Wax - Chapter 65: Chapter 65

The soloist arrived at the theatre house in a black Bentley to a humble audience of thirteen. Of the few who were informed of his schedule, the organizer was the first to greet him at the carpet—having curtly instructed everyone else in the vicinity to cease all conversation beforehand. Minutes earlier, he'd positioned groups of security personnel in a line on each side of the carpet for a warm welcome of the revered musician. After all, he'd hired the best agency in town for the very purpose of extravagance. Nothing else.
"Julian," greeted the duke with outstretched arms that slacked the moment they realized their mistake. "I wasn't expecting you this early, my friend. I take it you're eager to meet everyone else?"
"Not quite, your grace," said the musician as he stepped out of the vehicle with his case in hand. "I like to think that I'm here to perform. Unfortunately, the residence I was promised weeks ago had made a slight error in their books and I was denied access to a room until after the performance. Dreadful. And so I made arrangements to arrive earlier than expected. I hope I haven't caused you any inconvenience...?"
"No no, not at all Julian." The duke made a gesture toward one of the guards in line to help the musician with his bags. The latter politely raised a subtle hand to decline his offer. "We like having you here. Margaret has been waiting for your arrival since this morning! Care to join us for tea in an hour?"
"What an honor it is to be personally welcomed by the wedded couple celebrating their anniversary. I'd love to. However, I must cut conversation short—rehearsal is expected to begin very soon and Monsieur Altès would like to see me. Please send my regards to her grace."
The pair were escorted past arched doorways and into the main lobby, where a man in a suit stepped in front of the musician with his eyes fixed on his leather case. "Mr. White. Your bags have not been checked."
At once, the duke put on an appearance of offense. "And?"
"W... well your grace, it's... procedure to have every bag pass security to ensure—"
"And did you check my bag?" The duke challenged, adjusting the lapels of his blazer in an attempt to intimidate.
"No your grace. But that is because you do not have any bags wi—"
"So there!" He gestured as though his very point had been proven in several, stupid sentences of nonsense. "Julian needs nothing to be checked. Look, all he's brought with him is his instrument. You cannot possibly be implying that an instrument can pose danger to us all?"
"I appreciate your kindness, dear duke, but it is quite alright," said the violinist with a smile. "This is a simple matter of dealing with a dual-mechanism lock. Five minutes of my time would suffice."
And so he let the events unfold before his eyes.
"Five minutes?" The duke burst into an act of rage, turning onto the guard who'd approached them. Every head in the lobby turned to watch. "Do you even know who this man is? People like you are a disgrace to the high arts. You'll never understand the time, skill, and raw talent it takes to become a master and what you are doing now is a serious offence—simply unforgiveable! Who hired you? What is your name, give it to me now."
"Your grace." The chief guard arrived just in time to cease rising tensions with a well-practiced smile. "Is everything alright?"
"Charles, this... this one of yours is no good. No good at all! He's offended my dear friend Julian, and therefore by extension, wounded me. You know how I am—I'd never take any nonsense lying down, let alone daggers thrown at my companion! I want him out of my sight."
"Of course, your grace," said the chief with a bow, dismissing his employee with a curt wave before turning to the musician with a look of apology. "I am deeply sorry for the poor conduct of my employee, Mr. White. I will be sure to give him a well-deserved lecture on manners. Meanwhile, perhaps you'd like to retire to your private dressing room for some refreshments? I will have my best man escort you at once."
"Great idea Charles," said the duke, nodding. "In fact, let Julian pick his escort, if you will."
"A brilliant proposal, your grace." The chief snapped a finger and the guards in line turned to face their employer. "Please, Mr. White. Whenever you're ready."
The killer hadn't expected such a pleasant turn of events. Ordinary people would've thought luck to be on their side but no, the man was not the sort to believe in mere coincidences or luck. His partner must've pulled a card; and if he had, where... was...
Him.
Zone was right. He'd know it was him in a glance. How odd it was to experience such an otherworldly feeling that could not be explained by any form of rational reasoning. It was him and that was all he knew.
"Third from the left, if you will."
"Of course, Mr. White." The chief guard gave his employee a stern, unreadable look in the eye before gesturing toward the hallway to their right. The guard laxed his stance and stepped forth to lead the way with a disarming curve of his lips.
The soloist obliged, bidding the duke a temporary farewell before trailing after his partner in crime.
*
There was tension. This, neither agent could deny.
Long hallways added to the friction; they were good at building the silence between the two, echoing their footsteps from bend to bend and reflecting the still surface of a lake ready for a spark. Though one of the two appeared to lead, the other was paced in a manner that implied clear direction—Winter knew exactly where they were headed.
He stole a glance at the flame only to realize it was already staring back at him.
"Dalto described you as an idiot," sighed the shorter of the two. "I should have known. Did no one educate you about the rules of maintaining eye contact? No more than four seconds. One-and-a-half when it comes to strangers."
"I know."
They took a right and knocked on the door labeled Dressing Room 7. Nothing. A turn of the knob and the pair were in, greeted by an interior of vanities, lights, and tasteful furniture. The entire room was white with occasional gold accents and the finishing touch was a vase of nine white roses placed exactly nine inches away from the edge of the vanity.
The room was big enough to accommodate an average of six performers but for some reason, it had been turned into a private space for the revered soloist. There was something strange about the room; something so perfectly arranged, so deliberate and so designed that nothing appeared out of place.
"Oh. So why were you staring, then?" Winter asked, placing his case on the vanity while Candle closed the door behind them and turned the lock.
"Cuz your eyes looked like they should've been blue," said the guard, standing by the door with his arms crossed. Watching.
His partner said nothing, drawing towards the group of fancy lockers on the other end of the room and turning the combination lock of the corner-most unit. "We shall see about that."
The locker door popped open and swung with a creak, revealing a violin case that looked exactly like his own—premium leather finish, down to his very initials engraved in gold. This, he removed from the locker and closed it again, placing the cases alongside each other on the vanity.
It clicked at once.
Inside the replica was the real violin he'd brought to the concert hall beforehand and passed the theatre's usual security without any issues under the guise of an ordinary musician. Perhaps since yesterday, it had already been... or the day before. Even a week. No one would have noticed.
But how could he have known no one would check the case he brought with him today?
"Sheer confidence, sir," mused the sniper, unlocking the case that contained his prized instrument. "Supported by reason and empirical evidence. I play a character. And I daresay I play him well."
"How did you know they were going to put you in this room?"
Candle's partner gestured to the Victorian chaise lounge, inviting him to take a seat amidst what he deemed to be a lesson of his lifetime. Candle stood his ground by the doorway.
"A simple matter of reasoning is all it is. The process of elimination is a form of cognitive exercise even babies have been proven to understand. You see, judging from the floor map of the theatre's dressing rooms, they'd reasonably have me close to Monsieur Altès or so he would have requested to be the case, even. The man has been inviting me to perform with his orchestra for three years straight and I'd turned him down up till this very moment. He'd grab at every opportunity to speak with me. Therefore, all I have to do is think about the dressing room they'd assign the conductor to. It is usually the farthest away from the common restrooms, where movement and noise would frequent and hinder his attempts to concentrate before the performance—he has a habit of doing that, twenty minutes every time, or so his secretary had shared—and so we'd eliminate rooms one to three. According to the floor map, room four has no windows and would therefore be a poor choice for someone with mild claustrophobia like Altès and is rather small so we're left with rooms five, six, and seven.
"Rooms six and seven are the most spacious and feature wall-to-wall windows but only room six has a view. Room five could be a possibility by what would the organizers gain in assigning the conductor to an inferior room? So six and seven. Given a choice, Altès would have to decide between enjoying a glass of champagne gazing out of the north-facing windows of room six, with a view of the city and giving up said luxury for someone else—likely my own—comfort. Would he do that? Or would he opt to have them assign me the poorer of the two and then, invite me to his dressing room for a conversation where I am likely to stay for a longer time, appreciating the view and the champagne and forming a falsely intimate bond for future selfish purposes while also being forced to come to terms with his seemingly superior status?
"And so increases the possibility of him being assigned to room six but surely it would be a mistake to base conclusions upon vague human behavior that, though mostly consistent with thorough observations, may sometimes surprise. I had to make sure of it.
"I wrote to the duke in advance, requesting south-facing windows away from the noise and commotion, and for the purposes of misdirection, made silly requests to have the room feature furniture in a single shade of white and a vase of nine white roses placed exactly nine inches from the edge of the vanity. Of course, playing the part of a socially exclusive musician of elite status and lofty ideals resembling that of any secret virtuoso. But why white? I'd placed my violin in this locker not only because they had combination locks on all of them, but because lockers were the only things in dressing rooms that would not fit through the door—therefore extremely difficult to replace—and this, room seven, being the only room with a locker that was white, would have been the perfect choice. And how did I know the locker was white?
"Because I was here. In this room," he traced the outline of his instrument under the satin cover cloth. "Exactly nine days ago."
There was silence in the room that was full and loaded with the universe in the head of a being so carefully constructed of reason and systematic thought. It weighed heavy in the eyes of many, afraid of superior intellect gazing upon their smaller selves in an empty reflection—an inability to digest one's own inferiority.
Candle was far too quiet for Winter's liking and, surprised by the flame in his eyes that remained still and unfazed, prompted with a clearing of his throat that was almost shy: "What do you think?"
"So I think we should fuck."
He let it hang, musing over the instant alarm on Winter's face and the grey eyes that froze over, as though the lake hidden beneath rose in tide. "You... haven't changed one bit, Leroy."
Candle swallowed a smile. "Vanilla."
"Well, you um, certainly look very different—" "Didn't you pick the most attractive guard out of the bunch?" "Oh don't flatter yourself." "It's only the truth." "I've always wondered if you'd continue fishing in that endless pool of confidence you own." "In your head, rent free." "I see you remain a poor shot. Still dealing with close combat cases, I see." "Think you can take me?" "Many of you! And several times, in fact. Yes." "..." "What?"
He let the laugh win. It had been long since he felt the spark... the workings of fire and ice. "Tell you later."
"Oh. Oh. Well... good," finished the sniper rather lamely, seemingly fazed by the abrupt end to their conversation. "Shall I run you through the plan one last time? Wait, don't answer that. Tell me the plan. And I shall correct you accordingly."
Candle had noticed something while his partner was providing a sexy, detailed explanation of his genius and overall hot-ass brain. South-facing windows. No view... but a single building. The hotel right next to the theatre.
He'd always wondered just how he would've had to take the shot. The angle was wide, diverse. He knew from the details the exact room number and floor of the target and thus, the plan: first, the cocktail party at the event's reception. The target would consume a spiked drink amongst many others. A delayed trigger response would cause him to feel fair discomfort in the middle of the performance—not enough to necessitate some serious medical attention, but enough for him to leave the hall due to concert etiquette, and take care of his allergies. The target would be escorted back to his hotel room alongside several guards including Candle, and his window would have to be opened for a breath of fresh air.
"Good so far," said his partner, which was quite the stamp of approval indeed. "Also... what gun do you have?"
"An M16."
"Do not use it."
Candle paused. Right. Too loud. Why did he bring that in the first place? "I know." Back-up. His gaze rested on the case that contained Winter's most prized instrument. "What's yours?"
His partner drew towards the vanity, fingers tracing the satin cover once more before pulling it back to unveil the beauty.
Candle did not know the slightest thing about sniper rifles, let alone one used by a long-time professional who trained with suppressors and silencers for the quietest whisper of the end. It looked custom-build. Modded to suit the sniper's preference. He caught a glimpse of the ammunition. Subammo; designed to operate below the speed of sound to avoid the loud crack of a bullet. The owner replaced the cover and closed his case, deeming the past couple of seconds sufficient as a response to his question.
"I've calculated the dosage of the drug you are to deliver in his drink. It is timed perfectly well with the intermission. I will take my shot as close as possible nearing the end so that I may return to the performance and have as many alibis as I wish. On the other hand... you should be careful," Winter paused, searching candle eyes before eventually averting his gaze. "The target may be surrounded by the many enemies in his social class invited tonight and though that may draw the spotlight away from us, we should not let our guard down."
They fell silent, hearing the silent ring of the alarm in their heads whenever conversation hit a standard limit of anything more than ten minutes on the job. It was time.
Winter sighed. "Anyway... nice suit." His eyes seemed to linger. Candle paused, taking this in with a flicker of surprise. "Thanks."
______________
"You weren't even looking at my suit." Candle exposed back at the headquarters after the mission's success, lounging on the couch with his hands behind his head. He caught a glimpse of Winter's ears that were red as the latter turned, looking away and clicking his tongue as he did.
"Really. What was I looking at, then?" "You know what you were looking at." "Oh be quiet."
The deed was done. And though it was not customary for agents to be sharing a drink at the headquarters, Dalto had called in several others to introduce the contracted sniper and rave about his skills to which Purple had taken it a tad too personally (she was also drunk) and challenged him to a shootout. Winter won. Twice.
It was not after the others had left the lounge one by one that he was joined by the man of the hour. His partner in crime who'd coincidentally walked in on Purple hurling drunk expletives about how much she respected Winter's 'fucking insanity' and Zone enabling her while Dalto and a couple other senior hitmen cheered them on. He's witnessed the musician remain silent throughout the entire commotion, watching, sipping at his wine on occasion, and smiling at the odd silliness of it all.
It made him wonder about it.
If Winter was as quiet as his gun in bed. Though he felt like it would take light years for the sniper—that buttoned-up, strict, no-nonsense, sexy motherfucker—to understand what he was getting at, he ended up rolling the die.
Cue much tensed staring. Very tension. Much stare.
"... well." Winter reached down to trace the outline of an additional pistol he kept at his thigh. Secured by a single strap. "Wouldn't you like to know."