Ninety-nine hours later, Grimmjow stood in his apartment. He sighed, kicking off his boots and ran a hand over the layer of dust that had collected on his counter.
The past four days of ecstasy left him exhausted and yet, renewed somehow. He'd taken a step into a realm that terrified him, and he'd come out the other side unscathed. He was capable of things that would have sent him over the deep end just months ago. He felt strong, good. But he couldn't keep that up all the time. No matter how deeply he might have fallen for Aizen, he could never sacrifice his independence. So despite the hesitation he saw in the mob king, he'd come home.
Those four days hadn't been without interruption, of course. Aizen was extremely busy taking care of business with Katagiri. He had left several times at Stark's call but he'd always returned with the same hunger he'd had before.
Now he was deep in his business again. Grimmjow knew he was only a distraction to Aizen, so he decided to return to work as well. He wasn't stupid. He knew it was still dangerous to be out and about but he also knew Aizen had at least one of his men shadowing Grimmjow. He didn't mind, so long as they didn't show their face or interfere with his business.
It took a day or two before he could get a client. When he did, he ploughed through the case, getting a good pay day at the end. A few more calls came in over the weekend. He was careful though, and only chose small-time ones. By the end of the week he had enough cash stacked up to make another payment on his I.D. He bundled the bills and headed to the casino.
"Now is not a good time." Stark said briskly when he met him on his way down the main steps. His face was unusually flushed and beaded with sweat. His arm—fresh out of a sling—looked to be bothering him and there were bruises on his jawline.
"What's going on?" Grimmjow asked.
"Things have gotten pretty hairy, kid. Here—" he pushed Grimmjow's bundle of cash back away. "Why don't you use this to take a vacation for a few days—far away, okay?"
"What? Are things really that bad?"
"Yes."
"Well I ain't leavin'."
"Fine, then you're staying." Stark nodded to a security guard at the front door. "Put him in one of the suites."
"Yes sir."
"Hey, Stark!" But he got nothing else out of the man as he stalked off toward the street. A dark car was parked, waiting. Grimmjow watched carefully when the door opened. A man in a clean suit slid sideways to make room for Stark.
"Aizen…" They were going somewhere, now. And it was dangerous.
"Hey, kid, come with me," the security guard urged.
"Sorry. I gotta go."
He bolted down the steps and along the sidewalk in the wake of the car. He followed far enough to see them turn toward the East bound highway.
They were headed for the waterfront.
Grimmjow ran all the way home. He cut through every back alley he knew, dodged traffic on the four lane and skidded down the gravel bank of an overpass until he was in sight of the harbour, the water, the familiar streets and warehouses.
Just as his feet slapped tiredly over the broken pavement near his apartment, he heard the rattle of automatic gun fire.
His chest clenched. He threw himself back against the wall, waiting, listening. More gunfire, this time single shots, one right after the other. Then more automatics, the ping of bullets hitting metal. It was coming from the waterfront, a block or two from where he stood now. In the back of his pants his gun stung into his skin. He pulled it out and abandoned his cover, running head long into danger.
Because he knew without a doubt who was at the center of it.
Stark reloaded with a curse. Blood filtered into his vision. He tried to wipe it away with his sleeve but it just kept coming from the slash across his face. Shattered glass rained down on him. A car tire popped and their black sedan sagged lower to the ground.
"Sir," he called next to him. "How much do you have left?"
"Another clip, then I'm out," Aizen responded coolly, though his left leg was drenched in blood from a bullet that had torn through his calf. His hands trembled from the blood loss. Stark eyed him.
"We're in major shit here, sir."
"We just have to hold out until the others get here."
"I don't think they're gonna make it in time."
Stark crouched and bobbed his head up again, firing three more shots. Someone cried out. It was a fucking miracle he'd hit them.
"There's always the water," he suggested. "We could swim for it."
"It would be suicide. They'd shoot us."
"I guess." More gunfire cut through the air above them. Stark found himself actually hoping the cops would respond in a timely fashion.
"Stark, take my gun."
Stark stared, but when he saw how Aizen's hand shook as he held it out to him, he understood. He was losing consciousness fast and it would be a waste of ammo for him to try and shoot anyone. "Wait until they close in, then take them."
"Yes sir." He moved closer to Aizen then pressed his back against the car.
They both waited, holding back their panting breaths so they could listen for the enemy.
The water lapped at the pier before them. The night was silent.
Then they heard the crunch of grit on pavement. The men were moving in.
Stark and Aizen made eye contact. The loyal soldier held both guns at the ready, sucked in his breath and spun.
Two shots went off at once. Two men collapsed back. But a third shot cut through the night and Stark hit the pier, unmoving.
"Fuck!" The one who'd shot Stark swore, looking at his allies. "Bastard nearly got us." They were still alive, though rolling in pain on their backs. One clutched his side, the other his arm.
"Get out of here boys, I can finish this." He grinned, pulling the hammer back on his semi. He turned the barrel to Aizen, letting it drift casually over his body as if deciding where to shoot.
"A pretty pathetic end for you, Aizen. I didn't actually think you'd come down here after a warehouse full of your own men—but you did. Pity for them, the noble act won't do them any good."
He turned his gun away from Aizen and fire a single round. From where he sat, Aizen couldn't see the flare of fire that sprung up and chased along an invisible line of gasoline, but when it slipped inside the warehouse doors and found its mark, no one for miles could ignore that fireball that engulfed the sky and tore brick and mortar apart.
"And that's all she wrote." The enemy raised his gun again.
Tires screeched behind him.
The man's face contorted and suddenly the gun pulled away.
"Mr. Katagiri!" he cried out in surprise. "It's finished, I have him."
"I want to see for myself." Several men came around the end of the wrecked car. One, a sturdy figure, taller and broader than Aizen but in a deep red suit that was crisp and clean, let out a low whistle of appreciation, seeing Aizen trapped in the pool of his own blood. He held out his hand and the gun was passed to him.
"This is a fine evening. I should do worse to you, Aizen, but I don't have the time. This ends our war. The city is mine."
A shot tore through the night. Katagiri staggered. The semi clattered to the ground and all the men turned to the unseen threat behind them.
Two more shots went off. Two more men went down. The one who'd shot Stark clutched his boss, supporting his wounded arm. Another pair had lowered themselves behind Aizen's car and were firing at someone else. Katagiri picked up the automatic again and looked to his subordinates.
"Who the hell is it?"
"It's uh…that kid."
Another shot bounced over the hood. They ducked again. Katagiri raised the gun above the car.
"GRIMMJOW!" Aizen called out just before the spatter of gunfire. It was just enough warning for the young man to start running for cover. He dove behind Katagir's car, panting. He looked around for some clue as to what his next move should be.
That's when he noticed the keys still in the ignition.
"Shit!" The guards stood straight and hauled Katagiri up.
"What?" he groaned out but his eyes widened too when he was up. "That little shit."
An engine revved. They were staring dead into the headlights. There was no point firing since the glass was bullet proof.
"He'll kill Aizen too."
"You're right." Katagir snapped his fingers. "Get him up."
Aizen was forced to his feet, despite the agony it caused his leg. He clenched his jaw and made no sound but his face was pale and damp. His eyes had trouble focussing. The car engine stilled. The lights went out.
"That's it, kid, get out here," Katagiri goaded.
The door opened but Grimmjow didn't emerge. He was watching them through the glass, calculating.
"Don't," Aizen warned. He was served a brutal strike behind his head. He sagged forward, barely recovering, then the gun came up to his skull.
"You're gonna kill him no matter what I do," Grimmjow called out. "I might as well run you all down."
"Don't bother bluffing kid. I know you couldn't kill him."
"Do you?" The lights to the car turned back on. They all listened to it shift into gear.
"Shit." The guards pushed Katagiri one way. Aizen fell the other. The two black cars collided and ground together, scraping toward the harbour, but over that terrible noise came more shots. Grimmjow had dropped something on the gas. He had stayed behind the open door and now shot, unprotected, at Katagiri and the three guards.
"S-sir."
Aizen felt the tug on his arm. He looked up, Stark was ghostly white but staring at the two cars coming their way, soon to force them into the harbour. "About that swimming idea…"
But the black car lurched and halted. One of the men had stopped it. He didn't look their way though, he seemed too occupied by the lone gunman pinning them down.
"Get Mr. Katagiri safe!" Someone called. Car doors slammed. The sedan scraped back past their car and roared away. Two men were left on the pier but they were running away from Aizen and Stark, in pursuit of the young man with wild blue hair.
In the chaso, Stark and Aizen were left alone.
"That little ninja…" Stark slumped forward again. Aizen caught his shoulder and felt the weakness of his pulse, but his attention was drawn back by the gunfire in the streets.
And then it came to an abrupt end.
Grimmjow threw his gun backwards in a last attempt at tripping his pursuers up. They were reloading, and now was his chance to escape with his life.
He threw himself sideways into the narrow space between two old buildings. His arms scraped past brick it was so tight. If they got a shot off in here he'd be dead but he was through to the other side before they caught up to him. He got out just before a bullet ended him. He ran for home—for familiar territory. He burst through the doors of the long dead restaurant below his home. He didn't waste time trying to block them off, he just made for the ice room in back where he could lock himself in and wait until Aizen's men arrived.
He didn't make it that far. Automatic fire cut down the light fixture ahead of him. He fell back as glass shattered over the tile and sprayed his body. He couldn't be concerned with this, however, with two armed men behind him. He scrambled to get up, turning over the hostess's table for a shield. The next spray shattered the tile around him. Then they aimed for the display case to his right.
The bastards were smart. The hail of glass rained down on him. His coat protected his core but his hands and face were vulnerable to the multitude of shards.
Then the desk before him was kicked away and he was staring up the barrel of a gun.
The hammer clicked back. Nothing happened.
"Shit, I'm out!" Grimmjow didn't give the guy a chance to reload. He stood, caught his extended arm in his elbow and twisted so that the joint popped and the man screamed and his gun went flying. He turned in time so that the other man's shot went into his partner instead. Now Grimmjow was holding a corpse. He let it fall and lunged at the last man—the last obstacle between him and his survival.
"ARGH!" They slammed into the ground. A spray of bullets went up into the ceiling and no doubt into Grimmjow's apartment. Grimmjow got a knee into the man's gut and brought his forearm down on the guy's wrist. He leaned his body weight against the fragile joint until the man lost his grip on the gun.
Grimmjow lunged for it. He took a jab in the ribs and was thrown clear. The gun however, went flying with him, lost somewhere under a table. He tried to right himself but got knuckles to the teeth. They both reeled back—the man's fist cut open and Grimmjow's lip serrated on his own front teeth. The tang of blood filled his mouth. He swallowed it back and shoved forward again, bear hugging the man around the middle and toppling him into a chair and table.
Furniture collapsed around them. They rolled, one getting the upper hand, then the other. Grimmjow's back hit the bar. He felt the wind rush from his lungs and then a punch had him fall face first against the granite countertop. A hand grabbed the waist band of his pants and hauled him up onto the cold surface. He struggled to get out of the hold but then glass broke over his back and he collapsed, stunned. The man was panting. He was ready to end this fight. Grimmjow felt hand on him again but this time he fell against the floor, smacking hard behind the bar. The man came around the side and grabbed one of the shelves of glass ware. He hauled back and brought it's contents down on Grimmjow.
There wasn't much he could do. Grimmjow curled his arm over his head to protect his face from the spray of glass. The impact of the old shelves and heavy mugs against his body was stunning. His body was surrounded by a sea of shards and he didn't dare move when the devastation ended. Blood oozed down his hands. His shirt and coat had pulled up and his side was cut up. The man's boots crunched over the glass, but something cool poured down on Grimmjow.
In the past three years he'd helped himself to whatever liquor was left in this place but even still there were certain types of alcohol that didn't appeal and had gone untouched all this time. Now the floor and bar were drenched with it and the man was making sure Grimmjow was too.
He shifted in the glass and tried to sit. When the man finished emptying the bottle he hurled it into Grimmjow's side. He hollered and slumped back against the bar. The man pulled out his lighter from his back pocket.
"You're gonna burn, asshole."
Grimmjow's eyes fixed on the tiny flame that in seconds would become a bonfire with him at the center of it.
He dropped his hand into the sea of glass. It didn't matter how much it hurt, he closed his hands around the shards and just as the man made to toss the lighter he threw the fistfull of glass straight at his face.
It was enough to get him to stumble back and drop the lighter on dry ground where the flame flickered and went out. It was enough time for Grimmjow to grab the bar top and pull himself back to his feet. And it was enough time for him to take the neck of a broken bottle and raise it up just as the man lunged on him.
They fell back against the bar, the man's weight pinning Grimmjow against the cash register. Hot liquid oozed over his wrists and coat. The man gurgled and groaned. His hands came up for Grimmjow;s throat.
Grimmjow drew the bottle out and thrust it back up again. A terrible scream came from the man as his stomach split open. Grimmjow repeated the action. Again, and again. The man clung to him in agony, eyes wide, throat filling with blood. Grimmjow kept going until no more sound or movement came. He dropped the bottle. He threw himself onto the bar and rolled over it, escaping the pit of glass and those dead eyes.
He sank back against it, hearing sirens. He distantly wondered just how Aizen would get them out of this one. Then with a last reserve he got back to his feet. He staggered through the bar and found the lighter. It was the only way to get rid of the evidence tying him to the two fresh corpses.
He looked up, at where his home still sat and shut his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
He dropped the lighter in the clear liquid. Flames spread quickly. He saw it creep up the walls, into the ceiling, devouring his old life.
Grimmjow slipped out the back door, into the night. There was no going back for Aizen now. The police had already moved in. Grimmjow fled the scene alone, disappearing into the dark.