Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Not With a Bang ( Chapter 21 )

Reflections: Not With a Bang

Chapter 21

 

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought.

 

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Author's Note: Oh, good lord. This is a re-upload AGAIN. I really should have waited for Lita's comments the first time, and now for CGay's (even if she is abandoning me to the piranha-infested waters of commas and hyphens). As usual, they found the most mistakes. The Bean-Paste Award for most embarrassing typo spotted, however, goes to Steph this chapter. I am grateful to her, and to Lita, Lylia, Kelly, Beysie, Gillian, and Teresa for not only pointing out boo-boos, but for speculating on where the plot was going and offering encouragement. Thank you all so much for your patience, and also to everyone else who has hung around for the next installment.

 

L.A. Mason

 

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Slowly, methodically, Ken shredded the edge of the map stretched across his knees, and stared out the window at the thickening signs of human habitation. It wasn't as if Omi really needed him as a navigator, any way. The teen probably knew every road in and out of Tokyo, the way he tended to know other stuff; on an instinctive, gut level. But it had been a nice gesture, asking in his soft, diffident voice if Ken wouldn't mind…

 

Of course, the charade had fizzled out ten minutes after they'd gotten on the road, and Omi had just automatically taken the turn-off that not only by-passed the town below the mountain cabin, but would get their little caravan onto the highway that was the shortest route to Tanagawa.

 

If he weren't so tired by it all, Ken might have objected to being `managed.'

 

It was a given that Weiss wouldn't be returning to the Villa, so they'd loaded up and taken both vehicles, the sedan and the beat-up, non-descript van. Omi had flashed his big eyes in his most beseeching look at Ken, pleading that he needed a co-pilot, and wouldn't Ken please… While the truth of the matter was that the tactician had judged that Ken and Yohji needed to be separated lest the flaming row - Omi's words - start up all over again. And Ken and Aya were likewise judged to be a bad combination, because they didn't argue… they didn't even look at one another. So Ken was stuck with his best friend, in the sedan, and thinking about crawling under the carpet or something every time the teenager gave a long-suffering sigh of frustration.

 

The dreary, mucky spring-in-factory-land terrain slipping by outside the window pretty much fit perfectly with the former jock's mood. They'd gone from rainy fields and anonymous villages, to industrial parks and manufacturing districts rendered into ghost-towns by the bad economy, only stopping once for a railroad crossing, waiting out the stream of cargo containers that flowed by on flat-bed rail cars, headed for the harbor and the big ships headed out, and away. Ken had watched with a vague, hungry envy. Shaking himself, he asked, voice gone hoarse with disuse, “So… what's the plan?”

 

“Ano…” Distracted, Omi waited until there was a gap in traffic, then smoothly merged into the flow of cars and trucks. “I put together a list of family and long-time associates that are still in the area of the night club. I was figuring we'd start with the ones closest to that convenience store, where we got the hits on the credit card number, and work our way out from there. With the fire, and Honey's death, they may not be quite so eager to cover for them any more.”

 

“You still think that those guys have connections to Honey's cousins?”

 

“Yeah… But it will be hard to hide a group of that size. And most of them are outsiders, with no claim to family loyalty. I think the locals'll be ready to see them gone.” Calm, thoughtful, the youngest Weiss sounded very grown up, and it made Ken tired all over again.

 

“Christ, Omi…” His head fell back against the top edge of the seat, and he addressed his words to the ceiling. “How long is this going to drag on? I'm ready for it to be over.”

 

“You want your bang?” chuckling, Omi flashed a grin at the brunet, who rolled a blank eye his way.

 

“Huh? Oh, you mean that bit about the universe ending with a whimper, and not a bang.” He was used to struggling to keep up with Omi, and after a moment, dredged up the quote that the little blond was referring to. “I guess. I wasn't thinking about that. I'm just sick of sitting around doing nothing. It's time to kick their butts so we can go home-” On the last word, his throat closed up. Home? How could he think about going home, to the flower shop and to Kritiker, when it would be without Aya? Ken choked, but his partner didn't seem to notice, nodding agreement.

 

“I want to go home, too. I'm tired of sleeping on a lumpy mattress, and eating leftovers. I'd like to go back to school while I'm still young enough to graduate without looking like a dork. I mean, I realize I don't look my age and it's possible no one would notice, but it would still be humiliating to be old and wearing my school uniform.” Chattering playfully, Omi kept at it until Ken gave a reluctant laugh.

 

“Yeah, right. They'll revoke your charter membership in the geek club if that happens.”

 

“Hey!” The car swerved a little as Omi took his hand from the wheel to lean over and swat at Ken's head, but they'd gotten deep enough into the unending sameness of scruffy streets and run-down warehouses that there was hardly any traffic. They turned another corner, coming around to the back side of a fenced yard with a peeling sign that read `Used Auto Parts.' The car rolled to a stop, the white van coasting up beside it, and Omi opened his door and jumped out. He trotted to the gate, rattling the padlock and chain as a lanky figure slowly unfolded from the driver's side of the other vehicle. Hands shoved carelessly in his jeans pockets, Yohji ambled up beside him, and in a moment, they were heaving the chain-link gate open. Omi dashed back to the sedan, and drove through the opening.

 

“This is a great place to hide!” he enthused. “We'll just be one more dead car, in a forest of dead cars.” Passing them, Yohji backed the van into a gap beside a wrecked bus, and as soon as it stopped moving, a familiar red haired figure was scrambling up to drape an oil stained, blue tarp over the vehicle's blunt nose. Ken's heart squeezed tight at the sight, and he missed what the smaller youth was saying.

 

“Ken-kun…” Exasperated and sympathetic, Omi leaned over and tweaked his ear.

 

“Ow! What the fuck-?” Ken jerked away, scowling.

 

“Mission, Ken-kun. Don't forget the mission. Right?” The little hacker had parked their car in between a stack of indefinable, crushed slabs, and a large panel truck that listed ominously over the shorter sedan. He was hanging on the still open door, expectantly waiting for Ken to quit spacing and get out. In spite of himself, the athlete blushed and scrambled over the divided seat and past the wheel to the driver's side. Beyond the hood, the other blond snorted a laugh. Ken glared and gave him the finger, then went woof when Omi slapped his duffle bag into his chest, muttering, “Grow up, both of you.”

 

Surprisingly, Yohji shut up.

 

“Okay, people.” Omi said briskly, handing around the short-range head-sets. “Aya-kun, you're at home-base, monitoring. Yohji, you get the coveralls, and start going door-to-door, checking meters. I'll see about picking up a local public school's uniform, and join the after-school crowd hitting the shops. Ken, since they never got a good look at you, and you blend in the most anyway, you get to start slipping into apartment buildings - any place that's big enough for several people to be hiding out. Keep your comms on `receive' at all times, and don't hesitate to back off if you get a bad feeling. Got it everyone?”

 

“Question.” Hopping on one foot as he shoved his boot down the leg of the dingy blue coverall, Yohji stole a glance at the tactician. “We're treating the convenience store as ground zero, not the Hot Body, right?”

 

“Yes. What about it?” Omi asked. He paused in the act of plugging his own head-set into a useless Walkman since he had neither baseball cap nor long hair to disguise it. But at least its battery pack would boost the signal, giving him an extra couple of blocks range. He shrugged lightly, tucking the battered silver rectangle into his backpack, and slinging the bag up onto his shoulder.

 

“Ayan and I were looking at your print-outs off the net on the way down. There's a subsidized apartment block midway between the two locations. Lot of units. And not too far from where Aya was found by the cops. Ken should probably start there.” Serious for a change, Yohji's usual drawl was clipped. The home-made ID badge that Omi had whipped up on the Villa's computer went onto the chest of his coveralls, and he slung a worn leather tool belt around his lean waist. Flicking a sharp glance at Ken, the blond grimly checked his watch and a small pistol that slipped into a pouch on the belt. “I'm not going to be able to get in there - looks like the meters are probably all together on the alley, instead of in the individual units.”

 

Ken bridled, snapping, “I thought we ruled the place out as too crowded. These guys aren't going to want to hang out where everybody's granny is a witness.”

 

“And if you'd been paying attention instead of running your mouth, you'd have noticed that three of the Hot Body's employees gave the complex as their home address.” annoyed, Yohji shot back. Before Ken's cocked fist could connect with the blond's sneering mouth, Aya said in his low, flat voice, “It doesn't matter whether we check the place first, or last. We still have to check it.”

 

Anger dissipating, Ken's fist dropped and he took a step backward. “Yeah… I guess.” he muttered miserably, unable to look at the man whose cold, controlled features were breaking his heart. Opening the duffle, he dragged on his denim jacket and turned resolutely away. “I'll start at the apartment complex.”

 

“Ken-kun?” Omi's light voice rose, anxious, as Ken dropped into a run, leaving his splintering team behind.

 

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“Shit. Doesn't the sun ever shine around here?” Ken growled under his breath. He slid down the grimy concrete wall to sit on his heels, staring at the late afternoon rush hour traffic streaming past. True to Omi's prediction, he'd slipped in and out of apartment building, after apartment building, without anyone giving him a second look, but all he had to show for it was a tension ache in the back of his neck. He'd checked in according to plan after each strike-out, but the sound of Aya's baritone, even filtered through the crappy ear piece, hurt like a son of a bitch, and Ken's progress reports had gotten shorter and shorter. Frustrated, he raked a hand through his tangled hair, snarling an obscenity when his fingers snagged.

 

This was the same area that he'd explored when he'd met Honey, the same as when he and Omi - and wasn't that an embarrassment? - had come to Tanagawa together. It was getting to be familiar enough that Ken could call up a map of alleys and bars in the back of his head. Idly, he debated hitting the soba place he'd seen for a bowl of noodles, and then resuming his slow, spiraling exploration. A couple of hours earlier, Ken had glimpsed Yohji, equipped with a clipboard and the tired air of a man doing the world's most boring job, but blond and brunet had passed as if they were total strangers. Which, considering the sucker-punch of suggesting that they ditch Aya, the other man probably was. Ken thumped his skull angrily against the wall. How the fuck could Yohji - and Omi, his so-called best friend - have colluded like that, and decided that the injured swordsman had to go? Okay, granted, he was washed up as an assassin, but—

 

You told him the same thing, you hypocrite.

 

And that was the problem, wasn't it? It was okay for Ken to dump his whatever - `lover' seemed way too personal a term - but it wasn't okay when Yohji and Omi suggested it.

 

Depressed, Ken stared blindly across the street, barely aware that the stream of cars slowed to a stop when the traffic signal changed. Between a chugging, vibrating city bus, and a small but determined taxi that was wedging itself into the flow, he could just see the other side and the grated windows of a package liquor store. The flashing neon advertising a brand of beer that he hated went from blue, to red, and back to blue, casting a weird illumination on the two men who paused on the shop's threshold. They were dressed like any other blue collar factory worker, getting off shift and stopping to pick up something to relax with, but there was something about the way they held their bodies that was… off. Ken stood up suddenly, but the bus had inched forward, blocking his view as it fought off the encroaching taxi.

 

Adrenaline sang through his veins, and the athlete had to force himself to stop, and think. Just what was it that had triggered his overactive imagination, anyway? Two guys, nothing special. They didn't remind him especially of any of the pictures they'd gotten of the opposition… didn't seem overtly secretive. Without conscious decision, Ken was darting across the busy street, taking advantage of the jam caused when the bus's driver hung out his window, screaming insults at the taxi, and the cabbie rolled down his window and reciprocated.

 

The strangers were only a short ways down the sidewalk when Ken dodged a final, homicidal motorist and made it to the curb. They didn't so much as glance back at the honking horns or shouts, moving along in tandem.

 

Like they were trained to.

 

Ken's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. No, he wasn't imagining it. They moved smoothly through the thronging pedestrians, side-stepping collisions with old ladies towing little wire shopping carts, passing around the gaggle of teenagers clogging the pavement like water around a stone. And their eyes were constantly in motion, taking in everything, analyzing. Watching for threats. Even when the one man bobbed his head in a quick bow to a self-important shop-keeper who was glaring suspiciously at the kids, the guy was able to spot the boy reaching toward his hip pocket and evade the would-be pick-pocket.

 

Hanging back safely out of range, the brunet tried to squelch the bubble of excitement in his gut. All afternoon, he'd wandered the neighborhood, coming up empty, and here, finally, was the lead he'd been hoping for: they were a couple of professionals, just like him.

 

Without hesitation, Ken tapped his head set. “Abyssinian. Targets spotted. Three blocks west of your location, on the main drag. Two, on foot.”

 

“Acknowledged, Siberian.” The prompt reply didn't raise so much as a goose-bump. “I'll notify the others. Out.”

 

Now there was nothing to do but follow, and wait. His partners probably weren't all that far away; success having come well within the zone Omi had predicted it would, and the others were canvassing streets relatively near by. So long as he didn't do something stupid, like get spotted, they'd be able to tail the pair to whatever lair the enemy was holed up at. And depending on what they saw there, the Hunters would finally get their chance.

 

Ken's stomach roiled.

 

There was a taste of bile at the back of his throat that he could easily identify with the cold fury that made his fingers tense into claws, and his shoulders shake a little. These were the assholes who'd put Weiss into a tailspin, tearing them out of their complacent, mental world. Okay, so maybe Aya was right on some levels, maybe they should be questioning Kritiker's decisions more. But the price of having their eyes opened was to rip the team apart. At this rate, they'd win the battle against the political guerrillas, only to lose the war to save themselves.

 

The pair ahead of him turned right at a gas station that Omi had earlier designated as a landmark in divvying up the area to be searched. Ken tapped his headset again, tersely relaying the information. There weren't as many pedestrians on the cross street; they were entering a section that was mainly small manufacturing, and a lot of the buildings were vacant and boarded up, a testimony to post-war endeavors that had moved on in search of cheaper labor. When a metal, roll-up door opened up ahead, Ken felt his heart seize up. But it was only a small delivery van pulling out onto the street.

 

The driver smoothly pulled it over to the curb, snapped on the flashers, and hopped down to run around the rear of his vehicle. His blue coveralls were worn and on the shabby side, as were those of an overweight man who followed him out of the building, gesticulating furiously. Between the eye-roll toward heaven, the pointing down the street toward the more affluent parts of the city, and the fist shaken under the driver's nose, Ken didn't need to be able to hear the words being spat out. In fact, except for the head guy's girth, it could be Omi berating him and Yohji for getting behind on the flower shop's deliveries.

 

The good thing about it was that the drama completely absorbed the two men that Ken was tailing, and they made one of the oldest mistakes in the book: they were close to home base, inside their comfort zone, and got too relaxed. Neither of them so much as glanced back at the supposed wage slave plodding along a half a block behind them. Instead, they nodded to a man leaning casually against the wall outside another of the neighborhood's ubiquitous taverns, and trotted up the narrow exterior stairs to the building's second floor, where they vanished inside. Ken forced himself to keep walking.

 

He jostled past the argument blocking the sidewalk, blatantly checking it out as if he were just another local. The man standing with folded arms in front of the bar, on the other hand, the Hunter's attention slid past as if he were nothing more than a patch of graffiti on the wall. Ken's skin prickled under the return scrutiny of black eyes in a face that looked rounder and more Korean than Japanese. Without seeming to, the athlete gauged the probable strength of a body that was barely his height but a little stockier, and cataloged the scars on the backs of his knuckles. The longer torso and shorter legs suggested a lower center of gravity, and if the guy were a soccer player, Ken would peg him as having a killer goal kick. A humorless smile twitched his lips. Well, he hadn't been a great goalie for nothing; punching the ball in defense of the posts was nothing new, and neither was pulling off a slider to trip up the other team's offense. It wasn't about the individual, but winning the game for the team. But he put the game jargon firmly out of his head as he crossed at the next intersection, turning toward the block of cheap apartments that had earned Yohji's ire earlier. All their utility meters were mounted on a single, communal wall, and so gave the former detective no excuse to go door to door. Ken slipped into the covered walkway that housed a number of trash dumpsters and battered scooters, and activated his mic.

 

“Upstairs from Matsushita's.” he said brusquely. Naming the actual dive was a risk, but an acceptable one. It didn't, however, mean that chit-chat was a good idea, and Ken let his comm fall back into its passive default mode. He'd hear anything directed at him, but wouldn't broadcast if he didn't have to.

 

Hat and denim jacket went into his duffel, and the night-vision goggles came out. Ken shivered in his snug black turtleneck, but it was more from nerves than anything else. The weather had finally decided to play at being springtime in earnest, and the evening air was nowhere near as bitter as it had been the last time he'd been sneaking around Tanagawa, and his shirt and dark jeans were plenty warm enough. The thing was, he'd have to scope out the upstairs of the bar's building on his own, and that meant slowly working his way in, watching for watchers. It would be naïve to think that the enemy wouldn't post anyone… He took a deep, cleansing breath, and stuffed the duffel behind a post that supported the carport, wedged against the plank privacy fence. If found, it held nothing that could identify Weiss, anyway. Flexing his fingers, he jumped, catching the bottom rung of a rusted fire escape ladder, and swarmed up it, rolling into the cover of the flat roof's low perimeter.

 

The residents apparently regularly used the graveled and tarred expanse. There were clotheslines strung from the corners of the small shed that covered the top of the stairwell, and a row of containers filled with dirt, and the sad remains of wire trellises tied with strips of cloth for supporting beans and the like. An aluminum folding chair with a sprung seat leaned against a rickety table, waiting for summer. It was all achingly familiar, reminding Ken of being young, and poor... Of the dim time before the Sisters and the orphanage. He shook his head slightly, rising to a crouch and scurrying across the roof to where he could see the skyline in the direction of the bar, diagonally across from him.

 

Patience paid off about the same time that Ken was sure his butt cheeks had fallen asleep forever. An orange spark and a trail of warmth that had to be rising smoke showed the motionless assassin the location of a man tucked into an angle of the exterior stairwell of the target building. Boredom, and the ordinariness of the locale had convinced the guard to light up. And if his observer had been anyone other than Weiss, it would have been okay; who would give a guy taking advantage of the mild air to enjoy a smoke outside a second thought? But taken together with the stocky man still leaning against the wall below, and the pair that Ken had tailed, the implications were clear.

 

They'd found the enemy's base.

 

Surreptitiously, the brunet edged back, folding himself into the shadow of a big planter box. Okay, the smart thing to do would be to check from another angle, safely out of range of both human and electronic observation. Then, Omi or Aya could feel out the perimeter for alarms or booby-traps. Yohji would want to set up cameras aimed at the windows, as well as actual surveillance, until they had a feel for the numbers and interior placements.

 

Fuck that… he growled under his breath. Ken pounded his closed fist on the side of the container of earth. Yeah, sure, data was great, but his friends were worn thin from emotional stresses and perpetually looking over their shoulders. The assholes needed to be taken down, and taken down now.

 

The clock was ticking not only on how long Weiss could last before exhaustion led to a fatal mistake, but sooner or later, the buyers and the sellers of the classified information would manage to hook up. And once that happened, there'd be no more chances to stop them.

 

Ken cupped a hand around his mic, activating it. “Yo. Abyssinian. Call the team back to the van. Meeting in an hour. Got it?”

 

“Understood.” Protocol said that longer reports were to be made in person, and the others would assume that the recall meant that Ken had the goods. Now, he just had to make sure that he did. A stubborn scowl tightened his jaw; Ken was used to being considered the klutz of the team, the butt of jokes… but he wasn't stupid. He knew his stuff, and he would do this.

 

The dark-clad assassin dashed across his roof-top, taking advantage of the reinforced palms of his finger-less gloves to slide down the fire ladder at speed. He dropped noiselessly to the cracked concrete fronting the dumpsters, and headed off to circumnavigate the block. Memory told him that the street jogged, widening for truck-access to a warehouse, and there'd be enough cover for him to cross the street.

 

 

****************

 

 

Thoroughly winded, the ex-jock was the last one to scale the junk-yard's fence, vaulting from its top into the tangled shadows left by a security flood-light shining over top of the wreckage. Ken winced; Omi was going to be worried, and hence pissed, that he was late. Especially since he was the one who'd called the meeting. Jogging, Ken openly approached the vehicle's hiding place, counting on one of the others to correctly ID him as `friend,' and not `foe.'

 

Sure enough, Yohji popped open the van's back door, and Omi dragged the unresisting brunet into the darkened interior. As soon as the panel was shut, Aya restored the blue, underwater glow, and Ken was subjected to the three-way glower of his companions. Omi perched on a tiny stool next to Aya's rolling chair, while Yohji, coveralls pushed down to his waist in response to the close air of the cramped van, sat on the floor against the metal equipment rack, long legs carelessly drawn up to support his elbows. Ken resisted the temptation to slink back outside, instead planting his rear against the closed door and staring back. “I got the intel.” he said simply.

 

A breath gusted out of Omi, and their smallest member sagged. “Ken-kun…”

 

Ken held up a hand. “Don't say it. I know it was reckless and whatever, but I was there, and the chance was too good to pass up on. I got into the second floor of the place next door - it's a bunch of dinky offices, and nobody's there after business hours - and got a head-count. There's eight of `em inside, plus two on guard. One's down in front of the bar, the other is at the closed-in end of the balcony on the second floor.”

 

“That still leaves several unaccounted for.” Flipping through the files, Aya handed Kritiker's estimation of the mercenaries' numbers to Omi, who barely glanced at it before passing the folder to Yohji. From his spot against the doors, Ken shrugged and sat down.

 

“It's still pretty early. Maybe some of them are out and about. I can draw you a sketch of the building interior, based on what I could see though the windows, and also the location of the alleys, and stuff?” Wordlessly, Yohji tossed him a small pad of paper and a pen. Catching them, Ken began roughing out the block that the bar was centered on, wincing at how his sketch more resembled a play diagram than a map. But none of the others complained, simply leaning in to watch as he drew and explained, “There's a back door on the rear, but it's one of those sheet-metal security things, and it probably opens into the back of the bar. No fire escapes, and probably no interior stairs, judging by the style and age of the structure. We're talking cheap, post-war construction, like most everything in Tanagawa.”

 

“So…” Yohji squinted at the lines and angles. “Stairs and balcony squeezed in on the left, narrow alley on the right, separating it from the office place you were in. Bigger alley in the back, truck-usable with a careful driver, and an invitation to get stuck if you have a moron at the wheel. Guard on the balcony, and another out front. Pretty defensible, although their sight-lines have got to suck.”

 

“Yeah. The nightclub was better.” agreed Ken absently. He tore the first page off, passing it to Omi, and with his tongue between his teeth, began on the interior. “Looks like an office suite across the front, full width of the building, with a toilet squeezed in next, and then two smaller rooms with doors onto the balcony. There's a fifth room at the back, opens off of the middle one, not the balcony, and I think another bathroom, and maybe a closet. I could see doors here, and here--” He tapped the paper with his pen. “—But the space wasn't enough for a whole `nother room.”

 

“Cramped.” Yohji opined. “Can't see them cramming a dozen people into five rooms. The others have got to be somewhere else.”

 

“Probably.” Nodding, Omi took the pad of paper, jotting notes in the margin. “They're smart, and experienced. I'll bet a couple of them have very legit covers, and are working on making contact with whoever it is in the press, and presumably taking care of other aspects of their business. These will be mainly their muscle. Ken-kun, could you mark where you observed people? And also the relation of doors and windows in the building that you were in next door?” As commanded, the Hunter scooted closer, inadvertently pressing against a certain redhead's knee. His brain sputtered to a halt, only regaining the power to think when Omi poked him in the forehead with the pen. Painful heat flooded Ken's face as he glanced up and caught his best friend staring at him with sad sympathy. He snatched back the pad of paper and retreated to his place against the doors, hoping that the weird lighting would hide his embarrassment, but equally sure that all it would do would be to make him look like an eggplant. Desperate, he dragged his thoughts back on track.

 

“Uh… yeah. I think I can ID some of them out of Manx's data, too.”

 

A grin brightened the tactician's features. “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful news, Ken-kun!” Omi reached for his laptop across Aya, ignoring the swordsman's faintly annoyed grimace, and plopped back down onto his stool. Typing rapidly, he said, “Manx-san estimated their force at a maximum of thirty, and confirmed eleven kills. I would guess that they lost a few more, but on the other hand, any injured have probably returned to active by now… say realistically that they have twelve to fifteen people left. You counted eight at Matsushita's bar. That leaves four to seven unaccounted for.” He paused to pop in the cd that they'd gotten from their handler, bringing up the grid of mug shots. Out of the corner of his eye, Ken saw Aya's supple mouth thin down into a hard, angry line at those who were obviously dead, but the man held his peace as Omi spun the laptop about on his knee.

 

Hesitantly, Ken said, “Okay… you remember Manx said there was a guy from some group called Glowing Path--”

 

“ `Shining Path.' ” the blond interrupted helpfully. It's called `Shining Path.' Yes, I remember. He's this one--” Using the laptop's touch pad upside down and backwards didn't slow him down; Omi located and clicked on the desired icon in a heartbeat, bringing up the bland, middle-aged face. Ken nodded vigorously.

 

“Yeah, him. I remember thinking the South American Asian thing was kind of weird, so he stuck in my head. And there was a woman there, too. I know I've seen her before.” Ken said eagerly. Doubtful, Omi tilted the screen so that they could see it better.

 

“I don't know, Ken-kun. Manx-san said that this Chinese woman was dead.” He clicked on the thumbnail, opening the picture, but Ken shook his head emphatically.

 

“No, not her. There was another woman. Scroll down.” Insistent, he started to climb over Yohji's long legs, winning himself an amused snort from the playboy, and a lingering caress on the butt. Ken squawked, throwing himself backwards as Yohji merely smirked and wriggled his fingers invitingly.

 

“Boys…” Omi said reprovingly. But his attention was only half on the scuffle as he frowned at the computer's screen. Finally, the smaller blond cleared his throat, adjusting his laptop again. “I'm impressed, Ken-kun. You were right, there was another woman in the list of possible associates. Is this the one you saw?”

 

Squinting, the jock stared. It figured that Omi would ask - after all, making sure of data was part of his job - the problem was on Ken's side. He just didn't trust his memory the way the others did. But it did look like the person he'd seen… “Does it say she's got a scar on her arm? About here--?” He traced a comma-shaped mark just above and behind his elbow, and waited impatiently while his teammate read the scanty details.

 

“Yup. Knife wound.” Omi confirmed. “Well, I think that makes it definite; these are our guys.”

 

“Shit… that's almost too easy.” groused the other blond. Yohji hung a cigarette between his lips, and started a bit as the others all stared at him with varying degrees of hostility. “What? I'm not going to light it.” he protested. Omi rolled his eyes.

 

“I was thinking about your crack that this is too easy, Yohji-kun. I'd hardly say that everything we've been through has been easy. We've worked extremely hard to get this far - alive - and I for one do not intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

 

Yohji snickered. “You do know where that saying comes from, don't you? It was the Greeks, who sent a giant horse to the Trojans. Except, the Trojans should have looked. It would have saved them from getting caught with their pants down.”

 

“I thought ancient Greeks didn't wear pants.” Grinning, Omi lobbed the verbal grenade back. Yohji laughed out loud, and ceded the point with the doffing of an imaginary hat. Bemused, Ken shook his head, stealing another glance at the unhappy redhead sitting with arms folded and a glower on his beautiful face. Given the adrenaline high that went with being actively on a mission instead of sitting around and waiting, it was understandable that the blonds were back to their good-natured teasing, but it bothered him to see Aya revert to type like that. Ken suddenly, intensely missed the moments of intimacy, and it hurt to think that he might never get another chance.

 

Because sooner or later, one of them would say the inevitable, and he'd be siding with them against Aya.

 

“Well, getting back to what you said before the discussion of Greeks and getting them out of their pants-” Yohji snickered as Omi blushed scarlet and garbled out a protest. “-If we can eliminate the ones Kenken spotted, the odds suddenly get much, much better.”

 

“Should we?” forgetting the teasing, Omi turned serious. “It might drive the remainder underground.”

 

“Nah… I think they have too much invested to ditch. More like, it might bring the bosses out where we could get a crack at them. They weren't there, were they Ken? Ken…?”

 

Miserable, the younger man stared down at his clenched fists, refusing to look at Yohji… or at Aya. That wonderful, vibrant baritone that Ken wished more than anything would speak to him in passion, with warmth, and affection, said coldly, “You're planning on killing them. You're going to `eliminate' the subordinates, just to force the bosses out of hiding, so you can mur--”

 

Ken jerked as if each word were a physical blow, his head finally snapping up as he surged onto one knee, shouting, “Shut the fuck up! What do y--” A lean hand slapped across his mouth, shocking him into silence. Yohji's bottle green eyes glittered dangerously as he said quietly, “Whoa, Kenken. This is a good location we're in, but we don't want to attract attention by yelling, now do we?” Stricken, the brunet deflated, anger gone as readily as it had come, and he sagged down into a huddle on the floor. But Yohji wasn't finished yet. The blond addressed Aya, tone gone even softer and more unyielding.

 

“Those `subordinates' you're feeling such sympathy for, did you actually bother to read the profiles on them? We're not talking about some poor slobs who've been forced to do bad. These are mercenaries. Professional killers. Former death-squad members. People who think `ethnic cleansing' is a new brand of shampoo.” Yohji allowed his hand to fall away from where it had gagged Ken as he enumerated the traits of the people they were up against. “I respect your opinion, and you're entitled to keep it. But when it comes to dealing with these scumbags, you're not entitled to get in our way, Aya. Do you get my drift?”

 

Sullenly, the redhead nodded, and Yohji gave him a dazzling, lop-sided grin. “Great. Now, I get the impression that Soccer Boy here was thinking about striking a blow for righteous living and clean underwear tonight. You willing to stay here and keep an ear glued to the police scanner? It would be a drag if the cops decided to lend a hand. Especially since we still don't know who it was that ratted us out last time.”

 

“Fine. Whatever.” Disgusted, Aya threw his hands up in a rare gesture of frustration. Ken watched, still silent, as the man turned his back, swiveling around to face the van's surveillance equipment.

 

It felt like someone was gouging out his heart.

 

 

*****************

 

 

It was stupid, considering that they'd been a three-man team before Aya had joined Weiss, but weirdly, nothing was working right. It felt like how Ken imagined it must feel to suddenly be a three-legged dog; it was possible to hobble around, but damned awkward.

 

Of course, canine amputees generally didn't have anyone trying to shoot them.

 

Heart beating triple-time - and wasn't that appropriate? - Ken flattened himself against the wall and tried to catch his breath, his borrowed pistol clutched in both hands and pointed at the ceiling. The idea hadn't been a bad one; the enemy was wisely enough watching the stairs and doors of their building. The cheap, dark brown tile roof was sloped, slippery, and would make too damned much noise to break through. But the gap between the bar's building and the closed-up offices was something in the neighborhood of just under six feet, and the crippled dog could probably jump it. They hadn't even had to jump. Omi had loaded his crossbow with a barbed bolt that expanded on impact, supplied by Kritiker for the sort of occasion where a strong anchor was vital. The nylon cord attached to its end was the kind used in mountaineering, and more than up to the job of supporting a stealthy Hunter across the small gap from point A to point B. The only problem was that the first person through the window across the alley had set off an alarm. Of course Omi hadn't picked up its electronic signature - a string of tin cans tied to the window sash didn't have a signature.

 

It wasn't much consolation that it had been Yohji, either. The older man immediately recognized what he was dealing with in the darkened room, making Ken wonder how he'd had experience with such low-tech warning systems, and launched himself at the connecting door to the rest of the upper floor. Yohji swore under his breath as he jammed a wobbly straight-back chair under the knob of the western style door. It was a good thing that they'd picked the farthest back room, with no access to the balcony on the building's other side, because it limited the direction the targets could come from, and gave the remaining two Weiss enough time to zip across the gap.

 

The only problem was that the targets had no interest in coming in; black holes appeared in the door as silenced rounds punched through the flimsy wood and buzzed angrily across the room, trapping the invaders.

 

Omi slid against the wall beside Ken, whispering, “Good thing this is the plumbing wall. It's thicker.” Ken rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh, that's a big load off my mind.” he snarled back. “Considering we were trying to sneak up on them.”

 

“Yes. Well.” The petit teen coughed politely. From the other side of the door, Yohji hissed when a bullet splintered the wood frame just above his head.

 

“So, kids. Do we retreat?” But before they could second the motion, the pffft of a shot through the open window made the playboy say regretfully, “Forget I said that.”

 

Ken groaned. They should have figured that these people would respond swiftly and with deadly force. Weiss was used to catching people off guard. On the rare occasion they tangled with body guards, or hired security, the opposition didn't have an assassin's mind-set. They hesitated to eliminate threats, reacting defensively instead of offensively. These guys, on the other hand, shot first and skipped the questions altogether. They recognized that the building next door was their weakest point, and moved to control it, thereby pinning the invaders under the cross-fire. As a strategy went, it was perfect. Omi poked him in the ribs, passing him a small flash grenade. “Ken-kun, Yohji-kun. This type of building usually has an access panel into the crawl space under the roof. It should be in the closet behind you, Yohji. We go up and hit them from above, and Ken, you open the door and throw this. They don't know how many of us there are, so it should possible to take them by surprise.”

 

Before their tactician had even finished speaking, Yohji rolled onto his belly and eased open the sliding closet door. “Damn futons.” he muttered, but then he was moving, a lithe shadow that boosted itself into the closet's upper half. Muffled, he called softly, “Omitchi. It's here.” The little blond patted Ken's arm and streaked across, grabbing Yohji's outstretched hand and vanishing into the denser darkness. The sliding door rasped shut.

 

Heart hammering, Ken muttered, “Shit.” and kicked the braced chair. The door exploded inwards, half torn from its hinges as several slugs ripped through it at once. He lobbed the cylinder of the grenade back through, clapping his gloved hands over his ears as he flattened to the floor. Omi tended to think small, given that attracting attention in an urban setting was a bad thing, but the concussive blast still packed a wallop.

 

Shielded from the blinding light by the ceiling, Omi took advantage of the instant of confusion to crash through the thin drywall, raining white dust and bits of pink insulation into the middle room. A bolt from his crossbow pierced a man's throat, just above his white shirt collar, staining it dark. Yohji braced his feet on the rafters to either side of the hole, playing out a whip-sawing strand of wire to catch the lone woman by the throat. She thrashed, trying to both get her fingers inside the choking loop and to bring her automatic to bear. The blond wrenched her off her feet, anchoring the wire on an unseen beam above as he sent another loop sailing toward a Korean man who was firing blindly as he scrubbed at his tearing eyes. From his position prone on the floor, Ken risked squeezing off an unsilenced shot at a fourth mercenary, sending him spinning to the floor covered in blood.

 

They were racing the clock now, having lost both the advantage of surprise, and the bar's patrons below had to notice the thudding of bodies and heavy footsteps overhead. Not to mention that gunshot. And there were four of the mercenaries left. Assuming that the guys on guard duty were still on the steps and in front of the building, that left two across the alley, behind the Hunters' backs. They hadn't fired on the bar building in a couple of minutes, probably lacking a clear target, but it was only a matter of time before they moved. Running through every swear-word that he knew, Ken rolled back toward the exterior of the room, pulling himself up to squat against the wall. He couldn't see or hear his partners, but it figured that they'd be going after the guy on the balcony, assuming that he was standing his ground to guard against unknown threats from that direction. If they were fast enough, they might nail him before the enemy could regroup and consolidate. Siberian would play rearguard, preventing the other side from sliding across the rope and doing the same thing to Weiss.

 

It was as if thinking it was some kind of a summoning spell. Ken heard the soft thump of an impact against the outside wall, and had less than a second to prepare before two forms rocketed through the window, splitting to right and left. He fired at the one coming his way, the extreme short range putting the bullet clear through the man's upper chest and not doing anywhere near enough damage to kill or incapacitate. Without thinking, the ex-goalie was diving toward instead of away, rocketing through the mercenary's wide-planted legs and sending him sprawling off-balance into the empty middle of the room. Rolling, arms stiffly extended with the gun held in both hands, Ken landed on his back with the weapon nearly thrust into target number two's groin. He pulled the trigger, and tried to block out the screams.

 

That makes three shots, he thought, half-deafened by the loud noise. Blood was splattered all over from the last one, and he still had to finish off the guy's partner before he managed—

 

Dazed, the prone brunet couldn't say what instinct had made him lash out suddenly with both feet, but it worked. His assailant's knee bent the wrong way as the man crashed backwards over the fallen chair, reducing the wobbly piece of furniture to kindling for good. The gunshot tore a ragged furrow through the worn linoleum inches from Ken's ear, passing through into Matsushita's bar.

 

Even if the owner was one of the Hot Body's extended family, there was a limit to how long the rumpus upstairs would be ignored. Of course, it might not matter if the chair leg being swung with vicious force at his head connected. Ken rolled again, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder that numbed the joint. Not exactly a fair trade, as he supposed he'd done more damage than he'd taken. Ken landed a kick that would have made his old coach proud, finishing off the damaged knee and sending the shadowed figure flying. The follow-up tackle would have gotten him banned from any playing field, but Ken didn't care; there was a roaring in his ears, and the pounding of blood in his temples as he gathered his feet under him and launched.

 

They ricocheted off the splintered doorframe, and half fell into the light of the smaller middle room, raising a cloud of plaster dust when they rolled across the mess left by Omi and Yohji. His opponent was barely Ken's height, wiry with deceptively thin ropes of muscle that twisted like snakes under the ball player's straining fingers. The brunet landed briefly on top, ducking his chin to his chest to block a stiff fingered thrust at his trachea, and retaliated by driving the top of his hard head into the squirming man's chin, snapping his jaw shut with painful force. They grappled, struggling for ascendancy, and Ken realized with sinking horror that he was seriously out-matched; this guy had him beat in skill and strength, and only the steady flow of blood from his wound, and the dragging weight of his crippled leg gave Ken any advantage at all.

 

Pins and needles shot through the Hunter's shoulder, making him grit his teeth at the unintentional agony. The round-faced man pinned under him felt the weakening of Ken's grip and seized the opportunity to return the head-butt, flipping them over. One elbow ground into Ken's throat as the guy scrabbled in the gore and wreckage, at last finding the gun belonging to a downed comrade. The elongated barrel smacked the thrashing assassin along side of his skull, splitting the skin. Stunned, Ken lost his grip, flopping back.

 

Casualties happened. That Weiss had been lucky, and every loss on every mission had been to the other side, hadn't escaped the gasping brunet's notice. No one had a right to expect favors like that all the time. It ran out. And this time, unlike the fire, there wouldn't be a last-minute rescue; no Aya armed with explosives to create an escape route where none existed.

 

Ken was shit out of luck.

 

He couldn't even suck in a decent breath, choking on crumbled drywall and a bruised throat. No grand gestures, no final words, the round black hole of the muzzle staring down at him. For a freezing instant, there wasn't a single thought in Ken's brain, nothing at all. Then time started again with the crash of the outer door rebounding off the wall, and the flat bark of a small caliber handgun. The guy on top of Ken spun half about, one side of his skull exploding to splatter the Hunter with brain matter and blood, Yohji shouting, “You fuckin' son of a bitch!”

 

Not Aya.

 

 

****************

 

“This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper.” From T.S. Eliot's “The Hollow Men.”