Chapter Text
"Hey, Grantaire! Care for a drink maybe?" A hand landed on his shoulder with a heavy thud, and Grantaire had to hide how startled he was by the sudden noise and touch. He turned around to the man to face him. The man seemed friendly enough, with a bottle in his hand, but he still declined: "Not now. Boss wants to see me in a minute."
The man looked disappointed, and Grantaire suspected that he hadn't expected a no to his request. He slung his arm around Grantaire's shoulder and pleaded: "C'mon R, a sip o' booze won't hurt ya. Boss won't kill ya for it." Grantaire chuckled lightly, but it was a mirthless laugh. Oh you know he might if he's in a bad mood . He didn't tell this to this man, though, because the mere fact that he addressed Grantaire this casually while Grantaire himself had no idea who the other was reminded him of his vulnerable position within the Patron-Minette. He slid away from the arm around his shoulders and pushed the heavy body off while shaking his head. "Any other day I'd say yes, but for now, you should find another partner."
The man urged again and again, even going as far as to put the bottle to Grantaire's lips and tilt it. It had been nice whisky, Grantaire bet, but he quickly pushed the bottle away and after that, the man gave up and went to find someone else to join him in his drinking games. Grantaire leaned back against the wall, shot a glance at his watch and sighed: it was only a quarter past eight and Montparnasse had asked him to come by at eight thirty.
Grantaire didn't know what to do in the fifteen minutes to come. He'd been standing against the wall for a good twenty minutes already, his eyes on fixed on the bar in hopes of getting some entertainment out of its costumers once they got their heads drizzled. It hadn't worked at all. He was on edge, with a pounding heart and a feeling of dread in his stomach. Usually he would be at the bar, pouring cheap wine down his throat until his head got that slow spin and blurry feeling he loved so much. But now, he couldn't imagine that he'd ever want a drink again.
The leader of the Patron-Minette wanted to speak with him. For Grantaire, that could only mean trouble. He checked his watch again and two minutes had passed. Soon he would have to head to the office. The countdown was agonizing, but he'd gladly wait for hours rather than going to see Montparnasse. He had no choice, though, but to wait for a few minutes. So he waited.
When he checked the time again, his watch read twenty-five. The time had come. Grantaire pushed himself off the wall and started walking away from the bar to the office. He could hear his own pulse drumming. A vague memory came to mind from when he was a young child and had to ask a stranger to call his parents because he'd lost them in the crowd. He remembered being as scared and nervous as he was now. But the difference was that the stranger had been friendly. Which was the last word that came to mind at the mention of Montparnasse
Every step closer to his destination heightened this fear. His hands were sweaty by the time he rounded the corner and saw the heavy door at the end of the corridor, behind which the leader of Patron-Minette was waiting for him. Grantaire stood still to take a moment to calm himself down for the sake of his relaxed guise -which was his only protection against the Patron-Minette and its members-, but the adrenaline was already working and, when he reached the door and knocked on it he noticed that he was shaking.
From the other side of the door, a response came: "Who is it?"
"Grantaire!" He brushed his hands over his jeans in an attempt to wipe the sweat off of them while he waited for Patron-Minette's leader to acknowledge him. And though it was hopeless, he silently prayed to be ignored.
"Ah, come in. The door is open." Grantaire obeyed and turned the doorknob. The entrance opened with a soft click and he stepped inside.
Nothing had changed since the last time he had been here, about three months ago. There were still bookcases lining the left and right wall of the room, the carpet was the same, the lamp hanging from the ceiling still shone with the same white light. And there was still a corkboard with pictures of people pricked on it, although the people were different from the last time. New victims. And there, at the other side of the room, was the big wooden desk with one empty chair in front of it, and another chair seated behind it. Then, his eyes found the gaze of Montparnasse.
He sat deep in his chair, dressed in a classy black suit and with a stack of papers in his hands. And the small smile on his lips when he saw Grantaire standing in his doorway only made him more terrifying. Grantaire hesitantly walked toward him, eyeing him. He had no guards to either side of him, contrary to the last time they'd seen each other. But that was only a small detail. Montparnasse didn't need anyone to protect him from Grantaire. With a gun, Grantaire was deadly, but unarmed he stood no chance against the Boss.
When he came to a halt, he didn't wait for permission to take his seat and sat himself down to hide the trembles that ran over his legs. Montparnasse watched him sceptically but made no mention of it. Instead, he folded his hands on his desk after pushing the stack of papers aside and leaned forward a bit. With a smirk, he started talking. "Well hello, Grantaire. It's been a while since our last chat. Have you gotten a bit comfortable among my employees in the meantime?"
"Hard to say," Grantaire replied, "I scarcely remember anything that happens at the bar." He was being mocked, he knew, so he would respond accordingly. Or he tried. Part of him wished that he'd drunk a glass of something strong. It made him a bit more fearless and wittier. But he would have to get through this without alcohol. "You serve good drinks at your little business."
"I know," Montparnasse smiled at him, and his smile was cold as ice, "my own are even better, but I haven't asked you here to chit-chat and drink. I just wanted to get a conversation going." He leaned back in his chair and placed his arms on the cushions to the sides. He wasn't smiling anymore and had a sharp gaze on Grantaire. "You are here for an assignment, and a rather grand one, may I say." Grantaire carefully considered the words. A rather grand one, that can't be good. His usual tasks were planned by Gueulemer, or another one of Montparnasse's puppets. That probably meant that Montparnasse had plans for him that were not in his favour.
Montparnasse had to have seen his thought progress, because he chuckled lightly to himself: "It's nothing extremely dangerous, as long as you're careful," he told Grantaire.
"See, anyone could do it who can go by unnoticed." He winked at Grantaire at the word 'unnoticed', and it disturbed Grantaire more that he thought was normal. Montparnasse was admittedly a charming man, but Grantaire wasn't fooled by the superficial charm. He'd seen a lot of death at the hands of Montparnasse. A fancy suit and charming smile could hide the lust for blood to the untrained eye. Grantaire knew the devil inside. He swallowed and straightened his shoulders a bit to appear bigger and less nervous. His hands were sweating again "What is it, then? And why do you need me to do this?"
In response, Montparnasse grabbed a piece of paper and handed it to Grantaire. He took it and glanced over it: it was an article torn out of a newspaper. Grantaire read the title. It was written in capital letters. Robbery at the BNP Paribas bank last night. Three people shot dead, eight injured. Beneath it was a picture of the cash register, but Grantaire's eyes were drawn to a small symbol left on the desk, carved in: the three letters. ABC. And Grantaire didn't need to read the article to understand who were responsible for the heist. He handed the article back to Montparnasse, who put it away.
"You know the sign, right? Whom it belongs to?"
Grantaire nodded. "Les Amis de l'ABC." He'd seen a few more articles like this. "The mysterious gang, untraceable, hidden from public. Only perform heists on the biggest businesses." He recited what he knew as if he were taking a school exam. "They tend to use non-violent ways to get what they want, but kill people nevertheless. They have few to no known connections or alliances, and all information about them is uncertain." He looked at Montparnasse.''I know about them. What do they have to do with me?"
"Nothing yet, but that's why you're here."Montparnasse pointed at the corkboard and Grantaire followed his finger. He stared at the pictures and waited to be told what he was looking at.
"Those faces on the corkboard are the faces of people who we are trying to eliminate. Top priorities, you could say. And the only faces we're missing are those of the members of Les Amis, because we don't know what they look like. But they have to be removed from the picture nonetheless. They have been robbing the biggest banks of Paris, and they've also been prancing around in our territory. They are an immediate threat to us as an organisation. They rob us of places to find capital" He folded his hands together again and looked at Grantaire. ''But recently, there's been rumours that they are looking for a new member. A sniper, to be precise."
Grantaire's blood ran cold.
"You know what I want you to do, right?"
Grantaire knew it perfectly well, but he couldn't respond to Montparnasse. He could only look down at the table in front of him and stare at the article. Three people shot dead.
"You are going to offer them your services, gain their trust and lure their leaders out of their shell. When you succeed, you'll kill them."
Grantaire's voice came back to him, but his head was still over flooded with white noise. This was bad. "No." He weakly protested. Les Amis were well-organized, confidential, and all data about them was scarce. And there was only one way to achieve such a strong privacy. But Grantaire knew that he'd have to make Montparnasse's plan appear as useless and fruitless. So when he spoke again, he put on a considering voice, as if he was considering all the possible outcomes out of desire to make the plan work. "That'll never work. They won't fall for that." They will kill me if they find out. "I'll never be able to gain their trust. No one knows anything about them, so why would they suddenly drop their guard around a new member?" He frantically ran a hand through his hair with his shaking hands. But Montparnasse paid no mind to his words. He glared at Grantaire, not with a mocking smile but with cold and dark eyes. "That's your problem. This is your task and you will do as I say!" He raised his voice and a heavy threat crept into it.
Grantaire was afraid of Montparnasse, but he couldn't think rationally and only saw images of him being tortured to death after being discovered. "No! I won't do it!" He screamed. He stood up from his chair abruptly, and balled his hands into fists. "This is insane!-''
"You don't have a choice, Grantaire!" Montparnasse's voice boomed and in the blink of an eye he had Grantaire by the collar and yanked him forward to lean over the desk. Grantaire's bravado disappeared like melting snow. "You still seem to think that I am not serious, Grantaire, but I am your boss. If I give you an order, you obey. If I tell you to kill someone, you do it. If I tell you to infiltrate Les Amis, you fucking do it, regardless the risks,"Montparnasse hissed at him. He then shoved him back and Grantaire stumbled from the impact before regaining his balance. By then, Montparnasse was already sitting again. He was angry, and Grantaire knew just how dangerous it was to get Montparnasse angry. Nothing he'd say would change the outcome. Montparnasse continued.
"If you don't do exactly as I say, I will give the police all your data, all your information. They will know where to find you and your family and they will catch you and you will rot away in prison for the rest of your life."
"I don't need you to remind me," Grantaire spat out, refusing to sit down again, "it's all that keeps me from murdering you."
"I just have to say the word and you are number one on their wanted-list, Grantaire," Montparnasse sneered, "I am all that keeps you out of their hands. Try my patience, and you will regret it." He looked at Grantaire one last time before standing up and turning his back to him. "You have a week to contact them. I don't care how you do it, as long as it works. You can use whatever you need, if it's not too expensive." He said other things, but Grantaire couldn't focus. He could only stare at Montparnasse in white hot fury. He could easily jump him, close his hands around that slender neck, make him groan in agony and let him die along with Grantaire's information. He could slam him into the wall over and over again, could kill him. He wanted to kill him. So badly.
"-Understood?" Grantaire broke his chain of thoughts and refocused on what was being said. "Understood." He gritted the word out.
"Good. You are dismissed." Montparnasse's tone brooked no argument. And Grantaire didn't want to start one. He stood no chance against Montparnasse. He could never outmatch him. He walked away in defeat, but still found it in himself to slam the door close behind him, for whatever that was worth. He was so afraid of Montparnasse. And Grantaire hated knowing that Montparnasse knew everything about him, all the bad parts. And he would sell him out at any given moment. He controlled him. Anything he wanted, Grantaire would do it. He'd hoped that Montparnasse had forgotten about him in the months that he'd been with the Patron-Minette. He was forced to aid in robberies, deliveries. He even was told to assassinate people before. But this was different. This was going to kill him. Infiltrating was dangerous, and Les Amis were notoriously secret. A gang with basically no information about them. And there he was, forced to sneak in, because he was a sniper and they needed one. Grantaire sighed. Luck had never been on his side.
Better keep Montparnasse on my side for now, he thought grimly. He walked through the halls of the Patron-Minette's quarters. To the bar, where he spent most of his time. There were still some people sitting around, but most people had already gone to one of the dance clubs nearby, where there were strippers and more drinks and other people to meet. Grantaire couldn't be happier; he couldn't stand them. He hated them all.
He ordered a bunch of shots and a cheap bottle of wine and as the barman starting filling the glasses, the man next to him whistled at him. "Well, if it isn't Grantaire again. Drinking the barman poor." He scooted over to Grantaire and picked up a shot of something yellow. Grantaire didn't protest when he downed it, but ignored him as best as he could. He shot a half smile at him and took a shot from the bar too. That was all he was in the Patron-Minette; the heavy drinker, the drunk sniper, the only sniper at that. Or at least the only good one. No one ever wondered why he was with the gang. And that was exactly how Grantaire wanted it. He wanted to disappear from the earth. But today, he was denied this escape.
The wine felt good down his throat when he finished the bottle. The man next to him laughed at that. As Grantaire ordered another bottle, the man asked turned sideways to look at him, leaning his head in his hand: "I heard you had a talk with the Boss." He reached for another shot with his other hand as he was talking, but Grantaire swatted it away before taking the shot himself. Only after he'd emptied the small glass did he reply. "What about it?'' he asked coldly. He didn't like it when people tried to ask him about his personal stuff. The man seemed to notice his discomfort, because suddenly he was grinning like a wolf. "Well, what did he want from you?'' The barman was feverishly washing and drying used glasses, but Grantaire could see that he was listening attentively. He tightened his grip around the bottle. "He had a job for me, that's all."
"A sniper job?"
Mind your fucking business. "Yeah.'' Grantaire answered harshly. He hoped that his tone would somehow convince this man to stop bothering him. He just wanted to have a drink to calm his nerves.
"Then why are you so uptight? You get those all the time. Besides, usually you don't get orders from Montparnasse personally," the man insisted. He turned to the barman: "a beer would be nice." The man looked startled at being addressed. He immediately started filling a glass with beer from the tap at the end of the bar. While he was away, the man scooted closer to Grantaire so that they were touching shoulders and started talking to him with a lower volume. "What is the connection between you and Montparnasse?"
Grantaire eyed him, now not even hiding his irritation, and didn't answer. He picked up a small shot glass and gulped it down. When he didn't respond, the man continued talking: "You're a mystery. One moment we didn't have a sniper, and suddenly Montparnasse returned with you. You're always drunk during heists, but the Boss never tells you off. You've been here for four months, and no one knows the first thing about you.'' Grantaire wasn't sober, to be sure, but not drunk enough to be talked into telling all his secrets. He laughed dryly and found that the alcohol was doing its work. It made him looser. And he desperately needed to stay calm now, or he would have another person blackmailing him.
He raised his glass to the man mockingly. "There's nothing to know about me, my dude. I drink and I shoot, that's all you need know." He glanced down at the shot glasses in front of him; most were empty. He would down them as quickly as he could and then he would go away. As much as he needed a drink right now to guide him into sleep tonight, he couldn't stay in the company of this man. He was one of those copycat-Montparnasses: always trying to pry information out of him for his own gain. It was frightening to know that there were people all around him who were trying to find out his secrets, but when he was drunk he could deal with them. He emphasized his statement with another shot. Just four more. He could easily do this, dowse them one by one. Casually.
The barman arrived with a beer for the man next to Grantaire. He took it, and the barman hurried away to pretend to not eavesdrop. The man sipped his drink and Grantaire did the same, avoiding eye contact. "Rumour has it that you and Montparnasse were in the army together," he casually said.
The words had been relaxed and casual, but the message was clear. Grantaire felt a sharp wave of fear gulf through his body. He quickly picked up a shot to avoid having to respond. But even with the haze of alcohol in his mind, he knew that this was bad.
"Are those rumours true? Is that why you are such a good sniper?"
How does he know? The only thought on Grantaire's mind at the moment was that one question, repeating itself again and again on loop. He felt the first edges of panic enter his reasoning as he desperately tried to get rid of the influence of all his drinks. Montparnasse had sworn to keep it between them as long as Grantaire did as he was told. Then why were there rumours? He knew the man was waiting for a response. "No, we met when Montparnasse returned from war. I was just barman at a bar." He had to improvise, which was a lot harder when drunk. And he could tell that this man didn't believe him.
"Then how did he find out that you're a sniper. And where did you learn to use a sniper rifle?"
He had to go. This was an interrogation, and he couldn't risk it. One mistake could be the end of him. He set his wine down and stood up. The man looked at him suspiciously. He was onto something and knew it. Grantaire could only try to prevent him from finding out more. "I learned it from living in this fucked-up world," he responded. Then he walked away. He sort of expected to be followed, grabbed by the wrist. But when that didn't happen, he looked over his shoulder one last time to see the barman and the man leaned towards each other, talking in hushed voices. He started walking faster. Through corridors and past rooms until he found the small door leading to the outside world.
He exited and walked out normally, but started running as soon as the entrance of the club and hideout of the Patron-Minette were out of sight. He had to get away from that place. He was fidgeting, looking over his shoulder all the time, unclenching the muscles in his arms only to find them clenched again in a few minutes. He tried to stop his heart from beating, but it kept slamming against his chest. How much did the people know about him over at Patron-Minette?
He was just bluffing, Grantaire told himself. When Montparnasse had gone off to war and returned with a sniper, it was logical to assume that they'd met at the battle-front. Yet, the truth was that he disliked the idea of people coming to this conclusion. He already had to run away from the police, to have a gang chase him would be an entirely different kind of stressful. But then Grantaire remembered that he soon would attempt to play spy at a gang which he could only assume tracked and killed all its enemies. He felt hopelessly desperate. Things really hadn't been going well the past year.
After fifteen minutes of walking and running he'd left the bars behind him and was making his way through the dodgy ends of Paris. His apartment, as cheap as it was, was still half an hour away. There had been a time when Grantaire had lived close to the centre and the Académie des beaux arts, where he'd hoped to study. A flare of passion drifted up inside him. He'd always tried his best to make his paintings worthwhile. He had built up a grand portfolio and was going to ask for permission to take an exam. And then he had suddenly gone to war.
He walked past small alleys, along small shops and smoking groups and houses that looked shabbier at every corner he turned. And as he walked here, he scolded himself for ever volunteering to go fight. He had been so stupid. All his chances of a good future thrown away because of some deluded inspiration to 'make a change'. Now he was walking in the dirt, hiding himself from society. And he hadn't made any change but a bad one. Now people were driving past him in their expensive cars and were looking down on him, and he had to walk to his shitty apartment knowing that he couldn't go anywhere where Montparnasse wouldn't find him. And at that moment, Grantaire briefly considered jumping in front of their cars to dirty them with his own sad self. Yet he didn't; what good would it do him?
And so he walked in silence until he reached the tumbling building he called home. The poorest building in the entire street, inhabited by drug criminals and such. And there he was, among people who'd hit rock bottom just like him. The stairs creaked so loudly when he walked them that he heard a door upstairs fly open and had a "keep that fucking noise down, there's more people living here!" thrown at him. Grantaire didn't respond. He wanted nothing to do with his neighbours. Half of them were addicted to something. And most of them not only to alcohol like Grantaire.
His own door opened with a swing after he'd unlocked it. He stepped in and felt a sense of peace wash over him. His own apartment. Finally he was alone. He walked to his kitchen and opened the cupboard to fetch a bottle of vodka. He'd had a lot of alcohol already, but today had been extremely stressful: the waiting to talk with Montparnasse, the talk with Montparnasse, a random guy fishing for information about him and Montparnasse and the war in Syria. All in all, his body was shaking with adrenaline and liquor was always the best comfort he found in life. It was cheap, but it did the job so much better now that he was alone. After that, he sat on the edge of his bed and just took a moment to stop his world from spinning.
His room wasn't much of a view. There was only a kitchen, which was a few cupboards and a microwave with a fridge, a table with a chair and a bed. And a bathroom, thank God. He also had a shelf with a few books arranged on it, most of them about art. In the corner of his room were some canvasses. He stared at them with a heavy feeling in his heart. He hadn't painted something beautiful in a long time. He would do it once he could find inspiration again. But it was hard. He still made paintings, but it was so difficult to paint something so beautiful only to know that he would never belong in that world again. Grantaire wanted to look away from the half-finished scenes depicted on canvas, but instead he just kept looking at them. He longed for the time he would go back to the Arc de Triomphe to finish the painting he'd made. He would one day. When he'd killed the leader of Les Amis. I don't want to kill more people.
Grantaire tore his gaze away from the paintings, and instead reached under his bed. Soon his hands touched cold metal, strapped to the frame of his bed with duct tape. He tore it away without looking and picked up the gun from under the bed. His sniper rifle. A WA 2000. He gently placed it in his lap as if it were his child, and studied the curve of the barrel. It was a beautiful rifle. He still remembered when he had just bought it, how much it had cost him and how careful he had been to make sure he wouldn't get caught buying firearms. The ecstasy coursing through him every time he would fire it, knowing he was shooting with one of the rarest sniper rifles in the world. He was good with a lot of guns, big and small, but he loved this one most. He could carry it, yet it still had good range. He reached under the bed again and fumbled around until he felt the plastic of a ziplock bag. He pulled it out and opened it. The bullets piled in his lap. He loaded his gun with the bullets he still had, and made a mental note to ask Montparnasse for more ammo. Montparnasse never questioned it. He was relatively easy in that regard.
Grantaire pulled the hammer back and softly lay the gun down underneath his bed. Now that he was going to confront Les Amis de l'ABC, he figured it would be wise to make sure that he was at least armed if they came for him to his apartment. He was paranoid, and he knew this, but that paranoia had saved him a few times.
In a haze, he undressed and put his clothes in his closet. He brushed his teeth, though more out of obligation than hygiene, and crawled into his bed. His head was buzzing and every movement was slow, but that was only good. Grantaire was hoping that he was drunk enough to sleep through the night without waking up from the terrors that came in the dark.
Montparnasse cutting him to pieces. Policemen and militants chasing him as he ran off to a dead end. Him running around with his rifle among all the people who'd died thanks to him. Claquesous dragging him away into an alley where no one could ever find him again. Him shooting people running out of a burning building that his unit had set on fire, killing the last survivors.
These, and many other familiar memories and scenarios, plagued him night after night. And though he desperately prayed for a dreamless night, he knew that he would relive them again. And again. Until the dreams would come to life. And send him to sleep forever.
Praying is useless anyway, he thought as he already started drifting away from conciousness, there is no God, or he must hate me.