It's Who You Know

Part One of the X Chronicles

by Smoot

Chapter 8

Jackson Goodloe drove west along Interstate 26 coming out from Charleston. He adjusted his rearview mirror, smiled as a Shania Twain song came on the radio, and began singing along softly, glad he knew all the words. He was quite content with his Intrigue. He earned it after many long hours spent at his office, where he worked as a stockbroker. Now he was just looking for a relaxing two-week vacation. So far, everything was going fine.

So far.

A loud, sleek Harley-Davidson hurtled past him on the right, startling the young businessman, almost making him lose control of the car. He righted it quickly and pressed the horn three sharp times, sending the scoundrel a firm message.

The Harley that passed on his left had the same effect the one that passed him earlier did.

Quentin ignored the horn blast that followed his passing of the sports car and kept time with Remy, who was still up ahead of him by about three lengths. The Cajun was hunched over his handlebars, trying to cut down on wind resistance as much as possible. He had to trust Remy's tracking abilities, seeing as he had no idea where the trust would have gotten to by now.

Remy swerved over into the left lane, forcing Quentin to speed up again and cut off another car to avoid losing the speed demon up ahead of him. Remy stayed a decent distance away from the kid and kept on charging ahead, seemingly blindly.

Quentin upped the throttle a little bit more, got alongside Remy, and then waved him over towards the curb. Remy looked over at him with complete surprise on his face, and then looked straight ahead with blatant disregard.

Quentin doggedly kept trying to get Remy to pull over and stop somewhere, with little success. Finally, with an Exxon station his new destination, Quentin pulled into it, hoping that Remy would follow.

As he slowed down to a stop underneath the bright lights, the other Harley came to a sharp halt beside him. Quentin looked over directly into a hard, burning stare.

Remy brushed his hair out of his face so Quentin could see his anger more clearly. "Why 'ave we stopped?" he demanded.

"Trust me on this, I know what I'm doing," Quentin said, dismounting and walking over to the side of the road.

Remy looked after him for a moment, and then jumped off his bike and set off after the teenager, his trench coat whipping out behind him, adding to his intimidation factor. "Get back here!" he shouted angrily.

Quentin paused for a second, and then continued, not even glancing behind him. Remy increased his pace a bit, growing angrier by the second. "Dey've already got a head start on us, an' you 'spect us to stop jus' when we 'bout ready t' catch up t' dem? Dey've got de weapons dat we can' let dem get, and now dey're gonna get back t' N'Orleans wit' dem an' make a big mess dat I don' wan' to have t' help clean up. De longer we wait here, de furt'er away dey get."

Quentin put his hand in the air as a sign for Remy to be quiet.

Remy blew the gesture off with little more than a huff. "I don' know what plan y' got bouncin' 'round in dat head o' yours, but I be damned if I gon' stand here while de biggest shipment o' weapons dat's come down towards de Guilds in as long as I c'n remember goes flyin' down dat highway. I ain't about t' seal my fam'ly's fate by jus' sittin' here and igno--"

"When the hand goes up, the mouth goes shut!" Quentin shouted back at him.

Remy glared at the back of Quentin's head, wondering if he could make the kid's head explode if he clapped his hands into it like he had seen the guy on The Daily Show do.

"For your information," Quentin said, bringing Remy back from his reverie, "I'm trying to see how much further we have to go."

"Well, let's see. We in Sout' Carolina, de truck's goin' t' N'Orleans, we c'n safely assume dat de trip's gon' be 'bout eight hundred miles from here, so if y' say we're goin' bout seven'y miles an hour, dat means it'll take us 'bout --"

"Shut up. It won't take us however long you think it will. And there's one simple reason for that, too."

"And dat would be?"

Quentin grinned as he stood up and turned back around to face Remy. "I rode underneath that truck and they ran me over about twenty speed bumps." He held up part of what looked like to be a small pipe. "I got 'em back, though."

*********

Quentin lay flat on his stomach, the grass tickling his nose slightly, but not enough to affect him. The brush around him concealed him well enough, and the tree he was lying next to supplied cover from above. It still didn't leave him too comfortable, though. He hadn't taken on Assassins before, and was making a mental note to avoid any contact with them afterwards.

He looked out in front of him, opening his eyes wide to let in as much light as possible. Before him lay the bridge, the stone columns supporting it standing out against the water that they held the bridge over. The truck rested on top of the bridge, and Quentin could see figures moving in front and behind it, disappearing when they walked alongside it. He had been able to tentatively identify a number of those he had seen, resorting to nicknames for them based on their physical appearances.

He called the big one "Lulu".

One of them stood up and walked to the front of the truck. Even through the dark, Quentin saw the heads of the other Assassins follow this one. It had to be this squad's leader.

He started talking, but the ranting and raving quieted to a murmur once it reached Quentin's ears. But he able to clearly see a small cylindrical object in the man's hand, and the words "fuel line", "cut", and "thieving bastards" were easily audible.

Quentin grinned. He was good. Oh, he was good.

Then his eyes darted down to the water, rippling underneath the bridge. From the patterns of the moonlight hitting the water, Quentin could tell something was swimming towards the bridge. He looked back up at the Assassins, and they were still gathered at the front of the truck. This was the best opportunity if there ever was going to be one.

He cupped his hand over his mouth in the shape of an "o" and made a low, hooting noise. He hoped it would carry over the water.

Remy's sharp ears heard the hooting noise coming from the brush behind him, and he steeled himself for the conflict ahead. He increased his swimming rate, hoping to speed things up a little.

He got to one of the columns of the columns of the bridge, took off his now soaking wet coat, and unsealed the two airtight pockets inside of it. Out of one, he pulled three packs of cheap Wal-Mart playing cards. Those he clipped to his belt. From the other he produced his pair of gloves and some rudimentary climbing gear, two climbing spikes.

Pulling on his gloves, he checked the makeup of the column. He grinned when he saw that it was merely stones attached to each other with mortar, mortar that was crumbling slightly. Remy drove one of the spikes into it. It made a slight noise, but not a large one. It wouldn't tip him off to anyone unless they were listening for that exact noise.

He drove the other spike into the column about a foot above the first one, yanked the other one out, and thrust it a foot above the other one. He shifted his weight from side to side as he did so, keeping it from overwhelming the thin handholds he was using.

As he made his way to the summit of the bridge, he could hear the voices of the men who had been at the warehouse earlier. None of the voices rang any bells otherwise, though. He frowned. Usually he was able to recognize all but the most obscure Assassins. These avoided him.

His right hand gripped the top railing of the bridge. No time to worry about identification now. Shoot first, ask questions later.

He pulled his other arm up the the railing and peeked his head over just in time to see a surprised Assassin running towards him. Remy pushed himself over to the left to avoid the kick and wrapped his right arm around the railing. With his left hand, he grabbed the man's leg and yanked. The Assassin went tumbling over the bridge and landed with a splash in the water. Remy charged the spikes and dropped them into the water after the falling Assassin.

Before anyone else had a chance to react, Remy flipped up onto the bridge, landed securely, and unclipped his staff from his belt. Extending it, he spun it around deftly on his fingers and said, "I t'ink dat it 'bout time dat I take dat truck."

The Assassin who seemed to be in charge huffed himself up to his full 5'9" height and said, "I don't think so, thief. We dealt with you once before, we can do it again."

Remy grinned maliciously. "Non, M'sieur, I don't t'ink y' unnerstand. I've de advantage."

He did a quick head count. In front of him were seven of them, and he could detect about four more behind and around him who had been working on the truck when he made his entrance. Eleven on one... these were interesting odds, to say the least. He hope he wasn't that out of practice.

Then an explosion rocked the bridge and their ears, and water shot up into the air right next to them, soaking the dry Assassins and Remy, who was already pretty well soaked. Remy had no more than three seconds to take advantage of the surprise. He used those three seconds wisely.

He pulled three cards from his belt, charged them, and whipped them at the group of Assassins in front of him, connecting with one straight on. The other two whizzed through the group and exploded behind them, toppling three more. By then his three seconds were up, and he had to contend with opponents.

One of them attempted to engage Gambit in hand-to-hand combat and failed miserably, being thrown over the bridge when his lunge was a few degrees off to the left. Another one had his leg mercifully broken when Gambit blocked a kick gone awry, and had to keep the Assassin from tumbling off the bridge at a bad angle. His knee crashed against the railing, making a snapping noise. Remy dumped the invalid at his feet before quickly darting to the side to avoid a shoulder tackle thrown by one of the gimp's compatriots.

Gambit held the staff out on front of him in a defensive position, allowing himself to be surrounded by the remaining six, who seemed to be trying to buy time for their friends to regain their senses. The Cajun didn't mind; he was starting to have fun with this group. They were obviously not top of the line, and nowhere near his level.

Two charged him suddenly, one from in front, one from behind. Gambit shot one end of the staff back in, leaving only one half extended, and placed it on the ground. Just before the two reached him, he extended it back to its full length, propelling him into the air. He brought his right leg up into an uppercut kick on the way, catching the Assassin in front right underneath the chin. The follow-through sent him toppling backwards, almost unconscious.

The other Assassin angrily kicked the staff forward, removing Gambit from his perch. The thief twisted into a straight line as he fell, letting go of the staff and tensing the muscles in his legs. The Assassin ran forward to get out from underneath Gambit, but received a forceful double kick as he ran, knocking him off his feet and down next to the first one.

Gambit landed on all fours and bounced back up, twisting forward to land with all his weight on his shoulders as he faced up. He saw one charging at him straight on, and pushed himself straight up with his arms. The Assassin suddenly found his neck in between Remy's knees, and grabbed the thief's legs to steady himself.

Remy shoved himself forward until his was practically sitting on the Assassin's chest, rapped him twice in the forehead with hard lefts, and then attempted a sharp backflip, locking the Assassin in his head-scissors. He ended up facing the same way he was earlier, sitting on his knees, while his opponent went crashing head-first into the ground, victim of Gambit's new frankensteiner maneuver.

Gambit subdued the other two with simple kicks landed underneath the chins, kicked his staff back into the air with his toe, and caught it just as he turned to face the last man.

The leader of the group stood with his back to the truck, facing the Cajun. The three who Remy sent tumbling during his first assault stood beside the leader, none of them looking happy. The leader extended his hand, palm up, to one of them, never removing his cold stare from Remy's dark eyes.

A staff smacked down into his palm, and the man closed his hand over it and walked out towards Remy. He stopped ten yards from the thief and slowly but easily spun the staff in his hand as he talked. "I've heard of you, Gambit, and believe me, I relish the opportunity to have a chance to be the one that brings you in."

Gambit moved his staff into an offensive position, far out behind him, leaned forward on the balls of his feet, and grinned as he looked into the eyes of the man squaring off against him. "I don' 'ave a damn clue who y' are, but I'm gonna have fun knockin' y' 'round."

A flash of anger crossed the Assassin's face, and he advanced, swinging it in a perfect arc towards Remy's head. Gambit easily blocked it, along with the immediate strike aimed at his legs. His counterstrike clashed with the thick wood of his opponent's weapon, and an elaborate battle began, neither one ever striking the other, each one taking any small opening they saw only to have it snatched away by a quick defensive motion.

The three men who were with the leader conversed among themselves for a moment, reached a decision, and started fanning out to surround the duelers. One of the stayed at the truck, and the other two carefully inched their way to the other side, trying to stay a fair distance from the fight.

The one by the truck reached in his jacket for something in an interior pocket, but just as his fingers closed around it, someone's arm wrapped around his neck in a headlock and he found himself falling forward. His head cracked into the asphalt before he could do anything to save himself.

The heads of the other two Assassins snapped back to the truck, where a grinning Quentin sat lazily by, leaning against the crumpled form of their comrade. "This is where I usually say some completely smartass remark, but that's been completely clichéed by now. There's no originality."

The two Assassins exchanged glances, and the looked at the fight just in time to see Gambit do a back-handspring over an attempted staff sweep and follow it up with a quick overhead strike that smacked the group leader's staff hard enough to back him up a step.

Forgetting the staff duel, they charged Quentin.

The blond-haired kid rolled backwards and stood up directly in front of the truck and caught one of the Assassin's running punches, using the larger man's momentum to bash his closed fist into the grill of the truck. The other Assassin caught Quentin across the cheek with a right, but Quentin spun with the blow and sent his forearm into the back of the Assassin's head. He stumbled forward.

Quentin wiped his cheek, checked his palm, and then drove a kick behind him, catching the running Assassin in the chest and knocking him clear of his feet. The other one approached warily, waiting for his partner to get up and join in the fight.

Quentin took the fight to him. Approaching, he threw three high rights and then followed with a hard knee. The knee connected, doubling the surprised Assassin. Quentin sidestepped to his side, swung his leg over the Assassin's head and grabbed his arm. After angling his leg so the back of his knee was right over top of the man's head, Quentin jumped straight up and landed in a legdrop, driving the Assassin's forehead into the ground.

That left the one, and he caught Quentin with a hard clothesline, flattening the teenager. Quentin rolled with it and stood up, only to have another one thrown at him from behind. Quentin ducked the swing instinctively, wrapped his left arm around the front of the man's waist and his right arm underneath the man's right leg, and lifted him into the air. Quentin used the man's inertia, spun with him, and slammed him straight down onto his leg, effectively using the backbreaker move.

The man slowly started up, but found himself pulled up faster to his feet. Quentin tucked the man's head under his arm, put his arm underneath the man's chin, and fell back, taking the Assassin with him. His head, like those before him, cracked the ground hard.

From the ground, Quentin looked to Gambit, who was still going at it hard with the group's leader, who seemed a bit nervous now that his group was lying around, none of them in immediate fighting shape. Gambit took advantage of the breach in concentration and advanced with a high swing that was blocked but let him spin off the leader's weak leg and bring the end of the staff around into his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward over Gambit's leg. Another swipe removed the staff from his hand.

The leader spun, his fists up, and saw Gambit standing there, his brow wet with a mixture of river water and a light sweat, his staff retracted and held tightly in his hand. A wet brown jacket and blue jeans for some reason helped add to the imposing character facing off with him. Remy's eyes glowed fiercer than usual.

He looked over towards the truck, and Quentin had already climbed to his feet and was staring at him, not coldly, but with a certain fire in his eyes.

Gambit walked up, grabbed the Assassin by the collar, and pulled him up off the ground until his face was even with Remy's, a feat of strength considering that five inches separated them. The Cajun looked straight into the other man's eyes, making sure that the red-on-black eyes would have the desired effect. "What're you doin' here?"

The fight had completely drained out of the Assassin. "I'm just picking up the shipment!" he squawked, squirming in Gambit's clutch.

Gambit drew him closer until their foreheads almost touched and their eyes were all the other could see. Gambit's were aflame. "Y' jus' pickin' up de shipment. De shipment of illegal weapons dat ain' s'posed ta fall int' anyone's grasp, let alone de Guilds. Y' runnin' to upset de entire power balance if ya not careful, y'know dat? One rises in power over de ot'er, every'tin' goes to hell in a han'basket. An' if you t'ink dat I'm goin' t' hell in anyt'ing ot'er dan a full-scale parade wit' de highest honors, den you been dippin' inta de celebration wine a bit early."

The Assassin kept squirming, open-mouthed, and was trying to form words, but no sound was comin' out. Gambit almost spat. "So 'less you see a limo wit' de Prince of Darkness behind de wheel, y' can guess dat I'm stayin' here."

He pushed the Assassin forward and sent him toppling on the edge of the railing. The man, after much arm waving and general carrying on, achieved a precarious balance on the edge of it, afraid to make a move to get off.

Gambit looked at him and held the small rod that once was his staff out towards him, pointing it at him. "Y' were quite de sparrin' partner, an' wit' time, y'might be able to actually give me a run for de money, somet'in dat not too many people can do."

The Assassin breathed a sigh of relief.

Gambit clicked the lever on the staff, and the end of it shot out, catching the Assassin square in the chest and sending him hurtling into the river with a splash. Remy stood there in the same position. "But I still don't like ya."

Turning back, he said, "Quentin, what's in de truck?"

"Remy, this is really starting to get strange," the kid's voice called from behind the truck. "It's just empty crates."

Remy started. "But dey checked dem before de truck lef' de warehouse."

"I know," came the reply, "and I can see grooves and places where the crates gave because of the weight that was in them. But they haven't been opened since then, I can tell, because they're locked securely, with new locks, and there's no give to show use or anything. But it's all gone. Every last bit of it."

Remy looked out over the water, the moon's reflection in the water being particularly eye-catching. "Dat sorta makes sense, t'ough, wit' my t'eory."

"Well, I wish you would clue me in on that, because the person you keep talking about seems to be the only lead we have to go on right now. I only hope that he's not like some Magneto or the guy who is standing on top of the truck right now um Remy?!"

Gambit turned as Quentin spoke, the sense of urge and anxiety skyrocketing as the teenager finished the sentence. He looked up at the truck and saw a horribly familiar figure standing there. The cold, white face, the red diamond in the forehead, the light reflecting off his blue metallic skin, the tassels of the cape whipping around his sculpted body, the grim smile, all etched into his memory, images that had burned themselves into his brain and would never be removed.

"What d' ya want, Essex?" he asked in a low voice.

Mr. Sinister grinned, folding his thick arms in front of his chest. "It's been quite a while, Remy."