GK Fic: Mr Frosty - Part 1
Here it is folks. It has the dubious honour of being the longest fic I've ever written and it only took almost two years. Oie!
Title: Mr. Frosty
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate, some Ray/Walt
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~35,000
Summary: Three days, a hostage, some snow globes and an ice cream truck with turret.
A/N: So this started about two years ago, when trolleys made a comment about how it would be so cool to read a GK AU where the Iceman got his name because he was an assassin working out of an ice cream truck and he took Nate hostage during an op. What can I say? The idea took hold something fierce. I can only hope she'll forgive me for taking so damn long to finish it. This is for you babe.
Many, many, many thanks to my betas: passionofmind and oxoniensis who made this infinitely better and kept me focused. Thank you so much ladies.
Awesome artwork by the equally awesome trolleys
~~~
Boston, MA
“I try to discover…a little something to make me sweeter…”
“Two cherry-bomb snow cones, Ray! Extra frosty,” Brad called over his shoulder, sweat pooling on his brow.
“That you give me no reason, why you make me work so hard…” Ray sang as the mixer buzzed, blending together the ice and sugar.
Looking back at his customers-two small people of indeterminate age-Brad tried for a casual smile. They were maybe eight? Ten? Brad made a mental note to find out what age children usually lost their front teeth. Part of a good recon involved understanding the people who inhabited the local environment.
Stale, hot air blew through the window, making Brad feel even hotter. He tugged his collar which offered little relief.
“Here you go,” Ray said, passing the snow cones to the kids, still humming under his breath. “Enjoy your red dye number forty!”
Without pausing, the kids snatched up their desserts and went bounding back to their group of friends. The cacophony of mothers’ yelling to stop throwing sand, teenagers swearing and kids heckling as they pounded the pavement with a basketball came loudly through the open window of the ice cream truck.
“This blows, Brad,” Ray said, leaning on the counter. Even Ray’s paper hat was wilted from the heat. Removing his hat, Ray crumbled it into a ball and threw into a makeshift basketball net hanging above the freezer, scoring a basket. “We’ve been at this for what? Twelve days? The only MOFO we’ve seen are the bastards who stole that kid’s slushy last week and the last suburban looking retard had eight kids in tow. I think Godfather’s been smoking the crack pipe, again. In fact, now that I think about it, following him will probably give us a better shot of finding X-Ray than standing around here, serving popsicles in the shape of Dora-the-fucking-Explorer and contributing to childhood obesity.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t about to get sucked into a debate on the damage to children’s psyche that occurred when they ate the heads off their beloved cartoon characters and whether or not said damage led to future cannibalism, again.
“The ice cream truck was your idea, remember?” Brad offered.
Ray shrugged and then dug into the container of nuts and threw a handful into his mouth. “Ithasitsperks,” he said with his mouth full, spraying Brad in the process.
Brad took a deep breath and wiped his face.
“Besides,” Ray continued when he was mostly finished chewing, “you went all James Bond on us, installing those acquisition receivers and signal and radio intercept systems. Every time you play with them I think you’re going to jizz all over the seat. You can’t tell me you don’t love Mr. Frosty here.”
Brad snorted. It was true, he did have a fondness for the Mobile Electronic Warfare Support System he’d acquired. Not that he was about to agree with Ray out loud. He would never hear the end of it. “I would still rather function as an amphibious assault unit.”
Ray rolled his eyes and was about to launch into some diatribe or another when the compressor on the side of the cold plate started wheezing, calling for Ray’s special brand of attention.
Using his reprieve to take out his binoculars, Brad scoped the area for the thirteenth time. Aside from the sweltering heat, it was a beautiful day. The kids were out in force. Graffiti covered the buildings that backed onto the basketball courts and the smell of bleach from a nearby Laundromat permeated the air. The park was busy since there was nowhere else for kids to play in this neighborhood-which was why they’d picked this spot. The bastard they were looking for liked to prey in troubled areas and intel had him pinned down around here.
His eyes rested on Hasser, three hundred yards north of their position, as he sold ice cream out of his bicycle cart. Walt caught Brad’s eyes as his last customer left and casually flipped him the bird. Brad chuckled under his breath. Walt hadn’t been happy pulling bicycle duty, again.
“Frostbite, this is Iceman. Deploy sun umbrella, over,” Brad said, speaking into the microphone imbedded in his bow tie. Walt’s face was already an unpleasant shade of pink.
Walt shook his head and brought his hand up to his face to cover his speech. “Negative Iceman. Handle for deployment is FUBAR. I never got the replacement part.”
Brad cursed under his breath. That was yet another item to add to the long list of things he had to speak to his boss about. “Understood. Make sure you utilize the sunscreen then. Iceman out.”
On the other side of the park, Trombley stabbed at garbage in the grass with his litter picker, not so subtly looking around. At least Brad didn’t have to worry about him getting sunburned. Over the last week, Trombley had tried to stab several dogs that had come too close, earning him the scorn of local dog owners, pigeon feeders and other animal-loving sentimentals. Since then, the kids had resorted to throwing empty soda cans at him, which meant that Trombley spent a large portion of his time running away from bees and other insects attracted to the sugar that invariably covered him. Two days ago Brad had told him to wear a thick pair of coveralls and be done with it. No bee stings, no sunburn.
Brad sighed and wondered-not for the first time-if he’d made the right decision following Godfather into civilian life. Ninety percent of combat usually involved waiting around, but two years for this op was stretching even his patience a little thin. Not to mention, with all the restrictions Godfather had put on their conduct, Brad was starting to think he’d been a more effective warrior while still in the Marines driving around in open-top Humvees.
The compressor’s wheezing worked itself up to a climactic spasm that finally made Brad put the binoculars down and look over. Picking up his wrench, Ray gave up tinkering and whacked it on top with a loud clang, making it stutter and splatter until it finally resumed normal operation. “Piece of fucking shit ass machine-”
“Ray…” Brad said in warning as another group of children approached. He flashed them his widest grin while tucking his binoculars under the counter and keeping an eye on Ray. Ray tossed his wrench into a nearby tool chest, pulling out a baseball hat from underneath it and putting it on his head. Ray’s “We don’t dial 9-1-1” Texas souvenir hat showcasing a silhouette of the state and a gun, wasn’t exactly part of the uniform.
“Hi.” A sandy-haired man flashed Brad a quick grin as he approached the truck and then turned to his brood, making a show of counting heads. “…four…five soft ice cream cones with chocolate, please.”
Brad twisted his lips and nodded, pulling out the cones he needed. He was better at judging adult ages and this man looked to be in his early twenties. Clean-cut, fit. Looked like he belonged in a church choir, except for something in his eyes. The way he took in Brad and smiled at Ray’s hat made him seem very aware. One of the teens was about to attach his gum to the wheel well of the truck and faster than Brad could stop him, the man had a grip on the kid’s arm and was indicating the location of the nearest trash.
“These all yours?” Brad asked, settling back into his role. They were still on the lookout for X-Ray and anyone else involved in the cartel and this man was definitely not one of the exhausted parents they usually saw.
“God, no,” the man laughed, turning back to Brad after the kid reluctantly went to dispose of his gum. He gave Brad another easy smile.
Oddly enough, Brad felt himself smiling back. Congeniality had died a quick and painful death during the first days of their surveillance-dealing with hundreds of excited, hysterical children doped up on sugar, demanding their next hit of candy or chocolate-covered ice cream was enough to make anyone despise this business. It was unexpected to feel a smile forming on his lips now.
“This is my nephew and his friends,” the man said, rubbing the head of the tallest kid standing closest to him and Brad saw that there was indeed some familial resemblance. They had similar eyes, yes, but the kid had that awkward, slouched posture and uncomfortable look about him that reminded Brad how much it sucked to be a teenager. The man however, was anything but awkward and uncomfortable.
Brad’s eyes returned back to the man’s and they held contact for a moment. Then Brad’s stomach did a little flip-flop and he accidentally dripped ice cream all over his hands.
“Fuck,” Brad muttered, then clamped his mouth shut when he realized kids were within earshot. “Shit. Sorry.”
The man tried to suppress a grin. “I’m sure they’ve heard worse.”
Giving himself a mental shake, Brad decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. He gave the man a tight nod and finished dishing out the cones. “That’ll be six-fifty.”
As the man reached into his wallet, Brad leaned over to wipe the counter; mostly to keep busy and out of trouble. Just as he was about to reach out with a rag, he heard a quiet intake of breath. Following the man’s line of sight to where Brad’s apron gaped, Brad saw that his shoulder holster and firearm were visible.
The man threw money at him, then quickly corralled the kids away from the ice cream truck without waiting for his change.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brad said, shaking his head when they were all out of sight.
“Brad, man, that was priceless. You’re not gonna get a date now that you traumatized his family.”
“What?” It turned out that Ray was standing right behind him; bastard had probably been looking over his shoulder the whole time.
“Come on! We’ve been working together for years and I’ve never seen you making moon-eyes at anyone, ever, and now you fall for some guy, no less? And you expect me to drop it? Uh-uh. Ain’t gonna happen.”
Brad finished wiping up his mess, sparing Ray a withering glance.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” Brad said, throwing his rag at Ray’s face.
“The look that says you’re plotting where to bury my bones,” Ray said, catching the rag and then tossing it over his shoulder toward the back of the truck where his paper hat and wrench had fallen. “How could you keep such a dirty little secret from your dearest pal Ray-Ray?” Ray came up close and put his arm around Brad’s shoulder and tickled his ear. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. And I do mean friends and not friends with benefits because I prefer my fuckmates to have less hair on their chests. No offense.”
Brad took a deep breath and then shrugged Ray’s arm off. ‘There is no secret, Ray.”
“Sure, sure,” Ray nodded sagely. “These are not the droids you’re looking for. I get it.”
“That’s not what I meant!” But before he could explain, or smack Ray to wipe the smirk off his face, more kids came up to the window. For once, Ray served them with enthusiasm and a smile. He didn’t even hit on the mom or her obviously underage teenage daughter.
It gave Brad the minute or so he needed to get his head back in the game. He grabbed his radio to call in.
“What are you doing?” Ray asked when the crowd had dispersed, frozen treats in hand.
Brad had booted up his computer and was loading the GPS software. “We should pull out, ASAP. We’ve been compromised. I’m just trying to find another location where we can still help with the surveillance-”
“You think that guy’s going to rat us out?”
Brad remembered the man’s eyes. “He just saw me serving his nephew ice cream while carrying a 9 mm. I’m sure he’s already called 911.”
“If we were in Texas…” Ray said with a smirk, pointing at his hat.
Brad looked back to his computer.
“Wait, Brad. All Schwetje has to do is intercept the call...”
Brad paused, giving Ray a chance to think about what he just said.
“Well…he was in Intelligence before…” Ray stopped himself in mid-sentence. “Right. Never mind. Fucking Encino Man. Sorry.”
With a swift move, Ray slammed the serving window shut and moved past Brad to hop into the driver’s seat. Brad grabbed the radio headpiece just as the speaker began to squawk.
“All Hitman-Two Victors, this is Two-Two. We have a visual on X-Ray, over.”
“Two-Two, this is Two-One Alpha. Copy that. Location?” Brad pulled out another set of binoculars from the glove box. The possible 911 call could wait.
“He just entered the north end of the park and is driving toward the Laundromat.”
Brad scanned the area, finding the target easily; X-Ray was driving a very nice, very conspicuous red Mustang. He snorted. Sometimes they made it too easy. “Affirmative, I have a visual. We’ll move to intercept.”
As he put the binoculars down, he happened to glance at his laptop which was perched on the dash. The computer was also linked to the security cameras hidden around the outside of the truck and Brad swore as he looked at the feed in the top left-hand quadrant.
Twelve days they’d been at this surveillance, each day more mind-numbingly boring than the one before and now that they finally had a fucking lead, he had to deal with this.
The green-eyed man hadn’t called 911. He was currently crouched near the rear of the truck holding a box-cutter-probably waiting for a chance to slash the tires.
Brad jumped up and hopped over Ray, opening the driver’s side door. With a finger over his mouth to indicate Ray should be silent, Brad quickly got out of the truck, sliding silently to the pavement.
Taking a moment to gather his bearings, the first thing Brad noticed was the silence. A shiver went up his spine as he saw that the park was completely empty; the swings still swaying back and forth as if they’d just been recently vacated.
Even the birds seemed to have fled for safer ground.
Taking a deep breath, Brad continued on. As strange and eerie as it was, at least there was less possibility of collateral damage.
Controlling his body, he moved toward the rear of the truck, rolling his feet as he took each step, careful to avoid the crunch of loose stones. He couldn’t afford to lose what little tactical advantage he had. He steadied his breath as he peaked around the corner.
The man was looking the other way.
Springing into action, Brad caught the man’s waist with a solid tackle, just as the man was about to go around the other corner. Using their momentum, Brad twisted his shoulder, bringing them both down to the ground.
Brad’s arm took most of the impact on the loose gravel on the road, but the momentary stun he’d been expecting to use to secure the man, never materialized. Instead, the man twisted and weaseled his way out of Brad’s grasp and Brad had to tackle him again, face down and use all his weight to pin him.
“It’s over,” Brad said forcefully, sitting up so that he could secure the man’s hands behind his back.
“No,” the man said with a grunt as he managed to twist his upper body around to bring his elbow back and smash it directly into Brad’s nose.
The flash of pain almost made Brad let go. As it was, he barely kept a grip on the man’s shirt. Blinking back the sting, he threw himself forward, pushing the man’s face into the ground. By feel, he grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it up, forcing the man to stay down or dislocate his shoulder.
Brad used his other arm to pound on the back of the truck.
A few seconds later, Ray was beside him flex-cuffing the man’s arms and slapping a piece of duct-tape over his mouth. Together they lifted him through the passenger side door and threw him into the back of the truck.
They jumped back into their seats. Brad made sure his nose was mostly straight while Ray threw the truck into drive.
“You okay, Brad?” Ray asked.
Brad grunted. “Just drive.”
They were about to pull out when the target, who had gotten out of his vehicle and was walking toward the Laundromat, glanced around at the now empty park. When his eyes settled on their truck, he broke out into a run, back to his Mustang.
Peeling out ahead of them, Ray quickly followed.
“Switch to Pursuit Mode,” Brad ordered.
Ray flicked a switch and with a hum, the ice cream truck rose five more inches off the ground, and the autoplay melody cut-off.
“All Hitman-Two Victors, this is Two-One Alpha. Target is on the run. We are in pursuit eastbound toward Dunn Avenue, requesting bird’s eye view,” Brad said into the comms.
“Two-One this is Hitman Actual. Negative on the birds. Stay within fifty mikes and retain visual. Over.”
“Roger. Two-One, out,” Brad reached down to unlock his M4 from under his seat. “Negative on overhead birds, Ray. We have to stay within fifty meters and retain visual on the target.”
Ray shook his head. “Whatever, man. Let’s not forget Mr. Frosty here tops out at fifty, even in Pursuit Mode.”
“Do the best you can, Ray.”
The truck rattled horribly as Ray pressed the gas, maneuvering down the side street that would lead them onto Dunn Avenue. Each speed bump they hit tossed them right up off the seats and anything not tied down went scattering everywhere. Ray’s collection of souvenir snow globes and the dancing hula girl that dotted the dash were the only things that stayed where they were supposed to be.
“There he is,” Brad said, pointing to the Mustang as it veered in the wrong direction down a one way street. Ray didn’t hesitate before following.
Horns blared as cars had to pull off to the side to avoid getting hit, but this worked in their favor. The traffic tied up the Mustang so he couldn’t take advantage of the tremendous difference in horsepower. Brad saw that they were quickly coming to an intersection. Glancing around, he stuck the barrel of his M4 out the window. He had to risk it before they lost the target.
Tap, tap, tap.
Three shots hit the right rear tire, tearing it to shreds and forcing the Mustang to veer. Still managing to retain control of his vehicle, X-Ray gunned the gas, determined to get away while he still could.
A police car shot out from the intersection ahead, spinning around so it blocked the road.
“Two-One, this is Two-Two. We’re in position.”
Brad braced himself as Ray slammed on the brakes and swerved, tires squealing as they stopped inches from the curb. The Mustang, swerving to avoid the cop car, hopped over the curb and slammed into a fire hydrant. The fire hydrant cracked, shooting a geyser of water straight up in the air.
When the first drops of water started raining down their windshield, a pedestrian screamed in shock. Patrick and Reyes jumped out of the cruiser in their police uniforms and forcibly ejected the man from the Mustang, securing him once he was down on the ground. Another pedestrian stood at the side of the road, snapping pictures on his cell phone and waving his hands around to other neighbors coming out to investigate.
Letting out a deep breath, Brad stowed his rifle and surveyed the damage inside the truck. He found his laptop behind the driver’s seat with a nice crack in the case. With a sigh, he hefted it back into its station mounted on the front console. Snow was swirling majestically inside the dome with the Statue of Liberty just behind the docking station, mocking Brad with its presence. A thousand dollars worth of equipment went flying but five dollar snow globes held to the dash by double-sided tape didn’t. Brad eyed the screws holding the docking station in place and vowed to get more tape.
Luckily for them, the crack in the laptop was just cosmetic. Brad was able to hook up the security feed in time to see a black sedan cruising up beside them.
“Nice job guys,” Schwetje said, hitting the side of the ice cream truck as he passed them. Brad immediately got out and joined his boss by the Mustang.
The target was on the floor, sweat pouring down his face and back. There was a crowd now so Reyes made a show of slapping on some handcuffs and putting him in the back seat of the cruiser.
“Sir, can I talk to you for a minute?” Brad asked.
Schwetje didn’t seem to hear him; instead he pulled out a camera and started snapping pictures. His aid, Greigo, brought over a fishing tackle box with white CSI lettering stenciled onto the side and pretended to start dusting the steering wheel for fingerprints.
“Sir,” Brad repeated himself.
Schwetje finally glanced up at him. “Gotta make this look authentic, Brad. Speaking of which, you should probably get your vehicle out of here. This is supposed to be official police business.”
Brad tried to keep his face from twitching. Dealing with Hitman directly was always bad for his nerves.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Before the chase started, I was made by a civilian.” Brad forced the last part out through gritted teeth.
“What?” Schwetje put down the camera long enough to look at Mr. Frosty. “I hope you neutralized him. You know how Godfather hates complications.”
The vein in his temple throbbed a little stronger as Brad tried to hide his disgust-Schwetje’s tone was casual, as if he was asking Brad if he had filed his paperwork on time. Sometimes, Brad wasn’t sure if his superiors were any better than the people they’d sworn to protect their country from.
“He’s contained, sir,” Brad said, gritting his teeth. “The man is secure in the back of the truck. When we’re done here, I will drop him off in the middle of nowhere. By the time he reaches a phone, we’ll be long gone.”
Two-Three arrived in a tow-truck and started hooking up the Mustang. One of the braver people gawking at the show approached Brad and Schwetje.
“Excuse me, officer? What’s going on here?”
“Fine. Keep him for now until we’re sure the job’s over,” Schwetje said under his breath to Brad before turning to the local with a smile on his face.
“This is official police business,” Schwetje started off. “I can’t comment on an open investigation but I think it’s fair to say that street racing is a menace to today’s society. People don’t understand…”
Brad turned and walked away.
“Keep him!” Brad grumbled as he opened the door and got back in the truck. “How would you like to keep our guest, Ray? I have no idea where we’re supposed to take him, but we have to get out of here in case the real cops show up.”
“Sure,” Ray said with a glitter in his eye. “Bound to happen sooner or later with Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber running the op here. We could go to Florida. I hear it’s lovely this time of year. No snow globes, but maybe I can get a stuffed alligator tail to hang on the wall.”
Brad let Ray’s voice lull him as Ray popped the truck into reverse and headed back the way they’d come. “Sometimes, I think we succeed in spite of ourselves,” Brad said, watching the buildings going by.
“Aren’t you sorry you turned down the promotion now? You could have been working closely with Encino Man every day of the week,” Ray asked.
Brad shuddered. “I have enough joy in my life dealing with the likes of you.”
Once they were away from the growing crowds and traffic, Brad glanced back at their charge. The man didn’t look very happy. He was sprawled on the floor with a cut on his forehead and blood trickling down his face. With his hands tied behind his back, he must have been unable to brace his fall when he was thrown around in the truck. Brad got up and made his way over, helping the man sit up.
“So can I really go to Florida?” Ray called out.
“No, Ray. Just find us a place we can hole up inconspicuously for a few hours. And ask Two-Three if they can swing by the park and pick up Hasser and Trombley.”
“Trombley’s going to be pissed he missed all the action.”
Brad snorted in agreement before turning back to the man. Studying him, Brad couldn’t help but admire the fact that he was still holding his shit together. Sure, he was bleeding, but instead of freaking out, he was studying Brad right back.
In fact, those green eyes Brad had admired before were likely memorizing every feature of his face.
Fuck. He probably should have put on a mask or something. Brad raked a hand over his short hair. He was being very sloppy. He had no idea what the fuck was wrong with him.
Mentally giving himself a shake, Brad got up and started patting down the man’s pockets for weapons, cell phones or other things of interest. It was impossible to completely ignore the awareness of their proximity, however, so Brad worked quickly, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand and ignore the slight woodsy scent he smelled when he stepped in close to pat the man’s chest. On the inside of the man’s jacket, he found a wallet and pulled it out, taking a step back with some relief.
“So, we’re going to be hanging out for a while,” Brad said, busying himself with searching the wallet. It was unlikely the man would believe anything he said, but if he could assure him he wouldn’t be harmed, maybe there would be less trouble. “We’re not interested in hurting you…Nathaniel…Fick. If you don’t cause us anymore trouble, you’ll get to go home to your family when this is all over.”
Fick’s eyes shot him daggers.
Brad shrugged, opened one of the jump seats attached to the wall and sat down. The truck kept bouncing along, the new shocks they’d installed last month not helping at all. Brad resisted the urge to sigh again and looked out the serving window instead, pulling off his apron and bow-tie. He was happy to be done with the ice cream service, at least.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into an industrial complex.
“We should be good here,” Ray said turning off the truck. He came into the back stretching his arms.
“Thanks, Ray.”
“So, who’s our pocket full of sunshine here?” he asked gesturing toward Fick. Brad passed Ray the wallet while he got up to check on their hideout. Ray had found a back alley that looked deserted. The sun was starting to set and glancing at his watch, Brad was surprised to see it was almost six o’clock. He rolled up the front windows before going to the back.
“If you’re good and there’s no yelling, I’ll take the tape off your mouth,” Brad told Fick. “Then we can go about getting you something to drink or eat.”
Fick gave him a hard look, followed reluctantly by a shrug. Good enough.
Trying not to rip off any skin, Brad quickly removed the gag. Then he leaned Fick forward and with Ray covering them with his 9mm, Brad removed the flex-cuff from Fick’s wrists and moved his hands so they were secured in front of his body instead.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” Fick asked after he’d rolled his shoulders and tested out his new position. Fick still wasn’t happy, but Brad was surprised Fick was taking this as calmly as he was. Most civilians would have been in hysterics at being tied up and kidnapped.
“I’m Ray, he’s Brad,” Ray said, taking off his apron and tucking the pistol into the waist band of his jeans. He stooped down to pick up a caramel apple that had rolled onto the floor. Never one for being picky, Ray blew the dust off and took a big bite.
“Ray,” Brad said in exasperation as Ray sprayed candy and juice in a five foot radius around him.
“What? It’s not like he’s not going to hear our names at some point. Unless you want me to call you Tom all day. You can be Tom, I’ll be Jerry. You chase me around and I’ll try and stick your tail in a waffle iron. It’ll be fun!”
Brad wondered why he even bothered some days. The compressor for the cold plate picked that moment to start wheezing again which made the day complete. Ray slumped his shoulders as he started searching for his wrench. The tools had, of course, gone flying during the high speed chase over the speed bumps.
“Onto the more interesting question,” Ray continued as he stuck the apple in his mouth and reached under the driver’s seat, “Who d’fuck are you?”
Ray was surprisingly coherent despite the apple.
“What do you mean?” Fick answered angrily, tilting his head to follow Ray’s movements in unwrenching the wrench. “You’re the guys who kidnapped me.”
“…ki’napped is such a harsh word,” Ray said, pulling the wrench free. He was then able to take the apple out of his mouth, but by then there was drool, caramel and apple pieces all the way down his chin. “We prefer to call it borrowing to keep you from calling the cops and involving them in something they are neither equipped nor capable of dealing with.”
Brad came back with two wet rags and handed one to Fick. “For your head. You’re bleeding,” he said. Then he tossed the other one to Ray. “Clean your fucking face, Ray.”
Ray smiled as he wiped his chin with his sleeve and used the rag to clean off the wrench instead. The compressor had moved into its high-pitched death throes.
With his ears ringing and a headache starting to form behind his eyes, Brad reached out and grabbed the nearest item; a pewter replica of the Washington monument, which Ray had purchased because it reminded him of a giant penis. Brad whacked the top of the compressor. The compressors sputtered and banged, and then settled back down again.
“The pewter penis does it again,” Ray said with a smile.
Fick cautiously took his own rag and wiped at his forehead. “You guys are the weirdest bunch of criminals I’ve ever seen.”
With a sign, Brad put the replica back in its place on top of the freezer and gave Fick a shrug. The politicians in Washington had called Godfather’s group worse things than that while still handing them money and equipment. “You have no idea.”
Next - Part II
Index
Part I * Part II * Part III * Part IV * Part V
Title: Mr. Frosty
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate, some Ray/Walt
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~35,000
Summary: Three days, a hostage, some snow globes and an ice cream truck with turret.
A/N: So this started about two years ago, when trolleys made a comment about how it would be so cool to read a GK AU where the Iceman got his name because he was an assassin working out of an ice cream truck and he took Nate hostage during an op. What can I say? The idea took hold something fierce. I can only hope she'll forgive me for taking so damn long to finish it. This is for you babe.
Many, many, many thanks to my betas: passionofmind and oxoniensis who made this infinitely better and kept me focused. Thank you so much ladies.
Awesome artwork by the equally awesome trolleys
~~~
Boston, MA
“I try to discover…a little something to make me sweeter…”
“Two cherry-bomb snow cones, Ray! Extra frosty,” Brad called over his shoulder, sweat pooling on his brow.
“That you give me no reason, why you make me work so hard…” Ray sang as the mixer buzzed, blending together the ice and sugar.
Looking back at his customers-two small people of indeterminate age-Brad tried for a casual smile. They were maybe eight? Ten? Brad made a mental note to find out what age children usually lost their front teeth. Part of a good recon involved understanding the people who inhabited the local environment.
Stale, hot air blew through the window, making Brad feel even hotter. He tugged his collar which offered little relief.
“Here you go,” Ray said, passing the snow cones to the kids, still humming under his breath. “Enjoy your red dye number forty!”
Without pausing, the kids snatched up their desserts and went bounding back to their group of friends. The cacophony of mothers’ yelling to stop throwing sand, teenagers swearing and kids heckling as they pounded the pavement with a basketball came loudly through the open window of the ice cream truck.
“This blows, Brad,” Ray said, leaning on the counter. Even Ray’s paper hat was wilted from the heat. Removing his hat, Ray crumbled it into a ball and threw into a makeshift basketball net hanging above the freezer, scoring a basket. “We’ve been at this for what? Twelve days? The only MOFO we’ve seen are the bastards who stole that kid’s slushy last week and the last suburban looking retard had eight kids in tow. I think Godfather’s been smoking the crack pipe, again. In fact, now that I think about it, following him will probably give us a better shot of finding X-Ray than standing around here, serving popsicles in the shape of Dora-the-fucking-Explorer and contributing to childhood obesity.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t about to get sucked into a debate on the damage to children’s psyche that occurred when they ate the heads off their beloved cartoon characters and whether or not said damage led to future cannibalism, again.
“The ice cream truck was your idea, remember?” Brad offered.
Ray shrugged and then dug into the container of nuts and threw a handful into his mouth. “Ithasitsperks,” he said with his mouth full, spraying Brad in the process.
Brad took a deep breath and wiped his face.
“Besides,” Ray continued when he was mostly finished chewing, “you went all James Bond on us, installing those acquisition receivers and signal and radio intercept systems. Every time you play with them I think you’re going to jizz all over the seat. You can’t tell me you don’t love Mr. Frosty here.”
Brad snorted. It was true, he did have a fondness for the Mobile Electronic Warfare Support System he’d acquired. Not that he was about to agree with Ray out loud. He would never hear the end of it. “I would still rather function as an amphibious assault unit.”
Ray rolled his eyes and was about to launch into some diatribe or another when the compressor on the side of the cold plate started wheezing, calling for Ray’s special brand of attention.
Using his reprieve to take out his binoculars, Brad scoped the area for the thirteenth time. Aside from the sweltering heat, it was a beautiful day. The kids were out in force. Graffiti covered the buildings that backed onto the basketball courts and the smell of bleach from a nearby Laundromat permeated the air. The park was busy since there was nowhere else for kids to play in this neighborhood-which was why they’d picked this spot. The bastard they were looking for liked to prey in troubled areas and intel had him pinned down around here.
His eyes rested on Hasser, three hundred yards north of their position, as he sold ice cream out of his bicycle cart. Walt caught Brad’s eyes as his last customer left and casually flipped him the bird. Brad chuckled under his breath. Walt hadn’t been happy pulling bicycle duty, again.
“Frostbite, this is Iceman. Deploy sun umbrella, over,” Brad said, speaking into the microphone imbedded in his bow tie. Walt’s face was already an unpleasant shade of pink.
Walt shook his head and brought his hand up to his face to cover his speech. “Negative Iceman. Handle for deployment is FUBAR. I never got the replacement part.”
Brad cursed under his breath. That was yet another item to add to the long list of things he had to speak to his boss about. “Understood. Make sure you utilize the sunscreen then. Iceman out.”
On the other side of the park, Trombley stabbed at garbage in the grass with his litter picker, not so subtly looking around. At least Brad didn’t have to worry about him getting sunburned. Over the last week, Trombley had tried to stab several dogs that had come too close, earning him the scorn of local dog owners, pigeon feeders and other animal-loving sentimentals. Since then, the kids had resorted to throwing empty soda cans at him, which meant that Trombley spent a large portion of his time running away from bees and other insects attracted to the sugar that invariably covered him. Two days ago Brad had told him to wear a thick pair of coveralls and be done with it. No bee stings, no sunburn.
Brad sighed and wondered-not for the first time-if he’d made the right decision following Godfather into civilian life. Ninety percent of combat usually involved waiting around, but two years for this op was stretching even his patience a little thin. Not to mention, with all the restrictions Godfather had put on their conduct, Brad was starting to think he’d been a more effective warrior while still in the Marines driving around in open-top Humvees.
The compressor’s wheezing worked itself up to a climactic spasm that finally made Brad put the binoculars down and look over. Picking up his wrench, Ray gave up tinkering and whacked it on top with a loud clang, making it stutter and splatter until it finally resumed normal operation. “Piece of fucking shit ass machine-”
“Ray…” Brad said in warning as another group of children approached. He flashed them his widest grin while tucking his binoculars under the counter and keeping an eye on Ray. Ray tossed his wrench into a nearby tool chest, pulling out a baseball hat from underneath it and putting it on his head. Ray’s “We don’t dial 9-1-1” Texas souvenir hat showcasing a silhouette of the state and a gun, wasn’t exactly part of the uniform.
“Hi.” A sandy-haired man flashed Brad a quick grin as he approached the truck and then turned to his brood, making a show of counting heads. “…four…five soft ice cream cones with chocolate, please.”
Brad twisted his lips and nodded, pulling out the cones he needed. He was better at judging adult ages and this man looked to be in his early twenties. Clean-cut, fit. Looked like he belonged in a church choir, except for something in his eyes. The way he took in Brad and smiled at Ray’s hat made him seem very aware. One of the teens was about to attach his gum to the wheel well of the truck and faster than Brad could stop him, the man had a grip on the kid’s arm and was indicating the location of the nearest trash.
“These all yours?” Brad asked, settling back into his role. They were still on the lookout for X-Ray and anyone else involved in the cartel and this man was definitely not one of the exhausted parents they usually saw.
“God, no,” the man laughed, turning back to Brad after the kid reluctantly went to dispose of his gum. He gave Brad another easy smile.
Oddly enough, Brad felt himself smiling back. Congeniality had died a quick and painful death during the first days of their surveillance-dealing with hundreds of excited, hysterical children doped up on sugar, demanding their next hit of candy or chocolate-covered ice cream was enough to make anyone despise this business. It was unexpected to feel a smile forming on his lips now.
“This is my nephew and his friends,” the man said, rubbing the head of the tallest kid standing closest to him and Brad saw that there was indeed some familial resemblance. They had similar eyes, yes, but the kid had that awkward, slouched posture and uncomfortable look about him that reminded Brad how much it sucked to be a teenager. The man however, was anything but awkward and uncomfortable.
Brad’s eyes returned back to the man’s and they held contact for a moment. Then Brad’s stomach did a little flip-flop and he accidentally dripped ice cream all over his hands.
“Fuck,” Brad muttered, then clamped his mouth shut when he realized kids were within earshot. “Shit. Sorry.”
The man tried to suppress a grin. “I’m sure they’ve heard worse.”
Giving himself a mental shake, Brad decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. He gave the man a tight nod and finished dishing out the cones. “That’ll be six-fifty.”
As the man reached into his wallet, Brad leaned over to wipe the counter; mostly to keep busy and out of trouble. Just as he was about to reach out with a rag, he heard a quiet intake of breath. Following the man’s line of sight to where Brad’s apron gaped, Brad saw that his shoulder holster and firearm were visible.
The man threw money at him, then quickly corralled the kids away from the ice cream truck without waiting for his change.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brad said, shaking his head when they were all out of sight.
“Brad, man, that was priceless. You’re not gonna get a date now that you traumatized his family.”
“What?” It turned out that Ray was standing right behind him; bastard had probably been looking over his shoulder the whole time.
“Come on! We’ve been working together for years and I’ve never seen you making moon-eyes at anyone, ever, and now you fall for some guy, no less? And you expect me to drop it? Uh-uh. Ain’t gonna happen.”
Brad finished wiping up his mess, sparing Ray a withering glance.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” Brad said, throwing his rag at Ray’s face.
“The look that says you’re plotting where to bury my bones,” Ray said, catching the rag and then tossing it over his shoulder toward the back of the truck where his paper hat and wrench had fallen. “How could you keep such a dirty little secret from your dearest pal Ray-Ray?” Ray came up close and put his arm around Brad’s shoulder and tickled his ear. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. And I do mean friends and not friends with benefits because I prefer my fuckmates to have less hair on their chests. No offense.”
Brad took a deep breath and then shrugged Ray’s arm off. ‘There is no secret, Ray.”
“Sure, sure,” Ray nodded sagely. “These are not the droids you’re looking for. I get it.”
“That’s not what I meant!” But before he could explain, or smack Ray to wipe the smirk off his face, more kids came up to the window. For once, Ray served them with enthusiasm and a smile. He didn’t even hit on the mom or her obviously underage teenage daughter.
It gave Brad the minute or so he needed to get his head back in the game. He grabbed his radio to call in.
“What are you doing?” Ray asked when the crowd had dispersed, frozen treats in hand.
Brad had booted up his computer and was loading the GPS software. “We should pull out, ASAP. We’ve been compromised. I’m just trying to find another location where we can still help with the surveillance-”
“You think that guy’s going to rat us out?”
Brad remembered the man’s eyes. “He just saw me serving his nephew ice cream while carrying a 9 mm. I’m sure he’s already called 911.”
“If we were in Texas…” Ray said with a smirk, pointing at his hat.
Brad looked back to his computer.
“Wait, Brad. All Schwetje has to do is intercept the call...”
Brad paused, giving Ray a chance to think about what he just said.
“Well…he was in Intelligence before…” Ray stopped himself in mid-sentence. “Right. Never mind. Fucking Encino Man. Sorry.”
With a swift move, Ray slammed the serving window shut and moved past Brad to hop into the driver’s seat. Brad grabbed the radio headpiece just as the speaker began to squawk.
“All Hitman-Two Victors, this is Two-Two. We have a visual on X-Ray, over.”
“Two-Two, this is Two-One Alpha. Copy that. Location?” Brad pulled out another set of binoculars from the glove box. The possible 911 call could wait.
“He just entered the north end of the park and is driving toward the Laundromat.”
Brad scanned the area, finding the target easily; X-Ray was driving a very nice, very conspicuous red Mustang. He snorted. Sometimes they made it too easy. “Affirmative, I have a visual. We’ll move to intercept.”
As he put the binoculars down, he happened to glance at his laptop which was perched on the dash. The computer was also linked to the security cameras hidden around the outside of the truck and Brad swore as he looked at the feed in the top left-hand quadrant.
Twelve days they’d been at this surveillance, each day more mind-numbingly boring than the one before and now that they finally had a fucking lead, he had to deal with this.
The green-eyed man hadn’t called 911. He was currently crouched near the rear of the truck holding a box-cutter-probably waiting for a chance to slash the tires.
Brad jumped up and hopped over Ray, opening the driver’s side door. With a finger over his mouth to indicate Ray should be silent, Brad quickly got out of the truck, sliding silently to the pavement.
Taking a moment to gather his bearings, the first thing Brad noticed was the silence. A shiver went up his spine as he saw that the park was completely empty; the swings still swaying back and forth as if they’d just been recently vacated.
Even the birds seemed to have fled for safer ground.
Taking a deep breath, Brad continued on. As strange and eerie as it was, at least there was less possibility of collateral damage.
Controlling his body, he moved toward the rear of the truck, rolling his feet as he took each step, careful to avoid the crunch of loose stones. He couldn’t afford to lose what little tactical advantage he had. He steadied his breath as he peaked around the corner.
The man was looking the other way.
Springing into action, Brad caught the man’s waist with a solid tackle, just as the man was about to go around the other corner. Using their momentum, Brad twisted his shoulder, bringing them both down to the ground.
Brad’s arm took most of the impact on the loose gravel on the road, but the momentary stun he’d been expecting to use to secure the man, never materialized. Instead, the man twisted and weaseled his way out of Brad’s grasp and Brad had to tackle him again, face down and use all his weight to pin him.
“It’s over,” Brad said forcefully, sitting up so that he could secure the man’s hands behind his back.
“No,” the man said with a grunt as he managed to twist his upper body around to bring his elbow back and smash it directly into Brad’s nose.
The flash of pain almost made Brad let go. As it was, he barely kept a grip on the man’s shirt. Blinking back the sting, he threw himself forward, pushing the man’s face into the ground. By feel, he grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it up, forcing the man to stay down or dislocate his shoulder.
Brad used his other arm to pound on the back of the truck.
A few seconds later, Ray was beside him flex-cuffing the man’s arms and slapping a piece of duct-tape over his mouth. Together they lifted him through the passenger side door and threw him into the back of the truck.
They jumped back into their seats. Brad made sure his nose was mostly straight while Ray threw the truck into drive.
“You okay, Brad?” Ray asked.
Brad grunted. “Just drive.”
They were about to pull out when the target, who had gotten out of his vehicle and was walking toward the Laundromat, glanced around at the now empty park. When his eyes settled on their truck, he broke out into a run, back to his Mustang.
Peeling out ahead of them, Ray quickly followed.
“Switch to Pursuit Mode,” Brad ordered.
Ray flicked a switch and with a hum, the ice cream truck rose five more inches off the ground, and the autoplay melody cut-off.
“All Hitman-Two Victors, this is Two-One Alpha. Target is on the run. We are in pursuit eastbound toward Dunn Avenue, requesting bird’s eye view,” Brad said into the comms.
“Two-One this is Hitman Actual. Negative on the birds. Stay within fifty mikes and retain visual. Over.”
“Roger. Two-One, out,” Brad reached down to unlock his M4 from under his seat. “Negative on overhead birds, Ray. We have to stay within fifty meters and retain visual on the target.”
Ray shook his head. “Whatever, man. Let’s not forget Mr. Frosty here tops out at fifty, even in Pursuit Mode.”
“Do the best you can, Ray.”
The truck rattled horribly as Ray pressed the gas, maneuvering down the side street that would lead them onto Dunn Avenue. Each speed bump they hit tossed them right up off the seats and anything not tied down went scattering everywhere. Ray’s collection of souvenir snow globes and the dancing hula girl that dotted the dash were the only things that stayed where they were supposed to be.
“There he is,” Brad said, pointing to the Mustang as it veered in the wrong direction down a one way street. Ray didn’t hesitate before following.
Horns blared as cars had to pull off to the side to avoid getting hit, but this worked in their favor. The traffic tied up the Mustang so he couldn’t take advantage of the tremendous difference in horsepower. Brad saw that they were quickly coming to an intersection. Glancing around, he stuck the barrel of his M4 out the window. He had to risk it before they lost the target.
Tap, tap, tap.
Three shots hit the right rear tire, tearing it to shreds and forcing the Mustang to veer. Still managing to retain control of his vehicle, X-Ray gunned the gas, determined to get away while he still could.
A police car shot out from the intersection ahead, spinning around so it blocked the road.
“Two-One, this is Two-Two. We’re in position.”
Brad braced himself as Ray slammed on the brakes and swerved, tires squealing as they stopped inches from the curb. The Mustang, swerving to avoid the cop car, hopped over the curb and slammed into a fire hydrant. The fire hydrant cracked, shooting a geyser of water straight up in the air.
When the first drops of water started raining down their windshield, a pedestrian screamed in shock. Patrick and Reyes jumped out of the cruiser in their police uniforms and forcibly ejected the man from the Mustang, securing him once he was down on the ground. Another pedestrian stood at the side of the road, snapping pictures on his cell phone and waving his hands around to other neighbors coming out to investigate.
Letting out a deep breath, Brad stowed his rifle and surveyed the damage inside the truck. He found his laptop behind the driver’s seat with a nice crack in the case. With a sigh, he hefted it back into its station mounted on the front console. Snow was swirling majestically inside the dome with the Statue of Liberty just behind the docking station, mocking Brad with its presence. A thousand dollars worth of equipment went flying but five dollar snow globes held to the dash by double-sided tape didn’t. Brad eyed the screws holding the docking station in place and vowed to get more tape.
Luckily for them, the crack in the laptop was just cosmetic. Brad was able to hook up the security feed in time to see a black sedan cruising up beside them.
“Nice job guys,” Schwetje said, hitting the side of the ice cream truck as he passed them. Brad immediately got out and joined his boss by the Mustang.
The target was on the floor, sweat pouring down his face and back. There was a crowd now so Reyes made a show of slapping on some handcuffs and putting him in the back seat of the cruiser.
“Sir, can I talk to you for a minute?” Brad asked.
Schwetje didn’t seem to hear him; instead he pulled out a camera and started snapping pictures. His aid, Greigo, brought over a fishing tackle box with white CSI lettering stenciled onto the side and pretended to start dusting the steering wheel for fingerprints.
“Sir,” Brad repeated himself.
Schwetje finally glanced up at him. “Gotta make this look authentic, Brad. Speaking of which, you should probably get your vehicle out of here. This is supposed to be official police business.”
Brad tried to keep his face from twitching. Dealing with Hitman directly was always bad for his nerves.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Before the chase started, I was made by a civilian.” Brad forced the last part out through gritted teeth.
“What?” Schwetje put down the camera long enough to look at Mr. Frosty. “I hope you neutralized him. You know how Godfather hates complications.”
The vein in his temple throbbed a little stronger as Brad tried to hide his disgust-Schwetje’s tone was casual, as if he was asking Brad if he had filed his paperwork on time. Sometimes, Brad wasn’t sure if his superiors were any better than the people they’d sworn to protect their country from.
“He’s contained, sir,” Brad said, gritting his teeth. “The man is secure in the back of the truck. When we’re done here, I will drop him off in the middle of nowhere. By the time he reaches a phone, we’ll be long gone.”
Two-Three arrived in a tow-truck and started hooking up the Mustang. One of the braver people gawking at the show approached Brad and Schwetje.
“Excuse me, officer? What’s going on here?”
“Fine. Keep him for now until we’re sure the job’s over,” Schwetje said under his breath to Brad before turning to the local with a smile on his face.
“This is official police business,” Schwetje started off. “I can’t comment on an open investigation but I think it’s fair to say that street racing is a menace to today’s society. People don’t understand…”
Brad turned and walked away.
“Keep him!” Brad grumbled as he opened the door and got back in the truck. “How would you like to keep our guest, Ray? I have no idea where we’re supposed to take him, but we have to get out of here in case the real cops show up.”
“Sure,” Ray said with a glitter in his eye. “Bound to happen sooner or later with Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber running the op here. We could go to Florida. I hear it’s lovely this time of year. No snow globes, but maybe I can get a stuffed alligator tail to hang on the wall.”
Brad let Ray’s voice lull him as Ray popped the truck into reverse and headed back the way they’d come. “Sometimes, I think we succeed in spite of ourselves,” Brad said, watching the buildings going by.
“Aren’t you sorry you turned down the promotion now? You could have been working closely with Encino Man every day of the week,” Ray asked.
Brad shuddered. “I have enough joy in my life dealing with the likes of you.”
Once they were away from the growing crowds and traffic, Brad glanced back at their charge. The man didn’t look very happy. He was sprawled on the floor with a cut on his forehead and blood trickling down his face. With his hands tied behind his back, he must have been unable to brace his fall when he was thrown around in the truck. Brad got up and made his way over, helping the man sit up.
“So can I really go to Florida?” Ray called out.
“No, Ray. Just find us a place we can hole up inconspicuously for a few hours. And ask Two-Three if they can swing by the park and pick up Hasser and Trombley.”
“Trombley’s going to be pissed he missed all the action.”
Brad snorted in agreement before turning back to the man. Studying him, Brad couldn’t help but admire the fact that he was still holding his shit together. Sure, he was bleeding, but instead of freaking out, he was studying Brad right back.
In fact, those green eyes Brad had admired before were likely memorizing every feature of his face.
Fuck. He probably should have put on a mask or something. Brad raked a hand over his short hair. He was being very sloppy. He had no idea what the fuck was wrong with him.
Mentally giving himself a shake, Brad got up and started patting down the man’s pockets for weapons, cell phones or other things of interest. It was impossible to completely ignore the awareness of their proximity, however, so Brad worked quickly, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand and ignore the slight woodsy scent he smelled when he stepped in close to pat the man’s chest. On the inside of the man’s jacket, he found a wallet and pulled it out, taking a step back with some relief.
“So, we’re going to be hanging out for a while,” Brad said, busying himself with searching the wallet. It was unlikely the man would believe anything he said, but if he could assure him he wouldn’t be harmed, maybe there would be less trouble. “We’re not interested in hurting you…Nathaniel…Fick. If you don’t cause us anymore trouble, you’ll get to go home to your family when this is all over.”
Fick’s eyes shot him daggers.
Brad shrugged, opened one of the jump seats attached to the wall and sat down. The truck kept bouncing along, the new shocks they’d installed last month not helping at all. Brad resisted the urge to sigh again and looked out the serving window instead, pulling off his apron and bow-tie. He was happy to be done with the ice cream service, at least.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into an industrial complex.
“We should be good here,” Ray said turning off the truck. He came into the back stretching his arms.
“Thanks, Ray.”
“So, who’s our pocket full of sunshine here?” he asked gesturing toward Fick. Brad passed Ray the wallet while he got up to check on their hideout. Ray had found a back alley that looked deserted. The sun was starting to set and glancing at his watch, Brad was surprised to see it was almost six o’clock. He rolled up the front windows before going to the back.
“If you’re good and there’s no yelling, I’ll take the tape off your mouth,” Brad told Fick. “Then we can go about getting you something to drink or eat.”
Fick gave him a hard look, followed reluctantly by a shrug. Good enough.
Trying not to rip off any skin, Brad quickly removed the gag. Then he leaned Fick forward and with Ray covering them with his 9mm, Brad removed the flex-cuff from Fick’s wrists and moved his hands so they were secured in front of his body instead.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” Fick asked after he’d rolled his shoulders and tested out his new position. Fick still wasn’t happy, but Brad was surprised Fick was taking this as calmly as he was. Most civilians would have been in hysterics at being tied up and kidnapped.
“I’m Ray, he’s Brad,” Ray said, taking off his apron and tucking the pistol into the waist band of his jeans. He stooped down to pick up a caramel apple that had rolled onto the floor. Never one for being picky, Ray blew the dust off and took a big bite.
“Ray,” Brad said in exasperation as Ray sprayed candy and juice in a five foot radius around him.
“What? It’s not like he’s not going to hear our names at some point. Unless you want me to call you Tom all day. You can be Tom, I’ll be Jerry. You chase me around and I’ll try and stick your tail in a waffle iron. It’ll be fun!”
Brad wondered why he even bothered some days. The compressor for the cold plate picked that moment to start wheezing again which made the day complete. Ray slumped his shoulders as he started searching for his wrench. The tools had, of course, gone flying during the high speed chase over the speed bumps.
“Onto the more interesting question,” Ray continued as he stuck the apple in his mouth and reached under the driver’s seat, “Who d’fuck are you?”
Ray was surprisingly coherent despite the apple.
“What do you mean?” Fick answered angrily, tilting his head to follow Ray’s movements in unwrenching the wrench. “You’re the guys who kidnapped me.”
“…ki’napped is such a harsh word,” Ray said, pulling the wrench free. He was then able to take the apple out of his mouth, but by then there was drool, caramel and apple pieces all the way down his chin. “We prefer to call it borrowing to keep you from calling the cops and involving them in something they are neither equipped nor capable of dealing with.”
Brad came back with two wet rags and handed one to Fick. “For your head. You’re bleeding,” he said. Then he tossed the other one to Ray. “Clean your fucking face, Ray.”
Ray smiled as he wiped his chin with his sleeve and used the rag to clean off the wrench instead. The compressor had moved into its high-pitched death throes.
With his ears ringing and a headache starting to form behind his eyes, Brad reached out and grabbed the nearest item; a pewter replica of the Washington monument, which Ray had purchased because it reminded him of a giant penis. Brad whacked the top of the compressor. The compressors sputtered and banged, and then settled back down again.
“The pewter penis does it again,” Ray said with a smile.
Fick cautiously took his own rag and wiped at his forehead. “You guys are the weirdest bunch of criminals I’ve ever seen.”
With a sign, Brad put the replica back in its place on top of the freezer and gave Fick a shrug. The politicians in Washington had called Godfather’s group worse things than that while still handing them money and equipment. “You have no idea.”
Next - Part II
Index
Part I * Part II * Part III * Part IV * Part V