Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation ❯ IV - G - Target Acquired ( Chapter 33 )

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 `s' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFall.com

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

 

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part G of Page IV

“Target Acquired”

3rd person narration

 

“So, why do you call yourself 'the Z man'?”

 

“Ch', that's just some nickname I got for having good quality coke, and lots of it. You buying or what? I don't have all day.”

 

“Your X any good?”

 

“Gotham's finest.”

 

“What's the active empathogen count at?”[1]

 

“What'd you say?”

 

“I asked how high the empathogen content was.”

 

To this 'the Z man' turned and gave Wufei a thorough stare-down. The twenty-two year old pusher sneered, light blue eyes trying to figure out this young Chinese man who had suddenly approached him. He'd never had a customer ask him a question like that, and it made him suspicious.

 

“I said it's Gotham's finest, and it ain't cheap.”

 

“I don't care about money, I care about quality. If it has any impurities or a low empathogen count I'm not going to waste my time.”

 

This made the normally icy dealer smile a little bit. To the experienced dealer of six years, it didn't seem like this was a set up. And customers who knew this much were often sure to come back after trying out his good stuff.

 

“It's 50 a bomb, cash first.”

 

“I take it you don't have it on you.” Wufei dug through his pockets. That was normal, at least for the smart ones. Carrying the drugs on you in such a public, well-watched place was bound to get a dealer busted. Most likely a paid off staff member or an idiot willing to take the risk for a small share held on to the actual product while the dealer was out working the crowd. Wufei took out his wallet, fished out two bills and held them out for everyone to see. “Two for me. Burn me and you lose a potentially valuable client.”

 

The Z man grabbed the bills quickly, looking around to see if anyone might have seen the exchange. He was no longer so confident about this customer's street smarts... “You wait here,” he grumbled, and walked off.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

 

Quatre was still nowhere to be found. Trowa had searched for over an hour, and had only found the wake of destruction left by the intoxicated blond throughout the club. A broken bottle of champagne here, an unpaid bartender there, a finished eggshell of cocaine, a pack of Benson and Hedges, a second empty eggshell.

 

People had seen Quatre, but they weren't very helpful in locating him.

 

“Oh yeah, that blond dude.” A young celebrity nodded. “He bummed a cigarette off me. He was all hyped cuz' they were the brand he smoked.”

 

“That kid was fucked up out of his mind.” An older investment banker took a blow himself.

 

“I was about ready to throw the shithead out 'til he said he was Winner's kid,” a security guard grunted. “Fucking spoiled brats.”

 

Trowa was about to give up. The crowd was thinning out on the main floor where he'd tracked Quatre to, hiding down in the VIP areas that Trowa would never be admitted to. It was entirely possible that Quatre had latched onto some fellow moneybags and was continuing his binge in another VIP room. There was no point in returning to Losman's room. He'd been gone so long that there was no way he'd get paid for this job. They probably wouldn't even let him back in.

 

He passed some young women, models or whores or something rich and/or famous, coming out of a bathroom. “That poor kid was sick to death,” one said, disgust evident in her face. “To think he would go into the women's bathroom!”

 

“Was he short? A blond?” Trowa grabbed the woman, asking.

 

She looked at his hand on her shoulder like it would give her some sort of poor person's disease. Turning up her nose, she asked haughtily, “And who are you?”

 

“I-” Trowa began, but the woman's friend pulled her away.

 

“Let's leave,” Trowa heard them say as they hurried away, high heels clicking rapidly. “Can you believe they're letting those kinds of bums in nowadays? You see what he was wearing?”

 

Trowa turned away, already wishing he hadn't heard. He had even tried to dress well today: his best pair of khakis, his only non-cotton shirt, complete with a collar, a tie he'd asked Katherine to `borrow' from her father, used black shoes that were two sizes too small and that he'd spent an hour shining. He had told himself that he didn't care what other people thought. He certainly never openly acted like he gave a damn about other people's opinions. Everyone that had enough idle boredom to talk about him would often remark at how neutral, unmovable and stoic he was.

 

But Trowa was still just another person, even if he was very good at wearing a mask.

 

He took a long look at the Women's Bathroom door. A line of girls was queued up outside of it, gossiping about their important lives, trading notes on the latest fashion, comparing, criticizing.

 

Trowa pushed through them as rudely as possible, forcing his way into the bathroom.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

 

A black sedan pulled up. They got out, faces hidden in the night. The driver began to cruise around the block, acting lost, checking for police. They didn't check their coats. Security didn't search them. One of them hastily threw the cover fee at the bouncer, who hadn't allowed the remaining gaggle of undesirable hopefuls freezing outside in the cold to enter for over an hour. There was a furrow of eyebrows, a quick meeting of eyes, and then knowing nods. The door opened for them.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

 

He had worked in The Crow for five years, doing other stints as security and occasional bodyguard here and there. He had needed to live legitimately after narrowly escaping life in jail for double homicide, suspicion of being a gang member. That was bullshit though, the last one. He wasn't in just any gang. He was Mafia. Not just any mafia, Mafia.[2]

 

He was watching the K-22 door, down on the second, 'undercover' level of The Crow when Heero and Duo got there. This part of the club was exactly as the blueprints had indicated, but Heero hadn't seen anything about a security posting there. Heero prepared to kick out his shoe knife and take the man down, but he needed to get close first.

 

“You're late,” he said.

 

He had no name. Rather, all those who knew his name and would be willing to divulge it were dead. He had no face, no tattoos, no accent. And by that, I mean you better not fucking tell shit about those things to the cops or the courts, or your fucking family will be dead.

 

You know what? Let's just pretend he didn't ever exist.

 

Heero didn't know what to say until the man who never existed, certainly wasn't near K-22 on the night of two murders at The Crow, said, “You're the Jap, eh? You're here for the job?” The man without a describable face raised a bushy, black eyebrow, asking, “Who's the queer?”

 

“He's with me,” Heero answered coldly. He was still ready to kill this man in a heartbeat. “He's safe. Who are you?”

 

He just snorted in laughter. That was the kind of a question that was a joke to a person who didn't exist.

 

“I got a piece for you, if you need it,” the man said. His right hand, `Mamma' in black ink just below his wrist, pulled out a heavy handkerchief from inside his orange jacket. He threw it onto the floor with a clunk.

 

“I doubt I'll need it,” Heero said coldly, picking it up anyway.

 

All of this didn't bode well with the Japanese assassin in any way. Had the employer thought he'd need help on this mission? Why not tell him about this man? The gun was freezing cold in Heero's sensitive hands. His blood was pulsing through his veins, sounding like a rushing river in his head.

 

Heero couldn't shake the feeling that something important was going on. He couldn't put his finger on it. He was always careful and alert, but never paranoid, nor did he feel that way now. It was a different feeling, hard to describe. The normal thrill was more than usual, almost to such an extreme level that it bordered on making Heero uncomfortable. And it took a great deal to make Heero Yuy uncomfortable. But he was. This mission was different. This mission was important.

 

“Room 18,” nobody said while opening the K-22 door, holding it for the assassins to enter. “The lock and security won't be any problem.”

 

Heero and Duo went through.

 

Nobody shut the door and then went outside to smoke a cigarette.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

 

Trowa ignored the dirty looks, the evil whispers and everything about females in the lavatory. In fact, the girls seemed more irritated than surprised that a man was walking through their bathroom. One even helpfully waved him towards one of the center stalls, door slightly ajar. Or maybe she was just trying to waft away the stink of puke that was coming from the stall.

 

Quatre was inside. He'd puked everywhere except in the toilet. The seat was covered in red, brown, yellow liquid, orange chunks. There was some dripping from the stall wall it had slid down. Quatre was sitting in it, his thousand+ Armani suit getting ruined. He was facing the toilet, hiccuping, pale and green at the same time. There was dried blood under Quatre's nose. His eyes stared off into space, something certainly worse than vacant.

 

Trowa shut the door behind him, locking it. He stepped his carefully shined shoes in a puddle of vomit, kneeling down next to Quatre. The tall boy wiped a string of spit and barf that was hanging from Quatre's chin. The blond turned to him, blurred, beautiful blue eyes going wide.

 

“Towa?” Quatre sounded like he couldn't believe it. “Towa! Joo came fa me?”

 

Trowa just nodded.

 

Quatre's gamin face broke into an elated, touched smile. And then, out of nowhere, he darted forward and kissed Trowa.

 

The wasted Winner heir's lips tasted like bile. He reeked of upchuck and booze. Trowa was too surprised, too shocked to know what to do, so he did nothing. Trowa's mouth didn't move, his arms didn't reach out, he didn't even breathe. The lack of reaction reached Quatre, who pulled away quickly, embarrassed. Trowa didn't know what to say, or even how Quatre felt. They both sat there in a mess of vomit, silent, unable to communicate their feelings, too scared to. It was a horrible first kiss.

 

“'m sahrry,” Quatre apologized, shame welling up. The monster of rejection began to eat him from the inside. It made him feel even worse than before.

 

“It's okay,” Trowa said, but there was little comfort taken.

 

“You wanna do a line?” Quatre asked, not sure what else to do. He felt like some coke would really calm him down right now, get him on his way again, help him out of this mess. He held up an almost empty eggshell, bloody hand shaking.

 

“I'm fine,” Trowa declined. He took a piece of toilet paper and wiped away more of the blood that had resumed dripping from Quatre's ravaged nostrils.

 

“Oh, okay,” Quatre said softly. He went to put some coke into the ridges of his credit card, for himself.

 

“Please. Don't?” Trowa asked.

 

They both sat there, their best outfits getting ruined, people outside gossiping about them. There wasn't anything good to say. There were no ideas or escape exits that would solve the problem. They both thought about what to say to each other for a long time.

 

Finally, Quatre came up with something. “Thank you,” he said, and passed out cold, barely caught by Trowa before landing in a puddle of his own spew.

 

Trowa held him for a minute before opening the doors and getting paper towels and water to clean them both up.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

 

They kicked down the door.

 

Slender got shot in the face. The brooding businessman got hit by an Uzi slug in his leg. Behind the bar, Denim returned several shots before getting caught in the neck. The whores screamed and screamed and screamed. One had been shot and lay bleeding while the others cried and tried to save themselves.

 

Losman wasn't there.

 

One man grumbled angrily into a radio. Others went to keep watch outside the door.

 

They began to shake down the crying, sniveling sluts. Where was Losman?

 

One of the whores said he'd gone up to the main area to meet a friend. He had thought it stupid to take the bodyguards with him. He was drunk and high.

 

They checked to make sure none of the whores were important people, people whose deaths would mean repercussion or trouble of some kind. Two of them were important. They were escorted to a car waiting outside. The rest were killed.

 

The man with the radio got a response. Losman had been spotted ordering at a bar on the main dance floor.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

 

“What are you looking at, Jap?” the well-dressed, obviously high young man spat. A young girl he had an arm around giggled.

 

If every Asian had a nickel for every time someone called them the wrong nationality... It wasn't worth getting pissed off over; but he did...

 

Wufei turned away. He'd seen the staggering and the expensive clothing, pondered whether or not to ask the guy if he was on anything good. Wufei grumbled to himself. Where was the Z man anyway?

 

Not getting a response, J.P. Losman turned back to the bar to get another drink for the slut he was planning on taking back to his apartment later. She looked like the kind who would have no problem with no rubber.

 

^*-^*-^*-^*-^*-^*

18.

 

Heero couldn't place why that number struck him as important, but it did. Eighteen was the legal age to drink, the legal age for renting a hotel room or a car by oneself, the fourth part of Thursday's Powerball jackpot. Eighteen was also the official age that a child became an adult.

 

Heero felt very much like a child, staring at the big, shimmering, gold 18 on the door in front of him. Knowing the schematic, the setup of the room, likely places the target inside would be, likely places that armed enemies would be stationed, he had no reason to hesitate. But he did. He looked at the number, struck in awe of a situation that was ordinary at best... at least for a professional hitman of his caliber.

 

There was something about that number 18.

 

The legal age for becoming an adult, the end of innocence. After eighteen there were no excuses for ignorance, no reliable protection from the cruelty of the adult world, no official reason for not being held responsible for the things that one did in their life afterwards.

 

Heero put his hand on the handle to the door. It was so smooth.

 

Something very important was happening, was about to happen. He was sure of it, although there was nothing logical to explain the tremendous gravity of whatever lay beyond the golden number 18.

 

Heero opened the door to the unlocked Room 18.

 

He rushed in, scanning the room.

 

There were no guards, no cronies, no threats at all. An antique record player played a soft dance tune, maybe by Frank Sinatra.

 

There was only one person in the room. A woman, hair dyed blue, bobbed short and parted to her right, sat in a dark lounge chair.

 

The target.

 

She exhaled from a cigarette dramatically.

 

“And here I was beginning to think they were going to let me live!” She stubbed out the glowing end. Looking down at him with fond, but sad green eyes she said, “You can come inside if you want to, Heero.”

 

-end “Target Acquired” Part G of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

MasamuneEHS@hotmail.com

 

Next: “Closed Casket”

Pay attention to the next part.

 

ID Notes:

No, 'they' and 'he' are not characters you can know as of yet.

 

More information on 'the target' in next chapter.

 

Notes:

[1]: Empathogen is a term describing a fixed set of chemical hallucinogens, one of which is MDMA, the active compound in Ecstasy. The more Empathogens, the stronger the effect.

 

[2]: The term 'mafia' has been taken sometimes to imply organized crime of various kinds. In reality the original 'Mafia' was the Cosa Nostra syndicate based out of southern Italy. Here, by using the term 'Mafia' I am NOT implying that this group is all made up of Italians (although the nameless 'He' is), simply that it is the prevalent mafia organization in Metro City that has roots in the Italian Cosa Nostra.