Post by Gambit on Jul 31, 2006 5:20:12 GMT -5
There was darkness.
All was silent.
There was the brief flare of a match and following that, the faint glow of the tip of a cigarette. It glowed momentarily as its smoker inhaled deeply. Then a voice cut through the night. A male voice: young, and with a definite Louisiana twang.
“Look at me, Henri. Does this face look bothered t’you? Huh?”
“I don’t like it, Remy. Ain’t right that t’ings so quiet ‘round here.”
Henri LeBeau was twenty three years old, only two years senior to his younger adopted brother, but at times, those two years seemed like twenty. This was probably for the best. Remy was one of life’s free spirits, rarely serious, never intense, but still capable of focusing on a job when it was required. Henri was serious enough for the both of them.
“Let’s go through th’ plan again,” said Henri, not liking the unnatural silence and feeling the need to plug it.
“Henri, we been through th’ plan ‘bout ninety times already. Will y’just relax, mon frere? Ain’t nothin’ bad gon’ happen. We go in, we do th’ job, we go home, we drink a li’l wine, have some smokes and I laugh at you for your crazy paranoia. There’s th’ plan right there, oui?”
“Remy. Stop kiddin’ around. This is SERIOUS, man.”
“Ah, Henri. Dieu! Lighten up!” Remy slid off the wall he had been sitting on, landing with all the grace he possessed, which was considerable. He’d begun training his body from an early age, learning hand to hand combat skills off a variety of contacts and acquaintances and he was gifted with a naturally lean and rangy body that made him a pretty efficient fighting machine when he wanted to be one. He was the brawn.
Henri was the brains.
That was the way Remy liked it. Too much thinkin’, he said, made his brain start to steam. Let Henri handle the strategies, he’d handle the rest.
“OK,” he said, easily. “Th’ plan. We’re here for th’ paintin’, right?”
The job had come in late the previous night: a famous painting was temporarily on display in this small backwater art gallery where the number of people who might actually choose to visit it could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It was in transit to a bigger art gallery, but the exhibit was not yet ready. Temporary housing for one of the most valuable paintings in the world at a cheap-ass little gallery.
If that wasn’t temptation to a gang of thieves, then what was?
“Oui, th’ paintin’.” Henri nodded. “I can get us in past th’ security camera.” Henri grinned in the night. The singular wasn’t a mistake. The gallery really was that small that it only had the one CCTV unit and one permanently bored security guard – who, if Henri had only done his pre-checks properly, wasn’t on duty that night. He wouldn’t be on duty any night afterwards, either, because he was presently lying dead in the corner of the security hut.
But that realisation would come later.
Much later.
“Once we’re past th’ cameras, you get in there, do your…t’ing…an’ get th’ paintin’ out t’me outside. I’ll get it back past th’ camera, you leave the buildin’ – an’ we’re home an’ dry.”
“Easy,” said Remy, almost lazily. “Where’s th’ CHALLENGE, Henri?”
“Same challenge as always, mon ami. Rule one.”
The brothers chanted together.
”Don’t get caught.”
They had worked together as a team since Remy had turned seventeen, the age at which the leader of the gang known colloquially as the ‘Thieves Guild’ had officially deemed him to be old enough to go out in the field. The fact that he’d been performing any number of lesser tasks since his powers had manifested at thirteen was neither here nor there: propriety was important to Jean-Luc LeBeau and Remy had attended the formal ‘introduction’ with great solemnity on his face and laughter in his heart at the keeping up of the old traditions.
Nobody had anticipated just how well the two brothers would work together, nor how successful they were likely to be. Fiercely loyal to each other and their father, the LeBeau brothers pulled off some of the most daring heists the Guild had ever seen. Within six months of his becoming an official member of the Guild, Remy LeBeau had picked up the nickname ‘Gambit’ because of the risks he took and the increasing love of poker he was developing.
He liked it. After a few short weeks, the only people who ever called him Remy were his father and brother.
By the time he turned eighteen, his reputation had spread beyond the confines of New Orleans and any number of rival thieves gangs put a bounty on his head worth quite a considerable sum of money. Remy, of course, loved this and encouraged the behaviour outrageously, by performing acts of downright daring – or stupidity depending on your point of view. He broke into the homes of at least four other gang leaders and robbed them blind, he had a long-running affair with the wife of another gang leader – in short, he took the piss.
“You gettin’ too confident, Remy,” Jean-Luc had warned him when he turned twenty. “Gonna be your downfall. Concentrate on th’ job at hand. Try not t’wind th’ others up – an’ you might live t’see twenty one.”
He’d turned twenty one only three days previously and Jean-Luc had professed amazement that he was still in one piece, but had thrown one of his famously extravagant parties in order to parade the boy he’d adopted off the streets of New Orleans in front of his friends – and one or two of his enemies as well.
“My son,” he’d said, proudly. “Thief, mutant, lover and fighter. He got a li’l bit of everyt’in’ goin’ for him.”
Jean-Luc had no issue with Remy’s mutation at all, in fact he saw it as a distinct advantage and encouraged the young man to utilise his abilities whenever he saw appropriate. Remy held back a little, if only because he was aware on a base level that the powers he possessed could easily fall outside of his control. For now he stuck to the simple things, although he’d discovered his natural charm and ability to engage people’s fascination worked for him remarkably well.
For his part, Henri had no problem with his flirtatious, outrageous younger brother at all. A serious, taciturn man, he found that his whole outlook on life was changed by the close working relationship the two harboured. Under Remy’s careful tutelage, he became more daring than he had once been and found that it wasn’t just Remy who attracted the attention of the young ladies in the city. Both brothers were blessed with more than their fair share of good looks, although Henri was far more shy and introvert with the opposite sex than Remy would ever be.
Now, though, now he’d found the girl he wanted to marry. They’d announced their engagement at Remy’s twenty first birthday party. Henri hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to steal Remy’s thunder, but his younger brother had insisted his brother share in the celebration. Jean-Luc had almost wept with joy.
“You ever t’ink ‘bout what you gon’ do wit’ th’ rest of your life?” The question was sudden and took Remy by surprise. He’d suspected that since Henri had met Mercy that their partnership would not last forever, that his brother would go down the route of the domestic. He’d make a good husband, probably a better father – two things which Remy never visualised himself as ever being.
“Ah, Henri, don’t start on THAT one again, mon ami. We had this conversation so many times already! I’m gon’ run for President, get elected an’ make the smokin’ of cigars in public places compulsory.”
“I’m not kiddin’ around, Remy. You seriously gon’ do … THIS … for th’ rest of your life?”
“Henri, none of us ever know jus’ how long ‘th’ rest of our lives’ gon’ be. So I don’t plan ahead, see? That way, I ain’t gon’ get disappointed.” Such cynical views from such a young man. He finished his cigarette and out of habit, flicked it away into the bushes where it detonated with the quietest of ‘wa~chooms’.
Henri winced at the noise.
“Enough of this grown up talk,” said Remy, all business now. “Let’s play! Blind’s in, let’s up th’ ante.”
Remy and his poker allusions.
Henri rolled his eyes. “OK,” he said, realising he wasn’t going to get the brother-to-brother chat he’d hoped for. “But later, when this all over, you an’ me gon’ sit down and talk ‘bout th’ future. OK?”
“Sure, mon frere, whatever y’say.”
It wasn’t to be. They never had that conversation.
The whole thing had been an elaborate trap and the second Remy put one booted foot inside the gallery, it had been sprung. Spurred into action by the ostentatious party of three days ago, the leader of another gang known as the Pickers had finally decided the time had come to break up the dream team. ‘Gambit’ was infamous for being as slippery as a snake.
So he focused his sights instead on the other brother.
The simplest of plans, Justin La Croix decided, were always the best. Get his hands on the older, less well prepared brother – the brat would be sucked into negotiation without any difficulty whatsoever. He’d seen how close the boys were at the party and his plan had started formulating there and then.
He never meant for it to get out of hand in the way that it did, which was something he never lived to regret.
But that’s moving too far ahead.
Henri had successfully jammed the CCTV signal and Gambit had slunk through the shadows with his usual cat-like grace, watched like a hawk by his brother as he had approached the side window where he had planned to enter the building.
No glass cutters for Gambit, non. He traced the outline of a circle on the glass with one finger and, for good measure added two eyes and a smiley face before placing his palm in the centre. The glass glowed momentarily and then the circle popped. Gambit grinned in the darkness. Never a dull moment.
He was slender enough to get through the window without any difficulty at all and Henri watched as his brother disappeared inside the gallery. This part was up to him. All he had to do was sit and wait…
…and stare down the barrel of the revolver that was pointing right between his temples…
“Not a word, LeBeau,” said Justin La Croix. “Not a fuckin’ word.”
Some fifteen minutes later, Gambit re-emerged from the shadows. “We been had, Henri,” he was saying, his tone exasperated. “There ain’t nothin’ in there that’d interest anybody.”
Silence.
“Henri?” Gambit reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out the telescopic Bo staff that he used as his favoured weapon. Chances were that Henri had just popped into the bushes to relieve himself, but he’d learned a long time ago that you could never be too careful.
“Well, well. Remy LeBeau. Could I ask you very respectfully t’put down th’ weapon, monsieur? I’m thinkin’ now is a time for you not t’show off your considerable combat abilities. ‘Cos rest assured that if you try, big brother here gets it in th’ head.”
The voice came from behind him and Gambit froze only momentarily.
“La Croix,” he said, his tone pleasant and affable. “How you doin’, mon ami? Ain’t had th’ chance t’sit an’ have that beer we talked about.” He set down the Bo staff and turned around to face La Croix. Henri was on his knees, gagged, his hands bound behind his back, a look of utter hatred in his eyes. Remy nodded to his brother. “Got yourself into a pickle, Henri, huh?”
“Let’s not spend all night on small talk, shall we?” La Croix was about forty five years old, heavily built and powerfully muscled. Remy had crossed swords with him on several occasions – particularly as it had been his wife he’d had the long standing affair with. “I don’t want t’kill big brother, but if you don’ give yourself up t’me, then I’m afraid that’s th’ way it’s gon’ be.”
“Int’restin’ proposition,” said Remy, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “Ain’t you stopped t’consider that Jean-Luc likely t’pay jus’ as much cash t’you for his eldest as he is for me?”
“I ain’t thinkin’ ransom, Gambit. I’m thinkin’ bounty. Pretty Henri here only got what, a quarter of a million dollars on his head? But you? Ah, you’re th’ BIG prize, LeBeau. So you step into his shoes now, no fussin’, I let him go, you an’ me take a li’l ride into the Quarter – an’ we’ll all be happy.”
Yeah, delirious. Remy was thinking on his feet. He knew La Croix was unlikely to be alone, that he’d have back up with him, and that there were likely any number of guns trained on his back right now.
Henri made a noise from behind the gag that sounded something like ‘don’t do it’, but Remy chose – for now, at least – to ignore him.
“Like I say,” said Remy, watching La Croix carefully. “Int’restin’ proposition.” His hand slipped into his pocket, which cause La Croix to visibly stiffen, but when it did literally appear just to be a thinking pose, he relaxed again. “So tell me. What makes you think I’d be prepared to give myself up just t’save Henri’s damn fool backside?”
“You jokin’? Everyone knows you LeBeau boys are in each others pockets. It’s like th’ Brady Bunch in your house.”
“All for show.” Remy shrugged one shoulder easily. “Y’know how it is, La Croix. You put on a united front, you look invincible t’th’ world, non? Well, let me tell you. He’s gone soft. Over a woman, n’est pas? Mon Dieu!” The exclamation was filled with contemptuous disgust. Henri’s eyes opened wide and he saw the hurt in them, but then he also saw the dawning understanding that Remy was buying time whilst he came up with a plan.
At least, he hoped so.
“No, me an’ Henri here got our li’l differences. We ain’t as close as you might reckon.” Remy took his hand out of his pocket and La Croix stiffened again, relaxing when he saw that Remy’s hand was empty.
This amused Remy enormously, although no flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“So if you thinkin’ I’m gon’ go ‘take me in for th’ bounty, please, please, let m’brother go…’ ah - you’re sadly mistaken. Let’s talk ‘bout me workin’ for you instead. You Pickers short of your best thief these days, I hear.” Of course he’d heard. It had been Remy who had set the man up for his capture by the police. The inside of the Louisiana State Penitentiary wasn’t the most conducive of places from which to run criminal activity. “How ‘bout we make a deal. Instead of bounty, you get me.” He moved to stand behind Henri. “An’ we take th’ Golden Boy here to share th’ bounty? C’mon, mon ami don’t tell me you ain’t tempted.”
Henri’s eyes were furious. Rehearsed furious. He’d tapped into Remy’s plan now.
La Croix’s eyes narrowed. What LeBeau was putting on the table was seriously tempting. To have Gambit working for him rather than against him…but then there was the question of just how much money the infernal Diable Blanc was worth.
Lost in thought as he was, he didn’t think twice when Remy crouched down behind his brother.
“M’sorry, Henri,” said Remy, in a mocking tone. “Li’l brother ain’t gon’ pull th’ stops out on this one. You on your own.”
Afterwards, Remy couldn’t recall any of the specifics. It all happened so damn fast that he was left reeling.
He had touched the ropes that bound his brother. He’d never tried this before and didn’t have a clue if it would work. What was the worst that would happen? He’d kill his brother, that’s what. However, the small kinetic charge that broke his brother loose came off without a hitch. The brothers fell into their natural fighting stance, back to back. Remy pulled a handful of cards out of his inside pocket and immediately pitched several of them at La Croix, causing the other thief to drop the gun.
“Don’t mess with th’ LeBeau brothers,” Remy had said, laughter in his voice. “You ain’t ever gonna be a match for us. Ever.” He had turned circles, addressing the hidden gang members in the trees. “If you don’t want your leader t’go th’ same way as those cards, I suggest you all step out now, where we can see you. Let’s … negotiate, huh?”
There were seven in total, including La Croix. Remy liked the number seven. “Three each an’ one for both of us,” he said, cheerfully to his brother. “I like those odds.”
There was a long drawn out silence of the kind that happened during a Mexican standoff. Nobody wanted to make the first move, nobody wanted that responsibility on their shoulders. In the end, Remy swore colourfully.
“OK, this ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, in irritation. “So me and Henri here, we’re jus’ gonna go on home and get out your hair, non?” He leaned over and picked up the Bo staff, flicking it to its full six foot length with a practised movement of his wrist. “We’re gonna scale that wall, then we’re gonna drop down th’ other side, an’ you can all stand here an’ carry on starin’ at one another. Au revoir, mes amis.” He nudged his brother forward.
“They ain’t gonna fight, Henri, let’s just get th’ hell outta here.”
How Henri had fallen from the wall that encircled the gallery, Remy never really knew, although he suspected it was dodging the gunshot that had followed them as they reached the top. The bullet had missed both the brothers, but Henri, already tense and on edge, had lost his balance and fallen. The wall was only seven feet high. It wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t landed so awkwardly.
The sound of his brother’s spine snapping haunted Remy’s dreams for years afterwards.
Time froze. Everything became slow and laboured, as though wading through treacle. Even under hypnosis, Remy hadn’t been able to explain how it was that he had proceeded to commit seven murders, ripping his way through the Pickers as though they were little more than dolls. He’d been beaten half into the ground in the process – but there were really only three things he remembered clearly.
He remembered the snap of Henri’s spine and the man’s agonised death cry.
He remembered how similar the sound of La Croix’s neck had been as he’d personally broken it.
He remembered how he crouched on the floor for hours, just holding his brother’s broken body, set at an unnatural angle in rigour mortis to him and weeping like a child.
He didn’t even remember how he’d got the young man’s body back to the Guild House. He had stumbled up the steps, Henri over his shoulder and collapsed in the hallway. People had come to see what was happening. There had been screams, there had been sobbing, there had been his father’s hand on his shoulder and a soft plea to stay with them.
There had been his father’s low vow of recrimination.
Then there had been darkness.
All was silent.
There was the brief flare of a match and following that, the faint glow of the tip of a cigarette. It glowed momentarily as its smoker inhaled deeply. Then a voice cut through the night. A male voice: young, and with a definite Louisiana twang.
“Look at me, Henri. Does this face look bothered t’you? Huh?”
“I don’t like it, Remy. Ain’t right that t’ings so quiet ‘round here.”
Henri LeBeau was twenty three years old, only two years senior to his younger adopted brother, but at times, those two years seemed like twenty. This was probably for the best. Remy was one of life’s free spirits, rarely serious, never intense, but still capable of focusing on a job when it was required. Henri was serious enough for the both of them.
“Let’s go through th’ plan again,” said Henri, not liking the unnatural silence and feeling the need to plug it.
“Henri, we been through th’ plan ‘bout ninety times already. Will y’just relax, mon frere? Ain’t nothin’ bad gon’ happen. We go in, we do th’ job, we go home, we drink a li’l wine, have some smokes and I laugh at you for your crazy paranoia. There’s th’ plan right there, oui?”
“Remy. Stop kiddin’ around. This is SERIOUS, man.”
“Ah, Henri. Dieu! Lighten up!” Remy slid off the wall he had been sitting on, landing with all the grace he possessed, which was considerable. He’d begun training his body from an early age, learning hand to hand combat skills off a variety of contacts and acquaintances and he was gifted with a naturally lean and rangy body that made him a pretty efficient fighting machine when he wanted to be one. He was the brawn.
Henri was the brains.
That was the way Remy liked it. Too much thinkin’, he said, made his brain start to steam. Let Henri handle the strategies, he’d handle the rest.
“OK,” he said, easily. “Th’ plan. We’re here for th’ paintin’, right?”
The job had come in late the previous night: a famous painting was temporarily on display in this small backwater art gallery where the number of people who might actually choose to visit it could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It was in transit to a bigger art gallery, but the exhibit was not yet ready. Temporary housing for one of the most valuable paintings in the world at a cheap-ass little gallery.
If that wasn’t temptation to a gang of thieves, then what was?
“Oui, th’ paintin’.” Henri nodded. “I can get us in past th’ security camera.” Henri grinned in the night. The singular wasn’t a mistake. The gallery really was that small that it only had the one CCTV unit and one permanently bored security guard – who, if Henri had only done his pre-checks properly, wasn’t on duty that night. He wouldn’t be on duty any night afterwards, either, because he was presently lying dead in the corner of the security hut.
But that realisation would come later.
Much later.
“Once we’re past th’ cameras, you get in there, do your…t’ing…an’ get th’ paintin’ out t’me outside. I’ll get it back past th’ camera, you leave the buildin’ – an’ we’re home an’ dry.”
“Easy,” said Remy, almost lazily. “Where’s th’ CHALLENGE, Henri?”
“Same challenge as always, mon ami. Rule one.”
The brothers chanted together.
”Don’t get caught.”
They had worked together as a team since Remy had turned seventeen, the age at which the leader of the gang known colloquially as the ‘Thieves Guild’ had officially deemed him to be old enough to go out in the field. The fact that he’d been performing any number of lesser tasks since his powers had manifested at thirteen was neither here nor there: propriety was important to Jean-Luc LeBeau and Remy had attended the formal ‘introduction’ with great solemnity on his face and laughter in his heart at the keeping up of the old traditions.
Nobody had anticipated just how well the two brothers would work together, nor how successful they were likely to be. Fiercely loyal to each other and their father, the LeBeau brothers pulled off some of the most daring heists the Guild had ever seen. Within six months of his becoming an official member of the Guild, Remy LeBeau had picked up the nickname ‘Gambit’ because of the risks he took and the increasing love of poker he was developing.
He liked it. After a few short weeks, the only people who ever called him Remy were his father and brother.
By the time he turned eighteen, his reputation had spread beyond the confines of New Orleans and any number of rival thieves gangs put a bounty on his head worth quite a considerable sum of money. Remy, of course, loved this and encouraged the behaviour outrageously, by performing acts of downright daring – or stupidity depending on your point of view. He broke into the homes of at least four other gang leaders and robbed them blind, he had a long-running affair with the wife of another gang leader – in short, he took the piss.
“You gettin’ too confident, Remy,” Jean-Luc had warned him when he turned twenty. “Gonna be your downfall. Concentrate on th’ job at hand. Try not t’wind th’ others up – an’ you might live t’see twenty one.”
He’d turned twenty one only three days previously and Jean-Luc had professed amazement that he was still in one piece, but had thrown one of his famously extravagant parties in order to parade the boy he’d adopted off the streets of New Orleans in front of his friends – and one or two of his enemies as well.
“My son,” he’d said, proudly. “Thief, mutant, lover and fighter. He got a li’l bit of everyt’in’ goin’ for him.”
Jean-Luc had no issue with Remy’s mutation at all, in fact he saw it as a distinct advantage and encouraged the young man to utilise his abilities whenever he saw appropriate. Remy held back a little, if only because he was aware on a base level that the powers he possessed could easily fall outside of his control. For now he stuck to the simple things, although he’d discovered his natural charm and ability to engage people’s fascination worked for him remarkably well.
For his part, Henri had no problem with his flirtatious, outrageous younger brother at all. A serious, taciturn man, he found that his whole outlook on life was changed by the close working relationship the two harboured. Under Remy’s careful tutelage, he became more daring than he had once been and found that it wasn’t just Remy who attracted the attention of the young ladies in the city. Both brothers were blessed with more than their fair share of good looks, although Henri was far more shy and introvert with the opposite sex than Remy would ever be.
Now, though, now he’d found the girl he wanted to marry. They’d announced their engagement at Remy’s twenty first birthday party. Henri hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to steal Remy’s thunder, but his younger brother had insisted his brother share in the celebration. Jean-Luc had almost wept with joy.
“You ever t’ink ‘bout what you gon’ do wit’ th’ rest of your life?” The question was sudden and took Remy by surprise. He’d suspected that since Henri had met Mercy that their partnership would not last forever, that his brother would go down the route of the domestic. He’d make a good husband, probably a better father – two things which Remy never visualised himself as ever being.
“Ah, Henri, don’t start on THAT one again, mon ami. We had this conversation so many times already! I’m gon’ run for President, get elected an’ make the smokin’ of cigars in public places compulsory.”
“I’m not kiddin’ around, Remy. You seriously gon’ do … THIS … for th’ rest of your life?”
“Henri, none of us ever know jus’ how long ‘th’ rest of our lives’ gon’ be. So I don’t plan ahead, see? That way, I ain’t gon’ get disappointed.” Such cynical views from such a young man. He finished his cigarette and out of habit, flicked it away into the bushes where it detonated with the quietest of ‘wa~chooms’.
Henri winced at the noise.
“Enough of this grown up talk,” said Remy, all business now. “Let’s play! Blind’s in, let’s up th’ ante.”
Remy and his poker allusions.
Henri rolled his eyes. “OK,” he said, realising he wasn’t going to get the brother-to-brother chat he’d hoped for. “But later, when this all over, you an’ me gon’ sit down and talk ‘bout th’ future. OK?”
“Sure, mon frere, whatever y’say.”
It wasn’t to be. They never had that conversation.
The whole thing had been an elaborate trap and the second Remy put one booted foot inside the gallery, it had been sprung. Spurred into action by the ostentatious party of three days ago, the leader of another gang known as the Pickers had finally decided the time had come to break up the dream team. ‘Gambit’ was infamous for being as slippery as a snake.
So he focused his sights instead on the other brother.
The simplest of plans, Justin La Croix decided, were always the best. Get his hands on the older, less well prepared brother – the brat would be sucked into negotiation without any difficulty whatsoever. He’d seen how close the boys were at the party and his plan had started formulating there and then.
He never meant for it to get out of hand in the way that it did, which was something he never lived to regret.
But that’s moving too far ahead.
Henri had successfully jammed the CCTV signal and Gambit had slunk through the shadows with his usual cat-like grace, watched like a hawk by his brother as he had approached the side window where he had planned to enter the building.
No glass cutters for Gambit, non. He traced the outline of a circle on the glass with one finger and, for good measure added two eyes and a smiley face before placing his palm in the centre. The glass glowed momentarily and then the circle popped. Gambit grinned in the darkness. Never a dull moment.
He was slender enough to get through the window without any difficulty at all and Henri watched as his brother disappeared inside the gallery. This part was up to him. All he had to do was sit and wait…
…and stare down the barrel of the revolver that was pointing right between his temples…
“Not a word, LeBeau,” said Justin La Croix. “Not a fuckin’ word.”
Some fifteen minutes later, Gambit re-emerged from the shadows. “We been had, Henri,” he was saying, his tone exasperated. “There ain’t nothin’ in there that’d interest anybody.”
Silence.
“Henri?” Gambit reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out the telescopic Bo staff that he used as his favoured weapon. Chances were that Henri had just popped into the bushes to relieve himself, but he’d learned a long time ago that you could never be too careful.
“Well, well. Remy LeBeau. Could I ask you very respectfully t’put down th’ weapon, monsieur? I’m thinkin’ now is a time for you not t’show off your considerable combat abilities. ‘Cos rest assured that if you try, big brother here gets it in th’ head.”
The voice came from behind him and Gambit froze only momentarily.
“La Croix,” he said, his tone pleasant and affable. “How you doin’, mon ami? Ain’t had th’ chance t’sit an’ have that beer we talked about.” He set down the Bo staff and turned around to face La Croix. Henri was on his knees, gagged, his hands bound behind his back, a look of utter hatred in his eyes. Remy nodded to his brother. “Got yourself into a pickle, Henri, huh?”
“Let’s not spend all night on small talk, shall we?” La Croix was about forty five years old, heavily built and powerfully muscled. Remy had crossed swords with him on several occasions – particularly as it had been his wife he’d had the long standing affair with. “I don’t want t’kill big brother, but if you don’ give yourself up t’me, then I’m afraid that’s th’ way it’s gon’ be.”
“Int’restin’ proposition,” said Remy, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “Ain’t you stopped t’consider that Jean-Luc likely t’pay jus’ as much cash t’you for his eldest as he is for me?”
“I ain’t thinkin’ ransom, Gambit. I’m thinkin’ bounty. Pretty Henri here only got what, a quarter of a million dollars on his head? But you? Ah, you’re th’ BIG prize, LeBeau. So you step into his shoes now, no fussin’, I let him go, you an’ me take a li’l ride into the Quarter – an’ we’ll all be happy.”
Yeah, delirious. Remy was thinking on his feet. He knew La Croix was unlikely to be alone, that he’d have back up with him, and that there were likely any number of guns trained on his back right now.
Henri made a noise from behind the gag that sounded something like ‘don’t do it’, but Remy chose – for now, at least – to ignore him.
“Like I say,” said Remy, watching La Croix carefully. “Int’restin’ proposition.” His hand slipped into his pocket, which cause La Croix to visibly stiffen, but when it did literally appear just to be a thinking pose, he relaxed again. “So tell me. What makes you think I’d be prepared to give myself up just t’save Henri’s damn fool backside?”
“You jokin’? Everyone knows you LeBeau boys are in each others pockets. It’s like th’ Brady Bunch in your house.”
“All for show.” Remy shrugged one shoulder easily. “Y’know how it is, La Croix. You put on a united front, you look invincible t’th’ world, non? Well, let me tell you. He’s gone soft. Over a woman, n’est pas? Mon Dieu!” The exclamation was filled with contemptuous disgust. Henri’s eyes opened wide and he saw the hurt in them, but then he also saw the dawning understanding that Remy was buying time whilst he came up with a plan.
At least, he hoped so.
“No, me an’ Henri here got our li’l differences. We ain’t as close as you might reckon.” Remy took his hand out of his pocket and La Croix stiffened again, relaxing when he saw that Remy’s hand was empty.
This amused Remy enormously, although no flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“So if you thinkin’ I’m gon’ go ‘take me in for th’ bounty, please, please, let m’brother go…’ ah - you’re sadly mistaken. Let’s talk ‘bout me workin’ for you instead. You Pickers short of your best thief these days, I hear.” Of course he’d heard. It had been Remy who had set the man up for his capture by the police. The inside of the Louisiana State Penitentiary wasn’t the most conducive of places from which to run criminal activity. “How ‘bout we make a deal. Instead of bounty, you get me.” He moved to stand behind Henri. “An’ we take th’ Golden Boy here to share th’ bounty? C’mon, mon ami don’t tell me you ain’t tempted.”
Henri’s eyes were furious. Rehearsed furious. He’d tapped into Remy’s plan now.
La Croix’s eyes narrowed. What LeBeau was putting on the table was seriously tempting. To have Gambit working for him rather than against him…but then there was the question of just how much money the infernal Diable Blanc was worth.
Lost in thought as he was, he didn’t think twice when Remy crouched down behind his brother.
“M’sorry, Henri,” said Remy, in a mocking tone. “Li’l brother ain’t gon’ pull th’ stops out on this one. You on your own.”
Afterwards, Remy couldn’t recall any of the specifics. It all happened so damn fast that he was left reeling.
He had touched the ropes that bound his brother. He’d never tried this before and didn’t have a clue if it would work. What was the worst that would happen? He’d kill his brother, that’s what. However, the small kinetic charge that broke his brother loose came off without a hitch. The brothers fell into their natural fighting stance, back to back. Remy pulled a handful of cards out of his inside pocket and immediately pitched several of them at La Croix, causing the other thief to drop the gun.
“Don’t mess with th’ LeBeau brothers,” Remy had said, laughter in his voice. “You ain’t ever gonna be a match for us. Ever.” He had turned circles, addressing the hidden gang members in the trees. “If you don’t want your leader t’go th’ same way as those cards, I suggest you all step out now, where we can see you. Let’s … negotiate, huh?”
There were seven in total, including La Croix. Remy liked the number seven. “Three each an’ one for both of us,” he said, cheerfully to his brother. “I like those odds.”
There was a long drawn out silence of the kind that happened during a Mexican standoff. Nobody wanted to make the first move, nobody wanted that responsibility on their shoulders. In the end, Remy swore colourfully.
“OK, this ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, in irritation. “So me and Henri here, we’re jus’ gonna go on home and get out your hair, non?” He leaned over and picked up the Bo staff, flicking it to its full six foot length with a practised movement of his wrist. “We’re gonna scale that wall, then we’re gonna drop down th’ other side, an’ you can all stand here an’ carry on starin’ at one another. Au revoir, mes amis.” He nudged his brother forward.
“They ain’t gonna fight, Henri, let’s just get th’ hell outta here.”
How Henri had fallen from the wall that encircled the gallery, Remy never really knew, although he suspected it was dodging the gunshot that had followed them as they reached the top. The bullet had missed both the brothers, but Henri, already tense and on edge, had lost his balance and fallen. The wall was only seven feet high. It wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t landed so awkwardly.
The sound of his brother’s spine snapping haunted Remy’s dreams for years afterwards.
Time froze. Everything became slow and laboured, as though wading through treacle. Even under hypnosis, Remy hadn’t been able to explain how it was that he had proceeded to commit seven murders, ripping his way through the Pickers as though they were little more than dolls. He’d been beaten half into the ground in the process – but there were really only three things he remembered clearly.
He remembered the snap of Henri’s spine and the man’s agonised death cry.
He remembered how similar the sound of La Croix’s neck had been as he’d personally broken it.
He remembered how he crouched on the floor for hours, just holding his brother’s broken body, set at an unnatural angle in rigour mortis to him and weeping like a child.
He didn’t even remember how he’d got the young man’s body back to the Guild House. He had stumbled up the steps, Henri over his shoulder and collapsed in the hallway. People had come to see what was happening. There had been screams, there had been sobbing, there had been his father’s hand on his shoulder and a soft plea to stay with them.
There had been his father’s low vow of recrimination.
Then there had been darkness.
