For all it was worth, for all that it had done, much of which was truth stretched thin enough to encompass the ever growing self-worth of those who led it, EssZet was nothing but Floor Thirteen in an obscure building on an obscure street beside the expressway. Rented out sometime in the earlier years of the decade, it all but rested empty, desolate. It sat in shambles; the hallway’s gray carpet was pulled at the seams, the nails peaking up through the mat, half gleaming, half rusted. Paintings were laid against the wall, their hanging wire twisting up over the frames as misshapen, angry-looking fingers. A section of the ceiling had discolored due to leaking pipe water, molded, and caved in beside the only window at the end of the corridor. Once coated in newspaper, that window mirrored the dark ink against its dulled glass. Black strings of events and headlines had burned into the pane from the early eastern sun; pictures, profiles, faces stared back through the haze. A train wreck, a wedding, the empress’s new son, scandals permanently recorded. Aghast, yet slightly intrigued, he stood at the end of this hallway, eyeing the long row of closed doors, and wondered if he had been given the right address.
The note was raised to his face, his reading glasses lowered over the bridge of his nose. He quickly glimpsed the nearest door, frowned, then returned his attention to the paper.
He was on the hunt for room 1305, yet he stood before room 130.
Just as he turned to try his luck further down the hall, the sole of his shoe crunched something underfoot. His head turned down as he moved his leg, fearing it to be a piece of glass or the backbone of a small rodent. But, there, broken in two pieces, was the shattered number five. Blinking hard, he nudged the plastic shards to the side and raised a knuckle to the door. After three generous raps, he was cleanly answered with an echo. He tried again, this time with a hardier knock, a firmer grasp, but was still responded to with silence. It had taken too much courage to come this far. It had taken hours, days full of regret and uncertainty to show up in front of room 1305.
Make that Room 130.
To have no one answer the door seemed a cruel joke. He waited a few more minutes, nervously checking his watch, down the hallway, his tie, his glasses, before turning to leave.
“Crawford isn’t here at the moment.”
Another cruel joke. The voice was painfully recognizable. Persia raised his head to stare into the tapered beige eyes of a man he knew all too well. He stepped aside as the German moved down the hallway, a small silver key dangling from his fingers. A sideways glance, accompanied by the same smug grin that seemed the only accessory the foreigner wore, peered up at Persia thought a veil of copper hair.
“What are you here for?”
“To speak with Crawford.” Persia walked in behind the German, taking care to shut the door behind him gently. He looked around the small office, cringing at the peeling wallpaper, the water damaged wood around the cloudy window, the overall neglected, derelict manner of the place. Piles of papers, cups of coffee, ashtrays, too many to even begin to count, fully filled, lined the cluttered desk. The German walked through the office carefully, paying special attention to the floor. He stepped over numerous cartons of instant noodles, beer cans, paper cups, burnt patches of carpet singed by cigarette butts. Removing his trench, he rubbed the metal coat hook on the wall with his thumb, buffing it free of dust. He slipped the collar over the peg, pressed his hands down the length of the garment to smooth the wrinkles, and pulled a small pack from its pocket.
“Take a seat.” He motioned to a pair of tattered, covered chairs in front of him. The small pack in his hand opened, producing a small, moist napkin that ran a few times over the seat, sides, and back of his own chair. He folded the tissue, now dry, into fours, and laid it softly on the summit of an overflowing trashcan. “You can throw those pants anywhere.”
And Persia did just that. He nudged the black slacks to the side and pushed them away on the floor. He sat but with hesitation in the shaky seat offered to him.
“This is…” Persia shifted his chair forward, as one leg had been resting atop a plastic gyuudon bowl. Once free, he found that the chair tilted to the side at a move extreme angle. “EssZet?”
“One part of it.” The German preoccupied himself with the cautious removal of old tissues on the desk. His one hand suddenly jerked to a pause, the other groping for the small pack of disinfecting wipes. Quickly, with eyes turned up to the ceiling, he removed a used condom from atop the computer’s keyboard. There was no care in folding this piece of trash neatly. He simply flung it to the side in disgust. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I came to speak with Crawford actually.”
“I assure you what is said to Crawford will eventually get to me.” The German absentmindedly wiped the tidied section of desk directly in front of him to a shine. “So save yourself the energy.”
Persia inhaled a deep sigh, bowing his head forward in thought. He studied the address in his hands, flipping the paper over to buy him time. His head rose, but slanted sideways in uncertainty.
“You know why I’m here.”
The German automatically smiled and leaned against his chair’s creaking back. He nodded and coiled a long lock of scarlet around his finger.
“It just seems like it would be more interesting to hear you say it.” The piece of hair spun back into place as he combed it down. “You do know what EssZet asks of you, correct?”
“I do.”
“We want your niece dead.” The German reached over and felt the pockets of his trench once again, producing a laminated card. His long arms were twined in veins, his skin an insipid shade of white. “You understand you’re selling Sofia’s life for a position in a company, right?”
“I understand.”
“As long as you do.” He handed the card over the littered desk, holding it tight when Persia reached to retrieve it. “Are you sure of this?”
“I’m not exactly sure you are.” He pulled the card from the German’s fingers, glancing it over intently as he heard the man lean back in his chair. “I don’t have to sign anything? No contract?”
“EssZet doesn’t bother with written contracts.” Another moist towel was pulled from the plastic pack on the desk. He wrapped it around his fingers and started to shift through the piles of notes before him. “The consequences for those who mess up are dire and woefully unpleasant.”
“That’s simple.”
“It is, isn’t it?” His tone stayed light, the slight tinge of self-praise spotted throughout. A packet of papers was pulled from a black hole of filth. Much like the card, it was passed over the muddled desk. “You must complete these two missions before we can officially welcome you with open arms.”
“I’m guessing these are like tests?”
“Exactly.” The first page was flipped back. “The first is the death warrant of Takatori Sofia. You’re free to use whatever means you prefer. I don’t necessarily demand it be covered up. The media doesn’t bother me. I just request it be executed as cleanly as possible.”
Persia nodded, his eyes scanning through the document as he listened.
“I won’t be impressed at her murder, so don’t pull any stunts. Don’t make it fancy.” He had stopped reading the document upside down, and instead watched Persia’s face as he spoke. “She’s a gorgeous creature, so don’t butcher her body too badly.”
“What about the others?” Persia removed the packet from the German’s hands, running his thumb across the paper to keep place within the small font. “There are three others that I’ve told you about.”
“It would be nice if you told me the other three names of Tödliche Künste. This guessing game you’re playing doesn’t quite please me.”
“Collateral.” He crossed his legs and rested the mission statement against a knee. “You’ll know their names when the time comes.”
The German’s eyes narrowed. Hardly noticeable behind a thick curtain of bangs and fat, dark lashes, the annoyance boiled up through his calm façade, nibbling away at his composed veneer. His poise was regained swiftly, the sly smile never leaving his lips, but it was obvious a dire, brainless mistake had been made. He had almost sneered, but quickly took control of the heat swelling up in his gut. Smug, ridiculously smug, Takatori. The German couldn’t help but stare at the man sitting feet from him. He wanted to laugh. Dumb move.
“If the media finds out about Sofia’s death and Tödliche Künste,” Persia continued on, unaware of what he had just done. “Won’t EssZet be found out?”
“You mean the media finding out about us through Estelle?” The Germen let out a small laugh. The nasal quality of his voice did wonders to accent the fluent Japanese he was speaking. Persia had a few moments where he was at a loss of how to apply to a statement that generally sounded more foreign to him then not. “You should know well enough how reserved she is with everything. If even I am having trouble finding out information without your help, how do you think the newspapers and tabloids will fare?”
“She does cover her tracks well, ne?”
“Extremely well.”
“There was a second mission?”
“Ah, the second mission.” The Germen motioned for Persia to turn his attention to the last page. “I’m well aware that there is going to be a meeting at Takatori Inc. soon with potential buyers of a certain virus, am I correct?”
“Correct.”
“One such buyer seems to be working undercover for Kritiker.” The Germen nodded knowingly as Persia jerked his head up to face him. “To test your loyalty to EssZet, I want you to take care of him with your own team.”
“Botan…” Persia, before he even realized it, was shaking his head. His russet orbs had widened at the very prospect of what was being demanded of him. “There’s no way that that will work.”
“Honto?” The German tilted his head gently to the side, resting it on a curled fist propped up by an armrest. “Did you forget that I work closely with Takatori Inc. and Hirofumi-san? If Botan goes to Kritiker, or even worse, the police, with any information he collects, you should know how detrimental that would be to me.”
“I completely understand that,” Persia’s hands rested against the dirty counter, pushing an assortment of cigarette butts and tea bags to the side with shaking fingers. “But Botan has a very intimate friendship with the leader of Weiß. Despite their own loyalty to me, I would never be able to get them to agree to it.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s virtually impossible.” Persia searched the foreigner’s eyes for sympathy. He found something, some emotion, but wasn’t able to follow it. “You understand, right?”
“I don’t.”
“What?”
“I’ve told you what I require to be done.” The German leaned harder into his cheek, pushing his lips forward a bit playfully. “You do whatever you think will please me, Schuuichi-san.”
“And if I’m unable to kill Botan?”
“Then you won’t have to worry about anything, I guess.”
“Nani?” He brightened, sighed, and almost cracked a smile. “I won’t?”
“You won’t.” A nod. “If you’re dead you won’t have to worry much, ne.”
There was a thick pause that filled the clustered office to the brim. Persia shifted in his seat, the unease gleaming in his eyes. He stalled time by searching around the small office, but evidently retraced his steps back to the Germen.
“I accept.” He spoke at last. He folded the paper in his hands and tucked it safely into the back pocket of his pants. “I know where Estelle’s team is tonight. I can get that part done quickly.”
“And the other?”
“The other…” Persia stood, his hand extending across the table at the redhead. They grasped hands tightly, a strong shake over a half eaten sandwich and maki sashimi. “Botan’s death will be easy, I assure you.”
Persia then turned, no longer with ties to what he had once known. Kritiker was simply a memory in his mind, a chapter that had already been read. He was ready to turn the page and embark on something else. To do that, sacrifices had to be made. He knew this. He had always known this. Persia, the name, the man, was no longer an essential character.
He left the office with his head held high, his glasses tucked safety in the rim of his collar, his hand protectively over the mission statement in his pocket. A slight comment was made about the fallen number on the floor, but was quickly overlooked by a bow and parting words. The German watched Schuuichi from his chair, listening to the man’s footfalls fade down the deserted hallway. His hands were once again patting down his black trench on the overhead peg, slipping gracefully into one pocket, pulling out a small cell phone into his palm. The lip was flipped open; numbers were pressed as he watched through the glazed pane at the man on the wet street below him returning to his car.
“He just left.” There was static on the other end, the sound of rustling clothes and haste. As the German listened, a hand lifted to his breast pocket. A dark sliver of metal appeared, the pad of his thumb immediately pushing the nearest button.
Botan’s death will be easy, I
assure you.
“I’m surprised he actually took the missions.” The American accent was unbelievably thick as Crawford shifted the cell phone against his shoulder. Both his hands were fumbling in the dark to zipper his fly. He let the cell fall into his hand while he changed ears, a white dress shirt now slipping over his shoulders.
“As am I.” The German removed the data card from the recorder, the minute, blue rectangle of plastic almost disappearing in his large hand. The chair swirled towards the desk as he placed it against a port at the side the computer. “It’s your turn now.”
“Just leave it to me.” The American smiled as the laptop to his left suddenly blinked. His snapped the cell phone closed and approached it, his hands now fastening the last button by his chin. The audio file appeared on his screen, and he couldn’t help but smile. The woman behind him, fastening her bra strap behind her, stood to check her swollen lip in the nearest mirror. She turned back to the foreigner, but found his attention to be elsewhere. She watched his hand raise, illuminated by the harsh cyan of the screen, and turn a small, yellow blossom within his fingers. His smile frightened her, and after picking up her money from the counter, she quickly fled into the hallway.
“What’s the score?”
“One to one.”
Autumn dropped her gun holster outside the bathroom door, nudging it to the side with her foot as she spoke. She was sore; her muscles ached. There was a thudding pain to the left of her temple that even the most vigorous massage couldn’t clear. Her boots were scuffed, the leather stretching from heel to toe were dulled and creased, a far cry from the smooth, glossed condition they had been scarce hours ago. She had twisted her hair, dust-caked and reeking of earth and flora, up out of her eyes with a clip. Both cheeks were sun-kissed, her freckles hidden beneath her newly rosy complexion.
“Next time…” Marie’s threat was eminent. She had already removed her top, her hands pulling the tight fabric of the white tank-top underneath to fan her stomach. She had given up trying to keep her dusty mane out of her face, so it hung in waves over her shoulder. A shallow cut ran down the length of her jaw line, the effects of a wayward stone, and had stained her already crimson-tipped hair. She smudged the soot from around her mouth with the back of her hand, using her leather top as an oversized napkin for the rest. Her holster fell down beside her opponent’s, scratching up the whitewashed paint on the wall. After a quick kick to the back of Autumn’s boot, which tangled their laces and sent the redhead into a bit of a tripping frenzy, Marie bounded down the hallway towards her own shower.
-
The silver Bentley Continental rolled to a stop beside an overgrown thatch of fence beside the mansion. The woman inside, her attention glued to a small illuminated screen held securely within her fingers, pushed her ashen bangs out from her face with a forceful sigh.
“Doko?” Estelle mumbled the word over under her breath, her teeth nervously biting her lip’s fleshy underside. As she removed the key from the ignition, she let her head tilt back against the leather headrest. She glanced vacantly out into space, tracing particles of dust with her eyes, shamelessly wasting precious minutes on one crucial reply that would never come. The cell phone in her hand was gripped tightly. Buy him some time, Estelle. Give him a chance to call. Enough messages had been left. Enough e-mails had been sent. She had visited his apartment, visited their office, visited the Koneko no Sume Ie. Notes had been left for him. Words had been exchanged with the four florists. She had given up. Now, as she pushed her back into the plush front seat of her car, she realized she had no time left to worry. She needed action, despite the consequences of what that word could mean, despite the fact that Persia, the man that had stood by her since youth, could already be gone.
She stepped out of her car into the cool, breezy dusk. Dew had already started to form on the roof of her car, sliding down in bullet-shaped spheres of silver. She bent back into the car and pulled the collar of her jacket snug around her shoulders to protect the backside of her neck from the cold, dripping water off the hood. Grabbing her keys from the ignition, a dark, cashmere scarf, and a colt pistol, she pulled her hair out away from her face and straightened up.
She walked
along the gravel drive, bypassing the sullen grass that lined the long walkway
to the main steps. With the aid of her headlights, still on by means of a
timer, she made her way beneath the soggy shidarezakura. Their long, wheeping branches churned through the breeze,
licking long pedel-laden ropes along her body. Her hand raised, delicate and
pale, towards her face, blocking the pedals from rubbing up against her cheeks.
Mid-way there, she paused, tilting her head to the side to watch her headlight
blink away into nothing amist the darkness.
It was then that she heard it.
Straining through a dull concophany of whistling leaves and flowers wafting and
twisting around her head, she picked up the faintest echo of rubber against
gravel. The taletell sounds of an engine, the sputtering coughs that
reverberated through a metal hood, became louder, nearer. She squinted, her
hand still brushing away pedals from her face, her ears fighting with the
rustling of leaves, the low moaning of the wind, to differenciate nature from
manmade. As the branches swung out, parting for seconds to reviel the black
cobblestones slick with drew lining the walkway, she caught a glimpst of the
van. Headlights completely off, almost entirely hidden in the night, Estelle
watched the large vehicle slow and pull to a stop.
-
“Vicoden.” Rhiannon tilted the cylindrical white bottle up to the light, eying the computerize script scribbled across the label. “I’m surprised they still manufacture this. It’s probably even more lethal then what you were taking before.”
“It works better though.” Sofia shifted on her pillow, her legs folding up towards her body. She hugged an arm around them, gently rubbing a childhood scar that had formed on her thigh. As her fingers traced the raised skin, she leaned her chin against a knee, carefully sipping a warm cup of tea through a coffee straw on the table before her. “I haven’t fainted yet.”
“I guess your brother prescribed you the correct dosage this time, ne.” Rhia replied as she turned towards her laptop. Her foot was bouncing thoughtlessly as she reached a hand out to type. Her other hand moved the cup of tea closer to the edge, closer to Sofia lips. “It says here that Vicoden is extremely addictive.”
“I have a schedule of when to stop taking it,” Sofia hugged her bandaged arm against her stomach, cradling it between her stomach and thigh. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Did you go over all these symptoms with Hirofumi before you consented to taking this medication, Sof?” Rhia fingered the small bottle as she scrolled through the website. “I mean, he’s aware of what this stuff can do, right?”
“I wonder why Estelle isn’t home yet.” Sofia rocked herself back, her head arching towards the low window on the far wall. Outside, she saw nothing but darkness. The pane had been pushed out, allowing a gentle wind to flutter through the large crack, a welcome relief to the stale, earthy smell that Marie and Autumn’s gear had brought into their rooms. “Didn’t she say she was going to be home an hour ago?”
“She said she had some errands to run.” Rhia answered, studying Sofia’s exterior over her modem. There was a motherly quality in her voice as she spoke. Low, yet lulling. Stern, yet protective and soft. “We’ll make sure the second she comes home we tell her what we heard about Persia, ok?”
“Should have called her up the day you heard it.”
“You’re very right. We should have. It was a mistake on our part.” The blond turned back to the illuminated screen, her dark eyes scanning over the information once again. “It was the first time we’ve ever been faced with a situation like that. The way we hesitated then…it reminded me of how much we still have to learn.”
“We’ll know for next time.”
“You speak as though you know there will be a next time.” Rhia spoke as she read, her orbs pitching back and forth in front of her computer screen. “Once we tell Estelle about this, I doubt there will be a next time.”
Sofia slide the cup of tea away from her, pulling out the black straw and tapping it against the side of the mug so it wouldn’t drip. She laid her head on the inside curve of her knee, using her curls as a cushion. She winced softly, coiling her body up tighter as her stomach started to reel.
“Long term Vicoden addiction can lead to blurred vision, confusion, abnormally vivid dreams and hallucinations.” Rhia nodded, intrigued by the facts that had been presented to her. She spoke without obligation of a reply, her statements random and sporadic. “Ah, they have documented examples.”
Sofia had closed her eyes, her side resting against the wooden edge of the table. She took a few deep breaths, letting the calming sensation wash down the bile that formed deep within her throat. She felt like sneezing, but knew it was just the nausea and congestion bothering her sinuses. Besides, she wasn’t sure if she could sneeze, let alone cough, let alone speak, without throwing up.
“Listen to this, Sof.” Rhia called, her body leaning over her computer as she recapped what she had read. With her elbow planted beside her keyboard, she leaned her head completely into her palm. “A man had been taking the medicine for three months before he suddenly started to sleep walk. I guess that’s one of the effects of the painkillers as well, ne. Figures.”
The brunette across from her had slowly arched her head to face the window. She sat there motionless, riding out the crippling consequences of medication and nihoncha on an empty stomach.
“It says here that he had been having one reoccurring nightmare over the span of about a week of a hairy demon trying to jump onto his bed and hurt him and his wife.” She pressed her lips together, licking the corner as she continued. “Eventually, the dream became so lucid that he was able to capture the demon and kill it. Unfortunately, the next morning his wife woke up and found the family’s five year old Pomeranian lying in a pool of blood at the end of the bed.”
She laughed then, a low, pleasant series of chuckles while she searched over the brim of her monitor at Sofia. She reached a slim arm over the computer and playfully tugged at a small curl to get the older woman’s attention.
“Good thing we don’t have a dog, huh?” Her smile slowly fell into a worried frown as she studied Sofia’s face. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m a bit nauseous.” Sofia replied in a small voice. She took another deep breath and raised her head. “Excuse me for a second.”
“Nausea.” Rhia nodded and helped Sofia stand on wobbly legs. With her arms overtop her head, she pushed gently on the brunette’s backside, propelling her start towards the door. “It’s one of the side effects.”
Sofia moved out into the dark hallway, running her hand against the wall for support. They slid over the cool, smooth surface slowly, bumping up when a picture frame would block their route, sliding over chilly metal when a switch plate would intercept their journey. She had slowed down a bit, her stomach calming from the movement and revived flow of blood. She stopped, tilted her head up, and brought in a huge breath for her lungs. The cold air, mixed in with the wafting smell of rain and floral shampoo, filled her body and aroused her. She jarred her head a bit, stretched out her arm, her side, her neck, and let the breath fly from her lips in a loud swoosh. Just as the sigh ended, she heard her voice, slight, low, barely audible, being called down the empty hallway. She froze for a moment, her mind slow to register what her ears already knew as truth. As she turned, as her eyes darted around the dark corridor, she found herself standing across from the voice’s owner.
“Estelle?” Sofia called to her, her demeanor immediately perking. With the pain in her stomach nothing but a fleeting memory, she pulled a smile onto her face. “Okaede nasai.”
The woman didn’t reply. Instead, her head bowed, the ashen silver of her hair clouding her delicate features. Sofia started forward, the palm of her hand still pressed against the wall. This time, she felt for a light switch.
“We thought you were going to be home an hour ago.” She accidentally bumped into an end table, wincing as a sharp pain shot up through her damaged shoulder. The smile indefinitely returned despite the pangs that riddled her body. “We have something really important to tell you about Persia…”
Her own voice trailed off as she watched Estelle, second ago motionless, suddenly crouch over, doubling both arms in towards her body. Immediately, Sofia’s smile dropped, destroyed by a crippling sensation of fear and distress. She watched as Estelle’s eyes squinted shut, her hand pressing into the light fabric of her suit. She saw the stain growing outwards, blotting thick swirls of scarlet across the woman’s white cotton jacket. The blood inked its way down Estelle’s abdomen, staining her skirt, streaming down around her legs, over the heel of her shoes, onto the hallway carpet. Sofia stood emotionless, caught between the terror of running away and the panic, adrenaline-laced push to do something. Her mentality hovered, confused, denying what it was seeing, unable to process the figure falling to the floor before it; lying, desperately, to safe itself from the reality that truth brought. Sofia had started crying, despite how shocked she was, despite the fact that she couldn’t feel anything at the moment. The tears had come, steaming with the same vigor as the blood from Estelle’s wound despite her petrified visage.
When she snapped, she snapped. Hard, and unforgiving, the emotions rushed back towards her at once. Sofia threw her hand out, her mouth gaping, her cry agonizing yet unable to convey anything even remotely close enough to justify the panic she felt. She fell to the floor beside Estelle, her eyes completely blinded by tears, her heart, her lungs threatening to explode within her chest from the jerking heaves that preceded each immense sob, and groped for the body.
But there was nothing.
There was no body. She was alone in the hallway, nothing but shambles fallen and confused on the carpet. Deep within her mind, she heard Rhia throw open the door, heard her frightened calls down the corridor, heard both showers switch off with haste.
Then she heard the gunshot.
Light instantly filled the passageway. Sofia saw naught but a halo of light play across her vision. She arched her head down, burying them in the fabric of her sleeve. When she finally peered up, eyes red but clear, she saw a blur streak by her, then another.
“Where did you hear it?” Marie sidestepped Sofia’s fallen body as she raced down the hallway, her hair flying out behind her, dripping darkened marks down the back of her sweats. Both arms were straightened to her side, a semi-automatic gripped inside white knuckles. “Autumn, where was it?”
Autumn raced behind her, pulling down a t-shirt over her naked torso as she jerked to the side to miss Sofia. She shouted her reply as they hit the stairs, taking them in leaps of two to the first floor. She grabbed the railing just as she disappeared, turning her body with the momentum and shouting up the stairway.
“Rhia, take care of Sofia!”
Sofia blinked hard, wiping her eyes again with the back of her sleeve. She tried to stand and push herself towards the stairs, but found that arms had circled her body, pulling her safely back onto the floor. When she turned her head, a canopy of blond hair blurred her vision.
“Sofia?” Rhia practically cried out the question. She swiped her hand across the brunette’s forehead and cheeks, mopping up the sweat, the tears, tucking the unruly curls behind her ears. “Were you hit?”
“Estelle’s dead.” She shook as she spoke, suddenly pulling away from Rhia to stand. “She was shot.”
“What?” Rhia grabbed the brunette’s arm, gently trying to hold her back. She was almost pulled forward by Sofia’s strength. “Where is she?”
“She was here a second ag--.”
The two halted at the ripping sound of another gunshot. Rhia had ceased, her eyes widening as the noise reverberated outside. Her hold on Sofia abruptly loosened, and before her senses returned, Sofia has quickly moved away from her.
No one would have guessed that Sofia had been wounded in any form, for she bolted down the hallway so quickly that Rhia, pushing hard to stay on her heel, gradually faded behind her. She was last in getting to the door, but found it open, swaying softly against its hinges, the night strolling and dancing through the front hall in swirls of leaves and dew-scented blossoms. As she stepped out into the cold, the soles of her feet instantly chilled by the concrete steps, Rhiannon saw Sofia still standing on the steps beside her, a hand folded up against her breast, fingers grabbing her collar in fright. Rhia saw the brunette’s eyes illuminated in the darkness from the moonlight. Watery, large, unmoving at the scene before them. When she finally straightened her head, following Sofia’s gaze, she noticed the body crouched on the ground a few yards away, arms hugged close to her body, eyes squinted shut, head bowed and hidden beneath ashen hair. Estelle’s.
Estelle’s dead.
The scene then shifted. Estelle turned her head, her features not strained with pain, her stomach not stained with blood. Her arms moved freely to her side, pressing against the wet ground to steady herself. Marie moved out from beside her, tilting Estelle’s face upwards, her lithe fingers gently raising the older woman’s chin into the light. Sofia heard the faint whisperings of a cut lip and soiled cheek, not the dramatic death of a woman so precious to her to vanish her calm, her composure, the very thing that had landed her the rightful, unquestionable control of the three other women around her, into frantic, hysterical bits of nothing.
As she moved forward, Sofia extended her free hand and grasped the cold sleeve of Estelle’ trench coat. She held tight, her fingers whitening. She pulled that arm near, winding the blond towards her, waving the others away. She heard a groan in the distance, a grunt, a painful cry intertwining with the nocturnal symphony of the night, but she paid no attention. She felt Estelle’s eyes on her, confused and worried, but bowed her head against her shoulder in a hug.
“You’re going to break his jaw, Autumn.” Marie leaned up against the van, her weight on one leg. She struck the other foot against the gravel, playfully kicking up the stony mud beneath. “If ya knock him unconscious, he won’t be able to tell us anything.”
Autumn crossed her arms, her chest rising from anger. She quickly blew a strand of hair, sticky against her cheek from sweat, away from her face. Turning quickly, she paced over to the brunette, paused, took a breath, and turned towards the man kneeling, bleeding, gasping before them.
“Ask him nicely.” Marie smiled, nodding at him. She tilted her head back, eyeing the second body lying before the right bumper. A sharp whistle alerted Rhia to step away from it. That one was already dead, no use messing with it.
“You were obviously sent by someone.” Autumn bumped a hip into Marie as she leaned up against the black door. Her hands pulled the still smoking pistol from her belt and aimed at the ground. “You have five seconds or you’re limping home.”
He lay there defiant; trails of blood from his brief, yet previously thorough interrogation already streaking down his temples and nose. He tilted his face down, took a deep breath, his breath highlighted in the air, and spit.
He remained silent so, naturally, Autumn held up her half of the bargain and shot him in the foot.
“I told you to ask nicely.”
“And I did.” The redhead pushed off of the van and moved behind the man. She picked at his collar, his arms, his back, studying his black clothing for any hints to his identity. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Autumn.” Estelle’s voice instantly froze her. With her movements now hindered by some unseen morals, Autumn snorted annoyingly and took a step away. “Thank you, but you’ve done enough.”
She would have paced back towards the van with the likely possibility of finding something of identity within had she not heard the man’s chuckle. Mid-stride, her gait ceased at the sound. Her head jerked to the side, eyes wide, and stared down the bridge of her freckled nose at him. Suddenly, the muddy heel of her boot kicked up hard against his gut. She sprang on him again as he started to cough blood onto the gravel, her hands pulling at his hair to view his face again. She wanted to see if he still had the balls left to laugh at her expense.
-
They walked back that night in silence. Estelle’s head had bowed down in pain, this time emotional. Sofia stayed beside her, gently guiding the woman back into the house with reassuring, yet shaken whispers. The caravan passed beneath the sakura blossoms like a grim, hushed parade. They all heard what the hitman had said through gasping breaths. They had heard the name he cried out as collateral for his life. A quick twist of the neck had ended his tirade; filthy hands had become stained with another life.
“I guess it all starts here.” Marie watched as Rhia ducked into the house with Estelle, her maternal instincts immediately taking over to sooth the damage a single name spoken had caused. Sofia had stayed back, watched the final two grab the shoulders of the two corpses and start moving them away from the gravel driveway. Autumn stood for a while; her back completely rigid, senses and body tense as she stared at her leader atop the steps. There was an anger, an untamed, wild anger that sat behind those eyes she had never seen before.
“I guess it does.”
It was
Takatori. Takatori Shuuichi paid us to do it.