Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Deadly Beautiful ❯ A Stupid Risk ( Chapter 7 )

Warnings: Death of a minor character, and a lack of concern about it from a major character. Yep. Images of blood. That's all. Enjoy, and be sure to comment.

Disclaimer: I was surfing the internet, and I found a link on a search engine that said, 'Buy Gundam Wing on E-Bay.' Naturally, I got excited at the prospect of finally owning the rights to the series, so I clicked it and got ready to bid. It turned out that the auction was for an artbook. Long story short, I still do not own Gundam Wing or any of its parts that I've used in this story. I'm not making any money, either.

Deadly Beautiful - Chapter 7

By danse

Shortly after midnight, Trowa was back on the balcony of his hotel room, waiting for his mission update to beam its way from the laptop's satellite receiver to the large, black dish nestled in the Mediterranean hills. He hoped that S would know what the voices on the recorder were talking about, because he didn't. He felt sure that the two-minute sound byte he was sending would mean a highly successful mission, even if he got nothing else. Any other agents in his boss' employ would be satisfied with that, and enjoy themselves for the rest of the trip.

That was where the difference lay, between Trowa and the other agents.

He intended to get as much information as possible. His ultimate hope was to obtain a report or an invoice, something on paper, to take back to the base with him. He had hidden a small handgun inside the pot of a fake plant, down in the hotel lobby, on the night that he'd arrived in Hofuf. It was there in case of an emergency, in case he needed to take the kind of risk that S had warned him against, to get what he wanted.

Trowa admired the almost-full moon that hung in the sky outside, stretched his arms lazily, and went inside to get some sleep.

At ten o'clock in the morning on April 20th, Trowa was lingering near Dekim Barton and two of the men on his target list. The three men were having a very interesting conversation that contained a lot of references to the 'OZ' group that he'd heard about the day before, and he made sure to record what they were saying.

He was being a little cleverer, that day; he supposed it was because of the extra sleep he'd gotten. That morning, before he put on his jacket, he had put a digital voice recorder, which was small enough to fit in his palm, inside the breast pocket of his dress shirt. Next, he ran a tiny microphone attached to a thin wire through his sleeve, to be tucked underneath his watchband. Now he stood with his back to his targets, watching a slide show being conducted against the far wall, with his hands held casually behind his back. The end of the mini microphone peeped out from beneath his watchband, aimed directly towards the conversation.

He still listened to what was being said, hoping to hear something that he could use to find some hard evidence before he left. It was difficult to divide his attention between what went on behind him and what went on in front of him, but he managed, and was repaid when he heard, "…Last month's status reports are waiting in the Rose Office for you, if you want to get them after dinner."

His eyes widened a little, but he quickly calmed his expression, even though his mind still raced. The Rose Office was one of six rooms that the hotel thoughtfully supplied to businessmen, for a fee. The rooms were small offices, containing fax machines, photocopiers, and computers with Internet access, as well as printers, telephones, and any other office supply one could need. If he could get away from the banquet hall long enough to photocopy the reports… But how could he do it without looking suspicious? He felt sure that Treize thought something wasn't right; if he left, he would attract too much attention from the Romefeller representative. Also, the Rose Office was almost a five-minute jog away, on the third floor of the hotel.

After a few tense minutes of deliberation, he decided to wait for a while, to see what opportunities presented themselves. He went back to looking at the slide show, ignoring the conversation behind him. Eventually, he slid into a dreamy haze; hands still behind his back, he watched the colours of the slides blur and separate. Suddenly, Treize walked by in front of him, and stopped just long enough to give Trowa a venomous glare that seemed to say, Watch it, because I know you've got a secret, and I'm going to figure it out. Trowa jumped with surprise and the slides focused again. He looked around quickly, but Treize was gone. He shivered and tugged his sleeve down over the microphone, feeling for a moment more like a sixteen-year-old with insecurities than a perfect super-agent.

After lunch, there were speeches. The conference attendees sat at their round, pink tables and listened with interest, then clapped politely as each speaker stepped down from the podium. Trowa was incredibly bored, and apparently so was the burly blond man who sat beside him.

"Hey, Tristan," the elder Trowa Barton murmured after a speech by a Malaysian woman. "My pop's up next."

'Tristan' raised his eyebrows in feigned interest, and watched as Dekim Barton stood up and made his way to the podium with cue cards in hand. He was a talented speaker, and his speech was a long, but interesting, address on the future of the oil industry, and how the supply and environmentally concerned developments, as well as the ever-growing issue of world conflict, would affect it. He spoke at length about tension in the Middle East and other oil-producing countries, as well as the possibility of a third World War and its possible effects on technology, politics and economics. Dekim's son listened reverently to every word, and as he glanced at the man occasionally, Trowa was reminded of his drunken words from two nights before. There's going to be a war, soon, and after it's over, Marie's going to be the one who picks up the pieces. She's going to lead us all. It's a promise we made…

Suddenly, Dekim's speech was finished, and the audience clapped. His son stood up and clapped loudly, obviously very proud of his father. A few other people followed suit, but none at Trowa's table. Dekim said a quick, 'Thank you,' into the microphone, but the last syllable was barely out of his mouth when a gunshot echoed through the room.

Several people gasped, and a few screamed, as the whole room erupted into pandemonium. Trowa, still in his seat, was pale and sweating as he stared at the scene before him. The enthusiastic twenty-five-year-old man who had just been standing beside him, clapping loudly, was now sprawled on his back on the floor. His eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling and his mouth was frozen in a grin, as the rapidly spreading pool of blood from his temple stained his blond hair.

Everybody else in the hall seemed to find the victim at the same time. A rush of people crowded around Trowa as he stood up and backed away. He quickly slipped through the crowd, looking for a clear path along the wall. As he made his way to the fire exit, he swiftly scanned the wall that had been on his left earlier. He spied what he was looking for almost immediately, because he was looking for it; one of the slats of the vent cover near the ceiling was bent to the side, leaving just enough room for the barrel of a gun to poke through. His curiosity satisfied, he opened the fire door and left the hall, breaking into a run as he went looking for a particular potted plant in the lobby.

When he was armed with the gun he'd hidden, he remembered the equipment in his room. It would be difficult to retrieve after he got the reports, but he couldn't leave it behind; it was expensive and might blow the cover of S' operation if discovered. He made a fast decision and started running up the elaborate flights of stairs that led to the sixth floor, ignoring the elevator in case it wasn't running.

Seven minutes later, he was standing in front of his door, gasping for breath as he fumbled with his key card. The instant the reader beeped, he was inside his room. He grabbed the silver laptop case from beside his bed and left as quickly as he had come. The suitcase that held his clothes could be abandoned.

Trowa raced down the stairs again, ignoring the occasional painful whack of the heavy silver case against his leg as he ran. When he reached the third floor landing, he ripped open the wood-paneled door that led to the rooms and ran down the hallway, with the case in one hand and his gun in the other. He almost ran past the Rose Office, and had to backpedal a few steps. It had a wooden door like the rest of the rooms, engraved with a stylized rose where the number plate usually belonged.

He tried the doorknob. It was locked. Of course, he didn't have the keycard for this office. He cursed himself for not remembering that earlier, and glared at the card reader as he wondered what he should do. Finally, he gave in to impatience and simplicity, and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the seam where the reader's casing held together. Two more hits made it crack, and he ripped the front off, exposing wires and circuits. So much for not leaving a trace, he thought as he examined the electronic innards. After a moment of studying it, he ripped out the ends of a green wire and an orange one, and twisted the bare metal ends together. The reader buzzed and a spark nearly hit his tie, but the door popped open. His quick movement blew a tiny wisp of smoke away as he dashed inside.

Where are the reports? He thought a little frantically. The office was small and crammed with equipment. Two desks were covered with stacks of paper, and he dove in with both hands, resting the gun on top of a pile of books. A few minutes of frenzied digging later, he came up with two bound reports, each a quarter of an inch thick, that said Zodiac Project--Confidential on the front. Grinning like an idiot, he stuffed the papers inside his silver case, grabbed his gun, and left the room again.

He stood in the hallway indecisively for a second, wondering where to go. The faint sound of voices echoing from the direction he'd come convinced him that he should try the other direction. As he ran, he wondered if it was Treize following him, or hotel security attracted either by the noise or his security breach, the evidence of which was still smoking and had obviously sparked some more since he'd entered the office.

The voices got louder and more numerous, accompanied by footsteps, as he ran down the hallway. Eventually, he reached a door that led to a service corridor, and he turned sharply without reducing his speed, careening a little dangerously through the door and pushing it shut behind him. The service corridor was a bit dingy, with old white-tiled floors and pot lights overhead that spilled yellow pools onto the dim floor. Many more doors opened off of it, and some other service halls branched off of it. Trowa turned and ran down a few randomly, trying to evade whoever was following him, and getting more lost in the process. He heard the faint sound of doors opening behind him, and the voices continued to follow.

The footsteps receded for a while, and then returned suddenly, louder than before, as he ran. Trowa stopped and turned around, peering through the poorly-lit hallway behind him. He saw the glow of flashlights sweeping the corridor, three hundred yards back. He turned around to face where he'd been running; he saw a twin glow there, a little farther away. There was a metal door in the wall just to his left; he tried it, but it was locked. He butted it with his shoulder a few times, but it didn't budge. He was screwed.

He sighed, and not knowing what to do, only feeling very tired, he sank down on the floor and leaned his head against the wall. If he closed his eyes, he could picture S yelling at him for taking a stupid risk. Except that chances were good that S would never get the chance to yell at him. There were six bullets in his gun, plus one more clip that he'd put in the inside pocket of his jacket. There were at least twice as many people approaching him from both sides. He opened his eyes with a sigh and stared at the ceiling. There was a pot light shining directly above him, and it hurt to look at, so he averted his gaze…and it landed on a vent in the ceiling. His eyes widened in surprise and hope. He could use it to escape, if he moved fast.

He got up from the floor and stood under the vent. He was tall, and the ceiling in the corridor was low enough that he could reach the vent cover without stretching too much. Keeping the gun in one hand, he put his fingers through the slats of the cover and yanked. He was rewarded with a shower of dust that got in his mouth. Spitting, he yanked again, and the whole cover came off with a loud screech and some pieces of the ceiling. He dropped the cover on the floor and noticed that his hands were cut from the sharp metal edges. Dust got in them and stung, but he thought that cut fingers were better than bullets in his body. The guards were about one hundred and fifty yards away and had started running. Trowa swung the silver case up into the ventilation shaft with a clang, and got ready to hoist himself up. He put his hands on the inside edges of the shaft, standing on his toes, but just then, the locked door sprang open, nearly hitting him in the narrow corridor.

Trowa stared in surprise at the teenage boy who stood in the doorway, who looked startled and carried a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. He had light blond hair and bluish-green eyes, and was dressed entirely in black. In less time than it took to blink, they both had their guns drawn (the blond boy was carrying a handgun as well) and stared tensely at each other, and the approaching guards, in turn.

Great, now what? Trowa thought tiredly. He heard yelling behind him, and saw some of the rapidly-approaching men in front draw their guns. What a successful mission…