The Occam's razor job - Chapter 28 - B
Title: The Occam's razor Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux,
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: The Boy's night out Job
warnings: Dead people
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: Well, that finally happened - the entry is too long. 9900 words. I have to make two posts, but it's the same chapter.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
***
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He waited until the shadows of the night became sharp again, and returned to the car when the Specialist and Commander started to quarrel about Tapia and his usability in upcoming events. He knew Tapia was, for now, more of a liability and danger than something useful. One wanted him killed, one only squared away, but Eliot shut them both down, watching the Chilean who was shifting in the seat.
His green jacket was at hand, ready to be put over his prisoner’s head in case he needed him hidden.
“Tell me about the Italians,” he said simply.
Tapia glanced into the darkness that was surrounding them, avoided eye contact, then looked at the gun with the silencer.
“My line of work has very little contact with them,” he said carefully. “Gambling is divided equally among the cartels, and it’s known which part of town is controlled by whom. You should ask Rojas about them, he’s dealing with the problems that the other cartels are causing… I can call him and ask him details, if you want. Or, I can call Barclay, he solves those problems. He is frighteningly good in solv- uhm.” Tapia paused, then shifted again. “I forgot, you’re the problem that Barclay is solving, too. Okay, we won’t call Barclay then. He scares me as well, sometimes.”
“Italians,” Eliot softly reminded him.
“I avoid them, all right? Last month I had a situation, and Renan was asking me to deal with it all by myself, and trust me, I haven’t slept for days. Those bastards suffocate you with negotiations and all lawyer-ish bullshit, and in the end you have no idea what you want, what you got, if you won or not, and why they are smiling so sleazily. Don Lazzara claimed one of my casinos was in their territory, but it’s on the border, near South Boston, and they just wanted to see how we would react. They are always poking, constantly trying to feel our pulse, and I don’t know why they’re always picking on me.”
Eliot had a few ideas why the Italians would try to attack the weakest link, but he said nothing. This man wasn’t fitting into the gang, much less into the upper circle of the cartel, unless he was missing something, unable to see some hidden qualities. Tapia looked under the thirty, like an ordinary good boy, fresh from college. Alejandro was an experienced killer, much older than this man, and he was frightened of being in the same car with Eliot. This one was just worried.
He smiled at him, just to test something. And Tapia relaxed a little.
“Do you have problems with Italians?” Tapia continued. “I can guarantee you, we can help you, just say what you want.”
“In case you didn’t notice, my only problem is the Chileans.”
“Erm, yes, I remember that. That leads to another question - what am I doing here? You said you’ll explain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining… tonight is very exciting and interesting, I have no objections. I’m just missing a clue here, you know?”
He couldn’t tell him that he had no idea why he was dragging him around, not that the only other option was to kill him. He certainly couldn’t just throw him out, he knew too much. If he didn’t find a way to make his presence more useful, he would have to… Damn.
Eliot put the gun away and started the car. Maybe his mere presence would be useful enough, when he started to lose contact with reality again. Talking to him could help him to concentrate more. By now, the lights were pulsing before his eyes again, and the darker shadows were purple, not black. Driving would again demand all of his skills, with a three second delay in all of his reactions. With a sigh, he put a seatbelt on Tapia; his hands were tied under the seat, and sudden braking or a crash could send him through the windshield, with his arms still in place. Two sulking voices in his head heaved exasperated sighs.
“Now, while I drive, tell me everything you collected on Don Lazzara.”
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***
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Everything went extremely well until Tapia got the idea to lighten up the atmosphere, and started to hum. Eliot thought about telling him how smart it was to irritate a drugged killer with a gun, but decided to ignore him and think about his plans instead. He could only spend fifteen minutes on the Italians, and it would be one lucky try. If he succeeded, great, if he didn’t, nothing was lost, he would just move along and continue with the Chileans. He had to go to the place The Pissed One provided him with, to finally see the real street gangsters, the main Chilean force, and the Italians would be just an intermezzo before that. All of the Chileans had to be lured into a fight, as soon as possible, if they weren’t engaged already.
Tapia understood his silence as a positive response, because he went from humming to real quiet singing, just at the moment they were entering Don Lazzara’s street. ‘Love is in the air, everywhere I look around… love is in the air, every sight and every sound…And I don’t know-'
Eliot turned to look at him, in total consternation, and Hummer slid to the side and went off the road, barely stopping a few inches before a street light pole.
“Ouch!!” Tapia gasped.
“Are you completely out of your mind!?” he growled at him, pissed off.
“Why? For singing? What’s wrong with singing? You could just say you want me to stop, you didn’t have to throw us off the road!”
“Shut up already!”
“Okaaaay... You could ask more-”
Jesus. This idiot was completely unaware that he sat next to a guy with voices in his head that were screaming to kill him. It wasn’t a quarrel anymore, both of them agreed that Tapia had to die, one way or another.
“Just. Shut. Up,” he whispered, desperately trying to dismiss the red hue that was coloring everything around him. He stared at the man, allowing his paranoia to research him, trying to find what was hidden beneath that naïve face, what dangerous, murderous quality he had to have to be Villacorta's lieutenant but either Tapia was a way better grifter than Sophie, or he was unable to see it. He returned his gaze with wide open eyes. Fuck.
Eliot closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then slowly returned the Hummer to the street.
Don Lazzara’s house was at the end of it. Tapia gave him the address and all the info he had, but he didn’t know that he draw them to told street, and why. He drove by slowly, noticing the cameras that covered the street before the house; when he turned around and went back again, the Hummer would be caught on the recording, both front seats.
He put on the green jacket with a hood that would cover his face, and all that would be recorded would be Rojas’s Hummer, and Tapia in the other seat - no connection to the team, just to the Chileans.
That also meant that Tapia would be dead man walking from now on.
Eliot put away the Lady Killer’s gun with the silencer and took Alejandro’s, turned the car at the end of the street and went back, slowly.
“What are you doing?” Tapia whispered, suddenly pale.
“Making noise.” Eliot glanced towards him, noticing the disgusted and terrified look in his eyes while he observed the nasty looking weapon. No, this man wasn’t a killer.
He pulled up the hood, covering his face before he got closer to the cameras, and at the last second changed his mind and pulled Tapia down, bumping his nose on his knees. Surprised, the Chilean gasped and yelped, but he broke off when Eliot stretched his left hand through the window and emptied entire the magazine into the car parked in front of Don Lazzara’s house. He wiped the gun and threw it onto the street, and drove off. No panic attack this time. Good.
“Gah!”
“You’re a very eloquent person, Tapia.”
“Gah!”
“You sound like cat throwing up hairballs.”
“Gah... gunpowder. That smell makes me sick.”
Eliot rolled his eyes, and immediately realized how big that mistake was, because the road turned over on its axis, and divided itself into three different paths, every single one in a different color. He barely managed to stop them before hitting a row of parked cars; if the air bag was activated, it would squash him like a bug. He closed his eyes and rested for a while, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass.
“Well, that helped,” a resigned voice came from the right.
He really needed a car with a real trunk.
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***
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“If you try to escape again, I’ll find you and kill you,” he said to Tapia after the long, silent drive to the part of the town he knew very little about. The Pissed One told him there was one of the biggest gathering places for Chileans, somewhere in the abandoned industrial buildings, on a block full of ruins and old warehouses. The quarters that surrounded the area were notorious themselves, but other gangs were in charge of those. Street dealing of cheap drugs was too small for the Chileans.
Tapia just smiled and wriggled his fingers, showing him that that was the only part of his hands he could move. Eliot had wrapped the duct tape around his shoulders, binding him completely to the back of the seat.
“I suggest you do not scream for help.” He glanced around over the ruins, dirt and abandoned houses. If nothing else, the green and red graffiti should have told him this was Chilean territory. “Something could crawl out from the holes in the ground and answer your calls.”
“Erm… when will you be back?” Tapia asked, following his glance.
“Fifteen minutes. Be here.” With that he closed the door and went into the shadows. It would take at least half an hour, though he knew where they were exactly, but he had to finish the Italians first. When the Hummer disappeared from his sight, he took one of the untraceable phones; this one was green; and called one of the numbers Tapia provided.
“Good evening, Don Lazzara,” he said politely. “I’m calling in the name of Renan Villacorta; he wants to apologize for tonight’s unfortunate chain of events.”
“Sending Rojas to shoot my car is not unfortunate, Voice of Renan Villacorta. It’s tragic.”
Damn, he should record this conversation. When the head of the Italian mob called something tragic, in such an, oh, so sweet voice, that meant it was…well, tragic.
“Yes, it was a tragic accident. I’m sure you are aware of tonight’s strange events all over town. My boss wants me to tell you that it wasn’t his intention to start any quarrel with the Italians, his order was misread. We are now extremely busy with different attacks, and mistakes happen. As a sign of a good will, he is willing to reconsider the territorial dispute over Tapia’s casino. In return, he asks only for your neutrality in the current events.”
The silence at the other end of the line was long, but he knew better than to say more.
“I shall think about his offer.”
And that was it, the line was dead. Eliot almost smiled. Knowing the Italians, this should be enough to start them. After poking the Chileans to see their weaknesses, direct confirmation of that same weakness wouldn’t be omitted. Villacorta had just said to the head of the Italian mob that he is in trouble, and he can’t handle the Italians. Even if nothing happened, tomorrow would be an interesting day for Tapia’s casino when the mob came to take it over - the fight would be inevitable, and Villacorta would be accused of preparing a trap.
Damn, it would be great if someone killed that son of the bitch - if someone else did it, no one would remember the five grifters that were sentenced to death. But if Eliot Spencer killed Villacorta, whoever took his place would have a duty to avenge him, if not a wish. And everything would just continue, They would never be free and safe.
And it would be perfect if it happened before the morning, he sighed trying to walk in a straight line. He knew that the chances for that to happen were none to zero, and that it was just wishful thinking - Villacorta was still too strong and it was impossible to reach him. His web was still impenetrable, no matter what he had done.
If Nate managed to use one little opening, it would be only a small chance to finish this. It would give hope, it could give a result, but it wasn’t the final solution. They couldn’t be sure that this wouldn’t continue, even if everything went well.
And that was the main problem here, because he knew what to do… but he didn’t know if he would be able to do it, to lead it to the end.
Well, getting killed in a slam certainly wouldn’t help it, he thought returning himself into the now, to the dark and ruins. He wasn’t so far away now, and he had to be careful. Putting a silencer on the Lady Killer’s gun - he had no idea why the hell he called it that, instead of simply a S&W M&P9C - would be a smart move. He had one gun and seven bullets left, and before he got another gun, he had to be very economical.
It was a simple scout, in and out, just to confirm their position before he got back and found a way to bring the Mexicans directly there. If that didn’t work, he’d think of something else, maybe draw those guys after him into the Mexicans. One way or another, he-
He almost bumped directly into a group that emerged around the corner, heading for the meeting place, and they didn’t see him only because they were arguing, and his hood covered his face in the dark.
That was close. He stayed frozen until they passed him by, only few meters away, and then went after them, keeping a solid distance. He could find his way through the small streets, meadows covered with garbage, and ruins, but they would lead him directly to their place.
It took five more minutes before they reached an old repository; one entire wall was missing, revealing piles of scrap metal and the remains of something that looked like old jib cranes. Ten bikes were parked in front of it, and he could see the silhouettes of cars in the pale light that was coming from inside.
That should have been enough, but he wanted to see how many of them were in there, and what they looked like, so he used the cover of the darkness and got as close as he could, right across the vast empty space in front of the missing wall.
At least forty of them. They were preparing for the move, so he couldn’t stay there long, yet it was useful to see how they acted when they meant business. Most of them had had military training in the past, and it was visible in the way they gathered, collected stuff, gave and obeyed orders - there was no mess, no backlash in their interaction. Efficiency at its best.
Most of them wore hoods and caps, and only one bald head was sticking out. The only familiar face among many unknown. Gary Barclay, the second lieutenant. He looked dangerous even in the sterile surroundings of the spa that the Irishmen attacked, just by sitting and thinking, and doing nothing; here, among the piles of scrap metal, he looked… alive. He moved with a grace strange for a man of that mass. He was the only man in a suit, but in the midst of all the dangerous-looking street gangsters, only he was radiating sheer force with every steady, elegant step he took.
This one had to be avoided at any cost; even at full strength, Eliot would have had serious trouble in knocking him down. Grace meant speed, deadly speed, and in combination with that mass, he was practically unstoppable.
Eliot had seen enough, there was no need to stay here any longer, and he slowly retreated. It wasn’t as if he had any other option than to retreat slowly; he had seen snails with more energy. Just the thought of returning all the way to the Hummer made him even more tired, but all that hiding and watching took time, and time was something he was very short of. At least, he’d use that return to finish all the plans and start another fight. It was easier to think while walking than driving, his concentration was almost spent.
“Hey!” The shout came from the left, very near.
He turned around with his gun ready, but suddenly froze when he saw the man that was aiming at him.
The almost similar situation with the Irishman reminded him of his hallucinations - how he could be sure this wasn’t one of the team, armed for protection, and his mind turned them into a Chilean? They were crazy enough to show up here, for one reason or another, even without knowing he was around.
When a shot sounded loudly in his ears, the bullet flying mere inches left of his arm, he just sighed. He had just ruined an opportunity to retreat quietly with this stupid hesitation. He shot the man before he could fire again; a silent plop that wouldn’t have alarmed anybody.
Too late to dwell on mistakes now. Alarmed voices, the sound of running, yelling, and sharp orders were coming behind him when he retreated into the first dark passage he found; the hunt was on.
So much for rule number five; every damn thought about Those Idiots almost got him killed.
He couldn’t escape from here; he could barely walk and if he tried to run he was risking falling after only a few steps… but they weren’t the only ones with military training. A long, long time ago, he had led men like these, and there was nothing they could do to surprise him.
He found the perfect place after a few seconds; the deepest shadow in a ragged, half ruined wall. The dark green jacket, and dark suit beneath it just merged into one irregular shape when he rested his back against the wall and lowered his head to hide his face.
The hunters that chased their prey never expected it to stop running at the first shadow it reached; a few seconds passed before they stormed into the passage, swept through it, and disappeared in the darkness at the other end. He remained still. They knew how to chase; only five of them passed by him, they divided in small groups and dispersed all over the terrain.
They’d comb everything, he had to get going.
It was a dance of blind men; the dimmed lights of the nearby highway were barely enough for him to see the next step, but they were in the same darkness. And five men made much more noise than one, who didn’t want to be heard. Half of the time he just listened and moved from cover to cover anticipating their routes.
At the beginning he managed to hold a course in his head, to know roughly where he was in relation to their place, but after too many turns in every direction, he was completely lost. And it showed him the state he was in much better than his unsteady steps and labored breathing.
He was disoriented and confused, and he could only predict his next few steps. The map he had in his head was a mess and it was useless, he could only go on, having had no idea of where he was going. Two times he almost got caught; one of them even shot at his shadow, right at the moment when he thought he maybe managed to leave them far behind. That shot brought them all, from all around, into a closer circle, again too close.
Something like this would have been extremely entertaining any other day, he thought when he almost fell, when the buzzing covered every sound, and the dimmed lights turned into complete darkness. He had to concentrate on getting one foot in front of the other, and it became a complicated action that had to be thoroughly thought about - at that point he realized that was it, he had to stop. Six bullets spent, six more to go.
He sat by a wall and checked the gun, waiting for the first to show up. His fingers were strangely numb, and too quick of breathing left the taste of blood in his mouth, warning him that he overdid this shit way too much. He knew he would make more mistakes as time went by, but mistakes didn’t drive him mad, it was the stupidity of it.
He had no idea where he was - even the highway was left somewhere behind, or before him - he was surrounded by forty Chileans plus Barclay, and he couldn’t move.
He waited.
Then he waited some more.
After ten minutes the waiting became resting, and his breathing slowed down. He closed his eyes and concentrated only on listening, but a deep silence was all around him, there was no footsteps, no sound of running. Nothing.
He slowly got up. That little rest didn’t bring back his ability to orientate, he still had no idea where he was, but it seemed that the Chileans decided they couldn’t lose more time on one man when there was so much work to do all over the town. They were needed elsewhere.
That didn’t mean they hadn’t left someone to watch, somewhere in an ambush, so he carefully walked away, ready to shoot at the first sound. He chose a direction and just followed his nose.
To feel helpless anger was counterproductive, but he couldn’t help it; this shit might ruin everything. He had no means to find the Hummer again, he had six bullets, was lost in an unknown part of town, who knows how far from anything he could use to return to the game, he had lost almost an hour, if not more, and he was literally decorated with different phones which were useless as well. Calling a taxi? Of course. He only had to provide the address.
The worst of all, and very dangerous, was that the Chileans had surely found the Hummer in their search, it wasn’t parked very far away. In fact, they couldn’t miss it. And that meant they’d found Tapia who was now singing everything he knew about his doings. Which wasn’t much, but it would certainly be enough for Villacorta to place him right in the middle of tonight’s events, the thing he had carefully avoided so far.
He should have disposed of the Hummer long ago, it had served its purpose; a car with a normal trunk would be perfect to put Tapia in it, and he wouldn’t have to worry now. He could find some drunken teenagers and give them the Hummer to drive all over town, and - he stopped that thought in the middle, and stopped walking as well.
There was something awfully wrong in that thinking, but he couldn’t nail it down, and it took him almost a minute before he figured out that he expected the Hitter to start raging about putting teenagers in danger. What damn danger? He had to deeply concentrate to come to the answer - everyone who was driving Villacorta’s lieutenant’s car could be killed either by the Mexicans, the Irish, and so on, and on…The other two had no objections about that move, and he realized he was listening to one voice that wasn’t there anymore. And if the Hitter wasn’t there anymore, who the hell thought about that danger in the first place? Fuck, he was a mess. He’d never be able to walk out of it sane.
And where the hell was he??!
The darkness turned into red again as his rage grew, and he carefully put the gun in his pocket, to stop himself from shooting all six bullets into the walls and garbage. Calm down, idiot, and start to think, for a change.
Well, thinking got him here in the first place. One thing was certain - he wasn’t in Chilean territory anymore, the graffiti was different. He went closer to one wall where he perceived something like drawings - the colors were different as well. Blue, red, orange.
It reminded him of something and he risked a little more light, and used a phone to see the letters. It wasn’t Cyrillic… it was very distinctive alphabet. Great. But it wasn’t useful, it couldn’t tell him where to go.
He concentrated once more, and the only thing that he came up with was calling Hardison with the silver phone to tell him where the hell he was. That would be hilarious. Or, even better, he could call Villacorta with the same phone and ask him to locate him - that brought him to the very edge of hysterical laughter, and he tried to remind himself about the rule that forbade laughing. Yeah, right, it would be cool if he remembered what number that rule was.
Where the hell was he?! He swayed, disoriented again, and the street started to slowly move before his eyes. Jesus, even suppressing the laugh was tightening his chest, making breathing almost impossible.
He leaned on the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass, and closed his eyes.
“Hey!”
Not again, dammit!
He couldn’t see where the man was, nor he could tell by the voice… everything sounded strangely far away. He decided to let him come closer, and then kill him.
“Don’t move! Empty your pockets!”
What the hell… he opened his eyes when he heard that voice. A very distinctive accent.
There was four of them, coming closer in semi-circle. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
“Armenians, right?” he rasped. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’ll change your mind very soon.” The one with the gun came closer, studying him. “Who are you? A cop?”
He risked a deeper breath, and looked up. The sky in the east was turning into soft gray.
And he was still alive.
“I come in peace.” He managed to suppress a chuckle, and straightened himself up.
He slowly raised his right hand, with an opened palm, and solemnly said, “Take me to your leader.”
Maybe he couldn’t laugh, but it certainly didn’t stop the two voices from rolling all over his brain in helpless laughter.
There was no one who would cry.
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux,
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: The Boy's night out Job
warnings: Dead people
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: Well, that finally happened - the entry is too long. 9900 words. I have to make two posts, but it's the same chapter.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
***
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.
He waited until the shadows of the night became sharp again, and returned to the car when the Specialist and Commander started to quarrel about Tapia and his usability in upcoming events. He knew Tapia was, for now, more of a liability and danger than something useful. One wanted him killed, one only squared away, but Eliot shut them both down, watching the Chilean who was shifting in the seat.
His green jacket was at hand, ready to be put over his prisoner’s head in case he needed him hidden.
“Tell me about the Italians,” he said simply.
Tapia glanced into the darkness that was surrounding them, avoided eye contact, then looked at the gun with the silencer.
“My line of work has very little contact with them,” he said carefully. “Gambling is divided equally among the cartels, and it’s known which part of town is controlled by whom. You should ask Rojas about them, he’s dealing with the problems that the other cartels are causing… I can call him and ask him details, if you want. Or, I can call Barclay, he solves those problems. He is frighteningly good in solv- uhm.” Tapia paused, then shifted again. “I forgot, you’re the problem that Barclay is solving, too. Okay, we won’t call Barclay then. He scares me as well, sometimes.”
“Italians,” Eliot softly reminded him.
“I avoid them, all right? Last month I had a situation, and Renan was asking me to deal with it all by myself, and trust me, I haven’t slept for days. Those bastards suffocate you with negotiations and all lawyer-ish bullshit, and in the end you have no idea what you want, what you got, if you won or not, and why they are smiling so sleazily. Don Lazzara claimed one of my casinos was in their territory, but it’s on the border, near South Boston, and they just wanted to see how we would react. They are always poking, constantly trying to feel our pulse, and I don’t know why they’re always picking on me.”
Eliot had a few ideas why the Italians would try to attack the weakest link, but he said nothing. This man wasn’t fitting into the gang, much less into the upper circle of the cartel, unless he was missing something, unable to see some hidden qualities. Tapia looked under the thirty, like an ordinary good boy, fresh from college. Alejandro was an experienced killer, much older than this man, and he was frightened of being in the same car with Eliot. This one was just worried.
He smiled at him, just to test something. And Tapia relaxed a little.
“Do you have problems with Italians?” Tapia continued. “I can guarantee you, we can help you, just say what you want.”
“In case you didn’t notice, my only problem is the Chileans.”
“Erm, yes, I remember that. That leads to another question - what am I doing here? You said you’ll explain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining… tonight is very exciting and interesting, I have no objections. I’m just missing a clue here, you know?”
He couldn’t tell him that he had no idea why he was dragging him around, not that the only other option was to kill him. He certainly couldn’t just throw him out, he knew too much. If he didn’t find a way to make his presence more useful, he would have to… Damn.
Eliot put the gun away and started the car. Maybe his mere presence would be useful enough, when he started to lose contact with reality again. Talking to him could help him to concentrate more. By now, the lights were pulsing before his eyes again, and the darker shadows were purple, not black. Driving would again demand all of his skills, with a three second delay in all of his reactions. With a sigh, he put a seatbelt on Tapia; his hands were tied under the seat, and sudden braking or a crash could send him through the windshield, with his arms still in place. Two sulking voices in his head heaved exasperated sighs.
“Now, while I drive, tell me everything you collected on Don Lazzara.”
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***
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Everything went extremely well until Tapia got the idea to lighten up the atmosphere, and started to hum. Eliot thought about telling him how smart it was to irritate a drugged killer with a gun, but decided to ignore him and think about his plans instead. He could only spend fifteen minutes on the Italians, and it would be one lucky try. If he succeeded, great, if he didn’t, nothing was lost, he would just move along and continue with the Chileans. He had to go to the place The Pissed One provided him with, to finally see the real street gangsters, the main Chilean force, and the Italians would be just an intermezzo before that. All of the Chileans had to be lured into a fight, as soon as possible, if they weren’t engaged already.
Tapia understood his silence as a positive response, because he went from humming to real quiet singing, just at the moment they were entering Don Lazzara’s street. ‘Love is in the air, everywhere I look around… love is in the air, every sight and every sound…And I don’t know-'
Eliot turned to look at him, in total consternation, and Hummer slid to the side and went off the road, barely stopping a few inches before a street light pole.
“Ouch!!” Tapia gasped.
“Are you completely out of your mind!?” he growled at him, pissed off.
“Why? For singing? What’s wrong with singing? You could just say you want me to stop, you didn’t have to throw us off the road!”
“Shut up already!”
“Okaaaay... You could ask more-”
Jesus. This idiot was completely unaware that he sat next to a guy with voices in his head that were screaming to kill him. It wasn’t a quarrel anymore, both of them agreed that Tapia had to die, one way or another.
“Just. Shut. Up,” he whispered, desperately trying to dismiss the red hue that was coloring everything around him. He stared at the man, allowing his paranoia to research him, trying to find what was hidden beneath that naïve face, what dangerous, murderous quality he had to have to be Villacorta's lieutenant but either Tapia was a way better grifter than Sophie, or he was unable to see it. He returned his gaze with wide open eyes. Fuck.
Eliot closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then slowly returned the Hummer to the street.
Don Lazzara’s house was at the end of it. Tapia gave him the address and all the info he had, but he didn’t know that he draw them to told street, and why. He drove by slowly, noticing the cameras that covered the street before the house; when he turned around and went back again, the Hummer would be caught on the recording, both front seats.
He put on the green jacket with a hood that would cover his face, and all that would be recorded would be Rojas’s Hummer, and Tapia in the other seat - no connection to the team, just to the Chileans.
That also meant that Tapia would be dead man walking from now on.
Eliot put away the Lady Killer’s gun with the silencer and took Alejandro’s, turned the car at the end of the street and went back, slowly.
“What are you doing?” Tapia whispered, suddenly pale.
“Making noise.” Eliot glanced towards him, noticing the disgusted and terrified look in his eyes while he observed the nasty looking weapon. No, this man wasn’t a killer.
He pulled up the hood, covering his face before he got closer to the cameras, and at the last second changed his mind and pulled Tapia down, bumping his nose on his knees. Surprised, the Chilean gasped and yelped, but he broke off when Eliot stretched his left hand through the window and emptied entire the magazine into the car parked in front of Don Lazzara’s house. He wiped the gun and threw it onto the street, and drove off. No panic attack this time. Good.
“Gah!”
“You’re a very eloquent person, Tapia.”
“Gah!”
“You sound like cat throwing up hairballs.”
“Gah... gunpowder. That smell makes me sick.”
Eliot rolled his eyes, and immediately realized how big that mistake was, because the road turned over on its axis, and divided itself into three different paths, every single one in a different color. He barely managed to stop them before hitting a row of parked cars; if the air bag was activated, it would squash him like a bug. He closed his eyes and rested for a while, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass.
“Well, that helped,” a resigned voice came from the right.
He really needed a car with a real trunk.
.
.
***
.
“If you try to escape again, I’ll find you and kill you,” he said to Tapia after the long, silent drive to the part of the town he knew very little about. The Pissed One told him there was one of the biggest gathering places for Chileans, somewhere in the abandoned industrial buildings, on a block full of ruins and old warehouses. The quarters that surrounded the area were notorious themselves, but other gangs were in charge of those. Street dealing of cheap drugs was too small for the Chileans.
Tapia just smiled and wriggled his fingers, showing him that that was the only part of his hands he could move. Eliot had wrapped the duct tape around his shoulders, binding him completely to the back of the seat.
“I suggest you do not scream for help.” He glanced around over the ruins, dirt and abandoned houses. If nothing else, the green and red graffiti should have told him this was Chilean territory. “Something could crawl out from the holes in the ground and answer your calls.”
“Erm… when will you be back?” Tapia asked, following his glance.
“Fifteen minutes. Be here.” With that he closed the door and went into the shadows. It would take at least half an hour, though he knew where they were exactly, but he had to finish the Italians first. When the Hummer disappeared from his sight, he took one of the untraceable phones; this one was green; and called one of the numbers Tapia provided.
“Good evening, Don Lazzara,” he said politely. “I’m calling in the name of Renan Villacorta; he wants to apologize for tonight’s unfortunate chain of events.”
“Sending Rojas to shoot my car is not unfortunate, Voice of Renan Villacorta. It’s tragic.”
Damn, he should record this conversation. When the head of the Italian mob called something tragic, in such an, oh, so sweet voice, that meant it was…well, tragic.
“Yes, it was a tragic accident. I’m sure you are aware of tonight’s strange events all over town. My boss wants me to tell you that it wasn’t his intention to start any quarrel with the Italians, his order was misread. We are now extremely busy with different attacks, and mistakes happen. As a sign of a good will, he is willing to reconsider the territorial dispute over Tapia’s casino. In return, he asks only for your neutrality in the current events.”
The silence at the other end of the line was long, but he knew better than to say more.
“I shall think about his offer.”
And that was it, the line was dead. Eliot almost smiled. Knowing the Italians, this should be enough to start them. After poking the Chileans to see their weaknesses, direct confirmation of that same weakness wouldn’t be omitted. Villacorta had just said to the head of the Italian mob that he is in trouble, and he can’t handle the Italians. Even if nothing happened, tomorrow would be an interesting day for Tapia’s casino when the mob came to take it over - the fight would be inevitable, and Villacorta would be accused of preparing a trap.
Damn, it would be great if someone killed that son of the bitch - if someone else did it, no one would remember the five grifters that were sentenced to death. But if Eliot Spencer killed Villacorta, whoever took his place would have a duty to avenge him, if not a wish. And everything would just continue, They would never be free and safe.
And it would be perfect if it happened before the morning, he sighed trying to walk in a straight line. He knew that the chances for that to happen were none to zero, and that it was just wishful thinking - Villacorta was still too strong and it was impossible to reach him. His web was still impenetrable, no matter what he had done.
If Nate managed to use one little opening, it would be only a small chance to finish this. It would give hope, it could give a result, but it wasn’t the final solution. They couldn’t be sure that this wouldn’t continue, even if everything went well.
And that was the main problem here, because he knew what to do… but he didn’t know if he would be able to do it, to lead it to the end.
Well, getting killed in a slam certainly wouldn’t help it, he thought returning himself into the now, to the dark and ruins. He wasn’t so far away now, and he had to be careful. Putting a silencer on the Lady Killer’s gun - he had no idea why the hell he called it that, instead of simply a S&W M&P9C - would be a smart move. He had one gun and seven bullets left, and before he got another gun, he had to be very economical.
It was a simple scout, in and out, just to confirm their position before he got back and found a way to bring the Mexicans directly there. If that didn’t work, he’d think of something else, maybe draw those guys after him into the Mexicans. One way or another, he-
He almost bumped directly into a group that emerged around the corner, heading for the meeting place, and they didn’t see him only because they were arguing, and his hood covered his face in the dark.
That was close. He stayed frozen until they passed him by, only few meters away, and then went after them, keeping a solid distance. He could find his way through the small streets, meadows covered with garbage, and ruins, but they would lead him directly to their place.
It took five more minutes before they reached an old repository; one entire wall was missing, revealing piles of scrap metal and the remains of something that looked like old jib cranes. Ten bikes were parked in front of it, and he could see the silhouettes of cars in the pale light that was coming from inside.
That should have been enough, but he wanted to see how many of them were in there, and what they looked like, so he used the cover of the darkness and got as close as he could, right across the vast empty space in front of the missing wall.
At least forty of them. They were preparing for the move, so he couldn’t stay there long, yet it was useful to see how they acted when they meant business. Most of them had had military training in the past, and it was visible in the way they gathered, collected stuff, gave and obeyed orders - there was no mess, no backlash in their interaction. Efficiency at its best.
Most of them wore hoods and caps, and only one bald head was sticking out. The only familiar face among many unknown. Gary Barclay, the second lieutenant. He looked dangerous even in the sterile surroundings of the spa that the Irishmen attacked, just by sitting and thinking, and doing nothing; here, among the piles of scrap metal, he looked… alive. He moved with a grace strange for a man of that mass. He was the only man in a suit, but in the midst of all the dangerous-looking street gangsters, only he was radiating sheer force with every steady, elegant step he took.
This one had to be avoided at any cost; even at full strength, Eliot would have had serious trouble in knocking him down. Grace meant speed, deadly speed, and in combination with that mass, he was practically unstoppable.
Eliot had seen enough, there was no need to stay here any longer, and he slowly retreated. It wasn’t as if he had any other option than to retreat slowly; he had seen snails with more energy. Just the thought of returning all the way to the Hummer made him even more tired, but all that hiding and watching took time, and time was something he was very short of. At least, he’d use that return to finish all the plans and start another fight. It was easier to think while walking than driving, his concentration was almost spent.
“Hey!” The shout came from the left, very near.
He turned around with his gun ready, but suddenly froze when he saw the man that was aiming at him.
The almost similar situation with the Irishman reminded him of his hallucinations - how he could be sure this wasn’t one of the team, armed for protection, and his mind turned them into a Chilean? They were crazy enough to show up here, for one reason or another, even without knowing he was around.
When a shot sounded loudly in his ears, the bullet flying mere inches left of his arm, he just sighed. He had just ruined an opportunity to retreat quietly with this stupid hesitation. He shot the man before he could fire again; a silent plop that wouldn’t have alarmed anybody.
Too late to dwell on mistakes now. Alarmed voices, the sound of running, yelling, and sharp orders were coming behind him when he retreated into the first dark passage he found; the hunt was on.
So much for rule number five; every damn thought about Those Idiots almost got him killed.
He couldn’t escape from here; he could barely walk and if he tried to run he was risking falling after only a few steps… but they weren’t the only ones with military training. A long, long time ago, he had led men like these, and there was nothing they could do to surprise him.
He found the perfect place after a few seconds; the deepest shadow in a ragged, half ruined wall. The dark green jacket, and dark suit beneath it just merged into one irregular shape when he rested his back against the wall and lowered his head to hide his face.
The hunters that chased their prey never expected it to stop running at the first shadow it reached; a few seconds passed before they stormed into the passage, swept through it, and disappeared in the darkness at the other end. He remained still. They knew how to chase; only five of them passed by him, they divided in small groups and dispersed all over the terrain.
They’d comb everything, he had to get going.
It was a dance of blind men; the dimmed lights of the nearby highway were barely enough for him to see the next step, but they were in the same darkness. And five men made much more noise than one, who didn’t want to be heard. Half of the time he just listened and moved from cover to cover anticipating their routes.
At the beginning he managed to hold a course in his head, to know roughly where he was in relation to their place, but after too many turns in every direction, he was completely lost. And it showed him the state he was in much better than his unsteady steps and labored breathing.
He was disoriented and confused, and he could only predict his next few steps. The map he had in his head was a mess and it was useless, he could only go on, having had no idea of where he was going. Two times he almost got caught; one of them even shot at his shadow, right at the moment when he thought he maybe managed to leave them far behind. That shot brought them all, from all around, into a closer circle, again too close.
Something like this would have been extremely entertaining any other day, he thought when he almost fell, when the buzzing covered every sound, and the dimmed lights turned into complete darkness. He had to concentrate on getting one foot in front of the other, and it became a complicated action that had to be thoroughly thought about - at that point he realized that was it, he had to stop. Six bullets spent, six more to go.
He sat by a wall and checked the gun, waiting for the first to show up. His fingers were strangely numb, and too quick of breathing left the taste of blood in his mouth, warning him that he overdid this shit way too much. He knew he would make more mistakes as time went by, but mistakes didn’t drive him mad, it was the stupidity of it.
He had no idea where he was - even the highway was left somewhere behind, or before him - he was surrounded by forty Chileans plus Barclay, and he couldn’t move.
He waited.
Then he waited some more.
After ten minutes the waiting became resting, and his breathing slowed down. He closed his eyes and concentrated only on listening, but a deep silence was all around him, there was no footsteps, no sound of running. Nothing.
He slowly got up. That little rest didn’t bring back his ability to orientate, he still had no idea where he was, but it seemed that the Chileans decided they couldn’t lose more time on one man when there was so much work to do all over the town. They were needed elsewhere.
That didn’t mean they hadn’t left someone to watch, somewhere in an ambush, so he carefully walked away, ready to shoot at the first sound. He chose a direction and just followed his nose.
To feel helpless anger was counterproductive, but he couldn’t help it; this shit might ruin everything. He had no means to find the Hummer again, he had six bullets, was lost in an unknown part of town, who knows how far from anything he could use to return to the game, he had lost almost an hour, if not more, and he was literally decorated with different phones which were useless as well. Calling a taxi? Of course. He only had to provide the address.
The worst of all, and very dangerous, was that the Chileans had surely found the Hummer in their search, it wasn’t parked very far away. In fact, they couldn’t miss it. And that meant they’d found Tapia who was now singing everything he knew about his doings. Which wasn’t much, but it would certainly be enough for Villacorta to place him right in the middle of tonight’s events, the thing he had carefully avoided so far.
He should have disposed of the Hummer long ago, it had served its purpose; a car with a normal trunk would be perfect to put Tapia in it, and he wouldn’t have to worry now. He could find some drunken teenagers and give them the Hummer to drive all over town, and - he stopped that thought in the middle, and stopped walking as well.
There was something awfully wrong in that thinking, but he couldn’t nail it down, and it took him almost a minute before he figured out that he expected the Hitter to start raging about putting teenagers in danger. What damn danger? He had to deeply concentrate to come to the answer - everyone who was driving Villacorta’s lieutenant’s car could be killed either by the Mexicans, the Irish, and so on, and on…The other two had no objections about that move, and he realized he was listening to one voice that wasn’t there anymore. And if the Hitter wasn’t there anymore, who the hell thought about that danger in the first place? Fuck, he was a mess. He’d never be able to walk out of it sane.
And where the hell was he??!
The darkness turned into red again as his rage grew, and he carefully put the gun in his pocket, to stop himself from shooting all six bullets into the walls and garbage. Calm down, idiot, and start to think, for a change.
Well, thinking got him here in the first place. One thing was certain - he wasn’t in Chilean territory anymore, the graffiti was different. He went closer to one wall where he perceived something like drawings - the colors were different as well. Blue, red, orange.
It reminded him of something and he risked a little more light, and used a phone to see the letters. It wasn’t Cyrillic… it was very distinctive alphabet. Great. But it wasn’t useful, it couldn’t tell him where to go.
He concentrated once more, and the only thing that he came up with was calling Hardison with the silver phone to tell him where the hell he was. That would be hilarious. Or, even better, he could call Villacorta with the same phone and ask him to locate him - that brought him to the very edge of hysterical laughter, and he tried to remind himself about the rule that forbade laughing. Yeah, right, it would be cool if he remembered what number that rule was.
Where the hell was he?! He swayed, disoriented again, and the street started to slowly move before his eyes. Jesus, even suppressing the laugh was tightening his chest, making breathing almost impossible.
He leaned on the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass, and closed his eyes.
“Hey!”
Not again, dammit!
He couldn’t see where the man was, nor he could tell by the voice… everything sounded strangely far away. He decided to let him come closer, and then kill him.
“Don’t move! Empty your pockets!”
What the hell… he opened his eyes when he heard that voice. A very distinctive accent.
There was four of them, coming closer in semi-circle. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
“Armenians, right?” he rasped. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’ll change your mind very soon.” The one with the gun came closer, studying him. “Who are you? A cop?”
He risked a deeper breath, and looked up. The sky in the east was turning into soft gray.
And he was still alive.
“I come in peace.” He managed to suppress a chuckle, and straightened himself up.
He slowly raised his right hand, with an opened palm, and solemnly said, “Take me to your leader.”
Maybe he couldn’t laugh, but it certainly didn’t stop the two voices from rolling all over his brain in helpless laughter.
There was no one who would cry.