It's Who You Know
Part One of the X Chronicles
by Smoot
Chapter 4
Quentin looked at himself in the mirror, cocked his head to one side, grinned, and
nodded to himself. Dressed in black jeans, black military-issue boots, a black tank top
that hugged his upper body, and a black leather duster, complete with the completely
useless flap in the back, he looked ready to take on something.
He pulled his hair back out of his face, carefully opened the door, and stepped out. He
quietly closed it after him and then listened intently. The sounds of a television set
came from the main room, and the flickering lights from the same direction seemed to
confirm that idea.
He stopped and tried to recall what he had noticed about the room in his first day in
there. The chair facing the TV set was facing the front of the building, but the door
leading to the hall was in the back, so if he didn't draw attention to himself, he should
be able to sneak out easily. It was just a matter of concentration and not making any
stupid mistakes.
He carefully took slow step after slow step into the main room. Sure enough, Remy was
sitting there, one leg folded on top of the other, his chin resting on his fist propped up
on the armrest of the chair. Like Quentin had recalled, his back was to the young man,
giving him a window of opportunity.
He inched his way to the door, his eyes fixed on Remy, looking for any signs that he
had been found out. When he reached the door he took a deep breath and let it out slowly
and silently. That part was over. Now for the next part.
Reaching into the interior pocket of his coat, he drew out a small can with a long tube
coming out of the top, hooked slightly at the end. A run-of-the-mill oil can. Quentin
looked it over in his hand, grinning. Taking no chances... he said to
himself.
He put three drops on each hinge, not enough to drip onto the floor, but not so little
as to have no effect. He put the top back on the end of the tube and put it back in his
coat.
He placed his right hand firmly on the doorknob, turned it all the way to the left, and
pulled the door towards him. As he opened, he took one stealthy step to the right, making
sure his body would block any of the slight sounds that might catch the ear of the Cajun
who at the moment was oblivious to the entire proceedings going on behind him.
He stepped through, putting his left hand on the outer doorknob and then removing his
other hand from the doorknob facing the apartment. Keeping the same amount of pressure on
the doorknob that he had on the other side, keeping it from slipping and possibly making a
noise, he carefully pushed the door closed, taking careful notice of the hole on the side
of the doorframe that the locking mechanism of the doorknob would extend into and being
cautious to stop the door so it would close without making any friction noise. It sealed
perfectly, shutting him off from the apartment.
Remy sat calmly in his chair, a coy grin on his face, twirling a key ring with two keys
on it on his finger, still in the same position he was earlier.
Behind him, the door opened. Quentin stood in the doorway, his hand still stretched out
on the doorknob, his expression somewhere between annoyance and mild regretful respect.
"I need those, you know."
"Oui, I know," Remy said, his expression not changing, his body position
still unmoving.
Quentin stood in the doorway before, with a sigh, he closed the door and walked up to
Remy's chair and snatched at the keys. Remy deftly flicked them up into the air with a
remarkable dexterity to his movements. Quentin tried to grab them while they were in the
air, but Remy quickly reached up and poked them away towards the TV, and then back at him
when Quentin grabbed at them again.
The dance kept up for about twenty more seconds until Quentin erupted with a scream of
frustration and stormed over to the counter. After grabbing a Pepsi off the counter, he
turned and saw Remy shaking with laughter.
"Can I have my keys now?" he asked, placing a hand on his hip and leaning
forward.
"Where y' goin'?" Remy asked, regaining his composure.
"I don't have to tell you everything," Quentin retorted.
"When y' gonna be back?"
"See previous answer," Quentin replied coldly.
Remy tapped the keys in the air with his fingers, keeping them aloft and only touching
them with one finger at a time. "I'm not leavin' de door open f'r you,
y'know."
"I'll sneak in," Quentin said.
"Y'any better at doin' dat than you are at sneakin' out?" Remy asked,
cracking a smile despite himself.
Quentin set his jaw, and if Remy hadn't known any better, he would have sworn the kid
growled at him. "Look, can I just go? Please?"
Remy looked at him. "Aren't you dressed a bit weird f'r a night on de
town?"
Quentin looked at him dumbly. "This coming from the man with bright pink body
armor underneath three coats in his closet?"
Remy turned back to the television. "Point," he conceded unhappily.
"Okay, so can I have my keys? I won't be late. Remember, you've got that meeting
tonight, so what should it matter what time I drag in? You'll probably be out
anyway."
Remy considered this, and then tossed the keys over his shoulder, letting Quentin try
and track them down. Then he just leaned back as Quentin's footsteps retreated back past
the door and it drifted close behind him. He waited for a few seconds, and then grinned as
the door slid open again.
"Wallet?" Quentin asked sharply.
Grinning ear to ear, Remy tossed it back, letting it land in Quentin's outstretched
hand. With a grunt, the teenager did an abrupt about-face and stormed off into the
hallway, slamming the door shut forcefully behind him.
He waited until he was halfway down the hallway before breaking out into a dead run,
worried that he had lost too much time already. He tucked his wallet into the back pocket
of his jeans, rounded a corner, and came to a dead stop in front of a door at the end of
the hallway. He fished in his pocket and then pulled out a small key. It fit the door, he
pushed it open, and then closed it behind him once he crept into the room.
The room was bare. No furniture, no curtains on the three windows, no wallpaper, no
carpet, not even a light in the ceiling. Quentin jogged lightly over to the second window
and grunted as he pushed it up and open.
He slid out of the window and onto the black iron fire escape, careful to close the
window after him. Not bothering with the steps, he climbed down the side of it, not making
a lot of noise. One good thing about fire escapes is that a lot of them are a lot more
secure than you'd think they are.
He dropped the final ten feet to the ground and ran back further into the alley that he
landed in, running until he came across a heap of garbage, ranging from old Pepsi bottles
to trash bags to the hood of an old car. Quentin quickly started pushing things out of the
way until he got a glimpse of shiny metal underneath the heap. He then began freeing the
object, working until he had successfully revealed a motorcycle. Not the battered
Harley-Davidson sitting out next to Remy's sleek one out front. A 1998 issue Sportstar
1200 XE, polished so well that he could see his reflection in it. Clumped around the
bottom of the Harley was sheets of plastic that had been covering the bike to keep it safe
from the trash hiding it.
He swept a path for himself out of the trash, straddled the motorcycle, and hit the
starter, letting the bike purr for a moment before putting his other leg on the edge of
the bike and letting it carry him out of the alley.
He kept time with a 1996 Miata, which he was pretty sure was the car he needed to tail.
It pulled up to a parking garage, and Quentin quickly swerved onto a side road and pulled
onto the sidewalk to avoid being seen.
Three men and one woman got out of the car and walked inside the garage. Quentin had
seen two of them before. One of them was tall, muscular, and had short black hair trimmed
neatly all around.
The other was a woman, a tall, graceful woman, with long blonde hair and a powerful
hint to her walk, and Quenitn remembered seeing her get off a plane earlier in the week,
with that same person by her side. He hadn't thought much about it, but he kept seeing
her, including once going into the mansion of the man that had broken his family. She had
made his "enemies" list on the spot.
And now he was stalking her, it seemed. Shrugging, he got off the Harley and chained it
to a lamp post to keep it safe. Then he carefully set out following the two of them.
The two people he had recognized walked throught the main entrance of the parking
garage and made a quick left, going for the elevators, Quentin reasoned. He kept out of
sight for the next fifteen minutes, letting them get to their destination, he hoped. Then
he tried a plan of his, doubting it would work.
First he removed the trench coat and laid it underneath a bush, out of sight. Then, he
walked up to the man on the left, a tall and obviously muscular man with sharp angular
features and a blond crew cut that Quentin wouldn't have been caught dead with.
"Excuse me, sir, could you spare some change for a poor bugger on the
streets?"
"No," came a cold, flat reply.
"I do a trick for you instead, then, you would like that. Watch." He waved
both hands on front of the man's face. "Nothing in my hands, see? Completely empty.
Now pay close attention. Without reaching into my pants, or shirt, I will do a trick and
produce something that will amaze, astound, shock, and confound you." He started
flailing around drunkedly, waving his arms in the air and adding some Ace Ventura-like
body English to the whole mix. After a complicated jig, he said, "Now, prepare to be
dazzled! Nothing in my hand, but now, it's darting out to poke you in the eye," and
he promptly did just that.
The second man was caught unaware for all of three seconds, when Quentin darted over,
rammed his boot down onto the other man's foot, and then followed up with a quick jab to
the throat.
The one thing that Quentin didn't think to factor in was a quick recovery time from the
first man. His mistake was realized when a fist smacked across the back of his
skull.
Quentin staggered forward, stars flashing in his vision, but he'd been in too many
brawls to let one punch get him down. A quick back kick to the gut would slow down the
annoyance behind him.
The man caught his leg handily and held it there for a second, a laugh escaping his
throat. Quentin hung there for a moment, one leg on the ground, the other out behind him,
and then jumped up in the air. He landed lightly on the tips of his fingers and absorbed
the shock of the ground easily, and then shoved off again. In mid-air, his other boot
slammed into the man's nose.
His foot was released, and he tucked into a ball to roll to his feet. As he uncurled,
he instinctively shot out of fist in front of him, playing a hunch. His hunch was right,
but his aim was off. Slightly.
His fist was extended directly into the man's crotch. Quentin held it there for a
minute, and then, smiling ear to ear, drilled it upward viciously, eliciting a cry of pain
from the man. He dropped, holding his crotch, moaning. Quentin rolled onto his back,
rocked back on his shoulders, and then used his legs to spring up into a defensive
crouch.
He stayed lightly on the balls of his feet, wondering where the man went. The road
around him was barren. He looked around tensely, a few beads of sweat dripping down off
his hair onto the sidewalk, his breath coming silently and in strong deep breaths.
Then, with no warning, he sprang forward and rolled onto one knee, looking behind him.
He saw the man standing there, his fist inches from the ground, his stance that of a
trained fighter, his eyes on Quentin. A small trickle of blood was coming from his nose.
Quentin looked at it and grinned.
"You're good," the man said calmly, straightening up.
Quentin stayed down and said nothing, just regaining his breath.
"We could use a man like you on our side," the man stated, walking forward
peacefully. "You're young, and you've got spunk. With some professional training,
you'd go far."
Quentin's eyes were on the man's lower body, never flickering up to his face.
"Well, kid? What do you say?" he asked, standing over Quentin.
Quentin watched his legs, not looking up at all. Then, quietly, so the man had to make
an effort to hear the words, the teenager simply said, "Bite me."
A moment of palpable silence passed.
The back leg shifted ever so slightly, and Quentin snapped an open palm up
instinctively, almost letting a grin form on his lips when the sound of flesh smacking
flesh reached his ears. He looked up, where the man above him had a look of shock on his
face. Quentin merely cocked his head to once side and said, "But if I can catch your
punch without even looking, maybe I'm not the one who needs professional
training."
With that, he pushed off and rammed his shoulder into the stomach of his opponent and
simultaneously pulled the other way, flipping the man over his shoulder and into the
ground with a loud thud.
Quentin took a step back and waited for the man to get back up. He knew a simple move
like the one he just used couldn't put someone out for more than a short moment.
The blond man got to his feet, wiping a bit of the blood off his upper lip. He opened
his mouth to say something, but then decided against it and started circling with the
youngster. The tense dance continued for almost three minutes, at which point Quentin
charged forward, stupidly telegraphing a running lariat. The assassin ducked it easily and
brought up his knee hard towards Quentin's gut.
Quentin saw it coming and flipped over the attack and hooked an arm around the man's
upper leg, swinging him over with him. When they came to a stop, Quentin was standing over
the man, his arm still locked around the leg.
"It is with much dismay that I tell you that I can no longer continue this little
dance," Quentin said, his eyes burning into the man's. "I have to make use of
the lavatory."
"What?"
A crushing right hand to the temple knocked the man out cold. "I have to take a
piss, you uncultured moron," Quentin said sharply, knowing that it would fall on deaf
ears.
After circling back to his bike and grabbing his trench coat, the teenager was on the
move inside the complex, running for the stairwell, his body a little sore from being
thrown around, but feeling better than it had for a long while. He took the steps to the
top floor, and then came to a stop at the door, making sure he was perfectly, composed,
and then reached into the pocket of his jeans.
Retrieving a flathead screwdriver, he wedged a windowpane out of the glass next to him
and propped it up against the railing. Then, carefully, he climbed up on the
three-inch-wide platform now accessible, put all his weight on the balls of his feet, and
jumped out into the air and towards the building.
His hands smacked onto the coarse texture of the wall and created enough friction to
keep him there, out of sight. Slowly, one hand by one hand, he crept across the outer
surface until he reached the corner of the top floor. Then he pulled himself up, and
plopped unceremoniously on his arse behind a stone column.
"Ouch," he mumbled, rubbing his backside and scooting on it to get closer to
whatever it was that was going on out of his sight. He edged closer to the column and
peered out to the right.
The two people he had seen enter were there, all right, the blonde, and the big ugly
guy standing at her side again, just like he had been before.
"...delivered by when?" the blonde was saying.
Another voice, one out of sight and unrecognizable, said, "In six days, at the
place you and I have already agreed on."
"Good. And you're sure that Gambit won't interfere?" she asked, with a steel
glint in her voice, it seemed.
"Yes," the other voice replied malevolently, "he will be sufficiently
detained elsewhere. The shipment will go out tonight and follow our route, and the man
called Gambit will not be able to stop it."
Oh, is that right? Quentin said to himself, inching backwards. Remy could
kick all o' yer asses with one hand tied behind his back, you know, and still not break a
sweat doin' it, and omigod I'm gonna hit that --
*clatter*
Quentin froze, his breath caught in his throat, the metal pipe by his arm still rolling
a little, back and forth. The conversation that had been going on that he had been
eavesdropping on had halted, and footsteps were slowly approaching, heavy and forceful
footsteps by the sound of them. Quentin dreaded thinking of the person behind them.
The man who had been standing by the blonde's side looked him over, and raised one
eyebrow. "Belle, it's that kid. What do you want I should do with him?" he asked
over his shoulder.
"Remy's new cohort, you mean?" the woman called back.
"Yeah, that's the kid."
"Kill him," came the flippant reply.
"Uhhhh..." Quentin stammered. "How about not? I'll leave, honest, right
now, won't cause any trouble, except this..."
A foot shot up and slammed into the black-haired man's crotch, doubling him over.
Quentin ran past him, jumped up onto the stone cropping, ran along it for a few steps, and
then dove through the open window into the stairwell. It took him twenty-one seconds to
get down the steps and across the street to the safety of his motorcycle, which spent the
next fifteen minutes flying around town to ditch any pursuers.
On to Chapter 5 |