{chapter two}
Reven was sick to
fucking death of the looks he got from the staff. Was it his fault the
boss's nephew had been sliced like a pineapple in the hotel that night? No-one
seemed concerned that there'd obviously been a contract out on him. No, all they
seemed to go on about was the fact that Reven had somehow miraculously survived
the attack.
There was some hostility there, for he'd been a favourite of
the boss since he was picked up. There was some anger, some shock. And maybe
some fear. Reven didn't want to be an urban myth or anything - he wanted to get
on with his job, but it was suddenly very awkward. Even Hellman had been knocked
unconscious - but Reven had seen the guy, fought with the assassin. Yet he'd
lived to tell the tale.
Except that there was no tale to
tell.
Reven couldn't tell his boss what the guy had looked like. If he had any speech characteristics. If he
wore anything distinctive. The assassin had been silent and hidden and
totally deadly.
With amazing red
hair.
Reven had glimpsed it, even in the dark. It had been such a
contrast against the pale skin and the fathomless dark eyes. Death came with
red hair.
Even the memory made Reven shiver.
Hellman had put
him on suspension - he was off security - kept away from the funeral
arrangements and the frenzied investigation into Lucas' death. He wasn't sure
what it all meant - if he'd have a job at all in the end, but there wasn't a
hell of a lot he could do about it.
So Reven was carrying out his own
investigation.
Some of Hellman's guys still welcomed him - some were just
that little bit in awe of him since the hit. One of the bookkeepers had a rather
unhealthy crush on him it seemed, but it had its uses. The guy proved a fount of
knowledge about local crime and its characters. …And the assassins who worked in
their own world, alongside their own code, secretive to the point of violent
paranoia, and hidden from everyone until their services were
needed.
Reven knew the red-haired assassin existed; knew he'd been around
for years. He had no name of course - or rather, he had hundreds. No-one knew
where he lived - but many knew how to contact him if needed. He'd never been
caught - he'd never missed a hit. It was impossible to turn him aside once
engaged; it was equally impossible to try to cheat him of his exorbitant fee,
else there'd be another body found in a dumpster.
Reven - despite himself
- felt a frisson of fascination.
That stupid kid was on his
mind.
As the bench press rattled and the barbell was lifted once more
with a hissed breath, Inoue frowned. He continued to pump the weights up and
down with his arms, beads of sweat trickling down his bare throat and chest,
along his inner arms and trailing along the lines of his finely toned, scarred
and burnt stomach. He bared his teeth as he went beyond his regular training
regimen, continuing to push the heavy metal into the air over and
over.
Should’ve killed him… it’s policy to
permanently silence any who have seen me and aren’t clients… it’s a shame to my
record that he’s still breathing somewhere…
Finally he racked the
weights and sat up, and the glistening beads of sweat began new trails down his
body towards his waist. Standing, Inoue marched to the shower and turned on a
hot spray of water, stepping under it and closing his eyes with a hissed exhale.
He didn’t like being annoyed; it interfered with his work.
Clenching his
teeth, the redhead slammed his fist into the shower wall, knuckles cracking
against marble.
Reven pushed his coffee around the table,
making the overcooked liquid last a little longer. Greg was a good bookkeeper -
and an even better informant - but Reven couldn't stomach his wide, lustful eyes
over the rim of yet another cup.
"Come round to mine," urged the bookish
young man. His eyes glinted behind thick spectacles. "I have scrapbooks of
cuttings, loads of them - anything to do with the Hellman organization for the
last 20 years - and all the other families that he's either dealt with or been
pitched against. We can go through them over a drink or two."
"The
assassin...?" Reven prompted firmly.
Greg grimaced. "Well, no pictures,
of course. No descriptions. But there was that hit last fall, when the whole of
the Salasso family was taken out. They say that was him. And that astonishing attack on the Granmercy family, at the girl's
wedding, for Christ's sake, when no-one saw how he could have got into the hotel
in the first place..."
"Any identifying
characteristics at all?"
Greg sighed; pushed the glasses up his
nose. He looked longingly at Reven's hand on the table, as if he'd like to
stroke it. "Likes a knife best of all, but he uses other weapons too. Incredibly
athletic and lithe - moves like a cat, as silently, too. He seems to know
exactly where his target will be, what the movements are. Uses
darkness a lot; ruthless in wiping out anyone who sees him along the
way." Greg seemed to realize what he'd said, and glanced nervously at
Reven. "No-one sees him arrive or leave - he's escaped from sealed rooms, from
barred windows, from underground basements."
Reven was tuning out, he
realized. Greg was straying into the world of superhero fantasy here. There'd be
mention of Kryptonite soon...
Then something caught his hearing
again.
"Red hair?"
Greg nodded. "Others
have mentioned it. It's as if he doesn't hide it. As if he
wants people to know his signature, though they learn nothing more than
that. All anyone ever sees is his eyes - they're dark and
cold."
Reven scowled. "His clients, though?" They must see him, to
arrange the deal. Maybe not, though. And Reven suspected that they'd be far more
afraid of the assassin's retribution if they talked, than anyone else's threats
for information. He sighed. Damned guy sounded like a ghost - or a
demon.
He was a man, he said to himself, fiercely. That's
all. Someone who'd terrified him - who'd outwitted him all the
way.
After stretches and his workout, Inoue moved to the
entrance and opened the parcel box on the back of his door, finding only three
envelopes this time. He tossed one aside and opened two, reading both over.
Arching an eyebrow, he dropped a second and kept the third in his hand as he
walked into the kitchen and pulled a frying pan down from the rack, setting it
on the oven.
The assassin re-read the letter as he tossed noodles into
the pan one-handed. He scoffed. What sort of idiot was this man, ordering a
multiple-person hit all in the same round? It would be obvious who had ordered
the people listed killed; this guy either wanted major publicity, or was a
complete fool. Quirking the corner of his mouth, Inoue sighed and turned on a
different burner of the stove, lighting the corner of the paper and dropping it
in the ashtray as it burned.
Stirring pieces of chicken into the cooking
food, Inoue rummaged through strategies in his mind already as he made his first
meal since waking this evening. It was perhaps irony that Hellman was the one
ordering this hit? The man obviously didn't even realize that Inoue was the one
to have killed his nephew. Nobody was stupid enough to try and seek vengeance
against the actual Midnight Assassin himself-- it had to be that the kid he'd
spared had kept his trap shut about who had offed Lucas.
Intriguing and
disturbing all at once.
As soon as he was finished eating, showering and
lacing himself with appropriate weapons and clothing, he'd head over to the
Hellman estate.
Reven rose from his narrow bed to go into work.
An evening shift: Hellman was arranging another confidential meeting, and needed
personal guards.
He was pleased to be back at work, even if he wasn't
being called for the major assignments. The boss said he didn't need him for the
stuff out in the field - he could be part of the house guard. The boss described
it as a further development of Reven's career in the organization. Reven took it
as a demotion. But the pay was the same, and the benefits were the same, and if
he grit his teeth and half closed his eyes, he could believe that the attitude
towards him was the same.
But it wasn't, of course.
The 'Midnight
Assassin' had done this to him. Left him neither one thing nor
the other - neither blameless employee nor victim. Greg had told him what
they called the mysterious creature who arrived without
warning, killed as easily as Greg belched after his coffee, and then left as
inconspicuously.
Reven wanted to joke about the guy wearing his briefs on
the outside of his pants, but he didn't. Something about this guy - even his
mere reputation - made him think he didn't take such humor lightly. And if Reven
were honest, he still remembered the paralyzing fear of hanging off the side of
the hotel building, held by nothing more than a couple of iron digits. No, this
assassin was very far from a joke.
Then Greg had made his clumsy move and
Reven had tactfully removed himself beyond arm's length. He'd have to find
another informant if he continued this quest.
Why am I stirring this
up? he wondered to himself. What am I trying to do?
He was glad he'd never told anyone in the organization about his unhealthy
fascination. Hellman's own men had discovered nothing more about the hit since
the day it happened.
He pulled a tight black vest on, buckled on his gun,
watching the flex of his muscles as he did, never satisfied with his physical development. He must do more
training. He must get stronger. The memory of the vice-like fingers on his
ankles would never fade...
He laughed aloud, a little sharply, and left
the apartment for his duty.
Getting through the fence and
guard outside had been paltry. Getting to the door, far too
easy. But after that, Inoue stopped trying. Standing on the entrance
stairs in a complete skintight black bodysuit of flexible, rubbery material
covering nose to toes, he rang the doorbell-- certain that nobody ever dared do
that before. Aside from the bodysuit he wore his boots, gloves, several belts
with daggers and throwing knives slipped into them, and a few thigh-holsters. He
was armed to the teeth and ready for anything; Inoue waited.
The wind
kicked up and rustled his exposed hair on his shoulders, left unbound for now
since this was a business meeting rather than a mission. He waited, until
finally the door opened.
A servant stared up at him with a little
horror, and a trace of agitation. Inoue waited, until the woman stammered that
she'd escort him to see Mr. Hellman at once, and could he please follow
her?
The redhead followed indeed, moving soundlessly and causing the
woman to look back every few moments and make sure he was really still there.
Violet eyes flicked over everything he saw as they passed down hallways and
entered elevators; if he ever had to come back here for a hit, he had things
memorized.
Finally they stood before a set of large doors, and the woman
bowed at the waist. "Through here, sir," she squeaked before running off on her
stiletto shoed feet. It must be horrible to work as a servant in such skimpy
clothing and tall, spiked heels, Inoue thought mildly as he pushed open the
room doors with a quick flick of his wrists, waking inside with his senses on
high alert. Though, I must say, it would be interesting if a young man were
put in the same corset and stockings...
He pushed his years-repressed
sexual intrigue to the side and strode into the room, right up to the desk the
grand Hellman sat at with bodyguards on either side. Inoue's gaze flickered over
to the familiar raven-haired boy to the left immediately, and he near barked a
growl but kept that in as well, looking at Hellman once more.
The
visitor was nodding sharply to Hellman - the boss was on his feet, staking his
territory in return. They were appraising each other from the first
moment.
Reven looked at the tall, lithe figure in black and saw nothing
but his own shock. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. His breath seeped
away like water through a sieve - his heart seized.
Didn't they see who
it was?
Reven felt the blood rush away from his already pale face, as the
dark eyes flickered over him. How could he have forgotten those eyes? Still -
cold - unemotional. They pierced into him like the knife the man had carried
that night.
And the red hair...loose, thick,
curling. Almost beautiful, if it hadn't been the badge of blood that this
man wore so arrogantly.
Reven felt his legs shake a little and he made a
supreme effort to pull himself together. The man mustn't know he recognized him
- unless he already did?
Fuck, he thought ruefully. I search
for this Midnight Assassin for weeks, and then he comes right up to the front
door to call on me. He shivered, and hoped his colleagues didn't
see.
Some kind of irony,
eh?
It'd be amusing if it wasn't so
shocking.
"You're punctual, exactly as I was told,"
Hellman said slowly, looking Inoue over several times. The assassin didn't let
it escape him that the man's gaze settled on Inoue's cock for several long
seconds before he looked back into violet eyes once more. "I barely sent that
letter out a few hours ago, and here we are. Well; there are things to discuss,
obviously. First off, let's start with the basics-- you know my name, what am I
to address you as?"
Inoue said nothing, staring blandly at the man and
resting one hand on his defined hip, thumbing the hilt of a throwing knife idly.
Hellman's left eye twitched, and anger flashed on his
face for a brief moment before he collected himself once more and cleared his
throat. "Fine then. No name; you had many according to
the men I spoke with. For now we'll just stick with Assassin, because its simplest. Listen. I want every person on that letter I
sent you dead. Now." He sneered smugly, knowing he was
giving the redhead an impossible challenge.
Inoue, however, knew his own
limits, and this was well within it. Stepping up to the desk, he picked up
Hellman's pen and a piece of paper without asking, and wrote in easy script,
'500K for the first, 250K per head after that. 48 hours total.' Nothing more, nothing less. He slid the paper across the desk
and put the pen down, and as Hellman read over what had been written and was
distracted by thinking over the offer, Inoue's gaze flicked over to the kid
again.
Now here was a ripe chance to kill the little brat; he could
easily work the kid into his deal with Hellman, he was sure. The way the kid was
looking at him was a little off though... most who knew they were to die by his
hand had pure horror in their faces.
Certainly there was that in the
kid's expression, but there was also intrigue, and was that fascination? What
was this kid, some sort of masochist, or suicidal idiot? Inoue looked back to
Hellman as the man parted his lips to speak.
Hellman never even
considered he was out of his league. He'd set a ridiculous challenge - he knew
he was dealing death to half the families of the city. But his own arrogance
demanded he do this - and the assassin appeared to match him in it.
He
was the one calling the shots, wasn't he?
He mused over the man's paper,
feeling the excitement of a plan coming to fruition. A ludicrous sum, of course
- but he could afford it. And for him, it would be worth every dollar.
He
looked up at the Assassin again. "They say you can do the impossible," he said,
more of a challenge than a question. "They say you can do it quickly, and will
never be caught. There must be no trail back to me - no single person on this
list left surviving, to lead back to me." The man stared back at him, almost as
if he was bored, and Hellman felt the annoyance rising inside him. If he'd had
the people himself, he'd never have called on this freak. But he knew he didn't.
He looked quickly round at his best men. All of them adequate
- but not of this caliber. Reven... his eyes lingered. He had high hopes
of Reven, but tonight the boy looked pale and young. Maybe he didn't have the
stomach for this kind of business after all. The business with Lucas had been a
horrible shock, and Reven's involvement rather surprising.
No, he had to
use this man to achieve it all.
"I'll pay it," he said, magnanimously. "A
down payment now, and the balance after 48 hours, after
evidence of success. In every case."
The
assassin seemed a little distracted, though he assumed it was his way. Hellman
tried not to stare, but there was something about the man that unnerved him,
even allowing for his occupation. His eyes were so cold... his movements
strangely familiar.
Now that the business was concluded, he wanted him
out of this house. Now!
Reven felt the eyes like brands, but the
man made no move to denounce him, or turn against him. The business with Hellman
was a sick, mad plan, but it wasn't for him to challenge the boss, was
it?
Neither did the Assassin, yet he must have seen what lunacy the
mission was. Take out all those guys, it'd be obvious that the only one left
standing was Hellman himself - the only one who had a vested interest in
organizing the strikes.
The retribution would be swift and bloody. Reven
hoped he'd be the fuck out of the way when it started.
If the Assassin didn't get him first.
He stared at the
guy, as he faced Hellman. It was some kind of horrified fascination, he
supposed, because the last thing he should be doing was drawing attention to
himself. The hair was superb, the features strong but
striking. The man's body was tight with controlled muscle and strength. Reven's
eyes were drawn to his hands, gloved at his sides, but with the long slender
fingers that he knew had held him so tightly.
What was this man really
like? What drove him? Why had he been sent to kill Lucas? Someone like Hellman
had hired him, of course. The deals went on behind the scenes, and Reven had
just been dragged in as a bystander. Otherwise he would never have seen this man
in the first place, never felt him, never feared him.
The man's eyes
flashed back to him.
He didn't know what made him do it - but he
swallowed his nerves and he stared back.
Fuck you, he wanted his eyes to say, though he feared they
were still too disturbed to be that steady. Fuck you, you won't scare me.
You've shaken up my life and ripped apart my work, and you come and go like a
filthy black shadow. Tell me why you do what you do. Tell me what you see when
you look at me in that cold way.
Tell me why you didn't kill me. The
man paused for a second, then withdrew his gaze
again.
I'll find out! Reven felt the fury rising in him from being
dismissed like that.
I'll find out about you, assassin. One way or another.
In turn, when the
man was done talking, Inoue took the paper once more and casually wrote his bank
account number on it. Momentarily his mind wandered back to the District
Attorney that had tried to bring him down by interfering with a monetary deposit
being made to that account.
That man had been dead before the day was
out. No other lawyers admitted Inoue existed after that; he could shout his
account number from the rooftops if he wanted and nobody would dare touch it.
The police knew about him, and others of his trade; they kept their mouths shut
as well, for the most part-- after all, they used his services themselves once
or twice a year anyhow.
After the number had been given, Inoue paused,
and held the pen on the paper still, his gaze flicking over to the boy as he
debated asking for the kid's life as a gratuity. No... not yet. He didn't seem so much a threat any more, the way he
stared back-- scared but defiant, pale and with trembling hands he was trying to
hide. What was he, a fanatic? An assassin fetishist?
He'd met a few of those; men who put their own name up as hits so they could get
off seeing an assassin enter their bedroom in the dark of the night.
He
put the pen down and turned his back to them, walking out of the room calmly.
Inoue could feel both Hellman's and the kid's eyes burning the back of his neck,
but he paid it no mind, and headed down the hall and towards the exit.
Kill the kid later; he's barely a minnow among big fish. There wasn't
any need to worry about him; he's nothing, he thought idly as he left the
estate grounds and got on his bike.
Somebody was following him. The
redhead didn't look back. If that Hellman idiot wanted to get himself killed,
this was a fast way to do it, sending somebody to stalk the assassin. He rode
away from home and into the city, then parked his bike in a dark alley and began
a casual midnight stroll around the area.
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[end
chapter two]