leveraged_buyout | First Sight

First Sight

Lucien Moreau wasn't in town often, and that was the way Damien liked it. The less he saw the man who sired him the better, and even when the household was full of his spies who undoubtedly reported every little detail back to the old geezer, at least Damien didn't have to see him.

But if old Moreau arrived back on an early flight and summoned for his presence, as much as Damien didn't want to, he obeyed those summons. It didn't matter that he was still abed when the butler delivered them 15 minutes ago, his father demanded to see him and Damien obeyed.

It was only down the hall and into Moreau senior's private studies, but it still felt like it was going into another world. Damien's loafers clicked loudly on the tiles as he walked down the long hall of the west wing, the original section of the mansion that he normally avoided altogether. This was the old man's wing, a part of the ancient mansion that was inherited down generations, unlike the newer east and south wings which were added only shortly before Damien was born.

Dressed up presentably in a three piece suit, hair quickly slicked back to battle the his bedhead, Damien knocked on the large study doors and waited to be admitted. He covered his yawn with a fist as he waited, mind still blanked by the early morning to ponder the reason for the meeting.

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Damien thought for half a thought that Spencer was going to die, then grabbed the gun and did exactly as he was instructed, mainly because he had little other options at the moment. He ran back the way they came, for a bond second turning towards the right in his hurry door before veering back towards the left one. It took him to one of the many sitting rooms that was more there for decor than use, but like Spencer said, had plenty of heavy furniture.

Damien wasted no time in barricading the door by pushing over a couch, much too slow for his comfort, but the piece was large. The strangest memory of having slept on it on a summer afternoon flashed through his mind just before it shattered with the sound of gunfire.

Was Spencer killed already? He shoved harder at the piece, just in time to get it in place before the first round of fire stopped. Dammit, he knew Spencer was an indication his father wanted to make a move. Exhausted, Damien leaned against the couch clutching the gun in his hand and wondering how long would it take for those guys to get through the door to him.

Meanwhile the firefight had alerted both security and intruders alike, and there was a rush from both sides towards where the action was. There were definitely more intruders, a lot more.

The first four go down remarkably easily, given how heavily armed and, theoretically, well-prepared their assault was. But Eliot's fucked up their play-book with his attack, and right now he's not concerned with taking prisoners and getting information--there are clearly plenty of other options for that still running around the place--just making sure these fuckers don't get anywhere near Damien. So every last one of them hits the floor with a bullet through his head or his heart, and Eliot's already giving orders for redeployment and back-up as he gets back to his feet.

He can hear more booted feet on the polished floor, and since he knows exactly where his--surviving--guys are that means these aren't his. Not the ones close enough to hear, anyway. He takes a gun off one of the bodies, rather than drawing one of his own, and jogs past the bodies, careful not to step in the spreading pools of blood. He doesn't want to leave footprints as he slips into another small sitting room, muting his walkie-talkie and leaving the door slightly ajar so he can keep an eye on the hall as he waits.

It doesn't take long, and as he watches another group of heavily armed intruders emerge from the direction of the kitchens he realizes that his own men aren't likely to be here in time to do more than mop up the damn mess. He doesn't have time for more than a brief flash of frustration at that, though. This group's more cautious, they can see the bodies already in the hall and they're talking too quietly for him to hear, though he can see the hand signs they're using, which is enough to let him know when they're all in view, no one still waiting in reserve around the corner. That's his cue, and he takes careful aim through the crack in the door--and jesus, you'd think the fuckers would be paying more attention--and takes out not the leader, but the last man in the line. He doesn't want anyone slipping away.

He manages to put a bullet through two more thick skulls before return fire forces him back from the door with a curse and a sharp flash of pain as a bullet rips through his biceps. He doesn't bother running, and he definitely doesn't bother waiting, the second the gunfire stops he's through the door, crouched low as he runs and barrels straight into the guy unlucky enough to be in the lead. The knife he's let drop from its forearm sheath into his left hand finds its target unerringly, despite the blood running down his arm and already dripping off his fingers, and he's already moving for the next man before the first body hits the floor.

From there it's just a matter of keeping one body between himself and his soon to be next target, and by the time his own men come barreling in from two directions there are four more bodies leaking assorted fluids onto the expensive floor and Eliot's holding the fourth with a shattered arm pulled up tight behind his back and his broken nose pressed into the wall.

He doesn't tell anyone where Moreau Junior is, and makes a point of walking past the room he's barricaded himself into, issuing orders loudly about clearing the house room by room, checking the perimeter and the security tapes, before he'll tell anyone where the boss is. Hopefully the kid's smart enough and not too damn spoiled to take the hint and stay out of sight until Eliot's made absolutely sure no one else is going to crawl out of the woodwork and try to put a bullet in his head.

That period of silence after the original gunfire was nerve-wracking, and the sudden explosion of the second series of them nearly had Damien dropping his gun. He knew how to shoot with one, been to gun training ever since he could hold one, but that didn't mean he was comfortable with them. That was why they had hired guys to do the shooting for them.

He strained to hear anything from where he was, and it seemed like there was a fight going on not far from where he hid. Then came footsteps, a lot of them, and someone was issuing orders although it was too muffled to hear who. Was that his own men or the enemy? How many of them were there, and what for? They didn't shoot him on sight, although Spencer had shoved him away quickly enough that they might not have had the chance to begin with.

Perhaps Spencer knew his job after all, rest in peace to him. Damien told the guy he would live longer if he left, he just didn't expect it to be this short if he didn't.

It takes nearly an hour before he's satisfied that the house is, in fact, secure. An hour of clearing it room by room then walking the perimeter, checking the security tapes to identify the intruders point of entry (by identifying which cameras had been run on a loop) and their inside man (who joins the attackers in lockdown, all waiting for Eliot's personal attention later). By the time Eliot finally makes his way back towards Damien's hiding place a cleanup crew has arrived and the bodies, at least, are gone from the hallway, though the blood isn't yet.

"Damien!" He stands to the side and raps sharply on the door, just in case Damien's jumpy enough to put a bullet through it on reflex. "All's clear, got the place buttoned up tight again."

Damien had gone from tense and reckless to tense, reckless, and bored as time dragged on. It had quieted down after the initial fight and that had been half an hour ago, just enough for the adrenaline of the moment to begin it's initial crash.

He sat where he was, debating to attempt going out or remain longer in place, and that was a debate that lasted fifteen minutes in itself. He was still in the midst of the debate when the knock came, and he rapidly pointed the gun towards the door.

In hindsight, his enemies wouldn't knock if they knew where he was.

The gruff annoying accented voice startled him more than the familiar use of his name did, mainly because he had been convinced the man was already dead. "...Spencer?" He looked over the edge of the couch as if he could somehow see the person on the other side of the door. "Is that you?"

"In the flesh, man." Yeah, sue him, he's being uncharacteristically (so far) informal, but he's tired, pissed, and suffering not inconsiderable blood loss, and he'd really just like to get this all wrapped the hell up. He also does realize Damien's probably spent at least part of the last hour scared shitless and a lot of the rest of it confused, frustrated, angry and worried. Bored doesn't occur to him. "Sorry it took so long t'get back to you, I had to be sure the place was secure first."

"How did you survive?" Damien still looked towards the closed door to which hid his miraculously surviving head of security. It was one man against four, and that was only what he saw. Who knew how many were there following the initial group, and it certainly didn't sound as if back up -their own- were on their way, or even close.

Now that Damien was safely ensconced in the makeshift saferoom, he was in no hurry to get himself out. Shoving that couch hadn't been easy and pulling it back would be twice as hard.

"Door's stuck, you'll have to make your report where you stand."

Eliot sighs and leans against the wall next to the door. There's no one here to see it and he can wipe the security tapes himself later, he doesn't have to pretend that he's not fucking exhausted for at least a little while. "You want me t'pick the lock an' do some shoving from this side?" he asks, none of the weariness coming through in his voice. The other alternative is getting someone in to cut through the dam thing, which would take a good bit of time: he chose this room because it has no other exits, no windows (a rarity in the sprawling estate), and the door's solid oak, the hinges inside the room so it can't even be easily removed. He'll make his report after he hears the answer one way or the other.

Damien sighed although it might not easily be heard through that thick door. "No, I can probably open it. I want to hear your report first because I'm not doing that until I know I won't have to put myself back into here again."

This was rather embarrassing if he wasn't caught in the fear of the moment, trapping himself into a room and blocking it off with an old couch of all things. It was preposterous to even think about and he was in no hurry to remove it, even less to have someone do it for him.

"You may begin with what happened. How did they get in?" Damien settled down again, back to the couch -it's side, sitting on the floor, couch between him and the door- and placed the gun down beside him. It seemed like he won't be needing it again soon.

"Okay, fair enough," he concedes, even if he'd really rather not be doing this braced against a wall in the hallway. He gives himself a moment to marshal his thoughts past the throbbing pain in his arm and the general exhaustion of this whole damn day. "They had an inside man in security," he bites out, bitter and angry still at the betrayal, at having somehow missed it. "Abrams, been here about eight months. He put the cameras at the service entrance on a loop and opened the damn door so they could get their men in."

Christ, he wants to sit down, but he settles for stripping off his suit jacket and dropping it to the floor so he can adjust the towel he has wrapped around his biceps to control the bleeding. "There were a dozen of the fuckers, the shots we were was one of the housekeeping staff startling their rear guard and getting shot. She'll live, doesn't seem like any of 'em were very good shots."

He pauses for a moment, ordering his thoughts as he retraces the intruders' route through the house. "They knew the patrol patterns, so they could avoid our men." Because Abrams told them, of course, and he's gonna take it out of the bastard's hide when he gets a chance at him. "Knew where you were likely to be." Which is how they'd gotten to him so fast. "We've got nine bodies, got a clean-up crew disposing of them, and three in custody for questioning plus the fucker who let 'em in. I'll get to them once things are settled.

"But everyone left is at least trustworthy enough they helped take the bastards down, and we've done a room by room sweep t'make sure we got them all." By we he means he, because he doesn't honestly trust men he didn't hire himself enough for that right now. "I've reviewed the security tapes, walked the perimeter, and made sure the entire system's booted back up and operating."

Lousy shots, that explained why Spencer was still living. Although he had to have some skills to still be living. He handled himself decently well, Damien had to cede him that much.

"Did you find out what were they after?" That they were there for Damien was a given, but he wanted to know if they were a hit squad or had something else in mind. With the few they had in custody, perhaps they will be able to find out.

Getting up, he finally moved to tug at the couch. It budged, very slightly, but it did. Damien worked at it until he could slip himself into the gap it made between the door to push back from the other end. Then up against the door, Damien asked, "Who else is out there with you, Spencer?" the last thing he wanted was a hall full of guards watching him come out of hiding.

"Found restraints on a couple'a the bodies, and they had a windowless van set up for transport. So we're pretty sure they were lookin' t'kidnap you, not kill you." His drawl has gotten more pronounced even in the time they've been speaking. "I'll find out more for sure when I get a chance t'have a chat with them." And the inflection he gives that one word, chat, is heavy and dark. It's not going to be a pleasant conversation, clearly.

He listens to the sound of Damien moving around inside the room, the scrape of the couch across the floor, and makes himself bend to retrieve his damn jacket. At least the fabric's dark enough the blood doesn't show too vividly against it, unlike the thoroughly drenched sleeve of his dress shirt, though when he shrugs it laboriously back on the fabric bunches tight around the towel still wrapped over his biceps, and the hole where the bullet entered shows damp red fabric.

"Just me, bossman," he answers, and straightens himself up. Not to rigid attention, but to what can pass for a casual slouch, at least.

Damien took that into consideration, a kidnapping, he wasn't particularly surprised, just that they were books enough to do it in his own home. Maybe they knew of the change in the head of security, or thought as Damien did that he was left a sitting duck with Spencer in charge. Regardless, thanks to Spencer, it didn't pan through.

"See if you can find out who is behind this. If my father is involved... Kill them all." Because there was no point in asking for more and Damien didn't want them going back to the old man.

The door opened a few minutes later, swinging inwards, and Damien slipped out. He saw Spencer slouched there looking a little worse for wear but definitely the victor of this battle. It was thanks to him that Damien was well, he had to acknowledge that even briefly. "Good job." He clapped a hand over the younger man's arm, a casual gesture of encouragement, when he found his hand falling upon clothing that was damp... and sticky.

"Yessir." The order to kill them doesn't bother him at all, they knew the risk they were taking when they took the job, and they'd been willing to kill him and anyone else who got in their way if they'd been able to.

He waits patiently, if a little restlessly, for Damien's appearance, and steps just clear of the door when it finally swings open. He's not expecting the contact, not expecting anything from Damien other than more disdain, honestly, and so he's not quite braced for the searing pain as Damien slaps his hand directly over where the bullet had torn a deep furrow through skin and muscle. He manages not to jerk away, but he stiffens and sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth before taking a step back. He nods in acknowledgment of the praise, though.

"I'll have housekeeping come through and tidy this room up once the clean-up crew's done with the bodies and the blood," he offers, though his voice is a little tighter with the spike of pain. His only concession to the situation, though, is to reach into his coat pocket and pull out the small handtowel he has in reserve for when the current one bleeds through too badly and offer it to Damien for his hand.

Several expressions passed over Damien's features in blatant display. Surprise, disgust, a bit of concern, then flickering back towards disgust when he observed the sticky redness that now painted his hand. He accepted the towel and used to to daintily wipe at the mess, but there was a bit of concern, and perhaps a little marvel, in his expression when he looked back to Spencer.

"Get that looked at." They didn't have any doctors working in the household itself, but they had several that were on their payroll on call when needed.

Still not quite happy with the residual stains, Damien handed the used towel back to Spencer. "And you may install those cameras in the hall when you have this taken care of."

"It's fine 'til I've got everything here wrapped up," he answers mildly. "But I will as soon as that's done." So long as getting it looked at means him giving it a good once over in the bathroom mirror, dousing it in antiseptic, then sewing it shut himself, anyway.

"An' yessir, I'll have someone on it first thing tomorrow morning." He doesn't even sound smug about it, and certainly doesn't add an 'I told you so'. He'd just as soon not have had this kind of immediate and object proof of the need for heightened security, honestly. "Are you gonna wanna sit in on the interrogations, or would you rather get back to your day?" he asks, tucking the soiled towel back into his jacket pocket and turning towards the main part of the house as he starts to walk.

Damien grimaced just slightly at the suggestion of sitting in on what was guaranteed to be a gruesome interrogation and shook his head. "I have a meeting I'm going to be late for and will take most of the day. You can report back after you retrieve the pertinent details."

Together they walked, Damien needed to change and look respectable for said meeting, starting with a shower.

"The interrogation can start several hours later. Clean yourself up first, they aren't going anywhere. He assumed that Spencer was competent enough to have that taken care of.

Eliot makes note of his distaste at the idea of being present and files it away. It's something he thinks the kid probably needs to get over if he's going to actually stick it out in daddy's world, but right now it's not his problem, and not something he cares enough to try and deal with.

"No, they're not goin' anywhere, but they might be just a hair more talkative if I show up lookin' like this." Still bloody, clearly indifferent to it, and with an obvious ax to grind. "An' I've had a helluva lot worse, this is nothin'."

Damien looked far from impressed by that revelation, or at the suggestion that Spencer walking in dripping blood was a good look for the occasion. Clearly the man had some sort of experience with these things and this wasn't something Damien wanted to dispute him for.

"I'm sure you'll take care of it." Damien really didn't need to -or want to- know the details. He stopped briefly where this path would diverge from Spencer's, Damien going back to his room and Spencer to... wherever he was going.

"Call me as soon as you find out who is responsible. You have permission to interrupt my meeting." It would be a boring one that Damien would welcome an excuse to get out, if it wasn't already an excuse to get out of the interrogation to begin with.

"That I will," he agrees in a rough growl. He's no kind of happy about this shit show, and he's going to take a perverse sort of pleasure in extracting the information he needs from his prisoners. "You'll hear as soon as there's anything to tell," he promises, and heads down the hall in the opposite direction. Towards the improvised holding cells that hadn't really required that much improvisation, in this virtual fortress of a house.

It's not more than a couple hours later that Damien's personal cell rings, Eliot's number flashing on the display.

The afternoon meeting was a long tedious one, dealing with the year end summary of the company he ran in his father's name. It was one of the larger legal frolnts for his less than legal activities, which Damien suspected he put Damien in charge only because he needed someone there that he could control. Regardless Damien did good job as well as he was expected to, most of it was run by itself anyway.

The phone call came sooner than expected but couldn't have been soon enough. Excusing himself, Damien stepped out and into the privacy of a side corridor before answering. He skipped the niceties and went right to, "What did you find out?"

Eliot's not happy, and it's clear in his voice when he answers. "You called it, boss. Your old man sent them to collect you." And hadn't cared how many bodies they might leave in their wake, including his own recently hired chief of security. Eliot's not any kind of impressed at being set up like that by his own damn employer.

"They've all been taken care of, you want any souvenirs t'pass along?" It's up to him if he wants his father to know he's been found out, after all, even if Eliot would just as soon pay Moreau Senior a little visit of his own, to let him know just how unimpressed he is with his employment policies.

The news, while expected, still dropped like a bomb on Damien. Just because he saw the warhead being launched didn't mean he would receive it easily. It was worse when it was a long drawn out civil war as was this case.

Damien didn't answer for the longest time while he simply digested the news. Let Spencer think he was weighing his choices, or whatever he interpreted the long silence to be.

It was over a minute since Spencer's answer that Damien spoke. "No, just have clean up take care of it. He should already know they failed, no message to send back." Because, what was the point? Things wouldn't change even if they sent one of them back in a coffin addressed to his father. If anything, it may enrage the old man into something equally drastic. "Thanks for your hard work, that's all."

Eliot considers arguing, that at least he should let his father know he's on to him... but maybe he plans to do it in his own, more civilized way. Or has other reasons he doesn't know, not having a lifetime of experience with the backstabbing old bastard. So he takes the response in silence.

"'S'what I'm paid for, boss." By the man who tried to, what? Take advantage of his perceived inexperience? He's not sure what to make of it, honestly, and not sure if he should actually stay on in the position, no matter how lucrative and prestigious it is... given the moss just arguably tried to kill him, even if he would have just been acceptable collateral damage in some kind of feud with his kid. "Gonna have some more hard work comin' up, though," he adds after a moment, not even really thinking it through. "I wanna can an' replace every damn member of staff your father had a hand in hiring, unless you've got reason t'absolutely believe they're personally loyal t'you."

Damien had meant the comment as a dismissal, a front for him to retreat as well while he mulled over what a new sort of bastard his father was, but like always, Spencer couldn't take a hint. Instead his comment caught Damien off guard and made the younger Moreau pause in surprise.

"That would be replacing... everyone." Damien never hired any of the guards personally, it was all through the head of security, who was always hired by his father. He never even thought of such a bold move, mainly because he never thought it was possible. "Are you honestly thinking of replacing my whole household security?"

First Sight

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