chapter ; The Betrayal

disclaimer 1 ; I obviously don't own South Park.

disclaimer 2 ;I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it.

author's note ; Two more chapters to go, and it will all come into a grand finale! I'm excited to write this, but I don't have as much time as I would have wished. As most of my attention is centered on All Mercenaries go to Hell, most of the chapters in this story will be rather short and to the point. I do apologize if it seems like the chapters are thus lacking depth.

Cartman had fallen asleep hours before the crack of dawn, leaving Mole, awake and alone, with Kyle's broken body. Sitting with his back pressed against the couch, he itched for a cigarette. The wonderful calm of nicotine that rushed to his brain and told him all remained well in his world. A sick, twisted, demented little orb full of the screaming, dying masses. Women selling their souls for rent, men torturing other men for a warped view of their God. Religion clouding the nation like a toxic fog, wrapping sinners and evil in the protection of the all-mighty Vatican.

Breaking down, Mole pulled a thin cigarette from his inside breast pocket. Imports from France, the way he liked them. Fumbling for his lighter - a gift from his mother for his eighteenth birthday - he pulled the light blue zippo out, flicking it open. The tiny flame danced between his fingers, lighting the cigarette with ease. Inhaling deeply, flipping the lighter and stashing it in his pocket, he closed his eyes. For a moment, he needed his rest. Every nerve from his nose to his big toe tingled in adrenalin, hours after the brush with death.

One of them had managed to get a good hit in.

Rubbing his right leg, he winced as he felt the bruise already rampaging over his knee. The back of his head hurt fractionally compared to the pain of landing full force into the concrete, knee first. He hadn't counted on the third thug getting up as quick as he had. A mistake he wouldn't be making again. Kyle would be out of the game for weeks, if he pulled through in his current state. A little beating was good for anyone, but Kyle had been fragile to begin with.

Biting down on the cigarette, Mole growled under his breath. The entire situation had gone from bad to worse. Getting to his feet, he leaned over Kyle, putting a hand on the pale boy's shoulder. "I'll be right back," he said gruffly.

After a pause, he limped away, the bruise hindering his movement more than he would have liked. Pushing the front door open, he was greeted with a gust of fresh, crisp morning air. Not much different than South Park, not that he'd grown attached to that shit hole or anything. Christophe Moliere wasn't the type to become attached to anything, except the rare instance of Kyle, though it was strictly business.

Standing in the doorway, he let the wind take his smoke as it trailed out his mouth. There remained no sign of anyone following them the night before, despite Mole's blazing trail to the front door. He hadn't much of a choice, and he'd keep telling himself that as long as it took to shake the guilty feeling from his smoke-filled chest. Hearing someone yawn, he closed the door and returned to the livingroom, attempting to keep his leg from a limp at all costs.

Cartman jumped as Mole entered the room, swearing under his breath as he went back to caring for Kyle. Or as much care as the fatass could manage.

Mole walked in stiffly, motioning Cartman out of the way. "I'll take care of him," he said dryly.

"I can do it myself. You can go now," Cartman snapped, refusing to budge.

Mole grabbed the back of Cartman's shirt, heaving him to his feet with ease. Spinning him around, Mole pinned him against the wall, hand pressed into the fat boy's collarbone. "You will do as I say, understand?"

Cartman reached up quickly, attempting to catch Mole off guard, but his feeble shove against Mole's muscular arm did no good. "Get off me, you British faggot," he warned.

"Do you understand?" Mole repeated darkly.

"No!" Cartman yelled. "No, I don't understand you! You're a fucking asshole to everything, and I fucking hate you, but Kyle fucking adores you!" he burst, anger dripping from his every word. "Then you go and get him in shit like this. You're a fucking hazzard, dude. You kill everything you touch."

Mole dropped Cartman, no emotion betrayed behind his dark chocolate eyes. Huffing, he blew smoke in Cartman's face. "Zen I will leave," he said, emotion drained from his fiery voice. "If you need me, ze number to ze motel ees on ze counter."

"We don't need you," Cartman snarled. "You need us, you just cant see it."

Mole turned and walked away, that slight limp evident in his movements. Without a single pause, he left the apartment, closing the door softly behind him. He wouldn't relent to a moment of emotion by Cartman. The kid was practically emotionless, did things only for his own better good, but the second Kyle came into the picture, he would defend the Jew until his final breath. Mole didn't understand, and he was certain he never would. Some strange, fucked up relationship in high school had barely managed to evolve into a shared apartment and the occasional sexcapade.

Stopping around the corner, Mole leaned heavily against a wooden fence, catching his breath. Perhaps the thugs had gotten more than a single good hit on him, and it took until now for him to feel it. Spitting the butt of the cigarette onto the pavement, he reached for another as thick, heavy barking startled him off the fence. The barking, snarling beast came closer, pressing against the wooden fence and scratching. Cursing under his breath in colorful French phrases, Mole limped away, shakily readying his cigarette. "Fucking guard dogs," he muttered darkly.

Seething, he walked down the sidewalk, making a roundabout way to the alley behind Kyle and Cartman's apartment building. Despite the need for a good rest, he had things to take care of before taking him time. Unfortunate, but also necessary. As he stepped onto the gravel of the alley, his phone chirped. A simple, single sound to alert him that he had a call. Irritated, he pulled it out, leaning on a solid brick garage to prevent dog-hazzards once again.

"Mole," he answered.

"Ah, there you are. I've been trying to find you all day."

"Uhn."

"You sound so enthused, Christophe. Do try to sound happier," Gregory said, the worry in his voice as fake as the rest of him. Except that damn accent, he was a fake, and Mole knew every detail.

"Speak." Mole grit out.

"Ah, of course. It seems intelligence has found a flaw in the system from last night. Computer software tracked to the passwords locked down, sounding alarms and deleting all the data."

Mole didn't say anything. Silent, he brooded against the wall, smoke pulsing from his lips.

"Sorry, I forgot you don't know computer talk," Gregory said, tittering in that ridiculous way of his. "When your hacker Kyle put in the password, it tripped the system, effectively costing us the job and the client."

Mole slammed his elbow into the brick wall, releasing fractions of his anger. "Sheet. Fucking beetches."

"Uh-huh," Gregory said, pausing. "Unfortunately, I must concede it was not young Kyle's fault. The password the Ukranian gave you was false."

Mole flipped the phone shut, fire blazing in his eyes as he tucked it away. "Ze fucking bastard," he growled. Keeping Kyle and Cartman's house under surveillance no longer mattered at this point. Knowing the Ukranian lied, and knowing it could have very well cost them their lives, Mole was not about to take it laying down, pants around his ankles, a bottle of empty lube next to him. "Ah, God, you play a good game," he said angrily, glancing up at the sky. "You fucking bastard cocksucker, I'm not about to let you fuck me in ze ass again."

...

Finding the Ukranian was the easy part, and Mole had spent the better half of the morning simply following the man through the slums of Detroit, shadowing him as skillfully as a bird floated on the breeze. Getting the man into a secluded place would be the challenge, as he constantly pulled people aside or chattered with shop owners. Twice, Mole thought he had him, only for the man to rush up to a shop owner, shaking his hand vigorously, proclaiming about how long it's been and the other nonsense Westerners liked to hear. More than twice, perhaps close to several dozen times, Mole wanted to grab the bulky man by his ruffled collar and throw him into an alley, pounding the living daylights out of the man's Gucci glasses with his balled fists.

Every time, he dismissed the idea as too brash, even for himself.

Standing near a magazine stand, Mole flipped through one of the multi-page books absently, eyes on the man. Through his own dark sunglasses, the owner of the magazine stand couldn't see his eyes straying from the page, and came over to shoo him away.

"If you're not going to pay for it, then you're gonna have to leave!" he ordered, shaking a fist at the disgruntled mercenary.

"You're een my way," he stated darkly, snapping the book closed and staring over the top of the sunglasses at the short man.

As intimidating as Christophe could make himself look, he failed to realize most adults didn't take him as seriously as they should. He wore the clothing of a teenager and, by most accounts, looked like a disorderly bum. As a result, the man rolled his eyes. "You're scarin' the customers away. Now get out of here, or I'll have to call the cops."

Mole leaned to the side, looking around the shopkeeper for the man he had shadowed. The Ukranian was gone. Cussing, Mole threw the book at the shorter man. "Sheet! Fucking bastard!" Snarling under his breath, he pushed the man out of the way and began briskly walking, his sore leg slowing him down, attempting not to draw too much attention to himself. It was hard, as people cried out angrily when he pushed against them. His eyes roamed the street, he hardly had time for maneuvering himself between groups of people on the sidewalk.

In a gloriously heart-saving moment, he spotted the Ukranian's dirty hair as the man took a turn down an alley. Slowing his walk, he kept his eyes glued to the alley, his heart racing, palms sweating. Reaching back, he fingered the guitar case on his back. Carrying a shovel through downtown Detroit had drawn too much attention, so he had taken to hiding it inside the large case. He would have felt better if it were out and he could grip the handle, but it was too late for that now.

Rounding the corner, he came face to face with the Ukranian. Split-second thinking caused him to throw up his arms, blocking the punch, and then ducking to the side to slam his own fist into the Ukranian's side. The man doubled over in pain. People passed by the mouth of the alley, but in the shadows, in the dark corners of Detroit, the homeless-looking young adult fighting a dirty Ukranian probably seemed like a normal thing. No one stopped, no one called out fight.

Mole liked it that way.

Slamming the guitar case down, he flipped it open and wrapped his hand around the shaft of the shovel. Nothing in the world felt as right as his calloused hand gripping that trusty handle, and he felt his heartbeat come under some kind of control. As the Ukranian realized he was outmatched, he cursed and fled down the alley. Mole chased him, combat boots pounding against the broken asphalt beneath his feet.

In his hurry to escape, the Ukranian tripped over a pile of trash, falling face-first into the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, falling twice before he started lurching forward. Surging with new energy, he grinned. Pain shot through his left side, and he grunted as he was sent to the ground. A boot pressed hard into his chest, the blade of a shovel pressed tightly against his throat.

"Time's up," Mole said darkly, pressing harder as the man struggled. "Answer ze questions, and you might live."

Gasping between pressure changes of the shovel, the Ukranian stared up at him defiantly. "What... the fuck.. Do you want?"

"I want ze password," Mole said, smiling darkly as he pressed the shovel down.

"G-gave it to you!" the man shouted, panicking.

"Mon dieu," Mole said, shaking his head. "After all zis, you still want to lie to me?"

Struggling to say the words, the man said, "Seven.... four.... C-X nine-"

"Ze wrong password!" Mole shouted, moving the shovel aside, puling his leg back and kicking the man in the ribs. "Where ees ze real one?" Grabbing the man by his collar, Mole snatched his sunglasses off, tossing them aside. Heaving him to his feet, Mole shoved him roughly against the wall. "You have five seconds!"

"Th-the Brit told us-"

"Told you what? Who said eet?"

"Told us that password was the right one!"

For a moment, Mole didn't believe his ears.

For a moment, he let his guard down.

For a moment, he was completely and utterly vulnerable.

The man, seeing this, squirmed, kicking Mole as hard as he could in the stomach. As the mercenary let go, the Ukranian fell to his hands and knees, coughing as he scrabbled away like an abused mutt. Mole spat bile onto the pavement, grunting as he beared the renewed pain in his chest from the night before. Moving to the pathetic Ukranian, he kicked the man over. Rolling onto his side like a dog, the Ukranian covered his face with his arms. Mole put his boot on the man's throat.

"Who ze fuck said eet?" he asked darkly, the anger flashing behind his dark eyes.

"The fucking Brit! I don't know his name!" the man choked out.

Mole swung the shovel around, slamming it into the pavement. "But I do," he said quietly, taking his boot off the man's throat. Lifting the shovel, Mole smashed it into the man's face, spraying blood onto the pavement. The man's death gurgles reached his ears, but he took no pleasure in it. Not this time.

The betrayal stung him to the core.