|
"Caught in the Crossfire "Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters –
am just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Swearing, yaoi, violence, hints of long
past NCS Pairings: Primarily 3x2, past/presentish 1x2,
past 3x4 and 1x3 Summary: When Trowa's nephew is threatened by
the ruthless father who abandoned him, Trowa needs help in order to
fight back and protect both Catherine and the little boy. Things get
complicated when both Shinigami and the Perfect Soldier come to his
aid as the three men must discover where they stand with each other
while they work out a way to protect Trowa's family. "Caught in the Crossfire "
Break In It had been a long time since Trowa had thought in terms of completing a mission. Everything that had happened so far had been a reaction to anything that Nabokov had done – it had been a necessary chain of events, an equal and opposite reaction. He'd done what he had to do. Now Trowa was thinking about violence and death in a more calculating way – a less instinctual way – and that was something he'd left behind. Or at least he thought he had, thought he'd walked away from it but it was still there, just as it had been there in the forest, when he'd been covered in blood and killed for the first time in so damn long. It had also been a long time since Trowa had used his infiltration skills, a long time since he had been trying to sneak into a building or an OZ barracks or whatever other location that had been required. It was a long time but it was not something easily forgotten – yet he supposed he'd used them on occasion at the circus, sneaking up on Eli and tapping his shoulder, his nephew looking around in amazement and Trowa had tried to teach him the art of being silent. It had been a game between them – ganging up together to sneak up on Catherine and her being annoyed in a good humoured fashion. Complaining about 'her boys' but she gave Trowa that smile that said she was glad, happy, that they were playing even if she didn't entirely approve of being made to scream as she was startled by their silent approaches. Now he was using his stealth skills for not so innocent purposes, wearing an elevator maintenance contractor uniform in an unattractive shade of brown and round his neck lanyards documenting his identity and a card key that granted him access to multiple locations in the building. He was in Nabokov's building – the heart of his empire – an apartment complex in the middle of St. Petersburg. The building was impressive. It had an old exterior, built some time pre-colony during a period of highly decorative architecture but the old exterior was deceptive – Trowa knew this as Heero had shown them blueprints on a laptop screen that documented the security systems – the vault, the codes required to run the elevators, the metal detectors and scanners that people passed through in the entrances. Nabokov owned the building, his apartment spanning the entire top floor, the penthouse, and the rest of the apartments were owned by the rich or those that were moderately rich comparatively. Not rich enough to own an elaborate building in the middle of St Petersburg but rich enough to own a small part of it. Trowa felt awkward in the uniform, a little short in the leg, the shirt a little too tight as usually, in his own attempts at infiltration, he believed it vital to have every element of the cover in place. To look correct. To look anonymous and blank and completely innocuous. Small details fucked with that. People noticed that – something different, something odd – and the ill-fitting uniform suggested something. He'd tried it on the previous night, Duo giving him a look with a raised eyebrow, appraising him, and Heero had ignored it. Last night he'd selected what other items he wanted to take with him, an array of weaponry laid out on floral bedcovers in a cheap hotel. It was a weird image and Trowa had selected only a blade, long, and a sheath he could attempt to hide. The tightness of his uniform made it difficult to hide a gun. Duo had questioned that as well, that quirk of his lips that made him want to fuck him, pin him against a wall and make him moan – but instead he'd answered him, dampened down the thoughts of Duo naked and wanting him. It had done them no good. "I only need a knife." It was all he'd wanted from the numerous weapons that Heero had acquired and it was then, as he ran his fingers over semi-automatic machine guns, flash bangs and handguns, that he looked up at Heero who was steadfastly concentrating on the laptop screen in front of him. "How did you get all this?" Trowa had asked. Heero had only given a small smile and turned from his screen briefly. "I have people." If Duo had said the same phrase it would've been a little funny – the words from Heero sounded vaguely sinister and Trowa just nodded. Last night had been the last time Trowa knew that he would touch Duo and Heero had given them a few opportunities over the last couple of days. It was nothing more than a few brief kisses – each one making it harder. They both acknowledged it was a stupid idea but somehow found themselves drawn to each other. Trowa now had to stop thinking about Duo in any other terms than being part of this mission as Duo was walking out of his life the moment the mission was complete. The moment he put a bullet through Alexei Nabokov's heart. Trowa gritted his teeth, angry still at the plan despite knowing it all made sense. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to do it with his own bare hands – having not felt this level of anger in his life since the time spent around the man who had formerly been Trowa Barton – an arrogant fucker that had made him uncomfortable and Trowa had been glad to see dead on the walkway of mobile suit hanger. His brief feeling of anger, of being out of control of the situation again, abated as he walked through the back entrance to the building easily, escorted by a balding middle-aged man who owned the maintenance contract for the building – a highly lucrative and well paid position. The back entrance, just as the front, had metal detectors and scanners but the man bypassed them, letting Trowa pass through, his knife not making the detectors bleep. There was an important thing Trowa had learnt in life and especially in the act of infiltration and it was that people were easily manipulated. And that entering any place – any base, military facility or fancy mansion, was all about having something to trade or bribe. This time it was money – the easiest of all bribes – and Heero had acquired cash, rubles, handed over in a padded envelope. The other thing that Trowa had learnt about people was that those who had plenty, who had wealth, money, and a lifestyle that the rest of the population envied, were often people who were greedy and wanted more. As he followed the maintenance contractor along a corridor under the pretence of being shown to the service elevator that needed servicing, Trowa was preparing to act, walking past rooms and observing them as he did. As Nabokov's building was so damn exclusive, everything from a large laundry facility, a maid service, a pet care area, a nursery for children, and a kitchen that could provide most meals at short notice was available. Trowa guessed that this was what it was like to be hyper-rich and to live in what essentially acted as a hotel that people owned apartments in. And it made him think briefly of Quatre. Despite all his wealth, despite the responsibilities of his company, Quatre had never become this. It made him respect him a little bit more. The man was talking and Trowa's Russian was rusty at best, but he answered with a few mumbled "yeses" as they finally approached a location that Trowa felt secure enough in to act. While the security was not as numerous in the employee areas as in the main area of the building, Trowa had watched all the security cameras as he passed them, his eyes counting them and remembering all of Heero's blueprints. There had been blind spots pointed out, Heero talking slowly through the areas where it would be safe to do what Trowa was about to do. Duo had rolled his eyes at Heero's caution. It was why Duo wasn't doing this part of the mission as, though his methods as a hit-man were effective, they were ever so slightly flashier and more noticeable and everything was about getting them to where they needed to be without it being reported to Nabokov. Trowa reached for the man suddenly, the man turning and about to start speaking when Trowa punched, his fist hard in the guy's solar plexus, the wind taken out of him and he briefly remembered using the move on Duo so that he could pass over the small device that showed the scientists' progress on Deathscythe and Shenlong. The guy's eyes bugged, the punch hard enough to make him slump to the floor, and Trowa removed the security card from the man's lanyard – his access superior and to all the rooms in the building – and then used the card to open a nearby door. He'd been waiting to see that particular door – the warning for chemicals and potential fire hazards shown – and he dragged the man to what acted as a large cleaning supplies cupboard, the smell of bleach and disinfectant filling his lungs. It was the first person he'd injured that was entirely unnecessary. The man might have remained silent – might have not said anything about his bribe by a tall man – but then when money was a motivating factor, Trowa was unsure about loyalty and did not want to risk the man saying anything. As well as being ruthless, Nabokov had been excellent at bribing people, a thing Trowa had found out in the intervening years since the fateful meeting and the present day. He had the Russian government eating out of his hand. Any of his activities were turned a blind eye to as he financed projects for the poverty stricken and starving. He was a manipulator. It made Trowa cautious, as he dumped the man to floor and closed the door, checking his watch to see the time and then making his way towards the hub of the building. Trowa knew the plan – knew it by heart, that in his pocket he had a flash drive that he would insert into the security terminals that would release a virus that would disrupt the building's security systems and descend the building into darkness – and in the disruption that included making the scanners fail, Duo and Heero would enter. Heero would make his way to the security room, ensure that all evidence of Trowa's identity was removed, and then he would edit the feeds to make sure it documented Duo doing everything. It was then that Trowa was meant to leave, meant to step aside, his entire role to get into the building to set this up – for him to use his Russian, use his anonymity and put his repressed infiltration skills to good use so that Duo could make his way up to that penthouse, Heero following after the systems had been hacked. Then Nabokov would be killed and Heero would plant whatever evidence was needed. It sounded flawless, simple, when spoken of in hotel rooms but then Trowa knew he was not following the plan and had no intention of doing that. He'd agreed. He had looked Duo in those big blue eyes and said he understood why it was him who had to kill Alexei Nabokov. And he understood why he'd made those entreaties, not with words, but with looks, as for some reason Duo thought Trowa better than him. Yet after everything the man had put him and his family through, Trowa had stopped damn caring. He held onto the memory of hugging his nephew one last time, remembered how he felt in his arms in the hallway, and if this meant he was a dead man or not a dead man, imprisoned or on the run, then he would do it. As he had wanted Duo and Heero's help, needed it, but in the end it was him that was going to finish this. He wondered if Duo would be disappointed. Guessed he would. Remembered his speech about Trowa being better than he was but right now, Trowa didn't want to be better. And he wasn't going to let Duo kill the man that had ruined the life that they once had. It was now time to get even. And Trowa didn't care. He walked down the corridor to the security room, expecting some resistance, the card key swiping and for a second the two men at the consoles didn't react to the new person in the room. A second later they did – questioning him in Russian – and Trowa then did like he'd been trained to do so long ago, grabbing hold of one of the men from behind, his arm tight around his throat, the airway cut off by his strength. The other man fumbled with his weapon, his words hurried, but he was not difficult to disarm, letting the other man breathe and grabbing the gun to use the butt of his weapon against the back of his head and allowing him to fall to the ground. The other man used his partner's distraction to attempt to regroup but his breathing was heavy, his hands weak, and Trowa reapplied pressure, feeling him struggle until he was unconscious on the floor. With the two men slumped on the floor, Trowa kicked one a little further out of the way, heard an exhale from the body, and he pulled out a chair to sit, bringing out the flash drive that would disrupt the security system. As he inserted the drive, he input a code and let a small smile cross his face. 010203. Oddly fitting. He'd disliked his OZ call sign as they all had – reduced to merely numbers – but then it reminded him of that time, when they were soldiers fighting for the colonies. He knew that he didn't have much time and Trowa exited, not bothering to avoid stamping on the men on the floor, glad of their incompetence. It was unlikely to remain that way as he left the security room, the place in darkness now, a thin emergency lighting system turned on but not providing enough light to see clearly by. Perfect. Nabokov lived on the top floor, the entire top floor of the building, and Trowa was glad that he did not live in a modern skyscraper as he climbed the stairs, the elevators out of commission. A few residents appeared at the stairs, asked him a few questions and he was answering them, looking like nothing more than the maintenance worker he was meant to be. He wondered if Nabokov knew – Trowa finding it hard to believe he didn't as he climbed until finally he was at the landing that led to the apartment of the man he intended to kill. The door had an electronic locking system which had released due to the disruption of the security system and it hung open a little. Trowa approached it with the necessary caution, pushing it slightly and drawing out his blade. The blade felt good in his hand, felt sturdy and violent, and he walked in, holding to loosely in his right palm, ready to kill – to stab, to throw if necessary. They had estimated that Nabokov employed six elite mercs as bodyguards who stayed on the premises at all times – a scan through one of his hidden accounts providing this intel as large amounts of money was transferred on a regular basis to Swiss accounts registered to men whose names didn't exist. And while Trowa knew these guys would be tougher than anyone he'd killed so far, the feelings involved and the anger would make it damn easy. The penthouse plans were in Trowa's head despite the fact he was not supposed to have any part of this plan and he walked slowly, his footsteps not making any noise against thick plush carpeting, the whole place silent in a way he didn't like. He walked, instinctively twirling the blade, and he felt the uncomfortable sense of being watched in the darkness. The corridor led him to the main room of the penthouse, past the doors that opened to a personal gym, a large bathroom, one of the bedrooms. He saw light in the darkness, flickering, which he guessed was from a fireplace or an imitation one, and he rounded a corner to the main room, immediately hearing the click of a loaded weapon near his head. He reacted as he could, an elbow to the face, hard, and the gun and the man dropped. But he then felt his legs taken out from under him, a foot on his wrist where his knife was, pushing down so that it was released out of his grasp and he heard the cock of another weapon, looking up to see four men surrounding him. "Help him up and cuff him." Trowa heard the voice as he was brought to his feet roughly, his uniform grasped tightly and he grimaced at the sound of that voice. Alexei Nabokov's English was flawless if not heavily accented and Trowa snarled as his hands were brought in front of him, cuffs snapping over his wrists, thick ones that looked like the ones OZ had used on Lunar Base. Probably ex-military stock. "Bring our guest over." The smooth tone was infuriating and Trowa was pushed in the direction of the voice, to where he sat – a large armchair in front of a fire that must've been fake, another chair opposite obviously intended for Trowa. It had been a long time since Trowa had seen the other man – not since the legal proceedings – and in his head he had made him seem bigger, more powerful, a more intimidating threat. Yet now he was only a man – a well-dressed man, his suit pinstripe, his hair slicked back and his shoes shining in the low light – and men could bleed. "Take a seat, Trowa, I believe it has been a long time." He felt like baring his teeth but refrained and took the seat, a weapon still pointed at his head, the threat heavy handed and obvious but effective. "You really thought you'd come into my home and kill me? I find that concept... Amusing." Nabokov smirked and reached for a glass of alcohol – clear – vodka Trowa guessed, some kind of Russian cliché, and the ice clinked around the sides as he took a sip. Trowa's eyes narrowed as he watched him – looked at his face. He was good-looking but arrogant with it – knew why Catherine had fallen for him, knew he was gorgeous and charming, or he had been up until the pregnancy. He looked at him critically, tried to see if he saw any resemblance between the man in front of him and his nephew and thankfully he didn't. Eli looked like Catherine – not the man in front of him – and even if there was a hint of his complexion, his dark eyes, Trowa was loathe to admit it. "I'd offer you a drink but I don't think you'll accept my hospitality. Too much water under the bridge." Trowa glared – not intending to say anything, not intending to give Nabokov anything. "I liked that you tried, I really do. That you thought you could break in, that you could sneak in and disrupt my systems. You don't seem to understand that even the lowest person in my organisation is loyal to me." He paused, took another swig of his drink, downing the rest in the glass. "But I let you get in. Wanted this. Wanted us to talk before… never mind. I'm sure you know you won't get out of here alive. And neither will your… war buddies?" "Try to kill me." "Oh, don't worry, I intend to, but first I'd like to know what you did with my son." "He's not yours," Trowa said, his tone fierce, protective. "He's never been yours." "We have the DNA to prove that he is," he said. "Now tell me where I find him and I promise I won't hurt your dear sister. I'll even let her stay with him. After all, what more does a boy need that both his mother and father?" The words were meant to sting. Trowa didn't need blood to be Eli's family as family wasn't about blood. Family was not about the circumstances of birth as Trowa didn't know those. Family to him was about choice – about choosing who to care for, who to love and who to protect. "Why now? You didn't want him for so long." "I'm dying," he said blandly as though commenting on the weather. The words were meant to be shocking, Trowa supposed, but instead Trowa just levelled his coldest glare at the man rather than impart any sympathy. "I am undergoing some experimental treatments that are prolonging my life and my son has the same blood type as myself…" Nabokov said, the rest of the sentence left hanging. Yet it had suddenly become clear, all too damn late as Trowa felt his stomach clench, his fingers itching to strangle the man opposite him as that was why he was interested in Eli. Not some fatherly concern – not some misguided belief that a boy belonged with his father – and Trowa felt anger like he'd never felt before as he thought of Eli, his body in a bed, blood being pumped out of him and that was why Nabokov had suddenly taken an interest in his child. Prior to that, Nabokov had wanted nothing to do with Eli, nothing to do with Catherine, and no money was provided, no support, and every little thing had been paid for between Trowa and Catherine. Harsh words were said. Things about a "money grabbing whore" after which Trowa had been stopped from punching him in the damn face. And now that he was dying, Eli's blood might be what he damn well needed. Trowa's hands shook in the cuffs. "I won't tell you anything," he spat. "Do you think I won't ever find out? Maybe, if three of you former Gundam pilots are back together, maybe you're using the others. Winner perhaps? I can imagine he's a lucrative contact to have." Trowa briefly felt a shiver run up his spine – Quatre's identity as a former Gundam pilot had been hidden entirely as it was bad for his business. To have that level of information was unsettling. He glared and scowled. "I'm not going to give you that information. You can torture me – I don't give a damn." "Good. As that's what I plan on doing." He stood and motioned towards one of his men, bald, burly, tattooed, and Trowa tensed as they approached, the weapon still levelled at his head. There was little he could do – could stall, could attempt to give Duo and Heero time but it meant that he would have to endure whatever pain Nabokov wanted to inflict as he would die before he gave up anything. Futile thoughts ran around his head but as the man approached, Trowa made his decision. He'd sworn as a child he would never not fight back, cuffed and outnumbered – didn't matter, and he kept his promise as he smashed his elbow towards the man with the gun, his nose shattering under the pressure and he was on his feet, ready to shoulder-barge the tattooed heavy. Trowa was about to act when an explosion rocked the building, loud, intense, and he fell to the floor. It suddenly appeared that the one system that was still working kicked into effect – sprinklers misting the room with water. He blinked, his hair in his eyes, and looked up – reached with cuffed hands for Nabokov sprawled on the floor. He was going to attempt to kill the fucker, gun or no gun, hands cuffed or not.
|
