July 1st, 2017
1900 Hours
Tucson, Arizona

It's night in Tucson, about four hours since the team all met up in Dust Plain. Two since checking in under fake names at a lonely motel off the highway outside of Tucson. Steve Foster would stay back and quietly await their return in one of two rooms they'd rented, both connected by a door to the other. They'd gotten ready in whichever way they did before a case or an op and then hopped into the Sonata and the Suburban, coming into town right around sunset. All plain clothes, no door-kicking tonight if they could help it. Werner, Ben and Javier in the Sonata, while the rest took the Suburban.

Frank Olvik was not an elusive man, making a living selling life insurance to the elderly and volunteering at the local homeless shelter in his spare time. Single, almost always away from home- an apartment on the west side of town they would learn- it made it easy for Dan and Rosa to confront him outside of a Starbucks a black from his apartment building. Badge-flashing and fast-talking had the rest of the team following Frank back home- US Marshals were putting him under protective surveillance due to his connection with David Jimenez, or that's Werner told him.

'Back home' for Frank was surprisingly well-off. He lived in a high-rise, paid for by his earnings with the insurance company. He entered in their worst salesman and after six months had become one of their best, he said. Hart Insurance company was the name of his employers. Werner and Atter had sat in on Dan's interviewing of Frank under the vague answer of 'consultants' when asked who they were. It was a run-of-the-mill affair, the interview, but Werner didn't want excitement this early in. David had returned from Mexico a month ago, this much they knew, but apparently he'd fallen into a depression sometime between leaving there and getting here.

Alcohol and drugs had started to muscle in on Frank's position as best friend, so he feared the worst when he knocked on his door and no one answered a few days ago. Missing persons report was submitted shortly after. When asked if David had any enemies, Werner- and Dan too, probably- was surprised by the answer. David was escorted and held for five hours after complaints about a man asking for interviews from several members of the local Mason's lodge. Apparently, he was working on a book about the occult and was going to use some of the information from the interviews he never got in one of his books. The co-author was to be Thomas Grant, whom Frank had not made an acquaintance with at all. When asked about any mutual friends Frank and David might have, they received only a few names; Melinda Vanderhalt, Francine Rodriguez, Raymon Jamesson, and Spencer Reef. Both Frank and David led a close-knit life, Frank said.

They thanked Frank for the information on David and his apartment address before leaving for David's apartments. It was almost the opposite of everything that Frank's apartments were, these were on the eastern side of town, located in a less-than-well-to-do area. A squadron of police vehicles could be seen outside, a couple of State PD uniforms standing outside and talking about where they were going to drink after their shift was over. Dan and Rosa's badge-flashing had saved the night from getting interesting once again. Of course, though, Detective Christina Albright didn't take too kindly to the Feds showing up unannounced and taking command of her crime scene. Other than her tone, there didn't seem to be a lot of resistance. The State PD seem to take an interest in them, some going so far as brazenly staring while others only take sidelong glances. There's a tension in the air with the team's arrival.

David's floor had just been cordoned off and none of the investigators had a chance to canvas the floor, get into David's apartment, or interview the other residents. Those are the team's jobs now. Ben and Victor are in the lobby, tasked with watching for anyone suspicious entering or leaving through the stairs or the elevator. Atter and Rosa were going to interview the neighbors. Dan was tasked with searching David's apartment.

Werner and Javier were going to find out more information on the mutual friends of David and Frank, perhaps pay a visit to the local Mason's lodge. For now, Werner wanted to find out more on David's escapades with the Masons. Asking Detective Albright about it only yielded the name of one officer, Carla Graves. Albright refused to give any more information. Asking the PD outside of the apartment building about Carla Graves gave the two a destination; Otis's Bar, on the outskirts of town. When Werner and Javier left the parking lot in the Sonata, Werner had felt uneasy. The glances and stares from the police put him on edge, Albright's attitude could be chalked up to throwing a fit that Feds were there to steal her glory. But something was still off. Pulling out onto the main road and driving to the south of the city, he spotted only one other car- a black Corolla. Getting back onto the busier streets, he turned to Javier, "Head on a swivel, bud. Black Corolla, blacked out windows, look out for anyone else."

After a half-hour driving, they'd made it to Otis's bar and asking around for an officer Carla Graver brought them to her, a corner near the emergency exit, with a view of the entrance. She was blonde and had a masculline jaw, though that was the toughest part about her. Thick but short, hair done up in a bun and dressed in no way that asked for company. "What's this about, boys?"

"Agent Mendez and I have some questions pertaining to David Jimenez and Thomas Grant." Werner said.

‘’Special Agent Daniel Allen, FBI.’’

By now, Daniel had all but lost count of the times he had repeated this sentence over the course of the last few hours. From the moment when he had introduced himself to his colleagues, it was almost as if he wasn’t meant to say anything else. From the State PD Detectives who were handling David Jimenez’ cordon, to the barrista of the Starbucks where he and the woman called Rosa had grabbed Frank Olvik, he had said almost nothing else. Admittedly, he had mentioned that he wanted a mango-passion fruit Frappucino to the barrista as well. That meant something. And the Frappucino also meant something. It was refreshing, at least it was cold. He appreciated that. He couldn’t appreciate the taste as good as he used to. He guessed his body still hadn’t un-fucked itself completely after his ‘incident’.

The elevator doors opened with a ‘ding’, and Daniel walked out towards the familiar yellow-and-black tapes. An old officer with a handlebar and a huge belly, sitting on a folding chair, looked at him from above his glasses. ‘’Whatcha want here, young feller?’’ He asked, with a heavy, toxic Southern accent. Daniel looked at the man and took a slurp of Frappucino. It was a miracle that the damn thing hadn’t evaporated still.

‘’Special Agent Daniel Allen, FBI,’’ Daniel said, rolling his eyes. He was obviously not amused by saying this again, but, the higher powers at work seemed to get a chuckle out of it, since it seemed that the officer hadn’t made out what he had said. Or he had sensed the torment Daniel had felt when saying that, and decided to indulge himself in some good old Schadenfreude.

‘’Say what?’’

Daniel sighed. ‘’I’m from the FBI, I’m here to investigate the scene.’’

‘’Huh. FPA? Haven’t heard of anything called an FPA. You got a badge, son?’’

Daniel took another slurp of Frappucino as his other hand rummaged through his chest pocket for his badge. His fingers latched onto something metal, and a moment later, he triumphantly brandished it at the man. ‘’FBI,’’ he repeated, eyes pointing at the tapes.

‘’Oh, yes, yes, you’re a fed. Sorry, my ears aren’t what they used to be,’’ the man said, with Daniel sensing a hint of malicious bliss in the man’s voice. Maybe he was projecting how he felt about the man. Either way, he felt that it would be better if he no longer tolerated the man’s presence. He put the Frappucino on the ground, just before the tape, and then proceeded to slide over it, walking towards the open door. He settled his responding officer’s kit next to the door, and opened it, pulling out a pair of shoe covers and a pair of gloves. He hated putting them on, but a job was a job.

Once inside the apartment, Dan went through his pockets for his flashlight, not wishing to damage any evidence by turning on all of the lights, and realized that he had forgotten to bring it along. Sighing, he pulled out his smartphone instead, substituting the flashlight option on his phone. ‘’The wonders of technology,’’ he mused to himself as he eyed the living room blankly, looking for anything suspicious or interesting. Mostly, the house implied to a man who had no personal order. Cigarette butts, dropped ashtrays, random bottles, emptied, dusty packets of Doritos, and nothing obvious in sight… except a bunch of boxes. He smacked his lips upon the sight.

Carefully prodding the boxes to see if anything dangerous lay inside them, Daniel finally made his leap of faith and started opening them. Inside them were papers – drawings, writings, more oddly, circular symbols of an occult look. Daniel held one of them up, and began reading the inscription underneath one.

‘’The fifth Spirit is Marbas. He is a Great President, and appeareth at first in the form of a Great Lion, but afterwards, at the request of the Master, he putteth on Human Shape. He answereth truly of things Hidden or Secret. He causeth Diseases and cureth them. Again, he giveth great Wisdom and Knowledge in Mechanical Arts; and can change men into other shapes. He governeth 36 Legions of Spirits. And his Seal is this, which is to be worn as aforesaid.’’

Daniel put the paper down. ‘’Also known as Barbas,’’ he mused to himself, feeling somewhat proud. He had seen this fellow in B.P.R.D., and now that it seemed he was in a case that involved such things, suddenly felt slightly intrigued, although this intrigue quickly left its place for slight fear after he felt the echo of a bell ringing. He put the paper down, and gently rummaged through the others. There were a bunch of other seals – Gamori, Orobas, Eligos, Balam… Daniel put the box down and opened the other one.

‘’SANTISIMA MUERTE
YOU ARE MY PROTECTION
FROM ALL HARM
YOU KEEP ME SAFE FROM CRIME
YOU SHIELD ME FROM THE STORMS
THAT LIFE PUTS IN MY PATH’’

Daniel remembered Santa Muerte, from some of the reading he had done, also from B.P.R.D., and also from that TV series he had watched. The Psycho Twins had crawled to his (her?) shrine. He smiled faintly, and put the papers down. He had seen enough, he believed. His job wasn’t to profile this man, at least, not yet. He turned around, and, after a moment of looking at the spoiled snack leftovers on the man’s table, noticed the computer right next to him.

It wasn’t much there either. The man’s fondness for porn was almost beyond his fascination with the occult. Daniel felt slightly ashamed to see scenes he had also watched in the man’s search history, and kept scrolling down, into an unending pit of astrology, crackpot occult sites, and half-assed translations of Mexican blogs about magic, with an a smattering of ancient astronauts here and there. With all the resources he had, this guy could give History Channel a run for its money.

The bookshelves were similarly intertwined between fact and fiction. Books about the Nazis, the Ahnenerbe and the Thule Society, at least one book about Hitler’s Flight to Atlantis, Helena Blavatsky's theories, Shambhala and Hyperborea, a bunch of religious books about Heretical Christian orders such as the Templars and the Rosicrucians, and the ever-recurring cast member, Freemasonry. At this rate, he would stumble upon a pentagram and fight back a Marquis of Hell with the power of Christ any second now. He decided on a change of scenery.

The kitchen was an unclean, abominable mess that almost brought Daniel to a rage in its disorder. Aside from a bunch of receipts, all there was to it were empty bottles of alcohol. The concept of ‘trash’ had been taken out long before anyone could take out the trash itself, and the reeking smell of opened bottles and unclean dishes brought memories of the short time when Daniel lived with a roommate. They were horrible, horrible times.

Daniel opened the fridge for a snack, and, much to his disappointment, found nothing but alcohol and cream cheese. Frustrated, he left the kitchen, although before he left, he could not help but notice the Playboy Calendar greeting him with a full-frontal. ‘’Coffee with Thomas Grant,’’ it said underneath a date, and not much else.

Inside the bedroom, Daniel came face to face with a slacking teenager’s dream come true. It was an abominable, almost blasphemous mess of clothes and underwear, with the smell of sweat from unwashed clothes attempting to mask the faint smell of marijuana from Daniel’s nose. But the nose knows. The nose knows where the marijuana is.

Daniel congratulated the man on his lack of ingenuity as he checked to see if the shoebox was rigged. As he expected from a man of this caliber, it was not. Cannabis, pills, a small bong, and a couple of receipts. Small time. He eyed the receipt, and repeated the name on it to himself with a monotone. ‘’Melinda’s Spiritual Emporium.’’ He shook his head, impressed. He took the receipts, and then took his leave. His job was done here.

Victor stood in the lobby with his hands on his hips, looking about. It was not a nice case as far as he heard, creepy freemason shits with their crazed delusion of illuminati or whatever the fuck it was they believed in. He didn't like it at all, no. He never dealt with this before. Breaching a doorway and mowing down the jihadis within was one thing, not knowing who to trust or not was a wholly different one. The one thing that comforted him was that he was not going to be dealing with that sort of thing much. That was for the runty feds. He had no qualm with intrigue and all, but the rules involved made it unbearable. What was wrong with hitting a thug in the stomach with a baseball bat? It was the only thing they understood.

He moseyed over to the older muscle, lighting a cigar and offering the man one. "I'll be looking for at the stairs, you keep them hawkeyes on the elevators, alright?" he said in a tone that was showing it was a statement, not a question. Besides, if there was a fuck-up then that meant there would be more scraps, and thus he reckoned his contract could only get an extension. He made sure to blow a puff of smoke in the face of anyone he found to be "unruly," be they lowriding or wearing a snapback. The glorified gun for hire made sure he wasn't just enjoying himself however, he had a job to half-ass after all. He looked left and right for anyone with odd cult symbols and signs, perhaps with a backpack too large and full, or someone particularly nervous. He wasn't sure exactly for what he was looking for but that didn't really matter, since people would try to mask it. There was of course the possibility of someone trying to put a bomb about, so he at least listened for the ticking that some of the less subtle ones had. Finally he was looking for someone who was disobeying the law in (particularly the minor ones) some way, since it would give him an excuse to pay more attention to them and instill fear, perhaps even search them. A minor breakage like parking in a disabled spot when someone wasn't was exactly what he wanted to see, since while a minor disobedience was a sign someone was in a rush, and thus suspicious.

Bored, he considered making conversation with the older man. "I hear there's a junior world cup for hockey coming up. I don't know if that's kids or lightweights or what, but I like hockey. Course I never played it, but hitting other folks with sticks and the distraction of the puck always seemed nice. It's like a more violent form of golf I gather."
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1544

"Hey, yo, look at those fucks." he quickly said, pointing to the car trailing after the two detectives that left. "Our pals got themselves a trail. Shit chief, all of this looks fishy." he declared, sniffing the air and looking about quickly. His gaze was busy however, he was hoping that Ben could catch something. (@Roosan's gotta roll now)

(In Collaboration with Leidenschaft)

Javier was in the Corolla with Werner driving; his hands were both inside of his Nike tracksuit as he looked at the road ahead. The duo spotted then a black Corolla, with tinted windows fully blacked out parked on the side of the street, Javier nodded once Werner stated it outloud and proceeded on driving. However, as Javier glanced at the side mirror he spotted a motorbike, roughly say 2 cars away from them. Looked like a male on a Japanese style bike with a blue helmet his head. “6 O’clock, possible tail. Motorbike, Blue Helmet” stated Javier, eyes on the side mirror. Werner looked at his rear-view mirror before staring back at the road ahead. “Bar’s five miles out," Werner said, looking at the GPS, "We hit the next turn, if he follow’s us there then we park to the side, if not, we go in.” Werner said, making it a point to check his p320.

The Sonata made the right turn in a normal fashion, the biker momentarily slowed down before buzzing off at the last moment. Javier seemed to rub his jawline and looked at the side mirror once again. “Fucking shady isn’t it?” Javier said.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is, my friend.” Werner replied, smiling a little, but looking at his mirrors for any other signs of a tail. At least this wasn't Baghdad or some Afghan town. Of course, it always made it easier when the bad guys popped out with ak47s. It made it obvious who was trying to kill you.

The Sonata arrived at Otis’s bar. The bar was in decent condition on the outside with a few locals around a pickup truck. The locals gave the Sonata a look before getting into the pickup truck and driving off. A few cars were outside. A jeep, a station wagon and a Honda Civic, as well as a Harley Davidson motorbike. The Sonata occupied one of the free parking spots before the duo got out. Werner locked the car and looked both ways before tossing Javier the keys. “You drive back, yeah?” Werner said, a smile on his face, but not a request.

“Sounds good.” Javier said, tossing the keys into his tracksuit pocket. Javier took watch a few moments outside before going in with Werner. Werner proceeded towards Carla Graver and gave a introduction to her. Javier sat down beside Werner. As Javier sat down he noticed roughly in the corner of the bar across from their booth, a man in his 40s giving the occasional look to the table. The male seemed keeping a eye on the group and had a bottle of beer in his hands, slowly taking the occasional sip from it. He felt like he was being watched, though he began the questioning as he looked at Carla.

“What can you tell me about the last time you saw David Jimenez and Thomas Grant?” Werner asked, interlocking his fingers.

"Those boys getting themselves in trouble again with that shit?" She frowned.

"You could say that. Only one reason the DEA is here." He nodded to Javier, and Carla sucked her teeth at the revelation she was talking to Feds. Or, a Fed, and a CIA Officer. But no one needed to know that. He brought out his notebook and uncapped his pen, already touching the tip of the pen to the paper, waiting. "We'd like to know about the incident you responded to, with the Mason's lodge and those two."

She sighed before beginning, her eyes going to the ceiling in thought, "I was on the usual day-shift stuff, you know, patrolling. I'd only given a few tickets out, got mean-mugged by some Surenos, every day stuff. I get a call towards the end of my shift, says the Mason's lodge is getting a hard time from two guys that won't stop harassing their members. I pick these guys up, slap cuffs on them- they were cooperative, so- I put them in the back. One's got a clean record, David Jimenez." She stopped to take a sip of her beer, "The other one though, he got busted for possession of marijuana. Spent four months in jail after that."

"How long ago was this?" David asked.

"I think... Six months ago? Yeah, six." She nodded.

“What occurred once you took them in?” Javier asked

“Well, I took them into the station. Was a ok day, we had a tourist who got robbed and a stolen car request, nothing major at the time. Both men sat down at the station and we got the lodge on the phone. The lodge wasn’t interested in pressing charges or anything, they just wanted them to go away and stop bothering them. A fair request, I thought nothing more of it and roughly after 20 minutes of asking basic information and questions both men were free.” Carla replied, again having another sip of her beer.

“What did you ask?” Javier asked, looking to the male in the corner for a moment before back at Carla.

“Name, Address, both stated different addresses. David, since he was clean, I didn’t press into. However, I pressed into Thomas a bit more. He had a ounce or two when he got stopped by some cops on a DUI. Cops had probable ground and searched him, found the weed and pressed charges on him. He plead guilty and took four months to jail for the crime. After that I simply accepted the response, and called the lodge up before formally releasing the men.” Carla stated.

"Where is this lodge? Can I get an address?" Werner asked.

"Yeah, sure. You boys don't know your way around yet?" She asked.

"No, we both got put on the case after we transferred in. Anyways..." He said, tapping his pen on the paper.

"Mm, okay." She rattled off the address for the lodge and Werner scribbled it down, flipping the notebook closed and stuffing it back in the pocket it came from.

"Thank you." Werner smiled. There was still the fact that Carla was alone here and there was a man obviously watching them at the bar. A danger to them was now a danger to her, he'd seen them talk to her. "Listen, Carla. I'm not going to let you drive home after a few drinks. I'm going to let you in on a secret here- David Jimenez went missing after returning from Mexico. We have reason to believe it's cartel related. If anyone's seen you talking with us, they'll want to know what we talked about, and they might not be nice about getting that information. It'd be best if you left with us."

"Right, right." Carla chuckled. "You boys are a couple of gentleman, escorting a lady out."

"Sure we are." Werner smiled, leaning over to Javier, "You're bringing up the rear, if that guy follows us out, let him go to his vehicle. If he pulls a gun, pull yours quicker. We're only turning this into the wild west if someone else really, really wants it that way."

He nodded, Javier nodded, Carla gave a growing look of concern. They got up, Werner throwing down a twenty, and they left with Carla walking between Werner and Javier. Every step, he expected the man to get up and then having to pull his gun. The man at the bar stayed where he was and it was like crossing a finish line when they set foot past the threshold of the place. The warm night air felt like the ambient breezes of heaven. Javier got into the Sonata and cranked the engine, Werner helping Carla into the backseat and taking a seat next to her. "Let's not get too fond now, boys." Carla said. It was at this point that Werner smelled the alcohol on her breath and noticed her slurring words.

He rolled his eyes, "Keep an eye out for the Corolla and crotch-rocket. We only get out if they do, otherwise, we keep on the gas until getting back to the others." The man who was watching them got back on his Harley, the motorcycle roaring to life obnoxiously, before he sped off out of the parking lot. "Let's go." He brought out his phone and dialed Dan.

With a stoic sigh, Ben rubbed at his sore knee. It had been aching on and off for a year or two now but for the last few days it had picked up from a background pain to a proper throb. Distressing, considering it looked like he'd more than likely need both knees soon enough. These kids don't have to worry about their damn knees he internally grumbled, looking across at Victor. The man was solid, young and fit, though he smoked and moved with a bit more swagger than Ben liked. Swagger doesn't help you fight, doesn't make you faster or stronger. Swagger just starts fights and fights, even (or especially) in this line of work, are to be avoided.

Still, better to make nice with teammates than squabble. So when the younger man came over and made some official sounding noises, Ben nodded. Watch the elevators, keep an eye on the lobby and make sure to notice anything suspicious. Nothing too difficult, at least not to start off with. A few minutes passed in silence before Victor started saying something about Hockey. Unprofessional, to start blabbing when they both needed their wits about them, showed impatience. Still thought Ben you get more patience as you age. If you age. "Never been much one for Sports" he replied curtly, eyes not deviating from his assigned lookout spot.

Then Victor started cursing and pointing, something about a tail. Ben didn't look over, he was watching one of the detectives. The man had just stuffed away a phone into jacket, caught Ben's gaze then looked away guilty before hurrying off. Suspicious behaviour to say the least and Ben tapped Victor once on the shoulder before moving after the cop. "My twelve o'clock, two detectives in black suits, possibly ordered the tail. If we get their number plate we can track them down." he said, quietly enough that Victor could only hear it if he kept up with the older man.

The two operators followed the policemen to the garage, where their targets got into a black Ford Crown Victoria, the license plate of which Ben copied into the burner phone's notepad. He nodded to Victor and turned to go back up the stairs when something made him stop. Footsteps and muttering, coming from above them, someone hissing about 'who the fuck are they?' in a low voice. Moving fast, Ben stepped out of sight of the stars, backwards into the shadows of the parking garage, and signalled for Victor to do the same.

_{Post rolls: 1 and 2}

Rosa looked at the sky as she checked her back for the umpteenth time. The bowie knife was indeed still there, help up by a covert holster which allowed her to unsheath it and scare the piss out of any potential attacker whenever she wanted. On her hip was her Glock 42, a sidearm made for concealment. Of course she had her dogtags on, which lay cold on her chest under her AC/DC shirt. Really, she looked like a college rocker from the 70s apart from the USMS badge on her belt. AC/DC shirt, jeans, army drab jacket. No one would have known she was a highly trained federal officer.

Rosa looks over at her partner, still prepping for the task at hand. He was an unassuming man at first glance, nearly middle aged, but Rosa could tell there was more than meets the eye. He was in shape (as she would have expected) and seemed to have a somewhat plain face. She couldn’t really pinpoint what his job was or what he had been through, which came as a shock to her because she was pretty good with people like that. She looked around the scene, the State PD haven’t given them much trouble, although one of the detectives had a mouth on her alright. Rosa strutted over to her comrade and said “Ready to go partner? I didn’t catch your name by the way, what should I call you?”

This whole business was really a shit show. Atter pulled his Starbucks cup to his mouth and took a small sip of the overly hot beverage inside. He could not understand why people who want to drink this kind of stuff in the Arizona heat. At least it was not in the middle of the damned day. He cleared his throat and checked the boring watch on his wrist. He wasn’t marking the time. It was a deception, like everything else. He used that time to flick his eyes to the woman he had been assigned to assist. She looked like she was sixteen. He made no fuss about that though. He knew appearances were just a surface detail. He knew the very dangerous woman he was standing with. Decorated, effective, and strong willed. That was good. In a fight she’d make a great distraction and probably put lots of holes in poor folks too stupid to comply.

A tiny hint of a smile crossed his face, vanishing just as quickly, as he saw her check the knife she had strapped to her back for the sixth time in as many minutes. Atter reached his hand up and straightened the lapel of his lightweight suit jacket and made sure his tie was loose and unkempt in just the right way. That ‘I’m an old fed’ look. He was good at that look. Off the rack suit, all black aside from the white dress shirt, and shoes that would get you kicked out of nearly any club worth it’s entrance fee. He had even pre-scuffed the toes of the loafers a little. Anything for the look.

Rosa finally walked up and asked him the fabled question. Who would he be? It was an easy question to answer, “My badge says I’m Richard Black.” he took another sip of his coffee. “I think that’s fine.” he pulled his voice into a normal and unassuming South-western American accent. Keep people at ease. “Quit looking at me like we haven’t been working together for five years though.” he flicked his eyes over to her and held out the coffee to see if she wanted a drink. “Calm your nerves. You’re knife is fine and this is just talking to civvies. Shouldn’t be anything more than routine. Nevertheless, Semper fi.” he gave her a quick smirk and a wink to go with it.

Rosa raised an eyebrow at this statement. He knew about her, that was for sure. She pulled her previously flowing silky black hair back into a ponytail, her scar now clearly visible. She didn’t have overly long hair, just long enough to where she felt going anywhere where she might need to get physical the hair would be an issue. She held up a hand at his offer for coffee “No thanks, I hate coffee. And this would be routine, if this were a routine group that had been put together. But it isn’t. I’m just being prepared. So Black, let’s go inside and question some neighbors.” The man was peculiar alright, though Rosa was sure he had been chosen for a good reason and for better or worse, he was the guy who had her back right now.
Rosa began to walk towards the building, her confident strut and desirable figure turning some of the PD officers heads. The detective just scowled as she made her way in. She opened the door for Black, the cool lobby AC blowing on the right side of her body.

Atter gestured to allow her to lead the way and lead she did. He did not need to make a comment about this being a peculiar group, but, to him it was rather normal. He had spent time training with terrorists and being shot at by the men he had once allied himself with. He suspected this job would result in far less of his own people trying to kill him. Well, he hoped. Mr. Black noticed the police giving Rosa the old ‘watch’em go’ but made no indication that he had seen a thing. He merely filed it away for information to use later and followed Rosa into the air conditioned lobby. He breathed in appreciatively as the cool air rushed over him. His eyes quickly took in the chaotic scene before him. He had seen hotels in Moldova that looked nicer than this. His eyes flicked to a small woman behind the main desk looking more than a little terrified by all the police. Black raised his coffee holding hand and pointed to her. “ I think the front desk is the best place to find out about what kind of people we’re going to want to talk to.” He started his way across the lobby. “Hopefully, they have a complaint log here. Find out if we have any overly nosey types stalking the halls here, eh?”

Black stepped up to the woman at the counter and gave her a quick smile. “Of all the nights to be working right?” He took a sip from his coffee as the woman behind the counter noticed he was talking to her, “What?” she asked seeming caught off guard by his casual tone. “You know. People wandering off in night.” he then gestured with his paper cup to the surrounding police,”Suddenly you are swarmed with people who think more is going on here than there really is.” he reached into his pocket and produced his badge. It was fake but it was a damned good one. “We’re with the Marshals. Just wanna ask a few questions and get outta your hair. Let you maybe get home and get some sleep after all this.” Black’s face pulled into a warm smile. Perfectly practiced. Black then tipped his coffee cup toward Rosa. “I’m Agent Black, this Agent Ruelas. She just wants to ask you a few questions about the people living here to make sure nothing is out of the ordinary. Well, more than it already is.” [Roll for Black’s persuasion: roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1539 }

Rosa smiled warmly at the woman, she took notice of her Hispanic descent and the ring on her finger. She also detected an accent native to Mexico. Perhaps a reminder at home would put the woman more at ease. “Hola, Señora. Estamos buscando Señor Jimenez. ¿Puede nos ayudar por favor?” . The woman seemed slightly surprised and gave a nervous smile, looking between the two agents. She nodded and said “Si, Puedo ayudar.” . Rosa took out a notepad and nodded as she wrote down everything the woman said.

Jimenez not a people person, didn’t get many visitors besides Olvik. Labeled as the apartment crazy person, Mr. Haney, the building owner, wanted Jimenez evicted a week before he vanished. “What can you tell me about Mr. Haney?” Rosa asked. [Interrogation Check: roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1561]

The receptionist tells her Haney’s daily routine, a strictly business type, doesn’t associate with tenants very much. “Anything else you want to ask, partner?”

Black looked from Rosa to the receptionist. “Yeah, David’s neighbors. Any of them do anything strange before he disappeared?” the receptionist nodded, though still uneasy from being asked about her manager, “Si, Mr. Ahmed moved out after David had an…” she paused for a long moment. Black knew that look. It was the ‘how do I say this politely’ look, ”... episode.” Black nodded. He never bother to pull out anything to write her answers down with. It was not like he had a mind like a steel trap, but, he figured Rosa would take care of that. After all, what were the police good for if not writing things down? (Mr. Black’s roll for persuasion on information about Mr. Henry roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1562) “Could you tell us anything else about the manager here? I know he isn’t much of a people person, but, he has to take some interest in the goings on around here.”

Mr. Black took another sip of coffee, “At the very least he has some kind of eye for talent in his employees. You might even have helped the investigation enough to get some kind of reward. I know, I know.” Mr. Black raised his hands defensively to halt the woman from speaking, “You can’t talk right now.” Mr. Black followed the woman’s eyes to all the police. Gotcha, he thought. “Sir, I don’t want to get in trouble.” she said glancing about, “I don’t want that either. I just want to find out what happened and to make sure everything here goes back to normal.” the woman nodded.

She produced a small piece of paper and wrote down the name of a diner, Puggs, and slid it over to Black. He palmed it and slid it into the wristband of his watch in one quick move while sipping his coffee, and of course, giving the woman a conspiratorial wink.

Mr. Black turned back to Rosa and cleared his throat. “Looks like we have people to talk to.” He looked at the two men they had guarding the door and scoffed. He always hated working with mercenary types. Some might call him one of them, but, nothing could be farther from the truth. They perpetuated war, he ended them. “I think this, Ahmed, is something we are going to want to keep in the back of our minds. Maybe we can track him down after this.” the spook lifted his left hand so Rosa could see the paper tucked under his watch. “Plus, we have something to do after questioning the fuzzy-wuzzies here. You like cheap diner food and the smell of grease?” he gave Rosa a smirk before he cocked his head at the stairs that led to the upper floors and the neighbors. “After you Special Investigator.”

"Ahh, you're one of the geezers who remembers the same things as pepperidge farm, eh? Relax sir." he said, glancing behind himself. He put his cigar out but stuck it in a pocket for later. He didn't turn his head instantly to follow when Ben notified him of the suspicious activity, instead waiting a second or two to not appear inquisitive or completely in accord with him. "Damn." he remarked, not wholly with menace but mere surprise. There seemed to be more back-stabbery about here than it would at first seem. He realized that if something went wrong and there would be scandal or inter-agency troubles, he would be caught right in the middle of it and probably blamed. Perhaps it wasn't the ideal rebound job. Still, he took it and he was damned if a couple of hacks would stop him from finishing it so he memorized the license plate just in case.

He turned around before he too heard the footsteps and followed, but he was taller and went in after the old man, he was all but certain a glimpse of him was caught. "Alright chief, you can leave or well, stay but they got me." Victor said, quickly pulling out his phone and putting it to his ear while lighting a cigar. "Oh man, I was going down on my girl yesterday and I was telling her 'jeez you got a big ass, jeez you got a big ass,' and she says 'why'd you say that twice?' and you know what I said? 'That was the echo!' heartily laughing he turned to face the detectives and feigned the very best surprise he could; he even dropped his cigar as an added touch. "Oh shit guys, don't tell my boss I've been wasting time I'm supposed to be on duty! Look nothing was going to happen anyway, I won't do it again! Come on, if you forget this then maybe I'll show you one of the fancy restaurants we DHS guys can get reservations and pay for whenever we want?" he falsely pleaded. The chance to get to know the detectives personally and get information he otherwise couldn't was overwhelmingly attractive. If they wanted to play a game then so be it.

roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1565 (stealth [8])
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1566 (persuasion [16])

“Would you look at this shit?” Tom said.

Sam turned around, the cigarette still in his mouth, to look at what Tom had nodded at. A line of shady Fed-types were baring down on the cordon. All he could do was watch as Albright confronted them, but their badges sure were shiny and official. Almost immediately, one of the guys went upstairs, two of them went straight for the receptionist, two hung back by the stairway to the parking garage. They were all directed by some older guy before he and another hopped in a Sonata and took off. All happened in about a minute, but almost right after Detective Wilson left to the parking garage, the two rougher looking guys went after him. Feds or not, he didn't like the fact they were digging their noses into PD business. “Come on.” He waved Tom with him as he stepped up beside Albright.

“Detective? You know who these guys are?” Tom asked.

“No. Homeland Security Investigators looking for narco gang shit. Bound to be involved one of these days, just make sure they don't stir up any more shit, please?” She said, rubbing at her temple with a cigarette pinched between fore and middle fingers.

“Sure.” He said, nodding for Sam to follow him. It wasn't long before they found one of the big guys at the bottom. One told a joke that he could've swore he heard Packard tell him last night at the bar. The bigger one panicked when they saw him and Tom, and practically begged him not to tell whoever that older guy was that left with the guy in the tracksuit. It looked innocent enough, sure, but you don't reach detective by turning tail at the first sight of something being unsuspecting. He nodded his head and pulled out his own pack of cigarettes, sticking one between his lips and offering one for Sam.

“Sure, sure. I know how it goes. Everyone else gets to walk in with swinging dicks and flashing badges while you get stuck with watch-duty.” He smiled, “Trust me, I know. So, you guys're Homeland Security?”

He tried to make it look non-chalant when he scanned left and right to see if he spotted the older guy. No luck. He drew from his cigarette and savored it, blowing it straight up so it didn't waft in anyone's face. "What's, uh, what's Immigration and Customs doing with this Jimenez case?"

Rosa took the lead across the lobby and up the stairs to the hive of apartments that rested above them. They passed by their two comrades who were guarding the lobby. They were talking about hockey or something. The climb to the missing man's floor wasn't a long one. Mr. Black and Rosa spoke little as they climbed. He suspected that she was in a focused mood. Investigations were always a time to be on one's guard after all. However, Atter had been to places were even the hardest gang member would cry his eyes out.

Soon enough they were knocking on doors and flashing badges. It was an odd feeling. Usually he was the one getting badges flashed at him. It was nice to be on the other side. he got to pretend he was one of the good guys. There would be less ability to throw a few hooks into the sides of uncooperative heads, but, there seemed to be less need for such an action in general. The opening words of the conversations all seemed to be the same. In just a few door knocks the words were a meaningless mantra. Maybe he would try to meditate later on those words. So many mystics meditated on the words of ancient sages and none of them had really transcended this mortal plane. It seemed just as likely that he could achieve enlightenment working the words "Hello, sir or maddam. I am Agent Richard Black, US Marshals Service, we have a few questions about David Jimenez. Would you mind giving us a hand?"

The two agents knocked on two doors. They seemed nice, nice enough anyway. They were the type to answer the door for the police but had little to say. They seemed nervous, maybe even something was making nervous to speak with the authorities. Black knew that feeling. He had a similar feeling on most of the time. The was a clever art of telling the police a pile of bullshit while never saying a single thing. It made him think of his time spent around the gangs of his youth. He filed that information away. These people weren't snitches, because after all, snitches got stitches.

The third door was a welcome surprise. Not only was the young woman who lived there rather perky and inviting, going so far as to invite the two agents in and offer them coffee. Atter, of course, took the offer. He could always use more stimulants. Rosa refused, not even enough sense to take the offered coffee and just not drink it. You did not refuse hospitality, it was just rude. This young woman was chatty, too chatty to be anything aside from the popular girl in high school and the 'pep-leader' in her college. She informed the two agents that she was in fact in college and just about everything else going on in her life. Stormy, the girl's name was, also seemed to be a bit of a gossip. Good, they were the best. She had taken a special interest in the strange goings on of Mr. Jimenez and all the other neighbors around her. She informed that Ahmed had moved out after an episode when David had began to scream in some odd language she didn't understand. Black had a hunch about what language David might have been speaking if he scared someone named Ahmed so much that he moved. Yes, Ahmed would be getting his own special visit. After the meeting in the diner of course, maybe after a brownie concrete as well. He loved those terribly sweet things. The door after Stormy's was just another repeat of the no-snitching clause that seemed to have infected these people.

Black turned to Rosa with a sigh, "I think if I go check out Ahmed's old apartment and you keep knocking we might make some progress." the younger woman mirrored his exasperated sigh and nodded. The two of them split up. Black stood in front of the vacant apartment and reached into his pocket, grabbing his lock-gun. He knew the placed had been vacated, but, it sounded like it had been left in a hurry. Maybe something was left behind. Black stuck the end of the lock-gun in the lock when he heard a shout from the floor below him. His hand stopped dead in the lock. Why would someone be screaming? The yell was also cut very short. The lock gun slid from the key hole with a metallic scrape and Atter placed it back in his pocket. He moved to the stairs, reaching into his sport jacket and unclasping the button of his shoulder holster. He thumbed the safety off but did not draw. Instead he stood at the entrance to the stair well. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door and into the stairs. He walked carefully up the concrete steps and to the floor where Rosa would be. He pushed open the door, he did not see her. "Damn." he whispered to himself. The sounds of bass and harsh lyrics could be heard drifting from one of the closed doors in the hall. 'some niggas wanna head blast, cuz I run with the red rags.' the chorus repeated. "Tech Nine. Bloods then." Atter muttered to himself as he approached the door. He placed his ear to the wall beside the door and listened, it was difficult to hear anything over the thumping bass, in fact, impossible. However, Rosa was gone. He flipped out his dedicated coms burner and sent Rosa a quick text. 'Wer u @, boo?' he stepped away form the door and back into the stair well. He waited, waited, waited, buzz. He pulled the phone to his eyes, 'got a flat b ther soon.' Atter closed his eyes. He opened them and sent a text message to the rest of the team. 'Rosa captured. Taken by Bloods, most likely. Comms from her are compromised. Advise course of action. I suggest we make it look ghetto and gangsta. ;)' He dropped the phone back into his pocket. Just when he was starting to like that girl she went and got herself grabbed by a gang known for it's distaste for police.

(Rolls, ordered as persusasion for door knocks, then the numbered intero rolls, followed by awareness rolls.)
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1660
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1661
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1662
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1663
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1664
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1666
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1667
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1668
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1669
roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1670

Earlier

Stillman woke up to his alarm. He grabbed the small novelty baseball bat he kept next to his bed to beat up would-be-robbers, and bopped the top of the clock alarm. It silenced. He got up, took a shower, came out in a bathrobe. He started making breakfast, a sandwich with pepper jack cheese, lettuce, and three slices of ham. He ate it, gave a passing glance to the bird cage of his old pet parrot. It'd died a year ago, which Stillman was thankful for because it had started repeating the dialog of the adult film Deep Throat. As he was thinking about this, his phone rang. His phone was a novelty Coca Cola old school wire phone, he'd bought it from a thrift store for ten dollars. He answered. He heard the sounds of a very angry man, Mitch, yelling apparently somewhere far away from the phone. "And you better well damn not look into that box, I swear to God Sam!" he hustled over to the phone, saying "Hey, Stillman. Look, I got you pulled for a job, right? I forgot to call you about it-" He explained to Stillman he was to fly to Tucson from an airport Stillman could see from his window, if he looked. Stillman explained that he couldn't look because the window was far away from the phone and the wire couldn't stretch out that far. Mitch asked Stillman to carry the phone base, but Stillman explained that someone had cut the cord that came with the phone and he'd had to replace the power cord with a shorter one from another novelty Coca Cola phone he'd ordered from ebay, but that production line had, had an issue and all the cords that came with that version had short power cords. Also, there wasn't anywhere to place the phone so it wouldn't dangle, so he couldn't just set it down and walk over. Mitch paused for a moment to think about this, then went on to explain that Stillman had six hours to reach the airport and that all preparations had been made for him.

After arriving in Tucson, Stillman went around looking for vaguely Mexican looking people in the shadier parts of town. He eventually found some Banditos and for a sum of cash, he managed to acquire a sawn off mossberg and a glock, both of which he had to file off the serial numbers himself. He used the razor blade he always carried around, then hid the weapons in his coat. He stopped by a Burger King and ordered an extra long cheeseburger and a small coke. He ate these on the way to the bus stop and threw them into the nearby trashcan, which was already overfilled with garbage so he sort of had to push the garbage into the garbage can. He sat down, next to an old lady. He tried making small talk, but she kept mumbling about the coming dark and the name of some man. He gave up on this course of action and instead tried to befriend a mexican man who just arrived, by introducing himself with a "Hola" and explaining how he too, liked tacos. The man asked him politely to stop, which to Stillmans credit he did. Then the car arrived.

Current Time

Streetlights passed and shrank away in the side mirror of the Sonata as they drove through the city. The radio went silent before the next song had come up on the CD Werner put into it, currently turned down to a whisper as they made their way through the streets of Tucson. Werner kept his eyes on the mirrors and all around them looking for tails. He'd found none, but that didn't bring him any peace of mind. Even so, he was hungry and jet lag was really starting to dig its claws in him, dragging down his eyelids. He softly slapped at his cheek in an effort to wake himself up, not having much success. He'd gotten a call from Foster to pick someone up at the bus stop outside of town. A late arrival, he'd said, Stillman. He yawned, and just as he opened his eyes, he slapped the dashboard and pointed out the turn they were supposed to make seconds before it got the drop on them. Javier cranked the steering wheel and they barely made the turn in any way that could've been called good driving. He rolled down his window when they pulled up at the bus stop. There were only three people there, one was an old woman that looked like she was on the verge of dying any day now, the other was a Hispanic man sitting on the curb and another in a black trenchcoat, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. He'd seen that the man had caught sight of the Sonata and was watching them as they drove up and stopped. "Stillman?" Werner's voice pierced the tranquil night air.

Stillman walked up to the car and pulled on the closest door he could find. It was locked. He knocked, "Hey, wanna unlock it pal?"

Werner sighed, pressing a finger down onto the doors' lock/unlock button. The doors unlocked unanimously with a muffled 'chunk' and in stepped Stillman, taking a seat in the back. Werner nodded to Javier and they took off at a respectable speed, making a U-turn to get back to David's apartment building. There wasn't much that Javier and Werner could go after now it was the dead of night. People were tucked in their beds and it would be hard to make up a convincing cover of why two Feds were knocking at their door at an unreasonable hour. On the way back, his stomach began to growl. He set a hand to it and gave a small smile, locking eyes with Stillman through the rear-view mirror. "You in the mood for something to eat, Stillman?" Stillman shrugged, "Ate on the way here." He looked over to Javier, "What about you, friendo?"

Javier nodded as he began to slow the car down. "Yea, haven't had a proper meal since fucking landing at this place." Javier then with one hand began to use the GPS to find a place to eat that was open at this time of the night. Most of the places were closed until they found a small diner, located near to the entrance of the town open for a few more hours. "Guess that's our only shot then for food" he stated, placing both hands on the steering wheel again. The Sonata made a left turn onto the diner parking lot, which was empty with only two cars parked outside of of it. A blue SUV and a old Chevrolet sedan.

The three of them stepped out of the Sonata. Werner stretched his arms to the sky and balanced on the balls of his feet as he stretched his legs. He let go a yawn as he looked around the mostly empty streets for anyone suspicious and only the starry sky and sounds of the night carried by the luke-warm air came back at him. That Corolla and the motorbike had put a sense of caution in him ever since first spotting them and not catching a hint of them since. He shook his head, clucking his tongue and turning back to the others.

The diner was the typical hole in the wall, wood panel walls on the outside. Pugg's, the sign said, its neon anthropomorphic smiling pig in a fry-cook's hat lighting up his face in pink as he looked up at it. Quaint. And it really was something he missed, seeing everything in English and knowing he was in the States. Maybe after this assignment, he'd try for a desk posting at some station in Germany or something. At least something closer to the West.

He stepped into the diner and they took a seat in a corner booth, a clear line of sight to the entrance and the rest of the empty diner. The inside was similarly a sort of rustic theme as the outside. Dark carpeting under his feet, the booths were made of wood and the padding was a fake leather dyed burgundy. When the tired, but smiling waitress came around, he ordered a plate of biscuits and gravy and a milkshake. Good ol' American cuisine. Say what you want about exotic locales and their food, but he still missed all of this for those seven years abroad. He sighed, looking back to Javier seated beside him and Stillman sitting across from him. “So, where you guys come from?”

Stillman ordered a milkshake. He wasn't hungry, but was willing to spring for something to please his palette. Stillman said, "New York! Lovely place, you might have heard about it from Independence Day. Seriously, they didn't send you a profile?" He looked to Javier, "They usually send a profile right?" He looked back to Werner, "Must have been really short term. Got that vibe on the way here. You from around here? I mean, you had the car."

Werner shook his head, "Foster did the recruiting. He just tossed me a stack of dossiers and told me to have fun." He smiled, digging a hand into a coat-pocket and bringing out his flask, "Still trying on that objective. I'm from Texas, anyways. Army, small-town Sheriff, Army again. Now, I'm a DoD adviser, supervising this particular mission." He took a pull from his flask and offered it to the other two.

"For the time-being, Stillman, you'll be glad to know your status as a DoD adviser is officially, uh, official." He nodded. "It'd be best for both of us for me to give you the run-down of our team's fantastic professional relationships once we're on the road again. Alone. What about you, Javier? You remain an enigma to me, besides your position as a DEA special agent."

"I'll have a cheeseburger, a small coke and a vanilla milkshake" Javier said, handing the waiter the menu. He shook his head as Werner offered the flask before placing both hands into his pocket.

“Long story short, I’m from LA, San Francisco in matter of fact. 4 years at Stanford was possible because my father was a lawyer and mother had a good job in a insurance agency. Applied to DEA and after doing various operations I wound up here at this gig.” Javier stated

“Yea, we do get sent profiles, or at least the squad leader does” looking at Stillman. “Nothing major though, most of the time agency, any notable operations, notes of the agent by any of his workers etc. Though what I’ve read in the papers and heard in the grapevine is this faction isn’t something to take lightly” Javier said, before casually looking at his surroundings.

"We're all here because we have sections of our dossiers gone over with black ink. I can say that much, I know I do." Werner said, and shook his head at Javier's astute observation. "No, they are not. Foster gave me the rundown a week ago. Anyone who knows anything about the recent months knows the surge of drugs bubbling up from the other side of the border. You know this past month, there's been more doors kicked in in Tucson, El Paso and other towns near the border than the last year put together? DEA even has folks running around sweeping up cartel messes in Oklahoma." Werner shook his head and sighed, taking another pull from his flask, "Half the fucking meth in Chicago comes from the Sinaloa Cartel. You folks in the DEA get the sense we're winning this, Javier? Stillman?"

The food arrived for the table, Javier nodded to the waitress as she placed down the items that were ordered. He had a bite of his cheese burger as he heard Werner talking. A few more bites later until Javier replied to Werner’s statement.

“Most of us in the DEA are in it for the long haul. Mexican control is weak and everyone know’s it. Corruption is high and law enforcement murders are common so there’s really no control. Not only that but in a economic factor Mexico is weak, reliant on NAFTA to propel its economy. So what do people do? Get into the game. Hell even organized factions in the US like the Russian Mob, Italian Mafia and other organized crime units are taking note that this isn’t their era, and could end violently or with other players.” Javier replied, having a sip of his milkshake.

Stillman sucked at his straw, "Well, Mafias definitely out. Personally I think we should have just let 'em run like Japan does with the Yakuza, a family friendly face to crime is always better than a butcher selling you a hypothermal needle he used earlier to paralyze a guy so he could cut his nuts off while he watched." He sucked again. "Man, crimes really gotten hardcore these days, huh?"

Werner chuckled, forking some of the biscuits and gravy into his mouth and chewing, savoring the flavor of it. His taste buds now got the memo he was back stateside and the sharp cramps in his empty stomach were now starting to subside. When his phone vibrated and he read the text from Black, his stomach dropped, and hunger cramps were the least of his worries now. 'Rosa captured. Taken by Bloods, most likely. Comms from her are compromised. Advise course of action. I suggest we make it look ghetto and gangsta. ;)'

From the sound of vibrating coming from Javier's own pocket, he'd be reading the same thing. He saved the special agent and Stillman some trouble, the latter not yet having his phone issued by Foster. "Yes, it is." He addressed Stillman's comment, before setting down his fork after taking one last mouthful, "We're going to have to cut our meal short."

With that, Werner rose and put his hand out for Javier to toss him the keys. He caught them and shoved them into his own coat pocket, walking with a purpose while throwing down three twenties on the bar counter on his way out, the two other men in tow. Wordlessly, they drove back to the apartment building with a disregard for stop signs and red lights, the siren on the Sonata blaring. Tails and shit be damned, he wouldn't let gangbangers do whatever they wanted to Rosa. He'd seen what Somalis did and the gangs in Cape Town too. The little four-cylinder engine was working with all it had as he sped down the roads, taking sharp turns almost like he was in a rally. Within minutes, he switched off the sirens before the cops at the apartment cordon could see them, stepping out and texting Black, 'What floor?' after adding Ben and Victor to the group text, 'Head towards Black, keep this on the down-low. We don't need PD compromising our mission and whining about warrants and probable cause. We're making this look like a robbery. In and out, five minutes tops. We're getting Rosa out, snatching what we can for intel on the Bloods dealers in David's building, and taking one of these guys so we can get nice and friendly with him later.'

''Thomas Grant? Database search? Should be doable. I'm headed for Melinda's Spiritual Emporium first, though. No, no, it's nothing like that. Found a receipt of the place in David's drug stash... Yeah, place's a mess. Looks like a horror movie set. Demon sigils, crackpot books and stuff about Santa Muerte lying all around.

Oh, that reminds me, Jimenez' calendar says he's supposed to have coffee with Grant on the 6th. Yeah. Later.''

Daniel didn't rush going over to the 'mystical domain' of this Melinda person, in fact, had he not been reminded of the fact that this was a team effort by the recent phone call, he would've likely stopped for a moment to buy a hot dog. He didn't like Tucson, for he had always been a man of colder climates, at least, until recently - the weather didn't bother him much these days. But habits and opinions are hard to erase in a single day, and thus, Daniel still felt an opposition to the desert-like climate of Arizona, for the sake of old times. Philadelphia wasn't anywhere as cold as, say, Fairbanks or Fargo, but nonetheless, it wasn't anything like Tucson either.

From outside, the Spiritual Emporium looked nowhere as grandiose as its name suggested, and in fact was smaller than what Dan expected. It was likely that he had been simply captivated by just how a dazzlingly ornate background its name implied, or perhaps he had simply wanted to dream of something akin to that. The truth was, as if often were, much more banal - a mere headshop - a hippy's dream come true, and at the same time, a trip to the 70's.

Inside was another story entirely. Unfortunately for Daniel, it was exactly what he expected, and with his internalized dislike of everything trying specifically to be 'free spirited' and 'unique', stemming from his serious countenance and his upbringing, he could not help but harbor an easily repressed but nonetheless strong desire to set the place aflame. Decorated like an enlarged kaleidoscope once inhabited by hippies, and riddled with Pagan posters and tour dates (a Psych-Fest festival stood out amongst them, and Dan made a mental note of its date). even with his dulled senses Daniel felt almost overwhelmed by the smell of incense, herbal tea, and faint doses of marijuana.

''How may I help you?'' A woman shouted from behind the counter, not looking at him first, which brought Daniel back to his immediate presence rather than pondering on about Occultist and New Age movements and their various byproducts. She seemed harmless enough, but then again, it was hard to meet anyone downright hostile in such a place, which was likely the only thing Daniel did not hate about them.

''Hello. I am Special Agent Daniel Allen from the FBI. I have a few questions for you about David Jimenez.''

The woman turned back quickly after that, and her face took a somewhat nervous expression upon seeing Daniel's badge, but Daniel did not blame her. Her line of work wasn't exactly adored by the 'law', and neither did he have any support for it. Plus, who has ever been relieved to be questioned by the police?

''Has something happened to David? Is he in trouble?''

''He's gone missing, I'm afraid, and I had hoped that you could give me some information on his whereabouts.''

''Oh.'' The woman sat down quietly, one hand playing with the dreadlocks hanging from her head. She seemed affected by the news, although Daniel himself more focused on the swastika tattoo on her shoulder. Although it wasn't the politically incorrect kind, what with the seemingly Sanksrit writings underneath it, and its own curly look. It was only normal in such a shop. He didn't make any comments on it, and just waited for the woman to tell her, and David's, story.

''Well, David's a friend of mine. He used to buy pipes and some books and somesuch.''

''Have you ever sold him drugs?''

''No!'' The woman reacted, looking at Daniel with slight hatred. She quickly regained her composure. ''I-I don't sell such things. I've got a business to run here. And David never asked me about such stuff anyhow.''

''Alright. When'd you meet David?''

''Uhh, a couple of years, maybe? I tried to hook him up with a friend of mine, but not much turned out of it. Not a lot of chemistry between them.''

''Who?''

''Francine. Francine Rodriguez. She's, well, was, a pretty close friend of mine. She's 'straightened her act' now. Studying at college, I think. That's where she first met David anyway. I think she lives up north with her boyfriend now, Tracy.''

''Tracy?''

''Tell me about it. But hey, accept all living things as they are, eh?''

''Yeah, sure. Thanks for the help,'' Daniel said, monotone, as he turned away from the counter. This Francine woman could be a better lead - she ought to have had some outlook into David's personal life. But first, he had to search the internet about this 'Psych Fest'. God knows what sort of shit that is.

Buzz buzz Atter looked down at his phone and scanned the message. He frowned. They were coming at least. He only hoped it would be enough time. He poked his head out of the stair well door and glanced down the hall. Music still blasting and no one in the hall. With their music this loud and no door man it meant one of two things, or both. One: These bangers had a deal with the manager of the building, and, this was a distribution hub. If it was a distribution hub the two apartments next to the middle of the floor home would be empty. No need to keep involved people around. Say what you will about gang members but they did like to have space between themselves and those who might pry into their business. Less chance for civilian casualties for those who wanted to shoot the place. American gangsters anyway, they had a sense of community. That sense of community normally did not extend to the block past their own, or, to anyone with a different ethnic background but at least there was something. Two: These dicks had Rosa inside and needed their door man to head in for fun. That, or, they sent him off or in because they had moved Rosa from the apartment and taken her to some kind of central den. Gangsters were like insects. They liked to have a central colony and then have little hubs outside of the colony for resource gathering. The 'worker' bangers were mostly young guys with nothing going for them due to shitty environments and need comradery and turn to the gang. They function as look outs, distributors, and sometimes fall guys. The 'soldier' bangers were the older smart guys. They had been on the street for a while, probably with done time, and would only step in if things got serious. They usually served as the heads of smaller sub-gangs for resource gathering. The banger 'queen', or king in reality due to gangs' affinity for the fixation of manliness, was whatever 'soldier' banger managed to fuck over enough people to get his hands on the direct line of supply. There was a kind of banger emperor too, some dick in prison making phone calls, but, that was irrelevant.

Black punched his text in quickly, '6th Fl. apt# 6. No door guard. Likely empty neighbors. .38's most likely round to encounter. Holding.' Atter walked across the hall and leaned against the wall that the door in question was set into. If someone looked out the peep hole, even with the expanded vision angle the fish-eye lenses gave them he would be beyond their perception. Black busied himself with clearing his mind for the forthcoming violence. He listened intently to the sounds of the apartment. Everything was masked by the booming of their sound system. At least they had good taste. Atter found himself with his eyes half-lidded, almost meditative, drumming on his chest with the fingers of his left hand. The big and tough soldier boys from the lobby would likely be here soon enough and then they could formulate some kind of plan. The silver lining was with that music bumping the fucks inside could hear very little that would be going on in the hall. Things like rounds being chambered. He found himself mouthing along to the music from the room as he waited, tiny whispers escaping his lips, "So dope they wanna, fuck, so dope they wanna, suck, so dope they wanna, give it up really abrupt. So heroine, so coccain, so ketamine, so X..."

From his position behind the cops, Ben smirked. Thinks on his feet and isn't afraid to laugh at himself, good signs. Still, the local law were asking questions and you didn't have to be a genius to understand that covert operations go better when they're covert. Circling round and back up the stairs, Ben pulled his cap down low over his eyes, pulled out his phone and then charged towards the three men, growling into the phone.

"No, no, don't worry, I've found the idiot, hang on a minute and we'll be back up." He curled one hand over the phone's receiver and grabbed Victor's collar with the other, carefully ignoring the officers. "You can't just fuck off for a smoke whenever you feel like it, I can only cover for you so many god damn times!" Pulling Victor away, he continued his tirade at the imaginary boss, still not sparing the two cops a glance. "No, nothing important, just taking care of something, won't happen again."

When they escaped the parking garage, he snapped the phone shut and looked at Victor. "Nice cover, let's move before they follow up. We can head back to the safehouse and run the plates."

Tom shook his head, “These fucking guys.”

If anything, it at least showed him that there were slackers even in Federal law enforcement. Some other guy came out of nowhere and dragged the guy he was talking to off. Sam was chuckling and Tom looked at him with a smile, “I guess we could look around the parking garage. Finish our cigarettes and then head back to Albright.”

“Kind of a bitch.” Sam thought out-loud and Tom nodded in agreement as they ambled through the parking garage. They made small-talk for some time, the usual stuff. 'How's the kids/wife/dog/project' and then went to brainstorming where they were going to drink. They hadn't made it through the whole garage when the elevator next to their path dinged and then opened. A Hispanic man covered in tattoos
stumbled out of the elevator, trying to wrangle a woman along with him. They both stared at each other for a second before Sam went for his gun. The Hispanic man was quicker on the draw, already having his gun in hand and shot at Sam.

Tom fumbled for his service weapon but before it even cleared the holster, it felt like he'd been punched in the chest twice. More gunshots, but he was more concerned with the fact that he seemed to be slowly suffocating. Each breath seemed smaller, more hollow, never enough. No matter how much air he hauled in, his lungs needed more, until he just couldn't breathe. Or move. Things were starting to get blurry, he could hear Sam shouting, calling for backup. He tried to move, but his eyelids were heavy and... and...

''Wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round, 'round and 'round, 'round and 'round...''

Dan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the light. On the radio of the Suburban played a Robbie Williams song, although he wasn't very preoccupied with that - his eyes were on the traffic lights, waiting for them to go from that annoying red to green. Annoyed, he grabbed the aluminum-wrapped package next to him, fingers latching at its side to rip it open, revealing a wrap. The smell of chicken and mayonnaise brought a pleasant tinge to his nostrils.

Then the light went from red to green, and a disappointed Dan stepped on the gas slowly, delaying himself from taking a bite. His tired eyes strafed down from the lights, to the rearview mirror, and back on the road. He steered, then his eyes darted up, noticing that the car behind him had no license plate. He took a bite from the wrap and began chewing it, as the plateless car, a black Corolla, suddenly skid in place from a sudden acceleration, overtaking the Suburban. Daniel put the wrap back on the seat next to him, and unholstered his Glock, slightly unnerved.

Before he could react, the Corolla suddenly braked right in front of him. Dan would have braked himself, but in an unexpected reaction (in truth, in a lack of one), he did not pull his foot off the gas, and ended up smashing his car straight into the rear of the Corolla. The wrap splattered itself all over the windshield, and likely Dan would also have, if not for his seat belt. He quickly rushed out of the car after a moment of disorientation, and went to check on the Corolla, concerned about its occupants, although nonetheless still wary.

He was greeted by a wildly sweeping muzzle of a pistol, with a Hispanic man clenching his forehead wielding it. Dan was too overwhelmed by the events to feel surprised, even. He'd raised his pistol and put two rounds into the man before he knew it, piercing the man's jaw and his cheek. He stood still with his pistol still pointing at the man, blankly, before a sudden curse in Spanish and a burst of gunfire made him jerk back and fall onto the ground, his face lightly peppered with blood. He searched his face for a wound with his left hand, afraid that he had gotten shot, but could not find any. He raised his eyes and saw the head of the man he'd shot, leaning over the window, blood seeping on the ground beneath him.

Dan gathered himself and quickly jumped to cover behind the car, next to the perforated head, and raised his pistol upon hearing a door open. A sillhouette appeared from the opposite side of the car, and Daniel hesitated for a moment, but upon seeing the man jerk back at him with a submachinegun in his hand, he immediately pulled the trigger three times, dropping the man. After appreciating a few moments of stillness, he peeked over to the backseat, and after seeing it empty, got up from cover, holstering his Glock. He walked around the car and looked at the man lying on the ground, the first man he killed, and expected to vomit, or feel horrible, but did not do either.

''Werner? This is Dan. I've been attacked by two... looks like Cartel members. You guys might want to come visit.''

Werner had no words for the situation. His face was cool, the same look on it at Rosa's capture as if Atter had texted him that the sky was blue. Even so, he walked with a purpose, not wasting any time talking to officers or the like and thankfully they had the same idea towards him. Albright watched him pass and he even nodded, a small smile on his lips, to which she frowned and looked away. The state PD stayed out of their way, thankfully, and the trio entered the elevator. Werner turned to Javier, “If you have a problem with us not having a warrant, you can watch the stairwell, easier to say you didn't see anything. If not, I hope you've done this before.”

Javier arrived behind the group. He was armed with a MP5 with his M1911 in plain view. He seems to lick his teeth as he viewed Albright before looking straight into the empty elevator. He got into the elevator with the group. Javier heard Werner's statement and simply looked at him with a straight face. "It's a bunch of lowlifes, it'll make a local newspaper or two maybe even state news but no one would bat a eye, I'm fine with this" Javier said. He simply nodded after saing that and bascially awaited the floor.

"Good man. Starting to like you a little more." With that, the elevator's floor indicator hung on 6 and the doors whooshed open. He let the other two go ahead of him while he took one last pull off his flask. They stepped out, making their way down the hall, casting eyes to the doors that lined it until they came upon Atter and the others, taking cover in a little alcove. Werner drew his .380, press-checking to see the brass of a chambered round, and then thumbed off the safety. He took a breath, it'd been a long while since the last time he'd been kicking doors in and not training and overseeing foreign militias to do it for him while he watched from a car across the street or drone's feed. He looked at the assembled men and nodded, satisfied with the crew. “Alright, we don't have every piece of intel I'd like to have on that room. We don't know its layout or how many guys we'll be dealing with in there. Check your weapons."

"Anyone coming or going?” He asked Atter.

Atter's face rose from his meditative state as the elevator dinged open. The songs that had been playing were mostly from the likes of Tech Nine and some local rappers. He liked most of it. His taste for urban music had been part of him his whole life. he had even used the 'song finding' feature on his phone to pick out some new artists he would have to look up. Their industrious leader stepped free of the elevator flanked by two men. One of them he knew, the DEA guy, well, the other one. Hated those guys. Not them exactly, just the DEA as a whole. Waste of time and money. Atter brought his thumb up and ran it along the length of his jaw before answering, "No. None that I saw. Apartments here are cheap, you Americans sure do know how to build a slum." his voice in a perfect news-man American accent, making the statement seemed nonsensical. "The walls are thin and likely each room is a copy of the other apartments. If we wanted to I could get us into one of the adjacent homes. Might be able to flank them." he spoke casually, but, his eyes were full of desire to kill. They had taken something that he was just starting to enjoy, that wouldn't do.

Stillman was busy fishing shotgun shells out of his pockets, a moment after he pulled out a sawn-off mossberg he'd apparently been keeping in his coat. He scrunched his eyes at Atter, "Well we got two options for flanking: We can take the fire escape, or break a wall down. They might hear the fire escape though. Metals kinda loud." He also seemed to be wearing t-shirt with the mexican flag on it, for some reason. "Werner, you got that vest I ordered?"

"Tough luck, friend. Should've grabbed one 'fore you left the hotel." He chuckled at Black's comment, "Trust me, there's some places that've got us beat. Ever seen Somalia?"

Black's face was still cold as he sighed and drew his Sig. He thumbed the safety off and racked a round into the chamber. "Going through the wall will be tough if we don't have any explosives. Plus, that would not be very gangsta." the spook looked to the door next to him. "Somalia was bad. Spent some time there in '91. Something about a downed helicopter." he didn't look away from the door next to him, "These guys aren't soldiers. If we move fast and hit them from the fire escape and the front door, lot's of yelling, they will most likely just give up. They don't want to die." Atter's hand tightened on his pistol, "Too bad for them."

Werner took a breath and sighed it all out, "Alright. Here's how this is going to work. Me and Black are flanking. Stillman and Javier, you've got the longest guns, so you're going through the front. Put down anyone with a weapon, lots of screaming. Violence of action, gentlemen." Werner push-checked his .380 just to be safe, "Our first objective is getting Rosa out. Second is searching for any drugs and seizing them and I want zip-ties on wrists and bag over a head on any senior gangsters. More tattoos, more tenure."

With that, Werner nodded to Black and the two set off down the hall. They posted themselves at apartment 7, an ear against the door told him it was empty. He nodded to Black, gesturing for him to get to work on the lock. He raised a hand to the other two, "Once we get into this apartment, wait fourty-five seconds before you blow the hinges off your door."

Black placed the front prongs of his lock gun into the door knob of the apartment and pumped the trigger. The machine gave out a few groaning creaks before the the lock popped. Black nodded and withdrew his hand from the door.

They nodded and just then, Black pushed open 7's door with a hand as light as a cat's. Those damned hinges needed some oil, the door creaking open as he cringed. He heard a whispered string of curses and the sound of a door opening a crack, "Big Bone, that you? Mothafucka, I told you not to bother me when I'm with a bitch."

Werner entered first, gun raised. His steps were quiet, but his silence must have spooked Mr. Gangster. The gangster opened the door the rest of the way, holding his t-shirt in a fist over his fruits. There was a split-second where he knew Mr. G was taking in the whole situation and Werner was nice enough to let him. The gangbanger let out a panicked 'shit!' and sprang for the Mac-10 on the coffee table between them before the three loud pops from Werner's handgun made Mr. G drop to the ground without any sort of ceremony.

Immediately after, the girl in the room Mr. G had come from ran out, screaming and naked as the music cut off next door while the occupants yelled and cursed. The naked girl paid no attention to Werner's gun pointing at her as she ran past him, taking him by surprise. It was up to Black to handle her as he stepped forward. The apartment looked lived-in, at least. A television on a stand against the left wall, a couch on the right, flanking a coffee table covered in drugs and paraphernalia with similar messiness about the apartment. He grabbed up the machine pistol and handed it off to Black.

Black was waiting on the outside of the door. He heard the shot and rolled his eyes. He hated going in when people knew he was coming. There was nothing to do about it now though. Next came the screaming naked girl. He took a step into her way, trying to subdue her by grabbing her. He was repaid with a hard elbow to the face. He rocked backward from the force and stumbled into the wall. Atter looked up, blood streaming from his nose. His eyes held murder for the split second he watched the woman run down the hall. He raised his Sig and sent a single round after her. The hollow point struck her in the back of the head. The left side of her head exploded into a splatter of brains and skull that the cleaning lady would have nightmares about. Her body pitched and landed on the hard floor with a wet thud in the hall. Black turned back around the door frame, sniffing blood up his nose. He snatched the Mac-10 from Werner and tucked his Sig into his pocket. He racked a round into the chamber.

Stillman breathed in, slow deliberate breaths. He didn't like barging in, especially if it was loud. Plus, he had the sneaking suspicion someone was having sex in there. At least, you normally didn't hear that much bed creaking unless you were trying to push down an errant spring. He wondered if the other gangsters were watching. Wanting to clear out this thought, he set the small speakerbox he brought with him earlier at his feet. He plugged in a small usb, filled with mostly the discography of sparks, but also the song he was going to play, Tank!. He used his Apple Iphone to switch the song, then pressed "play". He shot open the door, then kicked the music playing device into the room.

Several of the gangsters were startled when Tanks! started playing over their 2pac album. One of them panicked, lifting the tech-9 that was near his hand and firing a shot at the music box. Stillman shot him in the gut and then turned to the other gangster, who lost the upper half of his skull to a spray of wild buckshot. He was just about to shoot this naked broad that was running at him on reflex, before someone else did the favor for him. His jacket had more blood spray than he'd planned and it wasn't like he knew where to find a tailor around here, so he was pissed. He turned his gun the ghetto-blaster that was playing Ambitionz Az a Rider and shot it, the machine basically exploding. By this point Stillman was getting the stress sweats, so he had to keep moving. He moved forward, shouting, "Alright, I think we came off on the wrong foot! We don't need to kill all of you, so if you could, I don't know, put your pants around your ankles and just hang tight that'd be great!"

Javier moved behind Stillman as the gangsters were trying to gain their bearings from Stillman's suprise "Hold the living room Stillman" Javier said, as the three dead bodies simply laid there. Javier slowly proceeded towards the bathroom of the establishment which had a locked door. He tried to open the door but it remained lock. "DEA, open up" Javier said, keeping his back to the wall.

"Shit man, I'm trying to take a fucking dump and you guys raid us at this moment? Shit there's no fucking toilet paper even what do I fucking do?" he stated.

"Do I look like a give a fuck? Not my fault you finished-.." Javier began to speak as he looked around for food. "Eating fucking chinese." Javier said.

"Ight ight G, fuck I'm done.." the gangster said, flushing the toilet. The Gangster slowly opened the door. As he opened the door, Javier noticed another gang member in the bath tub camping with his glock pistol. Javier attempted to move away from the side of the bathroom door towards the bookshelf before knocking over a book. "Shit G, you're made, your time is up.." The gangbanger said, peeking out casually as he awaited someone to show their head.

He remained inside of the bathroom as Javier surveyed his option, looking at Stillman for a brief moment before looking back towards the bathroom he nodded to himself. Javier aimed his MP5 towards the head of the gangbanger as he peaked out, however as the gangbanger raised his weapon Javier suddenly fired his gun without focusing to much down his sights. The MP5 fired a few shots towards the upper bicep of the gangbanger has he got a few shots towards Javier's way, most of them missed but were enough to get the blood flowing in Javier's body. "FUCK! WHAT YOU DOING L-Z, GET THE FUCK OUT THERE YOU LAZY FUCK!" The gangbanger shouted, his arm bleeding profusely after the shots.

L-Z the gangbanger stumbled out of the tub before firing a few shots towards Javier's last known location, he stayed in cover and refused to duck out. His plan was to try to get a feel of what the gangbanger was planning. Javier remained in cover as the gangbanger seemed to look around. Javier then raised his MP5 out of cover as the gangbanger was looking around for him. He squeezed the trigger and unloaded a few bullets to the head of L.Z.

"FUCK L-Z" the gangbanger in the bathroom shouted. Javier ducked back into cover and simply awaited the gangbanger in the bathrooms movement.

"Listen G listen, you got me alright” The gangbanger started saying, breathing heavily with his open gunshot wound to his arm. “Just let me fucking go, I won’t fuck around any more!” The gangbanger shouted.

“We both know this ain’t how it works kid” Javier said before aiming towards the wall, firing a few shots at the wall to force the gangbanger into a reaction. The gangbanger picked up his Tec Nine and got to his feet, as the shots were fired. He replied back with a few rounds of his own.

“Two can play that game pig!” the gangbanger shouted. Javier looked at the door before going back into the cover.

“Time is of the essence, you either drop your weapon and cooperate with me or you get shot and become like your boy L-Z.. so what ya’ picking?” Javier asked, feeling at the moment he had the upper hand on the gangbanger,

His friend shot dead, himself shot in the arm and in a fair amount of pain while his gun itself was probably low on ammo like Javier’s MP5 at the moment. There was a silence as the gangbanger seemed to think abit, letting the moment linger. He knew to himself that he’d become another casualty if he attempted to go up against Javier. The gangbanger breathed out a sigh and dropped his Tec-9 onto the ground before coming out. Yet Javier had other plans and simply aimed towards the chest of the gangbanger. He fried a few shots at the chest as he got pushed back to the wall. The gangabanger dropped to the ground slowly as blood poured out of the wounds from the bullet holes. Javier breathed a sigh of relief as the last gang banger dropped to the ground. “CLEAR!” Javier shouted, looking at the mess he created.

Werner heard Stillman blasting the hinges off of apartment 6's door and their yelling right after. The loud pops and bangs of gunfire were heard as well, and he was hoping that neither of them had gone down. A gangster busted through the closet door, yelling at the top of his lungs and rushing Werner. Werner turned, catching the big gangster in his tackle and managed to sprawl his weight. He jammed the barrel of his Sig into the gangster's ear again and again while the gangster yelped along with it before putting the barrel against the back of his neck and blownig a hole through the gangster's throat. "Got a makeshift door in the closet, Black."

Atter nodded down at the prone Werner. He made no attempt to help the man up, instead quickly moving over to the side of the closet, placing his back against the wall, creating a blind spot at the entrance. He took in one slow breath, holding it and fishing his folding knife from his pocket, flicking it open. Black head the foot falls running toward the secret door. It was smart to have an exit like this. These gangsters were not as green as they first seemed. A red hat clad head came ducking into the room, small pistol in hand. Black made no sound. He just thrust the blade of his knife down at the crouching man. The blade sank to the hilt in the back of the gangster's neck. His eyes widened in pain and surprise before his legs gave out. He dropped to a heap on the floor, spinal cord no longer sending any messages down to his legs. Black turned a cold gaze on his companion and cocked his toward the secret door, "Go help the boys. The old man will guard the back door. I don't have too many more of those stabs in me." as if to punctuate this he sniffed some more blood up through his broken nose.

"Roger." Werner sniffed, rubbing his nose and glancing down at the gangbanger bleeding out on the floor. He ejected his mag and stuffed it back in his pocket, slipping in a new mag before stepping through the cut-out in the wall to find Stillman and Javier surrounded by bodies. "Good work. But I still wanted someone to fucking interrogate." He added, pointedly, noticing that he was stepping in someone's brains.

One of the gangsters raised his hand as he nursed a leg-wound and Werner cast a frown at Stillman and Javier, showing his palm as if to say 'no, no, please don't fucking shoot him.' He turned back to the gangbanger. "You have anything to tell me?"

"Why y'all Feds here, man?" The gangbanger said, seemingly to gain some closure before poetically dying. The leg held one of the most important arteries in the body, but as far as he could tell, hypertension had not set in and his slurring words could be attributed to the fact all his homies just died and he got shot. Going into shock could be forgiven.

"I ask the questions, my friend. And this is where you choose whether you survive or not." Werner said, squatting down next to the gangbanger. He grimaced slightly, his ankle choosing now to start aching. "Where the fuck is she?"

"Bitch, you saw the hoes duck out." He had an incredulous expression on his face. He was either playing dumb for some reason or...

"Listen, either way, you're going down for assaulting a US Marshal. Just make it easy for me, alright?" Werner raised his eyebrows, patting the gangster on the face. "Where the fuck-" he smacked the gangster on his ear and his head bounced off the carpet, "-is the Marshal you nabbed?"

"Listen, dawg, I don't know what the fuck you talkin' 'bout but we got the drugs in there. B-Chill's in there- Hey, B-Chill, motherfucker they got me! Just get the fuck out here, man!" He and Werner waited a few beats for B-Chill to show himself, "Mothafucka, I know you in there, stop snortin' the shit and get out here!"

"I don't have time for this shit." He pointed to the door for Javier and Stillman, "Breach that. Put zip-ties on anybody in there."

At that, Werner holstered his pistol and grabbed the gangbanger by his collar, hauling him up without any sort of gentleness. "I can't walk, man, my leg."

"Then fucking hop." He jostled the banger on his one leg and lead him out of the room, waving Black over while he texted the others to take the fire escape down after grabbing as much drugs as they could. If they got Rosa, good, if they didn't. Well, they didn't. Foster wouldn't be happy, but until Foster got a gun and started kicking in doors and interviewing leads with them, Foster could afford a smile at the little victories. Werner and Black's flight was taken by the fire escape. Once Werner tied off the banger's wrists with a zip-tie, he handed him off to Black.

Atter moved from the secret panel, mac-10 resting on his shoulder. He scanned the room. Lots of dead bangers. Too efficient. There was nothing to do about it though. The spook’s eyes fell on a couple cans of spray paint. He scooped one of them up and looked at the label, red, of course. Would have been easier if it was blue. Oh well, it would do. He turned to the wall that held a massive poster of Pac as a hologram. Atter shook the can and sprayed a massive and yet stylish 14 on the wall before he tossed the can to the side. He didn’t worry about putting on gloves. The worst that would happen is the prints would hit on forty six different people from all over the world.

Next the spook scanned the surfaces of the thrashed apartment with a glower, sniffing blood through his nose. A small smile crossed his lips as his eyes found what they wanted. Sitting on the coffee table sat something Atter had not been able to play with in far too long, a switch panel. He walked over and picked it up with a strange kind of reverance. “This will do.” he said quietly before holding it out so Werner could see it, the keys dangling form the switch box.

“C’mon dawg, Thas L-Z’s ride. You jackin’ the dead.” The wounded banger whined. As he saw the switch box and keys and was passed over to Black’s care.

“I’ve died six times, didn’t stop you from grabbing my daughter, did it?” The lie passed his lips without a hint of falsehood. Black’s brown eyes locked with

Stillman said, "You know Werner, being a battering ram ain't exactly my forte." He nodded to Javier, "Ready to get punched in the face by a coke addict? This really brings me back."

Stillman leveled his gun on the door and shot the handle. He kicked it open, looking around at head level then feet level in case whoever was in there was going to bite his ankles.

His blood ran cold. Besides the expected bricks of cocaine and plant material, there was a corpse, about 15 years old, dead on the floor. The boys face was beaten so hard his mother wouldn't recognize him. Stillman adjusted his aim to the left, where there was a man, pointing at Stillman with the wide eyed horror of a man who has discovered it is possible to snort too much cocaine. He was speaking in a foreign tongue.

Stillman reeled on the man, running over to him and smacking him with the butt of his shotgun, dropping it to resort to good old fashioned beating a man to death with your bare hands. He yelled various things while apparently trying to kill him with his hands, but the most clearly recognizable words were "PLANE", "WHO", "WHY", and "FUCK"
Stillman had to be dragged off, yelling and snarling, from the gangbanger- who’d been saying something about pale faces and little voices. Javier and Stillman eventually took the bags of plant matter and bricks of cocaine with them, enough to make sure it looked like a gang had robbed the owners of the sizeable stockpile.

Walking to the Sonata across the echo-y parking lot, he heard the sounds of another pair of feet headed for him as he unlocked the door. The rear lights flaring up with the press of the button illuminated none other than ‘Officer Law’, come to ruin the last vestiges of a good night Werner could look forward to. Not that there was much of it, anyway. “What was that racket up there?”

“Three guesses son, and the first two don’t count.” he lied, but the officer seemed to take it like the truth. He hated being a dick, but after the night he was having, Officer Law would have to forgive him, “There’s clearances involved.”

The street-cop snorted, annoyed, “Okay. Any way I could-”

“Negative.” And Werner ducked into the car, starting it and wasting no time in coming to a dead stop from thirty miles-per-hour next to Black and the others some seventy meters away. He rolled down the window, “Stuff him in the back, we’re going to have a chat with him.”

Werner’s phone buzzed away and he put it to his ear, Dan’s voice coming surprisingly even and collected over the phone considering what he was saying. Werner let a small spell of silence drift before responding, “Fuck.” He sniffed, “Hang tight.”

--Steamy Fresh-Baked Rolls--

"Oh fuck." Victor said, running along to the sound of gunshots with his own gun out, hopping over cars and the sort. He quickly stands down and holsters his weapon when he realizes there does not seem to be a threat. He kneels down beside the wounded officer, pulling out a silk handkerchief and his knife to help out the hurt man. "You're going to be alright. He's a tough one, we'd like someone like him wouldn't we chief?" he asked, alleviating the mood a little with a joke towards Ben and the bleeding bastard. "Looks like we got ourselves a weird fuck, poor soul." he said, pointing to the number thirteen. "Illuminati my ass, you want someone to blame for being a fuck up it's only you." he said whilst trying to recognise the tattoos, but he simply couldn't!

The man more or less treated by Victor, he helped him up, dialing 911 on his phone. "Come on big guy, let's get you to a hospital." he said, motioning for Ben to grab his other arm. His mind kept replaying the words “They had a fucking woman, man.” in his head. He tugged at his pistol, and looked about. "Wonder where the fuck she went." He decided to look about, in case he missed some sign of the "woman" which he only realised, was making him feel odd. The merc kept an eye out, hand ready to point something that could take at least a hundred lives in a minute at whatever he didn't like the look of.

(First aid) roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1771
(awareness)

Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, Washington, D.C.

“Agent Jimenez, this is Greg Anapest from the CIA. Greg, this is special agent Jimenez,” Deputy Director Bob Weissing mouthed as Jason stepped into his office. The director's hand was out stretched towards Jason, open palmed as if he was presenting the grand finale of an act only Greg Anapest was audience to. A courteous knife hand Jason thought, but Bob Weissing's expression was anything but amused. The deputy director was a curmudgeon of a man but had a particular distaste for Jason, a mood he expected to walk into since being pulled suddenly without reason from Amman. The stranger, a gangly man whose gaunt visage showed his age as much as his snowy combed over hair, pushed himself out of his seat and extended a handshake Jason's way. Jason took it readily, feeling the man's bulbous joints through his skin as he squeezed. Hunger oozed out of the bottomless pits of his eyes.

Despite Bob Weissing's order in the DIA's hierarchy his office was small, a box of a room with large panel windows overlooking a verdant horizon of trees where the base hadn't snuffed the earth with concrete. Adorning the walls were keep safes of old military send offs and numerous photographs of Weissing mid-handshake with officials. Jason thought he saw Leon Panetta in one of them. It was picturesque, the total of a lifetime of successful sums. It said stability, the factory line American dream, and it felt like a cage. Weissing ushered Jason to take a seat next to Anapest, the emaciated man studying Jason closely with the vaguest expression of amusement glowing through his thin, stretched out face. He glanced to Weissing, eyebrows raising as if to cue him to begin talking.

“Jason, I didn't keep you in the know about pulling you out of Jordan because I didn't want anyone talking, especially you,” Bob said. “DOJ is putting together an inter-agency task force, counter-narco. Just up your alley.”

Jason's eyes squinted, not sure why the Department of Justice would have anything to do with his agency, especially for narcotics operations. “AOR?”

“Mexico...,” Anapest interjected, the word trailing off as he decided what would follow, “and potentially some other countries.”

“You worked SOUTHCOM before coming here right,” Weissing continued, “OSI?”

“Yes sir,” Jason responded, knowing Weissing knew that already. It made him feel like he was being talked into a trap. “Working HUMINT, following military purchases, drugs – excuse me, Sir – why get the DIA in on this? Foreign military making some shady deals or-”

“Jesus Christ, Jimenez,” Weissing spat, shaking his head, “You wanted your boots touching sand right? Field work, high speed?”

“Yes sir, I ju-”

“Right?” Weissing emphasized. Jason repeated the word back, choosing not to test his commander's consistently short fuse. Anapest sat quietly watching Weissing, the same content expression making his inhuman face that much more haunting. It reminded Jason of a shark wearing a wolf suit.

“Jason, I don't know what to do with you. I didn't ask for you, I didn't appoint you – you want to chase jihadi meth labs with your hands tied by the UN be my fucking guest, I'll forget you were even stationed there.”

Jason scanned the floor for the right words, realizing just how deep the hole he had suddenly dug. Weissing was just looking for him to nod his head until he wasn't his problem anymore, but the set up seemed off. The fact that there were no Department of Justice representatives in this meeting was enough to pique Jason's intrigue, but now hearing his boss not wanting him sent his focus reeling.

“Ghazni,” Greg said.

“What?” Jason asked. Even Weissing looked confused, now darting his eyes between Jason and Anapest.

“Ghazni, you walked in on something that closed some doors for you. Am I right?” Anapest said, any animation of emotion sucked into the void of his gaze. It bored into Jason, made his back tense up and want to curl. He sat unresponsive, face wracked with confusion as he stared back at Anapest.

“Yeah...” Jason finally whispered.

“You work with us, maybe you'll get to open a different door.”



The plane ride was a dreamless sleep, the droning of the commercial aircraft a white noise lullaby that let the ambien Jason downed last night ease him back in. The flight was a red eye to begin with but the time difference from Washington D.C. to Tuscon left Jason enough hours to sleep off the rest of the sedative. Normally he wouldn't take ambien unless it was for fun but he always had enough around to help hard reset his sleep cycle to fit the time zone. When he did sleep on ambien he hardly remembered his dreams but he always woke up with the sense that he had been somewhere else. The vague recollection wasn't so much remembrance as it was instinctual, three steps removed from the fleeting memory of a dream. When the final approach rocked him awake he felt nothing instead, as if the time had slipped away between moments and some part of him with it. Jason groggily departing the plane to the airport tarmac, turning around and staring at the graveyard shift workers take his pelican cases and luggage bags and stack them on a wheeled cart right outside the private passenger plane. In his hypnagogic state he envisioned the aircraft was a longboat, his missing time a stagnant river of black stretched out into starless haze of the dwindling night beyond. It reminded him of the river Styx. He scoffed at his dramatic imagination, wiping his face with his hand as the luggage cart was wheeled to him. No words between them but a muttered 'thank you' and an automatic 'you bet'.

Jason ordered a local taxi to take him to a car rental lot across town, skipping the convenience of getting a ride at the airport. The rule Jason had given himself was to never take an airport rental, the government travel card would be too easy to anticipate and to trace. He wasn't anticipating being monitored or followed and more than pretending he was the spy that never was he was afraid of leaving any trail of evidence that could in some way link back to his off duty habits. Waiting outside the terminal Jason began to look at Tuscon's craiglist page for casual encounters. He didn't know why he meant to start there, it was always the same in each city. Bots, too many woman asking for “flowers” for sex, or the occasional 'want BBC only' ads. He moved on to other sites he was successful with before, browsing the catalog of available partners while a dark blue dodge caravan eased to a stop in front of him with a faint protest of squealing breaks.

“Mr. Jason?” the driver asked out his passenger window. He was a Native American man with clay red skin and a hooked nose like a sloping butte, his salt and pepper hair pulled back and braided into a tail. Jason confirmed it was him and they both began loading his various cases.

“I thought you would be Mexican,” the driver said, not looking at Jason as they loaded his luggage in the back.

“I thought you would be too,” Jason said through a smirk. The driver chuckled, rounding his car with Jason heading towards the other side. The driver replied, “Heh, I guess so. Where are you heading?”

“In town, I need a car rental place. Doesn't matter which just not here.” The driver began to traverse the city, the orange-purple expanse giving way to sun peaking over the elevation in the distance. Jason hadn't been here in a few years but it felt as if it had been decades. The scenery, the drab accumulation of strip malls and urban patchwork in the sparse valley of tall cacti, was exactly how he had left it. Yet he felt unfamiliar to this place and had felt so since waking up from the plane. When the ambiguous, ugly architecture of the city lost his attention he went back to his phone.

Wanting a few drinks and good company. Let's see where the night takes us! Pass, Jason thought. He wasn't interested in someone that didn't know what she was looking for or was too afraid to outright ask for it. Any inkling of wanting a relationship was a pass as well. He didn't want anything that could give the illusion of long term figuring this was the equivalent of a TDY in terms of how long he'd be in Arizona. I'm looking for someone that can keep up with me and my friend and satisfy our kinkier wants. 420 friendly, be disease free. Send pic of your face and your cock and you'll get pics in return. No face no pics boys ;). Better, could be a bot though, Jason thought. He took the bait and began writing an email in response.

“So what's with the name?” the driver asked. He sounded cordial enough, genuinely curious and not just sounding bored. There was a confident calmness to him. Every motion, every glance seemed deliberate but measured. It was equally comforting and unnerving to Jason.

“I'm a coconut I guess,” Jason said through a smile.

“Coconut? Boy you look like mayonnaise. Spanish name? European or something?” the driver asked.

Jason sighed out, “The great diaspora of America. Part Puerto Rican. I'm sure I have a little of your tribe in me too.”

“Which tribe is that?”

“You tell me,” Jason quipped. The man shook his head and gave him a glance, looking amused more than critical. He didn't answer as he focused back on the road, giving Jason the impression despite the smile he might have told the wrong joke. He checked his email for the ops house location one more time, trying to commit Foster's name to memory. He'd call him when he got his rental car but for now he looked around the front seats trying to spot some sort of cigarette case. He asked for one and the man produced a crumbled package of Camels.

“No American Spirit, nothing um-”

“What, Native? You looking for my peace pipe and whole leaf tobacco?” the drive asked sharply. Jason shook his head, stammering out a sorry that never quite jumped from his lips before the driver burst out in raucous laughter. Jason gave him a perplexed expression but still managed to laugh with him despite his embarrassment.

“Ah hah haha – Oh man! Don't worry there Mr. Jason. You want a smoke or not?”

“To tell you the truth,” Jason answered, “ I usually don't smoke. I just wanted to see if you had anything different.” He waved his hand and the driver produced one for himself, letting the unlit cigarette bob between his lips as he asked, “Different? You looking for grass?”

“Eh,” Jason said with a shrug. He meant tobacco but the driver was willing enough to talk drugs so he obliged, “lasts too long in the system. Blow, molly, lucy – any of that?” The car turned into a residential street adorned with shabby houses hidden in sageland trees, sheet metal fences, or some neglected car or machinery. The roads snaked up low hills away from the airport part of town and Jason could only guess how far away from downtown. It didn't matter, he was heading out of Tuscon after this to the safe house. The driver gave an uncertain answer with the sway of his head, saying, “I have a nephew – real big in the party scene, you know? Flips coke from the Mexicans. Gets other drugs from Cali, makes runs and what not. He probably has what you're looking for.”



“You aren't worried I'm gonna sting you?” Jason was surprised how open the man was about it all, he could have easily passed for a cop. The man gave him a slow regard, the lightheartedness draining from his countenance.

“You?” he asked in a low, tense tone. “I have nothing to worry about. Not from you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jason said, looking all the more confused. His phone began to ring.

“You have tunnels in your eyes. Holes, deep ones. At the bottom I see Three,” the driver said, right as Jason saw Foster's number come up on his phone. His stomach tried to reach the ground when he heard the man, but before he could say anything the call went through.

“You hit the ground?” Foster asked succinctly. He sounded rushed.

“Yeah,” Jason replied, shaking his head to get out of his shock,” I mean uh yes sir. Sorry, Ambien's still hitting me.”

The car came to a stop in front of a dilapidated rental lot, its wire fence wrapped in cheap tarp signs that were long ago shredded by the elements. The driver stepped out and began to stack Jason's luggage outside the car. “Blythe knows you're coming. You're running solo for the most part on intel. No RFIs, no training wheels, no special clearances. Use what the agency has you cleared for. I need you on this quick.”

Jason stepped out of the car, “Rog, boss. Hey c-”

Click. What the fuck, Jason thought. No indoc briefing, no details, no support. It was all looking to be a 'spook' operation, and while he always wanted such an assignment the vagueness of everything was unsettling. The sensation reminded him of the driver. He was already in his mini-van with his left arm pressed flat against the outside of the door, a slip of paper between his middle and index finger. Jason asked for the price of the ride and the man gave it, extending the number Jason's way and taking a wad of cash from him.

“Take these numbers, the second one is my nephew. Tell him Uncle Mitch give it to you,” Mitch said. Jason took the number, replying, “Thank you. Hey what did you mean earlier? With my eyes and holes and what not?”

“The Coyote is after you.” A grimness emanated from the man, a predatory presence that barbed his reply. “We'll meet again, Jason.”

He left Jason standing in front of the lot watching the man's car chase the sunrise into the nothingness of the Arizona wilderness. He saw the outline of the car seats inside through the back window but for the briefest of moments he thought he saw the outline of three figures sitting in the back staring back at him.

The drive was silent, even the gangbanger kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t hard, the sack over his head, zip ties on his wrist and Stillman’s shotgun pressing up against his stomach were probably factors. Werner kept the sirens off and Born to be Wild turned down to a whisper while he tapped his thumb on the steering wheel along to the beat. They were stopped at a red light but he could see the scene farther down the street. The light turned green and he eased into the gas, letting go a breath. Not one day into the mission and they already were experiencing hang ups and casualties. A lone beat-cop was hard at work standing alongside Dan and he put a hand up and took a step toward Werner as he got out of the car. “Sir, stay back!”

“I’m Agent Blythe. I’m with Special Agent Allen over there.” He nodded to Dan, hoping the officer would be a good boy and let him carry on. He even flashed the laminated DoD ID he had on him.

The officer nodded after a moment of consideration, “Okay.”

He stepped past the officer and stood with his hands on his hips next to Dan. The Suburban’s front was crumpled, but not quite as destroyed as the Corolla. The matte black paintjob and limo-tinted windows brought back memories. Same fucking car, Werner thought.

“These guys tried to cut you off?” He asked, noting the damage to both vehicles. “What happened?”

Dan shook his head upon seeing Werner, relieved to see him, but also in a way saddened - the man's appearance, in a way, meant that this whole thing was not a dream, and in fact had really happened. He sighed, and began to speak.

''Yeah, yeah, they were following me, and braked in front of me when I tried to swerve away... I got them, but, fuck. They got Rosa,'' Dan spoke, almost sounding like a confession despite his monotonous manner of speech. ''Damn it.''

Stillman peeked his head out the window. “Hey, Werner! You still want me to watch this guy or can I come out?” ”Damn, he looks busy.” He whispered in the gangbanger’s ear, “You wouldn’t try to fucking run, right? I mean, I’ve never ran someone over with a car.” It was a lie, he absolutely had, “But you know, sometimes you just can’t hit the brakes fast enough.” He patted the man’s shoulder, “Think about that while I’m talking to that nice officer over there!”

He stepped out of the car. He stepped next to Werner, “Rosa’s gone? And you’re still here, guy?” he said to Dan.

Werner narrowed his eyes and raised a hand at Stillman, looking to Dan with his lips drawn thin. He didn’t read Dan as the type to jump into arguments, but seeing the blood on the inside windshield of the Corolla and the other gangmember dead on the ground, adrenaline made you do some brave and stupid things. “Take me to her.” He said, nodding to the car.

What Dan brought him to didn’t look like Rosa. He hadn’t known her for a long time, but he still bowed his head, closed his eyes, sighed. It was the entire trio of grief-filled movements for a stranger. It made him wish he could push Black and get some sense into him. Made him wish he could scold Rosa over sticking with a partner for this very goddamned reason. It made him wish he was in Dan’s spot earlier, could put the front-sight over the gangmembers’ throats and pull the trigger. But Rosa would still be dead. All this time, though, he almost forgot Dan was the one living this. A sidelong glance at the man who was a shade paler than he usually was told him everything he needed to know. He laid a gentle hand on Dan’s back, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s done. It’s over, you did what you had to.”

Stillman tried not look at the body. He wasn’t normally sickened by the dead, but when it was a woman he had trouble not getting pissed and he didn’t feel like now was a good time to strangle Dan. He swallowed down some rising bile which just made him more pissed. So he did what he usually did when he was about to do something rash, he counted down from one-hundred by seven. After reaching fifty-five, he said stiffly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Werner slipped a hand in his jacket pocket and pulled the flask free, taking a swig as he turned away from Dan, then another before he pulled out his phone and sent the text the rest of the team wouldn’t like to read, ‘Rosa is dead. Stay in pairs, we travel in packs here on out.’

''I suppose I did.''

Dan was quiet again, not feeling like looking back into the trunk, where a disfigured dead woman laid as a testament of his fuck-ups, he opened it for Werner once again and looked away. After Werner had examined Rosa, or what was left of her in there now, a phone vibration titillated Dan, and he pulled the gangbanger's phone from his pocket in rage, only to realize that it was his own phone that had vibrated.

It was Werner's warning. The fact that such a warning came so early into the investigation, the fact that such a thing came at all, made Dan feel like they were fucking things up big time. He looked back at Stillman from the edge of his eyes for a moment. No wonder.

“We’ll have the Suburban towed back to Dust Plains. You can ride with us,” Werner said, looking back at Dan, “Don’t mind our guest in the back.”

As if God had seen it fit to bring the night crashing all the way down, sirens blared in the distance and soon enough, the police cruisers and first responders were rounding the street corner.

Stillman made a tsking sound, “Man, of course we’re in the one county where cops actually respond on fucking time. You know, in New York, it’d take three hours for anyone to give a shit.” He recalled that cops often called areas he had lived in self-cleaning ovens, otherwise known as violent areas that if left alone would sort themselves out.

“Yeah, well,” Werner shrugged, watching the squad cars skid to a halt and immediately start setting up the yellow tape while the EMTs rushed to declare the corpses legally dead, “New York is a long ways away, bud. Looks like someone wants to talk.” He noted a man in a suit that screamed ‘I was bought at Men’s Wearhouse and never taken anywhere to be tailored’ with a face that said ‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit.’

He stepped up to the man in question wearing his best mask of professionalism. “Yes, sir?”

“Just what the fuck is this? I get a call from Officer Sarkovsky over there about gunshots, dead bodies and a collision. I get a call from before that from Albright talking about Feds showing up to a scene that isn’t explicitly Fed jurisdiction.”

“Every kidnapping is to be treated as if it’s related to the drug war down here. One of my agents just got fucking nabbed by MS-13 and you want to jump down my throat over jurisdictions?” He could feel his face getting red. “Just what do you want to know... sir?”

The Detective’s frown grew a couple millimeters deeper, “I just want to know what the fuck is going on here.”

“You folks don’t have the clearance. I will tell you that those guys-” He pointed a finger at the near-destroyed Corolla and its occupants- “are very much part of the reason me and my team are here. The near four-fold amount murders, kidnappings, human and drug trafficking are very much part of the reason me and my team are here. We’re not here to clean up Tucson like the fucking Justice League.”

He spun on his heel and whistled for the others to form on him while he dialed Foster. Steve answered, sounding just as enthused to be on the phone with Werner as Werner was to be on the same line with him. “What is it?”

“We need a tow truck. Suburban had an accident, bullets were traded, I’ll tell you when we get back.”

“Alright, it’s on its way. Just try not to turn this into the wild west, Blythe. This isn’t Somalia.” Foster said, and Werner could hear the man’s eyes rolling.

“I know this isn’t a fucking cowboy mission, I got you what you wanted there and I’ll do it again here. I’m bringing a plus one, by the way, me and Black’ll work him a bit. He’s got a story to tell and I know it, only one reason he had a whole lot of drugs.” Werner said.

“Right, yeah, just get here. No more fuck-ups, I’m sorry about Rosa, but no more.” Foster scolded.

“Yeah.” He hung up, turning to Dan and the others, “Let’s go.”

As Dan ducked back into the driver’s seat of the car he took a moment to rub at his face. Even he was wondering if half the cuts and abrasions were from Dan rear-ending the Corolla, but the guy didn’t need him accusing him of anything. Stillman returned to his place next to the gangbanger with Dan on the other side of Stillman. The five of them in the car zoomed off into the night after a long, long bout of awkward silent contemplation before the tow-truck showed up.
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