Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Deadly Beautiful ❯ Prince of the Desert ( Chapter 15 )

Disclaimer: I use these characters without permission, and despite the fact that no one involved is being paid, they're not complaining.

Deadly Beautiful - Chapter 15

By danse

Trowa sighed softly as he opened his eyes. He was lying on his back under the covers, staring at a ceiling the colour of sand. He knew that if he touched it, it would probably have the same texture. Intense golden sunlight streamed in through the window in the wall behind him and lanced across the room to create a bright square on the opposite wall, lighting the rest of the room with a soft yellow-white glow.

It was already too hot for him to go back to sleep. He got up with a groan and stretched slowly, his long arms seeming to fill most of the small bedroom. Stifling a yawn, he dressed in the clothes he'd been given--long, loose robes in varying shades of khaki--and sauntered out the door to face the world.

The desert compound was as bustling at this hour as it always was in the six days that he'd been here. It was a constant hive of activity. He had to quickly flatten himself against the wall as a woman in her mid-twenties streaked by, muttering something in Arabic and barely sparing him a glance. There were nearly three hundred people living and working at the compound, and he fit in with hardly a ripple; he doubted he'd met even a quarter of them yet.

After the coast was clear, he strolled down the hall, turning corners and nodding at people he knew, moving quickly and always aiming for the War Room, where he knew he could find his host. He pushed aside the red curtain that hung in the doorway and found Quatre talking to two large, burly men in front of an overhead projector screen. The young man looked very animated, gesturing almost frantically as he talked. The larger of the two men, who Trowa knew was Rashid, the head of this organization, had a look on his face that was halfway between disinterest and anger.

"No, I don't agree with that at all, Quatre," he said in a deep, rumbling voice. "Perhaps a little more research is in order...better safe than sorry, eh?"

Quatre frowned, opened his mouth, closed it, and suddenly realized that Trowa was in the room. His entire face suddenly changed from impatient to ecstatic, so fast that Trowa felt a bit scared. "Good morning, Trowa," he said. "Sleep well?"

"Oh, yeah. I still can't get used to sleeping in this heat, though."

Quatre laughed. "I'm just about ready for a nap, myself. I've been up since three o'clock this morning." Many of the people here slept during the hot day and worked at night. It worked out well, because that meant that there was always a shift of people on call in an emergency.

The two boys excused themselves from the meeting and went to the mess hall to get something to eat. There were a few tables with people in the huge room; food was served constantly, and the residents ate when they were hungry. The boys got trays and filled them with edibles, then sat at the closest table.

Six days ago, Trowa had met Quatre in a service corridor of the Royal Arabian Hilton in Hofuf. After killing two dozen guards who were after Trowa, they had escaped to the roof of the hotel via the air ducts, and had another fast but fierce shootout with a handful of heavily armed guards before they managed to escape in a helicopter belonging to Quatre's allies. By that evening, they were almost 150 miles away from Hofuf, sequestered in a large base hidden in the dunes and extremely well-protected. Trowa had been thoroughly confused by the whole ordeal, and he and Quatre had stayed up for most of that night, sitting in the mess hall with large cups of coffee, while Quatre told him what was going on.

This compound was the headquarters of the largest group of guerilla fighters in the Middle East. They called themselves the Maganacs, and were led by the burly Rashid. Saudi freedom fighters and firm believers in democracy and free expression, they used their considerably large force to help keep the dictators of the oil-rich Middle East on a short leash.

Quatre was the only son and youngest child of a very rich and powerful man who had made his fortune in the oil industry. He owned a large corporation called Winner Enterprises, Inc., and intended for all his children to follow in his footsteps. Quatre had twenty-nine older sisters, from four different marriages. Eight were half-sisters, eleven were stepsisters, two were adopted, and the remaining seven had the same mother and father as him. His mother had died in a car accident when Quatre was three.

Quatre had been conditioned almost since birth to eventually work as an executive for Winner Enterprises, along with all of his sisters. His father would consider nothing else for their futures, and when Quatre's natural marksmanship and compassionate attitude led him to the Maganacs at the age of fourteen, Mr. Winner had been less than impressed. When he discovered that Quatre's music teacher, Instructor H, had had a hand in Quatre's conversion to a rebel fighter, the man had coincidentally been in a maiming car accident a few weeks later, and was now in a wheelchair. Quatre had said that he privately thought that H was supposed to die in the accident, but being permanently paralyzed probably appealed to his father's sense of justice enough to leave him alone after that.

The real kicker though, Quatre had told Trowa, was that not only had he abandoned the ivory Winner palace, but so had his sister, Iria. She had wanted to become a doctor, not a vice-president, and had many long, angry fights with their father about it, before she finally walked out the door a month after Quatre did. Now she was training as a field doctor with the Maganacs. Iria had been taken out of the will for that, but Quatre was apparently supposed to come to his senses someday, and he still had a place at home, if he wanted it.

Quatre had extended his skills at shooting to the point of being a professional sniper, and he was very good at it. He'd been on over a dozen missions already, all successful. The assassination of Trowa Barton was meant as a warning to his father, Dekim, who had recently made a lot of shady dealings among the oil magnates, and had several Saudi politicians in his back pocket. "There's more to it than that, actually, but I can't tell you," Quatre had said apologetically. Trowa nodded; he understood the need for secrecy. That was why Quatre, in turn, would never know about the files in his silver briefcase. That was how things worked, and they both understood that.

Trowa looked down in surprise; he'd been in a sort of reverie, processing what had happened in the past several days, and hadn't noticed that his plate was nearly empty. He'd kept eating mechanically, totally oblivious to the world. He looked up at Quatre, who was drinking Turkish coffee and reading a handwritten report that he'd brought with him.

Now seemed like as good a time as any to say it. "Quatre..."

"Hmmm?" The blond boy raised his eyebrows to show he was listening, but kept skimming the report.

Trowa put down his fork. "I need to be going."

Quatre met Trowa's eyes over the paper. "Already?"

"Things to do," he said in an offhand way.

"Of course," Quatre said mechanically, not believing the nonchalant act at all.

"I can't fly out of Hofuf. Do you have any suggestions?"

Quatre sipped his coffee as he thought. To Trowa it looked more likely chewable than drinkable, but he hid his distaste. Suddenly, Quatre stood up, with his report in one hand and his mug in the other. "Come on," he said, gesturing with his head toward the door.

They went back to the War Room and found Rashid still there, talking to a man in a wheelchair. The man was small and had a handlebar mustache. Trowa's eyes widened.

"Is that H?" he whispered, standing beside Quatre in the doorway. Quatre nodded silently, and waited for a break in the conversation before talking.

"Rashid," he said, "can my friend here use a helicopter? He needs to leave."

Rashid frowned. "How long does he need it?"

Quatre looked at Trowa. "Can you make it home in a helicopter?"

Trowa stared, disbelieving. "How far do they travel?"

"Are you from continental Europe?"

Trowa remained silent, not wanting to divulge anything.

Quatre looked exasperated, and set his coffee down so he could grasp Trowa's shoulders. He looked into Trowa's eyes, letting seafoam-coloured friendship wash over his guest. "Trowa, we can drop you wherever you want on the continent. We don't have to know where you go from there. We've been through stuff already and trusted each other, so why don't we take it a little farther?" He spread his arms wide and smiled. "You know where I live."

Trowa thought for a few seconds, then relaxed and nodded. "The continent is fine. I appreciate your generosity."

Quatre looked at Rashid, who nodded. "Are you going with him, Quatre?"

"I might as well. It's not fair to occupy another pilot on personal business. Besides," he said, looking playfully at Trowa, "you don't have a reason to trust anyone but me, do you, Trowa?"

Trowa changed back into his navy suit and got his silver briefcase, and was ready to go. He and Quatre left the Maganacs that afternoon, after Quatre took a nap, and flew the helicopter to the outskirts of Athens, where Quatre dropped him off. Before he took off again, Quatre gave Trowa a bear hug and kissed him quickly on each cheek. "That's how we Maganacs say goodbye to a friend," he said by way of explanation. He grinned. "I hope we meet again, Trowa."

Strangely unable to speak, Trowa nodded and walked away. He felt the wind as the helicopter took off, and turned back to look as Quatre disappeared into the sunny blue sky.

After calling his emergency contact number and talking to the operator at S' headquarters, Trowa picked up a car that was waiting for him and drove through the lush, green hills until he found the compound. He went in a side door, nodding at the guard there, and wove his way through the familiar, sanitary corridors alone until he reached S' office. He had been gone for nine days on a three-day mission, and the conference had probably ended up on the news. He would have some explaining to do.

Catherine had been replaced by an elderly lady at the secretary's desk when he got there. She ushered him through to his employer's domain without a word, and he mentally readied himself for a long, intensive debriefing. As he pushed through the heavy door, though, he couldn't help but wonder what had become of Catherine while he was gone...