Chapter Text
He was sent out to find him with a sniper and a blade – wasn’t much fuss about it. He would be sure to get this guy within an inch of his life, and then and only then, would he sink his knife into his chest because for what it was worth, he deserved every last painful second of it.
A few years back, there was devastation amongst the hitmen that surrounded LA’s crime scene: the murder of the Franko Russo, a man who had been strong from the beginning, had carried on his father’s legacy, and his father’s before that, of the gaggle of drug cartels known throughout Los Angeles and parts of Italy.
Armie had been a part of this gang and was at the top of his game when you consider he had only been doing the job a few decent years. He had secured his spot at one of the highest ranks of the chain and was known to all as the assassin, the mercenary, the very creative “Hammer”—and because of his success had become very familiar with the one they called Franko-
So... when they found out he was killed…
Apparently, it was a home invasion. Apparently, Franko couldn’t make it out on time before they had already popped a cap in his ass so to speak. There were no other indications of deliberate murder. They had sussed out that whoever had broken into his house was a money-lover with no interest other than the safe in his basement. So that’s what they believed for the longest time.
It wasn’t until a few years later, once the evidence had been dug up again, that they found someone’s fingerprint on the tip of his suit and when they had gone to look at the DNA samples, they discovered a bite mark on the left side of his neck which had been photographed but never acknowledged. Whoever had done this had left an imprint of their teeth lodged deep into his skin and however they managed to miss that the first time around, Armie will never understand.
After that discovery, it became clear that they were dealing with a murderer, somebody who had set out to get rid of Franko from the very beginning, and suddenly those who knew him were under fire. Because it had to be somebody close, somebody who had access to his house, somebody he trusted.
Armie was even questioned of his loyalty and that made him more furious than anything. Of course he wouldn’t do something like this. It was bound to be one of the middlemen. Franko was sought out after and despised – anybody within touching distance, even for a moment, would be jumping at the chance to take him out. If not it was the secretary, always getting a piece of the action but only ever being needed when the job got tiresome.
Well, it turns out it was none of them. In fact, it was the person everybody had written off from the very beginning for being too weak. Timothée Chalamet was his name and Armie had heard only so much about him.
The one thing that stood out amongst all of this madness was that Timothée Chalamet was married to Franko and everybody knew it. He had only heard snippets of conversation here and there, talks of Franko’s new boy toy he imported from France. It seemed like it was a bit of fun on the side, Armie guessed. But then it got serious and his time with Franko was cut short.
The last thing Armie remembers as he lays with his scope pointed at the front door of his mansion is the very clear outline of this thing regarding “Timothée” because according to the documents and the little bits they were able to piece together, this guy is not only a murderer by a high-functioning sociopath. Something about that strikes Armie as interesting. Perhaps because if it all goes to shit and he’s not on top of his game like he should be, the guy could easily strike a bullet through Armie’s head and not care about the consequences. He probably wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelid to see the life drain from his eyes. And maybe, just maybe, Armie’s asking for a little remorse. Just a little something at least.
Well, the plan is not to let it get that way. The plan is to attack when night falls and if there’s anything Armie’s been doing for the past couple days, it’s been making sure that this will work.
He started off with the very direct and no-room-for-error request of “KILL THAT BITCH” once Marv got hold of the documents. He had offered Armie his weight in gold, and a spot at the very top of the rank if he could manage to track down Timothée because, according to them, he had run away after the tragedy, had bought himself a generous castle of sorts that only few knew of its location. And at the time, this was passed off as an act of bereavement, but now… well, it’s a very different story now.
The bastard ran away because he knew he was in deep shit, and Armie was going to be the one to finish him off.
The fifth night in the hedges. Armie’s been camping out here just enough time to be able to map out the layout of the house. His nights have consisted of keeping on guard, the chance of someone discovering he’s here, and alerting the mystery man inside low, but still a threat. He points his gun at the door, kidding himself because he knows he won’t see anything new. The most he’s seen is a flicker of light in one of the little windows on a night where the air was still, and even then it couldn’t help him. There was nothing that could be seen past the thick white curtains.
He sighs, finally giving in to what he hoped he’d never resort to. It’s seeming less and less likely for him to be able to strike him while he’s cooped up in the comfort of the woodrush, hidden and out of sight, and more plausible that he’s going to have to go down there himself. If there are no security cameras (which--Armie checked, there were none), and there are no lasers (which--Armie knows, this isn’t exactly a Bond film) then he should be able to sneak down and pop open one of the windows.
He hopes this isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had. He hopes the assumption that the guy lives in silence is only evidence of his being alone, and that he won’t have to face a hoard of these bastards by the time he’s inside.
With one last breath in, Armie picks up his knife. He finds his pistol, a Gen4 Glock 19, and checks that it’s loaded. Then shoves the knife into his back pocket and makes sure that his makeshift tent stays covered as he gets up and begins to jog down the hill.
He makes it all the way down to the front of the house, where the walls loom over him in shadows and the night air makes his skin feel cold, almost as if he’s dead, but dead he will not settle for. He would be an idiot to stay right here, where anybody could see. No, he needs to get in from the side.
He looks around and to his right sees a settle of bushes and trees, almost too perfect for the kind of stunt he’s about to pull. Rounding the corner into forestry and darkness, he finds himself coming up to a small conservatory-like section that just branches off the main structure of the house. It’s barren and it’s locked but Armie’s pretty sure that he can carve his way in if he just figures out how to angle his blade. He starts cutting into the shutter material, twisting his knife to get the right kind of leverage and after a while, a line starts to form.
Soon enough, Armie manages to bust the shutters wide open, snapping apart to reveal a double-hung window. The inside is sheltered behind a pair of deep red curtains and looking at it, Armie thinks that whoever decided to leave the window open was a better fool than he could have ever hoped for, because now all he has to do is hoist himself up, and he does so with ease, jumping up into the tiny box and pushing himself through feet first. The curtains block his view but it was better than having to break through another barrier.
Armie lands with a soft thud. He takes in his surroundings. Moderately sized bed, royal furnishings, it looks decent for a small room. A room that looks almost abandoned, in fact. Maybe this is the part of the house that just isn’t lived in. Or maybe it’s home to the butler or the scullery maid. Do they still do scullery maids?
He picks up the pace a bit, aching to find some kind of clue as to what the house might look like from behind this tiny door. He could run for it, just start sprinting out the door and up the stairs where a person might lay. Or he could be as indecisive as he is right now, never making moves, always looking to do instead of just doing.
What he needs is a plan and if there’s one thing he knows about plans is that you can’t go off the mark. If he hears a sound, he’s coming straight back. If for some reason he can’t find access to the second floor, he’s going to have to get around some other way. Maybe through another window? Or a tunnel? He’s pretty sure that this is the kind of place to do tunnels.
Brushing off the last specs of doubt, he twists the knob and opens up the door, the panel of wood coming to swing directly back onto him and suddenly he’s being faced with a huge white room, marble flooring, and a chandelier high up on the ceiling. He takes a few steps forward, gun at the ready in case of any unexpected guests, and on his right, in the centre of the room is a huge water fountain that curves out from the wall. Its reflective sound and omniscient trickling in the otherwise quiet of the room makes Armie feel strangely aware of his own reality. He quickly shakes off those thoughts and makes his way forward.
Turning round to face the fountain, he sees that on the left is a door. It appears to be locked. On the other side of the fountain, a similar situation. There stands a door with a huge lion head, grey stone, and intricate design. It’s staring at him.
What the fuck does he do? He can’t risk running around the place, but he also can’t risk missing this. Armie creeps forward and tries for the door on the left. He gives it a push but it’s most definitely locked. He tries the door on the right instead, the huge one with the lion's head. No luck. Great.
He keeps his breath steady as he steps back. He doesn’t need his pulse throwing him off guard. Then, hallelujah, he sees an archway in the back corner, leading off deep into the wall and it’s like a lightbulb goes off, and his legs are carrying him forward. He quickens his pace, letting himself be dragged into the hallway and it’s dark and it’s quiet and the only thing he can hear is the soft trickling from the fountain left behind.
Ten paces in, he comes across a turn to the left and he follows its path all the way down until a light starts to come into view. It’s barely there but it’s real enough for Armie to be able to follow it and once he does sneak all the way to the end, he finds that it’s the glowing presence of a room and a door left half-open.
He feels for his knife in his back pocket. The outline of the blade greets him. He steadies his foot forward, edging closer and closer to the open door. It’s dimly lit from the inside and he can just about grasp a wall of books higher than anything he’s ever seen before. Curling his body just so, angling his neck through the small gap, he finds nothing and no-one but the roaring crackle of fire. It’s a huge fireplace with elaborate ornaments. On the mantelpiece, he thinks he sees a portrait of a boy.
He squints, the picture looking more like a 1920s war memorial photo than anything.
It’s in a split second that he feels a movement in the air behind him, a tingle in his arm and a slither on his back because there’s somebody trying to touch. Armie whips himself around with his gun settled firmly in both hands, but it’s too late. Whoever’s playing tricks on him has scampered round the back and to his shoulders, placing two brutal hands around his neck and jumping up.
Faster than his brain can manage, Armie tries to get whoever’s grappling him off but fails miserably and feels a strong hit to his head from whatever kind of devil instrument they’re using to attack.
So he reaches for his blade in his pocket, stumbles, and falls, the blade coming to tumble just out in front of him. Shit, shit, get the knife. Get the fucking knife that’s all you need to do. And yet, his vision has fucked him over completely. He’s no longer sure of his own body, of his own surroundings. But it’s right there and he’s so close.
The brute finally lets him go, and Armie can finally reach out for his gun, or his blade, whichever comes first. The movement stops behind him. He holds his breath. The knife manages to meet his hands, his now trembling hands, and he falters, the crushing weight of his head all of a sudden too much to bear.
His fist curls around the knife handle. He closes his eyes. Piercing light turns to faded black. His body gives in. His limbs turn to stone.
The last thing he sees is the swish of a kimono, two blurry hands, and the tip of a shoe bathed in blood.