Chronicle:Prey and Predator/3

Alaþius opened his arms, embracing Ren in them as she fell in his direction. He stared into her fading eyes in those last moments. Fury, confusion, and flickering fear - before they shut tight. She didn't forget to smack him across his face before she went though.

The cool wind of the tropical midnight flirted with the pulsating pain on his cheek. It gave a numb sensation, slightly itchy.

He figured out a comfortable way to lift a person of Ren's frame. He laid her on his lap, contemplating the last years he'd had with her.

After he messed up her bodyguard job in Tzamipo, she naturally got laid off. He'd picked her up at that motel and had some fun together. That month later, he'd left her with the big wad of green he'd gotten from blasting her client so she could live a free life. He knew a dirty résumé to be a death sentence for a country like Fengjiang.

She'd ended up here though, in Central Ozara, working as the bodyguard of one of the second-in-commands of the countless warlords hopping around this damnable country, if it could even be called that. Perhaps it was to be expected - a retired operator like her wouldn't work anything else. The blood diamonds paid well anyways.

Then the dummy, for some inexplicable reason, blew his client's boss' head open off an order that more than likely wasn't in the written contract. Perhaps the warlord wasn't all too great of a person - that wouldn't be out of place for a god-forsaken place like this. Whatever the case, it took one shot to end it all. Quite beautiful, honestly.

She'd ended up on the hitlist for that though, now that she's the only one in the know - except him, maybe. Dead women tell no tales. After all, getting a dealer to eliminate a nameless bodyguard that should've been retired was a lot cheaper than getting them to get rid of an Ozaran warlord.

It seemed a done deal, but things changed when the chain of hitmen sent after her were wiped out. Precious assets, cultivated using untold resources and time, wasted. Most of them were probably part-timers, ones that would be tossed aside once used, like the gal on his lap. Those that weren't were wiped out all the same.

With each head lost, the price of hers grew. Six, then seven, then eight figures. The new warlord on the seat would match it, if he didn't want to meet the same fate as his predecessor. He probably would've been the one getting removed if this went on for any longer. Unless an expert like Alaþius picked up the job, that was.

Here he was now. The job was as good as done. He'd just need to pick a spot, end things while she was still in her induced slumber, and take a photo of a job well done. Ten million, just like that.

He stroked her hair, gently pushing aside her messy bangs and allowing the yellowed lights of the bar to illuminate her face, scrutinizing it. There was no makeup as usual, leaving the dark bags under her eyes apparent to all who paid notice. It seemed that even for someone like her, the stress of constant pursuit and threat of death, of having to stay on guard at every hour of the day and night, was piling up.

It was good that she was getting some rest now. He'd deal with this clusterfuck for her, once and for all.

He glanced at the posse sitting on the counter in the distance again. They should be the goons of that paranoid warlord, sent to make sure he got the job done.

It wasn't all too big of an issue. Alaþius hefted Ren in his arms as he stood, carrying her out the backdoor, to his car. He opened the trunk, revealing a wooden crate. It was ordinary, the faded writings on it indicated it had been used to store ammunition before he picked it up. A common sight in militaries, even more so in a wartorn hellscape like this region.

He unlatched the lid, giving the tools he had prepared a once-over. He glanced down at Ren, who seemed to curl up instinctually, inching as close as she could to his frame. It was a pose one might find in a person living under the chaos of conflict, seeking a comfort and shelter ever out-of-reach even while one slept.

He wasn't that different if he thought about it.

Alaþius released a pensive sigh. After making sure that there weren't any bothersome onlookers, he placed her into the trunk and checked her over.

In the tropical heat, she didn't have much on. An unassuming vest, a sturdy pair of shorts, and a holstered pistol she had tucked behind her back. He was fairly certain she was planning to nail him with that while they were embracing, but he was one step ahead. He kept those for her.

Then, he examined her body under the faint moonlight. He knew it like his own. He recognized the knife scar streaking across her abdomen, the bullet scars dotting her left arm, and the especially nasty ones on her calf from an infected bug bite. There was supposed to be a firebrand mark on her shoulder, of her corporation of affiliation, but there was just a blank scar there now. It made sense, he supposed.

It looked like the hitmen before him didn't even leave a mark on her. Garbage, truly. Or perhaps she was just that strong?

If the gal was that strong, why not let her feel what it was like to be helpless?

He picked out the few rolls of tape he had stored in the crate, unwrapping them and beginning his work, securing the limbs. He wrapped her hands close too, padding her palms so they wouldn't be scratched raw when she struggled. Same went for the eyes and mouth - he didn't want to explain why her lashes were missing when he was finished. He gently folded her into a fetal position after, then secured her like that as well. Didn't hurt to be careful, right? There was something to be said about risk management.

Into the crate. Lid shut. Padlock. The crate went in an empty compartment where the backseat was supposed to be. All done and dusted, Alaþius began the road trip.

The scant streetlamps lining the roads quickly passed. The shoddy roads of Blausbrunna's outskirts thinned out, then vanished altogether, leaving only the beaten dirt path for him to follow as his car entered the deserted suburbs. He looked into the mirror, wishing the city now behind him a farewell...

...and paying notice to the pickup truck following from afar. It was a joke - they'd be better hidden at day considering they had their headlamps on at midnight. Not that he minded them though. Having witnesses was part of the plan.

He rolled up to a convenient hole in the ground he had prepared for the occasion. His faraway escort stopped in the distance as well. He extracted the other ammo crate he had in the back, opening it up for a look.

There was a corpse of a woman in it, roughly similar in frame and age to Ren, fresh enough that he didn't mess up his rental hauling it around. It wasn't a hard find for a hellscape like Central Ozara. Into the hole it went, and onto it gasoline went. He pulled out a lighter, lighting the cigarette in his mouth before chucking it into the pit. A blaze roared, whipping embers throughout the surroundings.

He glanced back at Ren's container, then looked into the bright inferno in introspection. He imagined if the person now burning into a crisp was her. What would he feel?

...

He was a hitman, wasn't he? A cold-blooded killer, with enough on the tally that he made it into a comfortable living. It felt strange that he would've hesitated to follow up Ren's hit when he received it, much stranger that he was going through all this risk - evading and lying to his handlers, going through this massive deception, charting out such an elaborate plan - just so he could get her out in one piece. Putting his own head on the line when he could've easily wiped his hands clean and retired. All for somebody he'd only met a couple years ago. There were much better people who he'd ended the lives of than Ren.

Alaþius chuckled to himself. He was a selfish bastard.

The blaze cleared. The crate that had been in it was ash now. The body within it, unrecognizable crisps. He glimpsed at the truck watching from a distance, then got back into his car.

Everything would pay off soon.