4 and tell her that you're alright, you hear?"
"I most certainly will," the man replied, a wry grin on his face. "She'd murder me if I didn't."
"Have a nice flight!"
Offering the woman a courteous nod, he picked up his briefcase in one hand, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder with his other, grabbed his tickets and walked towards the gate number displayed on his ticket.
Tossing his luggage down on the conveyor belt that ran through the scanner, he walked through the metal detector with a smile on his lips.
He cringed as the alarm went off.
"Must be my keys," he said with a grin, tossing down his hefty key ring and stepping back through, only to have it go off again.
"Berry, have a look at this," the woman behind the scanner's screen said with a frown.
'Shit.'
Soon, the man's bag and briefcase were being sorted through.
A Beretta 950 Jetfire, a Beretta 92FS, A Beretta Cheetah 86 (3) and a Para-Ordnance P13 (4) were tossed onto the belt before him.
"I've got permits for those."
"You'd best display them now, sir," one chubby, gray-haired airport security officer grunted even as he swiped his metal detection wand over him, scowling as it beeped over his boots and belt buckle.
"Sure thing." Calmly the man pulled paperwork from the top of the pile they'd tossed out of his briefcase and waved it. "I'm going to a gun show right after my trip to L4 in Los Angeles, California. Going to sell these babies and see if I can pick up something else interesting to add to my little collection."
"Oh really," the stout security guard grunted as he snatched the papers away from him and began to pour through them, nose mere centimeters away from the white sheets to read the small print that littered their expanses.
"Really."
Thirty minutes later the man found himself seated in an uncomfortable plastic airport terminal seat by his gate, briefcase and duffel bag sitting beside him. Whistling merrily, he watched as yet another plane taxied off the runway and launched into the air.
"Hey, old friend," he called out.
Smirking, seating himself beside the man, the would-be intruder chuckled. "Never could sneak up on you. Surprised you decided to take my little offer – I truly wasn't expecting you to be here this afternoon."
"Shit, with an offer like that, who could refuse?"
-- 15:00, 3 Days Ago --
The contents of the mailbox were stuffed into the carrier's bag.
Whistling merrily as he marched back to his idling van, the mailman looked around himself, observing his surroundings and politely nodding greetings to the guards who kept careful eyes upon him.
'It certainly is a bright and cheerful day today, isn't it?'
With one final wave to the gate guard, he slid into his van, tossing his bag into the back. Driving away, he pointed the van towards the next house on the route. "So, it's how long till the next establishment?"
Muffled yelling burst from the man who laid gagged and bound in the back of the van.
"Oh yes, it lays right over that hill, doesn't it? Fabulous. Meaning that if you were to have a terrible accident right here, nobody would dare question what happened, due to the poor visibility that this hill offers, especially with the bright sunlight flooding your windshield at this time of day and that cliff straight ahead so verily nicely hidden by bushes. What a place for them to forget about guardrails, neh? Especially when you happen to be running a few minutes late on your route."
All color drained from the bound man's face as he watched his captor stop the van in the center of the road.
"Just have to make certain of one little thing before I do this."
Silence filled the back of the van as the intruder lifted one envelope from the mailman's bag and carefully pried it open.
Reading swiftly over the contents, the man chuckled. "Still crushed on that kid, are you? Hmph. And here I thought you'd be giving me information that would hold something worthwhile or of particular relevance to my situation other than his current living establishment's location. Well, at least you'll live with the comfort of knowing that with this particular mail bag having fallen out of this van, your cute little letter will be delivered if not a day or two late. They won't just leave you precious mail sitting out in the middle of the road undelivered."
Resealing the envelope, he shoved it back into the bag. And, slowly untying the man's limbs, he clubbed him firmly over the back of his skull.
"Buckle up," he said with a grin, strapping the man into place and pressing his foot firmly against the gas pedal before giving the van's keys a good, swift turn. And, tossing a few random envelopes onto the back bumper of the vehicle as he walked away, he peeled the rubber gloves he'd worn to keep his fingerprints from marring the interior of the van from his hands and stuffed them into his pockets.
Stepping out of the road through the tall grass, he watched as the van's front wheels spun rapidly in the air, suspended by the jack he'd so carefully propped under the vehicle.
"Jack's back in place, ground's hard asphalt, the wheels aren't going fast enough to leave skid marks… alright. No evidence."
He pulled sharply on the line he'd tied to the small prop that kept the mail van's tires off the ground.
Front end bouncing a couple of times, envelopes flying haphazardly through the air, the vehicle hurtled towards the cliff with unerring straightness.
The man shielded his eyes as the explosion sent a huge ball of fire rocketing up the small hill, dazzlingly bright even when compared to the light of the afternoon sun.
"Thanks for the help."
-- 19:11 --
Trowa Barton stretched as he emerged from his trailer, yawning tiredly.
"Trowa, have you gotten the mail for today?" a voice rang from the trailer.
"Not yet, Cathy."
"Well, will you? I'm too busy to do it right now."
"Sure thing."
Walking to his motorcycle, the young man yawned once more as he straddled the Honda CBR954RR. Easing onto it, jeans getting soaked with the water that had condensed on the cycle's seat after the small bout of drizzle that had washed over the area, he blew into his hands to warm them before drawing his key out of his denim jacket's pocket. Giving it a swift turn he listened to the rumble of the engine below him, a small smile touching his lips. And giving the throttle a small nudge he started the machine rolling down the road, the chill of the quickly cooling air around him unnoticeable through his dark emerald turtleneck and jacket.
He failed to notice that he was being followed.
The black Honda Civic kept its distance.
21:15 –
Trowa sighed as he put the letter down once again.
It'd been the third time he'd read the carefully scribed message.
"So, who's this from?" Catherine asked as she walked into the dark living room, listening to the single song that still poured over the stereo's speakers. Waving a platter of freshly cooked cookies before Trowa's face, she grinned. "Try some."
"Thanks." Carefully lifting one off the plate, he gave the circlet a sniff to ensure that it was safe before nibbling on it. Arching a brow in obvious shock, he nodded before inhaling the rest of the cookie and reaching for another. "It's from Quatre."
"Quatre? Oh, you mean Mr. Winner."
"Aa."
"What did he have to say?" Sitting down beside her would-be brother, the girl smiled, her gesture friendly and curious.
"That he misses me."
"Oh."
Silence slowly fell over them.
Silence was suddenly shattered by a swift knock at the door.
Catherine looked with shock towards the hallway down which the echo of the knock rang, even as Trowa reached for the Davis Derringer (5) he always kept hidden at his waistband. Drawing the miniature gun forth, he stealthily slunk towards the door.
The knock sounded again.
Reaching slowly for the knob, he turned it.
The person on the other side of the doorway screamed as the gun was thrust into his face, and fell to his knees. "Please! Don't shoot!"
"Who are you?" Trowa calmly asked, looking down at the shivering man, his gun still cocked and laying easily in his hand.
"My name's Stephen. Stephen Williams. I just came here because I was told to… to offer someone named Trowa Barton a job."
Emerald eyes narrowing, Trowa frowned. "What kind of job?"
"He… he told me not to disclose details in the open."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know. He didn't give me his name."
"What did he look like?"
"I couldn't tell. He wore a face mask."
"And you trusted him enough to deliver his message?"
"He said he'd murder me if I didn't."
Trowa frowned. Putting his gun away, he sighed. "Stand up."
Stephen did as bade, rising to his feet and throwing his hands into the air, consenting without question or protest to being patted down.
Trowa led the man inside and closed the door.
And, lowering the binoculars he held, the hazel eyed man who hid under the trailer directly across from that housing Barton and Bloom smirked.
'Perfect.'
tbc...
Gun Information:
(1) Beretta Model 950 Jetfire: Caliber: 25 ACP, Capacity: 8 rounds, Barrel Length: 2.4", Weight: 9.9 ounces, Grip: Checkered plastic (used in fic) or walnut, Sights: fixed, Misc: Tip-up barrel (similar to Model 21), matte or stainless (used in fic) finish, Price: $226 to $267.
(2) Beretta Model 92FS: Caliber: 9mm, Capacity: 10 rounds, Barrel Length: 4.9", Weight: 34.4 ounces, Grip: Checkered plastic or rubber (wood optional (used in fic)), Sights: Adjustable rear, blade front sights, Misc: Squared trigger guard, matte (used in fic) or blued finish, Price: $629 to $2002 (470th Anniversary Edition).
(3) Beretta Cheetah Model 86: Caliber: 380 ACP, Capacity: 8 rounds, Barrel Length: 4.4", Weight: 23.3 ounces, Grips: Walnut, Sights: Adjustable rear, fixed front sights, Misc: Features a tip-up barrel for first-round loading, Bruniton finish, Price: $404.
(4) Para-Ordnance P13: Caliber: 45 ACP, Capacity: 10 rounds, Barrel Length: 4.25", Weight: 28 ounces (alloy) or 36 ounces (stainless steel (used in fic)), Grips: Black plastic, Sights: fixed rear, blade front (3-dot system), Misc: Alloy, steel or stainless (used in fic) frame; black or stainless (used in fic) finish; high capacity magazines available (used in fic), Price: $740 to $799.
(5) Davis Derringer: Caliber: 22LR, 22WMR, 25 ACP or 32 ACP, Capacity: 2 rounds, Barrel Length: 2.4", Weight 9.5", Grips: Laminated wood (used in fic) or pearl, Sights: Blade front, fixed notch rear, Price: $100.