Season of Ashes Ch. 01-02

The tap of his fingers conveyed another question. Or perhaps a statement. Reinforcements. Milicent thought of her colleagues — brave, useful, tiresome. None of them knew about her plans. She recalled the mess in the Grisaille. Evidence splattered everywhere. For all she knew, these captors had planted additional signs in the suite while she had been unconscious. She might already be a recognised fugitive. No one at the agency would lift a finger. In fact, depending on the money involved, they might even hunt her down. She responded: N; no.

The car tottered over a ridge, axles whining. The roads were getting rougher. Every now and then, Milicent spotted thick copses of towering chestnuts caught in the beams of the headlamps. The purr of other engines faded. They were getting farther and farther away from any bystanders. On occasion, the driver's eyes would flash toward the rear-view mirror. Milicent kept her lids almost all the way shut, relying on the thin, unfocused gap of lash-obscured vision to see while she maintained her sleeping beauty ruse.

Despite the foreboding sense of peril, Milicent found it easy not to panic; her body was still numb from the dregs of whatever sedative their captors had used. It would be the easiest thing in the world to close her eyes fully and slip back to sleep — but no. She had to stay awake. She was probably — probably — more useful that way. Besides, she was breathing, which meant there was some ulterior purpose to this kidnapping, some endgame that necessitated their survival. If their captors were under orders to keep them alive, then they already had a distinct advantage in any tussle that might follow: Milicent had no qualms about tallying a few more bodies to her kill count before sunrise.

The front passenger gargled out another sentence. Milicent caught only the last half: "...jamais à l'heure." The driver chuckled, hand-over-handing the wheel to guide the car across one final winding turn before lurching to a stop.

The engine maintained a dormant snarl; the lights of the central console remained on; the wipers scraped the screen one final time before coming to a halt. Had the rain stopped? Milicent widened her eyes just a touch. They were indoors. A garage? A tunnel? Some sort of constructed canopy covered the vehicle, shielding it from the rain. Roughly a dozen metres in front of the windshield, she discerned a large, rectangular arch wide enough for a caravan; sheets of rain poured from the edge of the roof like a waterfall, marking the boundary between shelter and wilderness, indoors and outdoors.

"Ah," remarked the driver, turning to his companion with a smug grin that peeked out from beneath his turtleneck. "Quelle surprise."

Wandering cones of yellow light streaked across the rain pouring in front of the arch. A second vehicle — this one much larger than the one they were in — rolled into view and crossed the threshold before squealing to a stop. The twin orbs of its headlamps dominated the scene, causing the silhouette of its body to recede into inconspicuous darkness. The sound of an opening door echoed throughout the structure.

The two captors exchanged a look followed by a curt nod. The driver grunted, opening his door and stepping out of the car with two damp steps. He slammed the door shut and walked ahead at an unhurried gait. His slender frame was pronounced in the crossfire of the headlamps. He waved ahead, yelled out a call, and paused directly in between the two vehicles.

Meanwhile, the driver's accomplice, still enthroned in the front passenger seat, was rummaging around. Milicent heard the yawn of the glove compartment, the staccato tap of fingers against glass, the click of an unclasped briefcase. He placed an empty vial on the leather compartment that divided his armrest from the driver's, then raised his hand, holding aloft a thin cylinder suspended between his forefinger and thumb; Milicent detected the unmistakable shape of a hypodermic needle. She curled her fingers, pressing her nails into the palm of her ally: a makeshift SOS.

The man in front coughed and stepped out of the car, leaving the two of them alone for a fleeting interval. His profile crossed the front of the car, continuing a wide circuit that would soon bring him to the rear left passenger door. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Dominik

No backup. No allies. Just the tentative, uneasy partnership of two strangers caught in a trap together. It was a daunting prospect; facing down an uncertain number of captors from a position of weakness was dangerous at the best of times. Now? He knew the woman was capable of something, but he didn't know if he could trust her. In fact, he was fairly certain he couldn't. Fujiwara just didn't have another choice.

He didn't need prompting to react in much the same way that the blonde woman next to him had, maintaining a lidded gaze that obscured most of his vision while still allowing situational awareness. Letting their captors know they were awake was a mistake. Never let the enemy know your true capabilities. It was a lesson that had been ingrained into him both through books and battles. He let his head loll to the side as the car swung around a bend in the road, watching the oncoming headlights through eyes still fuzzy with sedation.

It was easy to imagine that he could still feel the sedative coursing through his veins, sickly and syrupy as his body struggled against its siren song. He knew it was an illusion, a trick of his mind that was distracting him from the present, but it was still there nonetheless. It left a bitter tang in the back of his mouth, a sense of wrongness that he couldn't quite shake, even as he forced his mind to the present.

The woman's hand was still pressed against his, waiting for a reply. He didn't have one to give her; not yet. Fujiwara needed time to think, to wrestle with his sluggish thoughts and assemble them into some sort of shape. It was time that they didn't have; each passing moment led them further from the relative safety of the city and into the lush countryside — where nobody would think to search for their bodies.

Rain pattered on the roof of the car and he lost himself for a moment in its lullaby. It was impossible to say how long the reverie lasted — but he knew it was too long. His hand twitched against hers as he sensed the car slowing; Fujiwara forced himself not to stir in response, but the tension was obvious to his companion, his muscles coiling as he prepared himself for whatever came next.

Her nails dug into his palm, but Fujiwara had seen it already — the needle in the passenger's hand as their driver stepped around the car. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. Bide your time. You'll know when the moment is right. His long-lost mentor's words rang in his head. He counted the thudding pulse in his ears, each one taking far, far too long. Their captor's footsteps rasped on the gravel, each one sending shooting pain through his head. Fujiwara couldn't afford to fuck this up — this was the only chance they'd have.

He didn't have time to warm his ally; he had to hope that she'd respond how he needed her to.

His left hand hooked the door handle, and he waited a few more seconds. Each one seemed laconic, lazily ticking past as adrenaline overwhelmed the sedative. He counted them down in his head, waiting until...

The man came close enough, and Dominik pulled the latch. At the same time, he kicked the door open, flinging it into the man. He stumbled back with a grunt, but Fujiwara was already moving, tugging the woman out through the door along with him and attempting to tackle the man. It was ungainly but he didn't have time for elegance, attached as he was to this unfamiliar woman. The floor of the garage was unfinished, and his boots scrabbled for purchase on the hard-packed gravel as he threw himself atop the man, bringing his elbow down in a harsh blow. The man's nose shattered, but his outburst of surprised pain didn't slow Dominik. This was a battle for their freedom and their lives.

The man's arms were flailing, and he caught a glint of metal and glass in the glow of the headlights.

"Get the —" He wasn't able to finish the sentence. A knee was driven into his gut, and he grunted with pain. He brought his elbow down again — fists were a weapon for bar fights and boxing, not for killing. This time, it shattered the man's eye socket. The next crushed his windpipe, cutting off the howls of pain and rage coming from their captor.

There were outbursts of surprise from the others in the garage, but Fujiwara didn't have time to register the words. He was high on the heady mixture of violence and adrenaline, letting instinct carry him along. That was his only chance, letting muscle memory and surprise carry them to victory, despite the numbers facing them. Whoever their captors were, Dominik was a dangerous man to make an enemy of, and he had to hope that his fellow prisoner was equally capable.

Milicent

Moving felt alien. The instantaneous transition from sedentary lifelessness to headlong action was like waking up from a coma only to find yourself in the middle of a sprint. Milicent was beset by latency, a disorienting delay that made it seem like her actions were a second behind her impulses. As soon as her newfound ally kicked the door open, she twitched into action, sliding along the back seat and following the rocket launch of his departure. At least she could move. That was comforting.

Less comforting was the knowledge of how utterly fucked she was — how utterly fucked they were as a team. Their partnership, ironically enough, was hampered by their connection. With her wrist tethered to his, they were both operating according to a system of inefficient half-measures. She grunted, feeling the metal compress around her joint, as he jerked her along and catapulted out of the car.

Indistinct yells echoed around the garage. Gravel crunched beneath her heels. She fought for balance, twisting her ankles to gain traction and grasping the edge of the open car door with her free hand to keep herself upright. Her left hand was a thrall to her partner's whims, flailing around in accordance with his gestures of violence. She kept the muscles lax, worrying that any flexed resistance would leave her with an inconvenient injury. Amidst the nauseating symphony of blows, she heard the whoosh of a spinning projectile, followed by an incomplete command.

She swooped almost unthinkingly, stretching her torso and her unfettered arm to catch the falling syringe. The barrel landed on her outstretched palm, the needle's tip hovering millimetres above damp stones. A second's contemplation. She could smash the plunger, drain the vessel of its dangerous contents before anyone had a chance to use it. But she was desperate for any material advantage, and the sedative could very well give them the edge —

— A door slammed. Milicent looked up just in time to see the other car squeal backwards away from them, wheels spraying pebbles as it reversed toward the exit. She didn't have time to see if it was making an escape or merely blocking the way out; a blur in the corner drew her gaze, and she saw the tall shape of their other captor dashing obliquely in their direction, his trajectory guiding him to the front passenger side of the car.

Keeping the syringe tucked against her palm with three fingers, Milicent clambered to her knees and yanked the driver's door open with her thumb. Like a perverse doppelgänger, the other man opened the passenger door at the same time. For one pregnant second, the pair stared at each other from opposite sides of the car. His gaze snapped to the floor mat under the seat, where a half-open case rested beneath the glove compartment.

He lunged for it. Milicent rushed her hand toward him, driving the syringe into his forearm and squeezing the plunger without any regard for air bubbles loitering in the chamber. The needle snapped off, half-submerged inside his skin. He grimaced, but his other hand found its way undaunted to the case, fingers winding around the grip of a pistol. She screamed, pulling herself forward, face contorting in agony as the cuff strangled around her wrist, threatening to flay her thumb. The gun emerged, barrel angled in her direction, the dark void of the muzzle nearly making eye contact with her.

There was no way to tell if this was a bluff. No way to tell if the man's intention was murder or ultimatum. There would be no second chances.

Milicent's fingers wound around his knuckles, clawing at his skin and jostling the steadiness of his aim. The barrel pointed at the roof of the car. A bright burst of blinding effulgence accompanied a sharp, ear-splitting boom. She closed her eyes. Someone pounded a hammer directly against her eardrums. Her mouth was open. Was she yelling? It was hard to hear anything beyond a distant ringing that wobbled in her mind.

She opened her eyes. The gun had fallen on the mat. The man was panting. His dark eyes were glassy. His tongue lolled out of his mouth. He hissed something incomprehensible. His eyes began to roll back. The dosage he had received had been improperly administered, but the sedative appeared to have a strong initial kick. He moaned, leaning against the car door, before falling with a thud on the gravel.

Dominik

He felt the tug of the handcuff on his wrist as the woman moved in turn. The metal bit into his flesh, tugging him off balance — he would have protested, but he was certain that she was only doing what the situation called for. The man on the ground was no longer a threat anyway; he was whimpering meekly as he tried to draw breath through a crushed windpipe. He might live, but Dominik didn't care. All that mattered was eliminating the threat; figuring out where they were and who they needed to kill to get away.

He turned from his victim just in time to hear the report of a gun, making his ears ring as it temporarily deafened him on one side, the volume enhanced by the close confines of the car. He saw the woman sprawled across the seats, the man holding the gun outstretched...For a single, terrifying moment he thought his comrade of convenience was dead or injured. His heart skipped a beat, fluttering with the surety of impending death, his stomach in his throat.

And then, the man fell in slow motion, slumping to the ground. Dominik's breath hissed out through his teeth, and he sagged with relief. He was in an ungainly position at the woman's feet, his upper body halfway into the car where she'd tugged him. He was all too conscious of how sore he was, the pounding headache that throbbed with each heartbeat, the nausea of the sedative that was slowly creeping up on him. Over it all was — for the second time that night — the satisfying primacy of victory. He was high on adrenaline, just sucking in ragged breaths as he recovered his wits.

The other vehicle was gone, its engine growling away into the night. There might be backup coming, but they had a few moments to breathe at least. His eyes slipped closed, and he wiped his forearm across his brow to clear the beaded sweat — realising too late that he'd only smeared blood across his face.

He couldn't bring himself to care. The night air was cool, a breeze carrying the scent of the countryside to wash away the smell of death. He'd gone through enough today. He deserved a chance to rest after the effort he'd put into retrieving his bounty. The binder seemed far behind them, a petty few documents somewhere in the vastness of Paris. He had to chuckle, the sound surprising even himself in the newly-fallen silence of the night.

"So much for the binder. I didn't even get a chance to see what was in it." His words were wryly bitter. "Someone set us up and got whatever it was. I should have known this sounded too easy. Fuck." His voice was quiet, but he still managed to put passion into the expletive, a plosive sound that voiced all the annoyance he felt at the course of the evening.

Sighing, he braced himself against the door frame. He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt as sore muscles protested, and the chain of the handcuffs rattled. He looked down at the woman where she lay, propped up between both of the seats, her dress defiled with grime and drying blood. And still she made it look good, though that was probably just the post-combat adrenaline speaking, the hormones raging through his body with no outlet now that their enemies were left groaning on the floor.

That knowledge didn't make it any easier for him to push it aside. He told himself that the dryness of his mouth was just due to the fight.

He pushed the errant thought aside — she wasn't an ally, merely someone who had been useful in a tight spot. "I'd say I'm impressed, but I don't want to give you any ideas after you stole a five-hundred-thousand-dollar payday from me." It didn't matter that she'd gotten there first. It was the principle of the thing.

Nevertheless, he held out a large hand. A peace offering to help her to her feet. They were still shackled together, and a little courtesy given to a pretty girl never hurt — even if she had tried to abscond with his prize. "One of these assholes must have the key for these. We need to get out of here before the others come back with reinforcements."

Milicent

In a warped sense, their victory could be interpreted as the worst possible outcome. A Pyrrhic victory. They had managed to prevail over the revolving door of ordeals with which the night had bombarded them, but they were left with unequivocal responsibility over the mess. While everyone may enjoy a party, precious few relish the task of cleaning up afterward. As if that weren't bad enough, the absence of immediate danger provided Milicent with the opportunity to think — a horrible pastime in ordinary circumstances, but an especially odious one when considering the full range of concerns she had to review.

She had been hired for a simple job. In the process of fulfilling her duties, she had come across a rival. Then another pair of rivals. Then a mysteriously summoned police officer. Then another pair of rivals. Who was working with whom? Who was working for whom? And, most terrifying of all to consider: how much trouble was she in? By now, the French authorities were surely in the process of examining the Grisaille, which in a matter of minutes had transformed into the country's most notorious crime scene. How long before the detectives connected the dots — triangulated eyewitnesses in the café and the front lobby of the Impérial until they had a clear vision of a curious blonde who had conspired to access the suite? No one knew her name, but Milicent was all too familiar with the ways in which coincidence and contingency could work in tandem to bring about a person's downfall. It wasn't safe to linger in the city. It wasn't safe to linger in the country. It wasn't safe to run away. It wasn't safe. Period.

She grinded her teeth and blinked away the plague of worries circumnavigating her head like vultures. She wondered if she still knew how to move. She wiggled her fingers, watching them tremble on the leather upholstery, and listened to the voice of her companion. Her gratitude for his involvement — for his presence, which had most certainly enabled her to survive this far — was dwindling. She was beginning to rewrite history, to curse him inwardly for interfering in the first place. She could've been in and out of the Grisaille long before any unpleasantries had he not stumbled into her life.