Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Pale Horse ❯ Pale Horse ( Chapter 1 )

Pale Horse

 

By DRL

 

I take a final look at myself in the full-length cheval glass, and groan. `Why am I doing this?' I ask myself lifting my eyes heavenward, but the whitewashed ceiling has no answer for me. Sighing, I lower my gaze and inspect my reflection in the glass once more. I have to admit, I'm looking good. Waist-length chestnut hair freshly washed, blow-dried (I don't usually - too wary about split ends- but I was pushed for time), and braided, shirt newly back from the cleaners, pants and jacket just delivered from the tailors and shoes - well, these shoes pinch a bit, but a pair of oxford brogues would finish off the outfit nicely, so I grit my teeth and squeeze into them.

 

 

Why am I doing this? Because I'm searching for Mr Right. Other guys my age, friends of mine, have found themselves partners, and settled down. Some have found themselves a girl (it takes all sorts, I suppose), and others, like my best friend Quatre, have found themselves a nice guy. That's all I want, a nice guy. Nothing special - I'm not looking for a flaxen-haired Adonis, or anything like that - just a nice guy, someone whom I can love, and who will love me back. I've been looking for him for a long while (well not all that long, because I'm only 21 years old, but it seems like a lifetime). I'm still looking but frankly, I despair of ever finding him. I'm not asking for much, just a bit of company, someone to come home to after a hard day, someone to lie next to at night, someone to hold me when I'm sad and laugh with me when I'm happy. I'm currently sprucing myself up for a date with a potential Mr Right, and I am reluctant, to say the very least.

 

 

“Duo, you're never going to find anyone if you don't date.” Quatre said to me. “You have to meet people half-way. If you keep turning down every guy who asks you out, you'll never find someone.”

 

 

Good point - I had to concede that. Consequently, when the estate agent who sold me this house asked me out to dinner after the successful conclusion of the transaction, I said yes. I didn't actually fancy Jake, but that didn't really matter did it? Looks aren't everything people say, although the people I usually hear say that are as ugly as sin themselves, so their opinion could be viewed as biased. Well I agreed to the date so I dutifully turn up at the fancy French restaurant he had suggested. Jake is already seated and he seems to appreciate my efforts because he practically salivates when he sees me, looking me over like a farmer inspecting a prize bull. He, however, is looking pretty much as he had when I saw him last... and the time before... and the time before that. I smile sweetly at him and take my seat.

 

 

It doesn't take me long, however, to realise that Jake is not my Mr Right. He's not bad looking, all things considered, but it is not his looks that are the problem. I think it began when he reached across the table and tasted my starter without asking. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my men to come equipped with good manners. I might accept such familiarity from a close friend, but from a man I hardly know?

 

 

“I'm so glad you agreed to have dinner with me.” He simpers, halfway through the meal.

 

 

“No problem.” I respond absently. Absently, because a waiter has just stopped at our table and proceeds to refill our wine glasses. I have noticed this waiter before, earlier, when he had taken our order, and him I do fancy. He is Asian, Japanese I'm guessing from the name he gave (Hi, I'm Heero and I'll be serving you today), with chocolate-brown hair - kind of tousled and unruly - and beautiful blue eyes. I've never seen an oriental with blue eyes before. Oh yes, Heero is definitely my cup of tea, but it's been so long since I've had any tea, I'm surprised I cam remember what my favourite variety is. Nevertheless, Heero is a tough act for Jake to follow, and he never even comes close.

 

 

“This is a rare treat for me,” He says as he mops up the last of his béarnaise sauce with a crust of bread roll, “I'm not used to food as rich as this.”

 

 

“Really?” I say dryly as I eye the roll of flesh that hangs loosely over the waistband of his trousers.

 

 

I allow my gaze to swivel across to Heero, who is serving at the table beside ours. He has just leaned across to place a plate down in front of a bejewelled `Grande-dame', and as he does so his pants pull taught against his ass, showing the perfect, twin-globes of his buttocks, as firm and rounded as two pomegranates...

 

 

“Are you going to finish that?” Jake's voice breaks into my thoughts.

 

 

“Hmm, what?” I ask distractedly, but I see him looking with undisguised relish at my half-finished steak. I had intended to finish it, given half a chance, but noticing the predatory gleam in his eye, I push my plate across to him. “Knock yourself out.” I say flatly.

 

 

“I agree with you,” He says inexplicably, “No point in wasting it.” Agree with me? Wasting it? I don't recall saying anything of the kind, but I let it pass as he devours the remainder of my meal.

 

 

When it comes to desert, Heero wheels over a trolley covered with an array of delectable looking cakes, pastries and puddings, but for all that, he is still the sweetest dish that I can see.

 

 

“Which one would you recommend?” I ask sweetly, trying desperately to get him to look at me, to acknowledge me, however slightly. No chance. Wordlessly, and without sparing me so much as a glance, he selects one of the more intricate cakes with a dainty pair of silver tongs, arranges it carefully on a desert-plate, and places it in front of me. I might just as well be a plank of wood, for all the notice he takes of me.

 

 

“Would sir like some cream?” He asks dispassionately, eyes firmly fixed on the middle-distance. I moisten my lips. What the hell kind of a question is that, when I am sitting there staring directly at his crotch? Not trusting myself to speak, I merely nod and he pours a generous lake of cream around my pretty sweetmeat. When his turn comes, Jake excels himself.

 

 

“Oh, they all look so scrummy, but I really shouldn't...” He wails disingenuously. `No, you shouldn't.' I think, eyeing his protruding gut once more, “...but since this is a special occasion...” And to my utter horror, he reaches out and places his hand proprietorialy over mine as it rests on the tabletop. I try to snatch my hand away, but he has me pinioned. I groan inwardly. Now Heero is going to think that we are an established couple, celebrating some special landmark in our relationship, like perhaps an engagement! “...I think I'll have that one... oh, and possibly that one too,” Here he giggles, a most nauseating sound, “ooh, could I be really naughty and have that little one there, in the corner? It looks so forlorn, one hates to leave it.” Having served Jake with a mountain of cake and cream, Heero wheels the trolley away, and with it he takes all my hopes and dreams of Mr Right, leaving me with... Jake.

 

 

The remainder of the evening cannot go fast enough for me. I wolf down my desert, partly because I want my date with Jake to end as quickly as possible, and partly because I am afraid that he might have it away if I'm not fast enough, as he did my entrée. When the bill arrives Heero places it unhesitatingly in front of Jake. I pointedly fold my arms across my chest, and look expectantly at him. I am certainly not going to offer to go Dutch. Having eaten enough to feed the 5000, he is jolly well going to pay for it. As we leave the restaurant I bless my decision to meet Jake there, rather than have him pick me up. He had offered but something warned me against this, and now I am glad of it. In the car park, Jake and I had parked side-by-side even though we had arrived separately, and now we walk to our cars together. Jake drops some rather heavy hints regarding going on somewhere for a dance, but having already made up my mind that if I never see him again it would be way too soon, I pretend to miss them all.

 

 

“I'll call you.” I lie, calling across the roof of my car, before pulling open the door. When I had arrived the space beside me had been empty, so I had been able to get out of the car easily. But now, someone has taken the space adjacent to my driver's door, and has parked so close that it will be difficult for me to slide myself into the car, slender though I am. Huffing with annoyance, I slam the door closed and prepare to walk around to the passenger side, intending to enter the car through this door, then climb across the centre console to the drivers seat, when I am grabbed from behind, pulled roughly round and slammed up against the side of my car.

 

 

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, you shithead!” An angry voice bellows in my ears. Bewildered, I gape wordlessly for a second or two, before I find my voice.

 

 

“What... what are you talking about?” I ask, eyes wide with confusion, “Who are you?”

 

 

“You tryin' to damage my car are you?” It was a man, a big man, tall, stocky..., and definitely upset about something, but I was at a loss to fathom exactly what.

 

 

“What do you mean damage your car?” I asked. Then I heard the distinct sound of high-heels on concrete, and a woman, a plump, brassy blonde, appears beside the unknown man. She stoops and inspects the door of the car beside mine.

 

 

“Yeah, look Frank,” She declaims shrilly, “He's scratched the paint.” The penny finally drops and I realise now what the two of them are talking about, but before I can offer an apology, the angry tirade continues, and steps up a notch.

 

 

“Right, that's it, you bastard!” Big Frank roared. “Outta the way Shirl!” And he drives his fist into my stomach.

 

 

Winded, I slide to the ground, doubled over in pain. Fleetingly, I wonder what has happened to Jake, and why he has not rushed to my aid, but I am not given much time to dwell on the matter because big Frank starts in on me with his boots while I do my best to defend myself, given my disadvantaged position and the limited space available between the two cars. Somewhere in the miasma of pain and sound, I hear Jake - crying, it sounds like - and Shirl, egging Frank on excitedly. Then something snaps in side me and instinct takes over - instinct backed with years of training and experience. Suddenly I have my Glock out of its holster and aimed directly at big Frank's throat. The move is so smooth and swift, that he doesn't even see the silenced weapon until it fires, ripping through his neck. Then I am up and on my feet, my gun arm extended, with the pistol pointed at Shirl's face. As I suspected it would, this gives her pause and she is suddenly disinclined to continue her encouragement of her husband's assault upon my person. She doesn't even have a chance to scream before I let her have it, right between the eyes. Shirl was a clean job, but I realise that Frank is showing a singular reluctance to shuffle off this mortal coil, so I turn and award him the contents of the third chamber, straight through the heart this time . I turn back and round on my third victim. Jake is standing, staring slack-jawed at me. I draw a bead on him and I'm just about to pull the trigger, when I remember that he is my date.

 

 

“I'm sorry,” I say, shaking my head (and I really am), “I'm a hitman.” Jake gapes once or twice, then gives tongue.

 

 

“I... I w... won't tell anyone.” He stammers in a strangled voice.

 

 

“I know, I know you won't.” I said sorrowfully..., then I blow his brains out.

 

 

I lower the automatic and look around at the carnage, then I take stock of the situation. I am standing in the car park of a busy restaurant, with three dead bodies at my feet and the murder weapon in my hand. Furthermore, I was seen dining with one of the victims earlier on in the evening. Hmmm - not good. I look across at the car that had caused all the trouble. Big Franks car. I smile then, as I notice that it is a hatchback. Perfect. I remove his keys from the ignition, move round to the back of the car and open the tailgate. Nice and roomy - good. I look around. The car park is at the side of the restaurant, out of sight of the front entrance, and it is poorly lit, especially at the back, where Jake and I (and big Frank, of course), have parked. However..., just as I notice the side door, a sliver of light appears around it, grows wider as the door opens, and someone steps out. As I have just realised, we are in full view of anyone who steps out of the side door. I raise my gun arm and point the Glock at the person who has just emerged.

 

 

To my surprise, shock and consternation, it is Heero, the waiter from Heaven, out on a break or something. He looks at me, then at the gun, then down at the bodies, then back to me. Without taking his eyes from mine, he reaches behind him and pulls the door closed, then as coolly and insouciantly as if I had been holding an umbrella in my hand rather than a G23, he walks towards me. I lower the Glock as he approaches, but he ignores me, steps over the bodies and disappears round the back of big Frank's car. He remains there for a moment or two, reappears, then barks orders at me.

 

 

“Come on, quickly - the woman first.” He reaches down and grabs Shirl by the arms, manhandling her until his arms are around her chest, holding her up. Quickly, I holster the Glock, grab her legs, and together we silently load Shirl into the back of the hatchback, pushing her deep inside. I now realise what Heero had been doing when he went round to the back of the car - he was folding down the back seats. Luckily Frank and Shirl keep a tidy boot, and the only clutter we have to contend with is a full petrol can and a plaid travelling rug. The rug I remove and lay aside - it will come in handy later. So far, so good, but just as we begin to load Jake, a noisy group of diners emerge from the restaurant, heading for the car park. I stare at Heero, wide-eyed. There are too many of them for me to attempt to take them out, although I do have a machine gun concealed in my car. However, things are bad enough as they are and we'll have a boot-full with the three bodies we already have. We would need a skip to deal with any more.

 

 

Heero reacts immediately. He drops Jake, grabs me, pushes me up against the car and himself against me, and proceeds to kiss me senseless. Not only is this extremely pleasurable for me (he happens to be a fantastic kisser), but it is an excellent ploy. The group vouchsafe us only a cursory glance before dividing themselves between three cars, being too genteel to linger overmuch in a car park where two guys are shamelessly making out, especially since, to give the thing added verisimilitude, Heero cups a hand over my ass and begins to knead lasciviously at my buttocks.

 

 

As we hear them drive away, we break apart and continue loading the boot (yeah, romantic as hell). When everyone is aboard, I look at Heero. He looks back at me, then down at his bloodstained shirt.

 

 

“Give me your jacket.” He snaps. When I comply he shrugs it on and buttons it over his shirt. My new (and now ruined) suit is black, so any bloodstains I managed to collect will pass a casual glance. “Wait for me.” He then turns and jogs back to the door he had come out of, disappearing inside.

 

 

As I wait I take care of a few things. Firstly, I spread the travelling rug over the bodies in the back of the car, concealing them as best I can. Then I retrieve a 2 litre bottle of mineral water from the boot of my own car and attempt to rinse away the worst of the blood and gore from the tarmac. It is a pitiful effort at best, and succeeds only in diluting the blood down somewhat, but it will have to do, since knocking on the door of the restaurant kitchen and asking for a bucket of soapy water and a stiff broom is out of the question. As I secure my car and Jakes, the side door opens and Heero emerges once more. He has changed out of his waiter's attire, and is now dressed in blue jeans, black tee-shirt and black leather jacket. He carries a small holdall, which he keeps with him as he slides into the passenger seat of big Frank's car, pausing to throw me my jacket. I quickly slip it on, conscious of the fact that without it my Glock and holster are perfectly visible against the white of my shirt, jump behind the wheel and drive carefully out of the car park, careful not to attract any attention.

 

 

“Where are we going?” Heero asks after a few minutes of silent driving.

 

 

“To the coast.” I reply.

 

 

Why the coast? Because in a small, out-of-the-way harbour, moored amongst a variety of pleasure boats, I keep a small motor-launch. It's nothing fancy, just a 45ft cabin cruiser that I use for... disposal. Some killers like to bury their victims, but the problems inherent with this method of disposal are numerous. Firstly you have to find a spot that won't be readily accessible to excavators, archaeologists, property developers or scavenging wildlife. Secondly, you have to actually dig the grave, which let me tell you, is back-breakingly hard work (not to mention time-consuming), if it is going to be anything more than a few inches deep. It is also noisy, so your spot has to be far away from any joggers, hikers or dog-walkers, which are likely to be attracted by sounds of digging. I rarely, if ever, bury victims, but if I do I dig the grave the day before and cover it with bracken and dead leaves. Usually, I'm a `drop `em in the drink' kind of guy. It's easier, and with two thirds of the planet as your oyster, there is a lot more scope as regards location and there is less chance of them turning up again and landing you in the dock.

 

 

I take things easy on the drive down to the marina, keeping just above the speed limit and sticking to B-roads and country lanes wherever possible. Heero and I chat a little on the way.

 

 

“Er... my name is Duo Maxwell,” I begin uncertainly, “Thanks for your help back there.”

 

 

“Heero Yuy,” He replies briefly, “And you're welcome.” We shake hands. A few moments later, he adds, “What are you?”

 

 

“I'm a hitman.”I reply reluctantly, hoping that this will not put him off.

 

 

“As in a contract killer?” He asks, turning his head to look at me.

 

 

“Yeah,” I confirm apprehensively, “Is that a problem?”

 

 

“Cool!” He says. “No problem at all.” I think I love this guy. After a short silence he speaks again. “How long have you been in this line of work?”

 

 

“Since I was 15.” He nods appreciatively.

 

 

“So what is that, five..., six years?” He asks.

 

 

“Six.” I reply. Silence again. Then I ask a question.

 

 

“Why did you help me tonight?” I glance across at him and catch him doing the same. Our gazes lock, and a spark of electricity seems to arc between us.

 

 

“Because you have beautiful eyes.” He replies.

 

 

“So do you.” I say, and he smiles shyly and looks away from me. It is the first time I have seen him smile all evening, and it is a wonderful sight.

 

 

 

When we reach the boat Heero surprises again. He looked at the name of the boat -`Pale Horse' - painted on her hull, then he begins to recite in a low voice -

 

 

And I looked, and behold, a pale horse:

and his name that sat on him was Death,

and Hell followed with him.

 

 

I look keenly at him.

 

 

“Revelation 6:8. You know your Old Testament.” I say. He smiles again.

 

 

“I see you do too.” He replies. We quickly manhandle the bodies from one conveyance to the other.

 

 

Once aboard the boat I cast off and head out to sea. I don't usually go out more than a mile or so otherwise the coastguard starts to get a mite too inquisitive and starts tracking you on the radar. While the boat chugs along under its own steam, Heero and I prepare the bodies. Alas, a burial at sea is not just a question of sailing out a few miles and tossing the stiffs overboard. Would that it were. Steps have to be taken to ensure that they don't come bobbing back up again like apples in a Halloween barrel, and if they do, that they cannot be identified. Discounting DNA, there are two ways in which a body can be identified - fingerprints and dental records. The salt water, crabs and fish take care of the fingerprints, but the teeth - that's down to me. Well, me and Heero this time, and even at a task as unpleasant as this one is, he does not baulk. As soon as he realises what I am about, he just reaches for a crowbar and gets to work.

 

 

I myself do not like doing this. In a job where many aspects are messy and unpleasant, this is the worst part, especially the molars. For Heero though, he might just as well have been shelling peas. It is hard for me to believe that this is his first time. The man seems to have a natural bent for this sort of work, not to mention nerves of steel. After the teeth we quickly rifle their pockets and remove their belongings. Not much point in eradicating their dental records if we then leave their wallets in their pockets. Finally, we tie plastic dumb-bells to each body with a length of stout rope, puncture the lungs and stomach with a sharpened screwdriver to release any trapped gases, then heave them over the side, about a quarter mile apart. Last over the side is Jake - an ignominious end to a really shitty date.

 

 

We tidy up the boat and head back for shore, where we collect my car, convoy out to some remote spot, set light to Frank's car and burn it out (the petrol can came in handy too). We then return for Jakes, and do the same thing. It has been a busy night for both of us, so when Heero and I have finished disposing of the cars, we head back to my place for a quick shower before falling into bed. Oh yeah, we also find time for some blinding sex. Weeell, why not? We both had a bit of residual adrenalin to work off, and he was more than up for it. All things considered, my date with Jake turned out to be a complete bust - no real surprise there. However, one good thing has come out of it. I think I have found my Mr Right.

 

 

 

 

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