Fic: Ticket to the Freakshow Circus
Title: Ticket to the Freakshow Circus
Author: lady_ganesh
Fandom: Black Lagoon
Word Count: 5280 (mini-bang)
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Eda/OFC
Warnings: Violence.
Summary: You fuck up just once, and you end up assigned to goddamned Roanapur. Okay, so the fuckup was pretty spectacular.... But going out was a hell of a ride. Major spoilers for Eda's backstory.
Notes: Special thanks to lindentreeisle for betaing, and for opalmatrix for some essential fact-checking. (Not about the CIA. I made all that shit up, because dude, it's Black Lagoon.)
Political gatherings were always painfully dull. Inevitably given to ego-boosting, carefully worded conversations, and senators thinking every woman's thigh was an appropriate rest for their hands. Liz had already fended off two of the old bastards and an up-and-coming congressman who thought she was someone's trophy wife, not a staffer.
Of course she wasn't really a staffer either, but she was playing the part tonight. Senator Bonham seemed to think she was his new personal assistant. Maybe his personal something else. She should've worn pants instead of the dress.
Well, she was a tall, hot blonde no matter what she was wearing. It wouldn't have made much difference unless she'd put a bag over her head.
At least there was plenty of eye candy for Liz too. So many hot, eager young staffers in perfect suits. And the senator's wife, Marie. She was beautiful, easily twenty years younger than Bonham, Italian or maybe Hispanic. Perfectly dressed in a simple navy sheath and white jacket with a red rose pin. Liz wouldn't mind a closer look at that.
But work called. Scan the crowd, see who showed and who they talked to, do her best to find out what they were talking about, report back. The better she did, the more likely she'd get out in the action one of these days. Eyes on the prize, Allen. Eyes on the prize. Stay with Senator Bonham, get in some of those closed door meetings. Before she knew it, she’d be overseas with as much intrigue and cash as any girl could wish for. James Bond would cream himself if he knew the kind of tech they had now. If she was lucky, she'd get into that meeting about NAFTA that was coming up this month, and from there she could pick her assignment. She was so close she could feel it.
The senator's wife smiled at her. Damn, she was pretty. Liz tightened the band of her wristwatch and tried to look professional. Eyes on the prize, Liz. Eyes on the prize.
"Miss Allen," Senator Bonham said, leaning toward her, his hand on her arm. Liz could smell the Scotch on his breath. "Could you do me a favor and freshen my drink?"
"I'd be delighted," she said, and took his glass before he could get any more stink on her. Ugh. Hopefully he wasn't auditioning her to be his next mistress. If he was, she'd have to get herself out of it without having to shove a high-heeled shoe into the guy's foot. Something to look forward to.
Focus, Liz. There was the Chinese Ambassador, leaning over and muttering something to the Vietnamese Ambassador. Hmm. That could be interesting. Those countries hadn't gotten along since...never. Maybe they were trading insults, maybe things were changing. Something to watch. Maybe they were as antsy about NAFTA as some of the boys on this continent were. She grinned to herself. They should be nervous. That treaty was going through and nothing on God's green earth was going to stop it.
She got the senator his drink (the Chinese Ambassador's assistant was on her third or fourth glass of wine; that could end badly, she'd have to keep an eye out) and came back to his side.
"See if you can find out what Brazil's up to," he said to her. "I don't trust our contact in the Embassy."
She nodded. Time to mingle. She plastered on a smile and went back to the bar to get a drink of her own.
Three months later, Liz was riding high. She'd made the NAFTA meeting, and even James was making noises of approval when she reported in. And Eldon James was a fucking hardass. Everyone knew it. If she kept him on her side when she went up for the field promotion, it was practically guaranteed.
So she had to sit through a few more glitzy parties. Who cared? She was headed to Brazil, or Argentina. Maybe Peru if she got unlucky, but still. She'd be in place. Everything would be downhill from there.
This particular glitzy party was one of the better ones, anyway. Or maybe she didn't mind the hands up her skirt as much now that she knew she'd be getting out of Washington soon. She smiled at Senator Packwood and excused herself.
The radio in her ear buzzed as she left the bathroom. "We have a problem." Speak of the devil, it was Eldon James himself.
"I'm listening," she said, walking casually toward the hotel's bank of pay phones.
"Buzzards circling. Grab your chicks and find the nest."
A threat against Senator Bonham. More than credible, an imminent danger. The nest was the back door. Liz walked back into the ballroom and scanned the crowd for Bonham and his wife. Bonham was leaning against the wall by the bar, chatting up a pretty Asian woman with long black hair. A few other hangers-on circled them. Liz walked to his side and took his arm. "Senator," she said. "We need to go."
He frowned at her; they both knew she wouldn’t approach him right now unless something was wrong. "Everything all right?"
"Fine," she said, and launched into the code phrase. "There's an urgent briefing you need to attend in half an hour. Have you seen Mrs. Bonham?"
"I think she was over--" Bonham gestured at the far side of the room, where Marie was sitting, alone, at a table, sipping her drink. Such a beauty. Liz caught her eye and nodded in the senator's direction, and Marie rose from her table.
"Well, gentlemen," Bonham said, “and lady. I hate to leave so soon, but duty calls." He winked at the Asian woman. Liz wanted to gag.
As Liz walked to meet Marie, she could hear Senator Bonham saying goodbye, glad-handing his way out of the room. She smiled pleasantly at Marie and touched her shoulder. “Could you come with me for a moment? I’ve got a question.”
Marie looked confused, but she obeyed.
"We'll have you covered," the radio said in Liz’s ear. "Move quickly, but don't call any attention to yourself."
They passed through the crowd quickly enough, and the back door was quiet. She looked up and saw the spotter on the roof, covering them. "Come on," she said. "We need to move out, now."
She heard the shot as she turned to check on Bonham. The senator's head shattered into blood and gore; Liz felt macabre relief that they were far enough away to avoid the splatter.. Marie started screaming. Liz grabbed her arm and pulled, hard, dragging Marie away from the light. "Get down," she hissed, more for something to say than out of any hope she'd be heard.
There were more shots. Liz headed for the shadow of a Dumpster and planted both of them there in the darkness. Marie reached out and clung to her arm. She'd put her other hand over her mouth, like a little kid.
This was the kind of shit Liz lived for. Danger, intrigue and gunfire. If Marie didn't keep screaming and get both their asses killed, it might turn into the perfect evening.
Who the fuck was supposed to be covering them? What the shit were they doing? Any hope that the shooter might be satisfied with the senator dissolved as another bullet whizzed past her shoulder. Marie stifled yet another scream. Liz threw her arm around Marie’s waist and pulled her toward cover. She felt warm and curvy.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” James said in her ear. Get out and get safe. Something had gone south, all right. In a major way. They needed to find cover. And that meant Liz needed to find a safehouse. There weren’t many in the city; they’d have to move fast and stay low. On the upside, this place would be crawling with cops, FBI, and terrified witnesses any second now. They could sneak away in the chaos.
There were plenty of taxis around, which was something. If they could just get past the snipers, they’d be all right. Liz reached down and checked the gun she’d strapped to her thigh. Still there.
The closest safehouse was half a mile away, but it wasn’t an easy path, and if someone had inside info, that’s where they’d expect them to run. It’d be easier to hide in the suburbs.
"You don't have a phone, right?"
Marie shook her head. "Andrew does--did." She still looked like she was in shock.
That meant they couldn't be tracked. Good. She had twenty bucks in her purse, that would get them underground. From there, they could hit the Metro, get lost in the crowds and stay out of the killers' line of sight. What the hell did they want? NAFTA was a done deal, and Senator Bonham wasn't that important anyway. She'd been with him for access, not his power. Something reeked. She didn't know what it was, but even a safehouse might not be safe.
Twenty bucks would get them on the Metro but it wouldn't get a hotel room. She wondered if Marie carried cash. She'd cross that bridge when they were out of the shit. Metro Center was out of the question, but they could probably make Gallery Place. She liked Chinatown, and she knew plenty of places to get lost there if she had to.
Liz heard another round of shots. That might be good; it'd almost certainly send more people running out of the building. Panic worked in her favor. Nothing but static on her radio. What the hell was going on?
She tightened her grip on Marie. "No more screaming. No matter what." The further they got away from the Hilton the better. She pulled her hair down from her bun; a change in her appearance, however minor, wouldn't hurt. Marie's hair was short, nothing to do there.
As she'd predicted, another round of people poured out of the building, and this time some of them found the back door. "Look scared," Liz hissed, dragging Marie along with the crowd.
"Not a problem," Marie muttered. She had enough sense to keep her head down, which was encouraging. She still looked terrified, but at least Liz was pretty sure she wasn't going to start screaming again. Things were looking up.
A man walked by her. "What's going on?" he asked. "Does anyone know?"
Liz shook her head, keeping her eyes wide and confused. "I just heard the noise," she said. "At first I thought it was a car, but--"
Pop, pop, pop, and everyone was running, which was as much cover as Marie and Liz were going to get. "Come on," Liz urged Marie, who was stumbling in her heels, almost dragging Liz down. "Kick 'em off if you have to, just go."
"But it's filthy," Marie protested.
"You can get a shot later," Liz snapped. They were almost at the alley; she realized, with a sharp dose of irony, that they were almost at Ford’s Theater. "Act drunk, no one'll be suspicious."
"I'm not going to lose my shoes," Marie said. Liz noticed that the heavy pressure on her arm had eased. Marie was going to make an effort for those Gucci pumps. Or maybe she'd just seen the crack vials lining the alley. Broken glass hurt like a motherfucker.
"Fine," Liz said, slowing their pace so she could better scan the path ahead. "But you have to stay with me. If I tell you to run, it's go time, okay?"
Marie just nodded. Liz was going to have bruises on her arm tomorrow, but for now, the adrenalin was keeping the pain at bay. "And stay quiet," she added. "You scream again, we might be dead."
"I know," Marie said, her voice a little sad. "Like Andrew."
Yeah, that was a mental image Liz didn't want her focusing on. She sighed. "Don't think about that now," she said. "He'd want you to get through this." Probably. If he wasn't too busy auditioning his next wife.
"I’m not a fool," Marie said. "He wouldn't care at all. But you're right. I should live." She stopped for a second. "Hold on, please." She reached down and adjusted the strap of her left shoe. "I think the heels will stay on. It's easier to walk with them."
"I always wear wedges," Liz said. Which was true, at least for work. Off-hours, she didn't mind a good pair of fuck-me heels. But she was 100% on duty now. She put a finger to her lips. There was someone at the end of the alley, but that could mean anything. With luck it was just some homeless guy or a lost tourist trying to figure out where to find a taxi, but with the way her night had gone, caution was the first priority. She put her hand on her gun and slowly led Marie to the end of the alley.
It wasn't a homeless guy. It was a man dressed in black, scanning the street, holding a Glock. What kind of jackass didn't cover both ways into the street?
Well, his stupidity was her gain. She pulled her own gun - a Beretta that operated like a dream - and held it as close as she dared. "Hey, asshole," she said, and grinned as she watched him jump. "You wanna tell me who you're working for?"
The guy tried to bring his gun up, but all Liz had to do was pull the trigger. She shot twice, torso and head, and he crumpled like a rag doll.
Marie had her hand over her mouth again. "Come on," Liz said, taking pains to keep her voice calm. "We're almost at the station. Move fast, everyone in this town will hear those shots." She just kept moving, though for a few seconds Marie was basically a dead weight against her. "Don't," she said. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."
Two minutes and they were underground. Liz yanked her radio out from behind her ear; even if someone came back, no one could hear her now, and she'd be out of range by the time they hit their Metro stop. The last gunman - and the continuing silence from her radio - had convinced her that any safehouse would be compromised, no matter where she was in the city. Fuck it.
Her old college roommate had a place in Huntington. She wondered how she'd feel having an old friend drop in. Liz grinned to herself. Only one way to find out. "Come on," she said, and shoved some cash into the farecard machine. "We're gonna go see a friend."
She had to take her almost by the waist to get her on the train. "This way," she said, finally slipping her arm firmly around Marie. She could feel Marie shaking a little; not much of a surprise. Marie sure as fuck hadn't been trained for this. "Come on, she's going to love you."
"You just--" Marie said. She didn't finish the sentence.
"It's all right," Liz said. "I’m sorry he cheated on you. I know breaking up's hard to do." She said some other comforting bullshit. None of it made much sense, but none of it said sorry your husband just got killed either, which was really the goal. Make sympathetic noises and don't give up who you really are under any circumstances. Acting like they’d just come from a breakup, rather than an assassination, made the two of them seem ordinary, which was exactly what Liz wanted. "He wasn't worth it anyway."
Marie sighed. "That much," she said, gaining a little composure, "is true. Did he ever hit on you?"
Only twice a day. "Little bit," Liz said.
"Did you ever--"
"Not interested," Liz said firmly. "I like my perverts younger and hotter."
Liz felt Marie's laugh against her ribs as they collapsed into the seat. Thank fuck it wasn't too crowded. "I've learned so much about you tonight, Miss Allen."
"Liz." She kept her arm around Marie. She wasn't sure Marie needed it any more but it felt damn good. "We'll get you cleaned up at Bianca's, okay?"
Marie's eyes went wide. "I must be a mess." She started digging in her purse.
"You look beautiful," Liz said, "but you look like you've been crying."
Marie pulled a mirror from her designer bag and took a horrified look at her face. "Oh!" She pulled out a handful of tissues and her lipstick and went to work. "I knew I should have brought mascara," she said, her accent just audible, but still not strong enough for Liz to place it.
"You don't need it," Liz said.
Marie smiled at her gratefully, but shook her head no. "I put much work into this face. I can't start wasting it now."
As Liz watched, Marie changed her face, just slightly, altering the line of her lipstick and smearing her mascara to look artful instead of DC perfect. When she was done, she looked over at Liz with a braver, softer face. "Better?"
"I'm impressed," Liz said sincerely. "You're like a whole new woman."
"I would hope so," she said. And she seemed to relax as they rode the train to the end of the line.
Marie looked around in wide-eyed confusion when they got out. "Are there any taxis?"
"We're not taking a taxi," Liz said firmly. "We can walk from here."
"Is it safe?" Marie asked, and then seemed to realize how fucking stupid that question was. "I mean--"
"Just come on," Liz said, and headed off toward the tract houses. Bianca had a duplex on the left. Assuming she still lived there. She probably did. If she didn't, Liz could just bullshit her way through it.
The name on the mail slot still said Vaughn, which was a good sign, but no one answered Liz's buzz.
"What will we do if she isn't home?" Marie asked.
Liz almost checked under the mat before she remembered Bianca had always had a tried-and-true method for hiding keys. Sure enough, there it was, in the hanging plant by the front door. "No problem," she said, and opened the door. "She won't mind."
Marie probably figured it actually was a safehouse. Well, that was hardly a problem, was it? She stepped through, and Liz turned the light on.
The place still looked like Bianca; clean, spare, modern. White furniture. Boring, but that was all right. Marie had probably had enough of the unexpected for one night. "Why don't you go get cleaned up?" Liz suggested, flopping in front of the couch and turning the TV on. "Then maybe you'll be ready for some rest."
She heard the shower running as she watched Letterman. She checked her radio again for the hell of it, but she heard nothing. She'd have to check in in the morning, but she didn't dare make contact before then; if they were compromised, it'd be like painting a target on their backs.
Marie got out of the shower wearing a towel and no makeup. If anything, she looked even better than she did before. She collapsed next to Liz, all lean, tanned arms and long, long legs.
“You okay? There’s beer in the fridge.” Liz had opened up some Perrier. No sense fucking with her reflexes, especially now.
Marie shook her head.
The show ended and an old rerun of SCTV came on. Marie laughed a little at it, which Liz thought was promising. The adrenaline was starting to wear off them both, and Liz was starting to feel normal again. Marie reached over and shut the TV off at the first commercial. Liz watched her sit back on the couch. She looked Liz in the eye.
"You've kept me safe," Marie said. "I'm grateful."
Liz wondered how grateful, but she wasn’t dumb enough to ask. "It's my job," she said. "What kind of assistant would I be if I lost my boss's wife?"
"You're more than an assistant," Marie said. "I’m not as naive as you think. And I'm not blind."
Liz shrugged. "I have some weapons training, that's all. Half the people in DC know how to carry a gun." She checked the door again; she’d wedged a chair against it, just in case. The guest bedroom faced the other half of the duplex, which meant it was pretty well protected in case a couple assholes came to play. "We just need to stay put, okay? It'll all be fine."
"Thank you," Marie said. "So much." She looked very grateful. Liz liked grateful on her. It was a good look. Be even better if that towel of Bianca’s was on the floor, but that should probably wait until she had the all-clear from upstairs. Having some asshole come in with a gun would definitely kill the mood.
But then Marie stood up, letting the towel drop, and Liz decided they were safe enough for the next twenty minutes or so.
Ten days later, Liz was looking through a tourist brochure for Italy - she’d been reprimanded for the public shooting, but saving the senator’s wife had balanced that out and she figured she might as well aim high - when Marie called. “Miss Allen,” she said. “I was wondering if you were available for lunch?”Lunch meant kneeling between Marie’s legs at the Hay-Adams, the air conditioner on and Latin jazz on the radio.
“That sounds great,” Liz said. “I’m starving.” That was when she realized that Eldon James was hovering over her desk. “Um, noon?”
“Sure,” Marie said, her voice warm with promise.
"Allen," James said, before the phone was even on the hook. "I need a word with you." His eyes were shadowed. His mouth was a very thin line.
Well, she had known she wasn't getting the Medal of Honor. She hadn't really figured on being in the shit, though. What had happened?
She followed him in silence until they were both in his office with the door safely closed. "What's wrong, Sir?"
"Sit down," he said, gesturing at the leather chair across from his desk.
"Sir," she said. "Can I ask what this is about?"
”Sit down,” he repeated.
She let her ass drop to the chair. “I’d still like to know what this is about.”
"It's about discretion, Agent Allen."
Liz sucked air in through her teeth.
"Let's face it," he said, settling into his own chair and taking something from the desk. "You don't have it." He slid a stack of photographs over to her. All she had to see was the top photo. Marie; her breasts, her stomach. Liz's hands. Her mouth. “A tabloid photographer was following the ‘grieving widow.’ This is what he found. Fortunately, our friends in the FBI were following him for their own reasons, or these would probably be in the Enquirer by now.”
"Sir," she said, a cold knot forming in her stomach. "I--"
"I don't need to hear anything," he said. "You've more than proven your ability to infiltrate and operate under pressure. You've also proven your utter inability to keep your activities and, eh, proclivities under wraps. I don't need to tell you that you've ruined your chances for the assignment you've applied for."
"No, Sir," she said. There didn't seem to be much else to say. She hadn’t really wanted to go to Italy anyway, really. Maybe she'd quit the agency. Maybe she'd run off with Marie and rob banks. Maybe she could be happy doing paperwork for the rest of her life.
Fucking paperwork.
"There is one other possibility," James said. "We might be able to transfer you. There's one field assignment in particular you might be suited for. It's dangerous and miserable, there's no glory and not really any pay, and you'll never come back from it."
"Sounds fantastic," Liz said. "Do I get to shoot anybody?"
He smiled, grim. "That remains to be seen."
She raided the factbook for some basic intel on the city: Roanapur. Just east of nowhere. He wasn't kidding when he said there wasn't any glory in it. The city was under the thumb or the cartels; Chinese, mostly, though some Russians were making a play. Lots of expats; she'd fit right in as an American. Even if it wasn't anything like what she'd trained for.
They wanted her to get into the Ripoff Church, an organization as legit as its name. Reming had given her the file. Gun smuggling mostly. Working there would give her a line into every cartel in the city and a chance to pass information back home if it gained any importance. She'd get to play with guns, anyway. A lot of guns, if the intel was right.
The previous agent had disappeared two months ago. From the file, Liz guessed there were bits of him scattered around the city. He hadn't known much about discretion either, but he'd been sloppy, too. Liz might be a slut, but she wasn't sloppy.
She twisted her mouth in thought. There was a lot to think about.
But even as she did that, she knew she'd say yes to the assignment. All she needed to do was create the right character.
She couldn't play mousy like she had in DC; it hadn't worked out that well, anyway. Maybe she could use some of her natural talents. A big blonde American looking for chaos. She could use plenty of her own personality; she liked guns and money and blowing shit up. The church would probably welcome her into its loving bosom.
She put her reading down, got up and walked into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. She could make this work. Play it up with bright lipstick, let her hair go wild. She could land in Roanapur in search of a good time, knock some heads, and make connections from there. Look dangerous and tough, and half the work was already done. She'd have to brush up on her weapons training, but that was hardly work at all.
Backstory. She'd need to come up with something good. No 'I didn't get enough hugs as a child' crap. Military brat, maybe, which would explain what she knew about the rest of the world and why she knew so many weapons inside and out. Kicked out by Daddy for fucking the wrong man, or woman, or maybe both.
She’d cut ties with her mother a long time ago. Her brother was halfway to drinking himself to death; he wouldn’t miss her. It wouldn’t take much work to leave Elizabeth Dawn Allen behind for good.
She smiled at herself in the mirror. Oh yes. This would definitely work.
She knew Roanapur would be a hot, miserable shithole, but she'd completely underestimated just how hot, miserable and shitty the place was. It was so humid her shirt was soaked through by the time she'd walked halfway to her fleapit of a hotel. A rickshaw driver saw her and started talking fast, but she waved him off. "Gotta save my money," she said. "Though you're cute."
The guy grinned at her and pedaled on. She had to be careful; look cheap but not too desperate. Desperate would get every pimp in town on her doorstep. She was going to skip that step, thanks. She had better shit to do.
She needed a gun.
Or maybe a drink. Then she might be able to get the locals to tell her about the Church. Save her from having to talk too much. Get pointed in the right direction, and she could play things from there. The CIA said there was only one bar really frequented by the local gangsters. She'd start there.
She hiked her skirt up a little and headed down the street.
The Church was pretty. Western. God knows how many people had fallen off the rafters and into Eternity making the damn thing. "Hey," she shouted at the door. "Anybody here?"
The thick wooden door opened as slowly as the grave, revealing an old nun in a black-and-white habit. She wore an eyepatch over her grizzled face.
"Pirate look. I hear that's in this year."
"So you're funny." Her face was smiling, but her good eye had a sharp glint. Eda was getting weighed and measured. "Anyone can pray here, dear, you don't need to raise your voice so."
"Yeah, well, I heard you were looking for converts."
"Are you feeling spiritual, then?" She turned around and let Eda follow her through the church doors. "The Church's word is always ready, for those ready to listen."
"Oh, I'm listening," Eda said. "Believe me. Gan said you were hoping to spread the light in the darkness." She'd been drinking at Gan's bar for the better part of two months, and her charms had finally led him to let her in on the code. Well, she hoped it was the code. She'd have to think fast if it wasn't.
She and the nun made small talk as the nun led her down a narrow path at the back of the church. What the weather was like, how long she'd been in the city, how bright and lovely the marigolds were this time of year. "Marigolds were often brought to the Church by the poor," the nun said, "when they could afford no better offering."
"Shakespeare mentioned them," she said.
The nun looked back, catching her eye. "Gan really did send you," she said. "Is he right, I wonder?"
"I think you'll find me reliable, Sister."
"We'll find out," she said, and led Eda down a flight of rickety stairs. "Right through there."
"Right through here" was a metal-lined bunker with a single wooden table. On the table were a Kalashnikov, a Sig 9mm, and an SKS.
"You know the drill," the nun said from the doorway. "Take them apart, put them back together. I'll be timing you."
She shut the lights off and closed the door. Eda started as soon as she heard the click of the lock.
The Kalashnikov and Sig were easy. The SKS was a piece of shit; the mechanism kept jamming, and Eda wondered if it was a trick question or they just had a bunch of crappy guns. "Hey Mother," she yelled at the door.
"That's Sister Yolanda to you," the nun said. "Your Mother Superior, if you're feeling the call."
"Oh, I feel it," she said. "The Good Lord's calling my name. But the Good Lord says this SKS is busted. You want me to keep going? Are we trying to kill somebody?"
"Not this time," Sister Yolanda said calmly, and flicked on the light. "You pick up quickly."
"I'm flattered," she said, leaning against the steel table. "You're trusting."
The Sister's wrinkled face creased in a smile. "Not really. But I am heavily armed. What is your name, girl?"
"Eda."
"No last name?"
"Not any more."
"You're American, huh?"
"From the good ol' red, white and blue," she said.
"Where'd you learn all this?"
"Dad was in the Army," she said. "I liked guns. Still do."
"Come along," she said. "I'll show you to your quarters. You can start training today."
"Sounds good to me."
"You will need to work on your piety."
"I've been told. I'll just have to look for guidance, I suppose."
"Turn your thoughts to the Lord," she said cheerfully, "and all paths become clear."
“As long as we don’t run out of bullets,” Eda said, “that’s fine by me."
Author: lady_ganesh
Fandom: Black Lagoon
Word Count: 5280 (mini-bang)
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Eda/OFC
Warnings: Violence.
Summary: You fuck up just once, and you end up assigned to goddamned Roanapur. Okay, so the fuckup was pretty spectacular.... But going out was a hell of a ride. Major spoilers for Eda's backstory.
Notes: Special thanks to lindentreeisle for betaing, and for opalmatrix for some essential fact-checking. (Not about the CIA. I made all that shit up, because dude, it's Black Lagoon.)
Political gatherings were always painfully dull. Inevitably given to ego-boosting, carefully worded conversations, and senators thinking every woman's thigh was an appropriate rest for their hands. Liz had already fended off two of the old bastards and an up-and-coming congressman who thought she was someone's trophy wife, not a staffer.
Of course she wasn't really a staffer either, but she was playing the part tonight. Senator Bonham seemed to think she was his new personal assistant. Maybe his personal something else. She should've worn pants instead of the dress.
Well, she was a tall, hot blonde no matter what she was wearing. It wouldn't have made much difference unless she'd put a bag over her head.
At least there was plenty of eye candy for Liz too. So many hot, eager young staffers in perfect suits. And the senator's wife, Marie. She was beautiful, easily twenty years younger than Bonham, Italian or maybe Hispanic. Perfectly dressed in a simple navy sheath and white jacket with a red rose pin. Liz wouldn't mind a closer look at that.
But work called. Scan the crowd, see who showed and who they talked to, do her best to find out what they were talking about, report back. The better she did, the more likely she'd get out in the action one of these days. Eyes on the prize, Allen. Eyes on the prize. Stay with Senator Bonham, get in some of those closed door meetings. Before she knew it, she’d be overseas with as much intrigue and cash as any girl could wish for. James Bond would cream himself if he knew the kind of tech they had now. If she was lucky, she'd get into that meeting about NAFTA that was coming up this month, and from there she could pick her assignment. She was so close she could feel it.
The senator's wife smiled at her. Damn, she was pretty. Liz tightened the band of her wristwatch and tried to look professional. Eyes on the prize, Liz. Eyes on the prize.
"Miss Allen," Senator Bonham said, leaning toward her, his hand on her arm. Liz could smell the Scotch on his breath. "Could you do me a favor and freshen my drink?"
"I'd be delighted," she said, and took his glass before he could get any more stink on her. Ugh. Hopefully he wasn't auditioning her to be his next mistress. If he was, she'd have to get herself out of it without having to shove a high-heeled shoe into the guy's foot. Something to look forward to.
Focus, Liz. There was the Chinese Ambassador, leaning over and muttering something to the Vietnamese Ambassador. Hmm. That could be interesting. Those countries hadn't gotten along since...never. Maybe they were trading insults, maybe things were changing. Something to watch. Maybe they were as antsy about NAFTA as some of the boys on this continent were. She grinned to herself. They should be nervous. That treaty was going through and nothing on God's green earth was going to stop it.
She got the senator his drink (the Chinese Ambassador's assistant was on her third or fourth glass of wine; that could end badly, she'd have to keep an eye out) and came back to his side.
"See if you can find out what Brazil's up to," he said to her. "I don't trust our contact in the Embassy."
She nodded. Time to mingle. She plastered on a smile and went back to the bar to get a drink of her own.
Three months later, Liz was riding high. She'd made the NAFTA meeting, and even James was making noises of approval when she reported in. And Eldon James was a fucking hardass. Everyone knew it. If she kept him on her side when she went up for the field promotion, it was practically guaranteed.
So she had to sit through a few more glitzy parties. Who cared? She was headed to Brazil, or Argentina. Maybe Peru if she got unlucky, but still. She'd be in place. Everything would be downhill from there.
This particular glitzy party was one of the better ones, anyway. Or maybe she didn't mind the hands up her skirt as much now that she knew she'd be getting out of Washington soon. She smiled at Senator Packwood and excused herself.
The radio in her ear buzzed as she left the bathroom. "We have a problem." Speak of the devil, it was Eldon James himself.
"I'm listening," she said, walking casually toward the hotel's bank of pay phones.
"Buzzards circling. Grab your chicks and find the nest."
A threat against Senator Bonham. More than credible, an imminent danger. The nest was the back door. Liz walked back into the ballroom and scanned the crowd for Bonham and his wife. Bonham was leaning against the wall by the bar, chatting up a pretty Asian woman with long black hair. A few other hangers-on circled them. Liz walked to his side and took his arm. "Senator," she said. "We need to go."
He frowned at her; they both knew she wouldn’t approach him right now unless something was wrong. "Everything all right?"
"Fine," she said, and launched into the code phrase. "There's an urgent briefing you need to attend in half an hour. Have you seen Mrs. Bonham?"
"I think she was over--" Bonham gestured at the far side of the room, where Marie was sitting, alone, at a table, sipping her drink. Such a beauty. Liz caught her eye and nodded in the senator's direction, and Marie rose from her table.
"Well, gentlemen," Bonham said, “and lady. I hate to leave so soon, but duty calls." He winked at the Asian woman. Liz wanted to gag.
As Liz walked to meet Marie, she could hear Senator Bonham saying goodbye, glad-handing his way out of the room. She smiled pleasantly at Marie and touched her shoulder. “Could you come with me for a moment? I’ve got a question.”
Marie looked confused, but she obeyed.
"We'll have you covered," the radio said in Liz’s ear. "Move quickly, but don't call any attention to yourself."
They passed through the crowd quickly enough, and the back door was quiet. She looked up and saw the spotter on the roof, covering them. "Come on," she said. "We need to move out, now."
She heard the shot as she turned to check on Bonham. The senator's head shattered into blood and gore; Liz felt macabre relief that they were far enough away to avoid the splatter.. Marie started screaming. Liz grabbed her arm and pulled, hard, dragging Marie away from the light. "Get down," she hissed, more for something to say than out of any hope she'd be heard.
There were more shots. Liz headed for the shadow of a Dumpster and planted both of them there in the darkness. Marie reached out and clung to her arm. She'd put her other hand over her mouth, like a little kid.
This was the kind of shit Liz lived for. Danger, intrigue and gunfire. If Marie didn't keep screaming and get both their asses killed, it might turn into the perfect evening.
Who the fuck was supposed to be covering them? What the shit were they doing? Any hope that the shooter might be satisfied with the senator dissolved as another bullet whizzed past her shoulder. Marie stifled yet another scream. Liz threw her arm around Marie’s waist and pulled her toward cover. She felt warm and curvy.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” James said in her ear. Get out and get safe. Something had gone south, all right. In a major way. They needed to find cover. And that meant Liz needed to find a safehouse. There weren’t many in the city; they’d have to move fast and stay low. On the upside, this place would be crawling with cops, FBI, and terrified witnesses any second now. They could sneak away in the chaos.
There were plenty of taxis around, which was something. If they could just get past the snipers, they’d be all right. Liz reached down and checked the gun she’d strapped to her thigh. Still there.
The closest safehouse was half a mile away, but it wasn’t an easy path, and if someone had inside info, that’s where they’d expect them to run. It’d be easier to hide in the suburbs.
"You don't have a phone, right?"
Marie shook her head. "Andrew does--did." She still looked like she was in shock.
That meant they couldn't be tracked. Good. She had twenty bucks in her purse, that would get them underground. From there, they could hit the Metro, get lost in the crowds and stay out of the killers' line of sight. What the hell did they want? NAFTA was a done deal, and Senator Bonham wasn't that important anyway. She'd been with him for access, not his power. Something reeked. She didn't know what it was, but even a safehouse might not be safe.
Twenty bucks would get them on the Metro but it wouldn't get a hotel room. She wondered if Marie carried cash. She'd cross that bridge when they were out of the shit. Metro Center was out of the question, but they could probably make Gallery Place. She liked Chinatown, and she knew plenty of places to get lost there if she had to.
Liz heard another round of shots. That might be good; it'd almost certainly send more people running out of the building. Panic worked in her favor. Nothing but static on her radio. What the hell was going on?
She tightened her grip on Marie. "No more screaming. No matter what." The further they got away from the Hilton the better. She pulled her hair down from her bun; a change in her appearance, however minor, wouldn't hurt. Marie's hair was short, nothing to do there.
As she'd predicted, another round of people poured out of the building, and this time some of them found the back door. "Look scared," Liz hissed, dragging Marie along with the crowd.
"Not a problem," Marie muttered. She had enough sense to keep her head down, which was encouraging. She still looked terrified, but at least Liz was pretty sure she wasn't going to start screaming again. Things were looking up.
A man walked by her. "What's going on?" he asked. "Does anyone know?"
Liz shook her head, keeping her eyes wide and confused. "I just heard the noise," she said. "At first I thought it was a car, but--"
Pop, pop, pop, and everyone was running, which was as much cover as Marie and Liz were going to get. "Come on," Liz urged Marie, who was stumbling in her heels, almost dragging Liz down. "Kick 'em off if you have to, just go."
"But it's filthy," Marie protested.
"You can get a shot later," Liz snapped. They were almost at the alley; she realized, with a sharp dose of irony, that they were almost at Ford’s Theater. "Act drunk, no one'll be suspicious."
"I'm not going to lose my shoes," Marie said. Liz noticed that the heavy pressure on her arm had eased. Marie was going to make an effort for those Gucci pumps. Or maybe she'd just seen the crack vials lining the alley. Broken glass hurt like a motherfucker.
"Fine," Liz said, slowing their pace so she could better scan the path ahead. "But you have to stay with me. If I tell you to run, it's go time, okay?"
Marie just nodded. Liz was going to have bruises on her arm tomorrow, but for now, the adrenalin was keeping the pain at bay. "And stay quiet," she added. "You scream again, we might be dead."
"I know," Marie said, her voice a little sad. "Like Andrew."
Yeah, that was a mental image Liz didn't want her focusing on. She sighed. "Don't think about that now," she said. "He'd want you to get through this." Probably. If he wasn't too busy auditioning his next wife.
"I’m not a fool," Marie said. "He wouldn't care at all. But you're right. I should live." She stopped for a second. "Hold on, please." She reached down and adjusted the strap of her left shoe. "I think the heels will stay on. It's easier to walk with them."
"I always wear wedges," Liz said. Which was true, at least for work. Off-hours, she didn't mind a good pair of fuck-me heels. But she was 100% on duty now. She put a finger to her lips. There was someone at the end of the alley, but that could mean anything. With luck it was just some homeless guy or a lost tourist trying to figure out where to find a taxi, but with the way her night had gone, caution was the first priority. She put her hand on her gun and slowly led Marie to the end of the alley.
It wasn't a homeless guy. It was a man dressed in black, scanning the street, holding a Glock. What kind of jackass didn't cover both ways into the street?
Well, his stupidity was her gain. She pulled her own gun - a Beretta that operated like a dream - and held it as close as she dared. "Hey, asshole," she said, and grinned as she watched him jump. "You wanna tell me who you're working for?"
The guy tried to bring his gun up, but all Liz had to do was pull the trigger. She shot twice, torso and head, and he crumpled like a rag doll.
Marie had her hand over her mouth again. "Come on," Liz said, taking pains to keep her voice calm. "We're almost at the station. Move fast, everyone in this town will hear those shots." She just kept moving, though for a few seconds Marie was basically a dead weight against her. "Don't," she said. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."
Two minutes and they were underground. Liz yanked her radio out from behind her ear; even if someone came back, no one could hear her now, and she'd be out of range by the time they hit their Metro stop. The last gunman - and the continuing silence from her radio - had convinced her that any safehouse would be compromised, no matter where she was in the city. Fuck it.
Her old college roommate had a place in Huntington. She wondered how she'd feel having an old friend drop in. Liz grinned to herself. Only one way to find out. "Come on," she said, and shoved some cash into the farecard machine. "We're gonna go see a friend."
She had to take her almost by the waist to get her on the train. "This way," she said, finally slipping her arm firmly around Marie. She could feel Marie shaking a little; not much of a surprise. Marie sure as fuck hadn't been trained for this. "Come on, she's going to love you."
"You just--" Marie said. She didn't finish the sentence.
"It's all right," Liz said. "I’m sorry he cheated on you. I know breaking up's hard to do." She said some other comforting bullshit. None of it made much sense, but none of it said sorry your husband just got killed either, which was really the goal. Make sympathetic noises and don't give up who you really are under any circumstances. Acting like they’d just come from a breakup, rather than an assassination, made the two of them seem ordinary, which was exactly what Liz wanted. "He wasn't worth it anyway."
Marie sighed. "That much," she said, gaining a little composure, "is true. Did he ever hit on you?"
Only twice a day. "Little bit," Liz said.
"Did you ever--"
"Not interested," Liz said firmly. "I like my perverts younger and hotter."
Liz felt Marie's laugh against her ribs as they collapsed into the seat. Thank fuck it wasn't too crowded. "I've learned so much about you tonight, Miss Allen."
"Liz." She kept her arm around Marie. She wasn't sure Marie needed it any more but it felt damn good. "We'll get you cleaned up at Bianca's, okay?"
Marie's eyes went wide. "I must be a mess." She started digging in her purse.
"You look beautiful," Liz said, "but you look like you've been crying."
Marie pulled a mirror from her designer bag and took a horrified look at her face. "Oh!" She pulled out a handful of tissues and her lipstick and went to work. "I knew I should have brought mascara," she said, her accent just audible, but still not strong enough for Liz to place it.
"You don't need it," Liz said.
Marie smiled at her gratefully, but shook her head no. "I put much work into this face. I can't start wasting it now."
As Liz watched, Marie changed her face, just slightly, altering the line of her lipstick and smearing her mascara to look artful instead of DC perfect. When she was done, she looked over at Liz with a braver, softer face. "Better?"
"I'm impressed," Liz said sincerely. "You're like a whole new woman."
"I would hope so," she said. And she seemed to relax as they rode the train to the end of the line.
Marie looked around in wide-eyed confusion when they got out. "Are there any taxis?"
"We're not taking a taxi," Liz said firmly. "We can walk from here."
"Is it safe?" Marie asked, and then seemed to realize how fucking stupid that question was. "I mean--"
"Just come on," Liz said, and headed off toward the tract houses. Bianca had a duplex on the left. Assuming she still lived there. She probably did. If she didn't, Liz could just bullshit her way through it.
The name on the mail slot still said Vaughn, which was a good sign, but no one answered Liz's buzz.
"What will we do if she isn't home?" Marie asked.
Liz almost checked under the mat before she remembered Bianca had always had a tried-and-true method for hiding keys. Sure enough, there it was, in the hanging plant by the front door. "No problem," she said, and opened the door. "She won't mind."
Marie probably figured it actually was a safehouse. Well, that was hardly a problem, was it? She stepped through, and Liz turned the light on.
The place still looked like Bianca; clean, spare, modern. White furniture. Boring, but that was all right. Marie had probably had enough of the unexpected for one night. "Why don't you go get cleaned up?" Liz suggested, flopping in front of the couch and turning the TV on. "Then maybe you'll be ready for some rest."
She heard the shower running as she watched Letterman. She checked her radio again for the hell of it, but she heard nothing. She'd have to check in in the morning, but she didn't dare make contact before then; if they were compromised, it'd be like painting a target on their backs.
Marie got out of the shower wearing a towel and no makeup. If anything, she looked even better than she did before. She collapsed next to Liz, all lean, tanned arms and long, long legs.
“You okay? There’s beer in the fridge.” Liz had opened up some Perrier. No sense fucking with her reflexes, especially now.
Marie shook her head.
The show ended and an old rerun of SCTV came on. Marie laughed a little at it, which Liz thought was promising. The adrenaline was starting to wear off them both, and Liz was starting to feel normal again. Marie reached over and shut the TV off at the first commercial. Liz watched her sit back on the couch. She looked Liz in the eye.
"You've kept me safe," Marie said. "I'm grateful."
Liz wondered how grateful, but she wasn’t dumb enough to ask. "It's my job," she said. "What kind of assistant would I be if I lost my boss's wife?"
"You're more than an assistant," Marie said. "I’m not as naive as you think. And I'm not blind."
Liz shrugged. "I have some weapons training, that's all. Half the people in DC know how to carry a gun." She checked the door again; she’d wedged a chair against it, just in case. The guest bedroom faced the other half of the duplex, which meant it was pretty well protected in case a couple assholes came to play. "We just need to stay put, okay? It'll all be fine."
"Thank you," Marie said. "So much." She looked very grateful. Liz liked grateful on her. It was a good look. Be even better if that towel of Bianca’s was on the floor, but that should probably wait until she had the all-clear from upstairs. Having some asshole come in with a gun would definitely kill the mood.
But then Marie stood up, letting the towel drop, and Liz decided they were safe enough for the next twenty minutes or so.
Ten days later, Liz was looking through a tourist brochure for Italy - she’d been reprimanded for the public shooting, but saving the senator’s wife had balanced that out and she figured she might as well aim high - when Marie called. “Miss Allen,” she said. “I was wondering if you were available for lunch?”Lunch meant kneeling between Marie’s legs at the Hay-Adams, the air conditioner on and Latin jazz on the radio.
“That sounds great,” Liz said. “I’m starving.” That was when she realized that Eldon James was hovering over her desk. “Um, noon?”
“Sure,” Marie said, her voice warm with promise.
"Allen," James said, before the phone was even on the hook. "I need a word with you." His eyes were shadowed. His mouth was a very thin line.
Well, she had known she wasn't getting the Medal of Honor. She hadn't really figured on being in the shit, though. What had happened?
She followed him in silence until they were both in his office with the door safely closed. "What's wrong, Sir?"
"Sit down," he said, gesturing at the leather chair across from his desk.
"Sir," she said. "Can I ask what this is about?"
”Sit down,” he repeated.
She let her ass drop to the chair. “I’d still like to know what this is about.”
"It's about discretion, Agent Allen."
Liz sucked air in through her teeth.
"Let's face it," he said, settling into his own chair and taking something from the desk. "You don't have it." He slid a stack of photographs over to her. All she had to see was the top photo. Marie; her breasts, her stomach. Liz's hands. Her mouth. “A tabloid photographer was following the ‘grieving widow.’ This is what he found. Fortunately, our friends in the FBI were following him for their own reasons, or these would probably be in the Enquirer by now.”
"Sir," she said, a cold knot forming in her stomach. "I--"
"I don't need to hear anything," he said. "You've more than proven your ability to infiltrate and operate under pressure. You've also proven your utter inability to keep your activities and, eh, proclivities under wraps. I don't need to tell you that you've ruined your chances for the assignment you've applied for."
"No, Sir," she said. There didn't seem to be much else to say. She hadn’t really wanted to go to Italy anyway, really. Maybe she'd quit the agency. Maybe she'd run off with Marie and rob banks. Maybe she could be happy doing paperwork for the rest of her life.
Fucking paperwork.
"There is one other possibility," James said. "We might be able to transfer you. There's one field assignment in particular you might be suited for. It's dangerous and miserable, there's no glory and not really any pay, and you'll never come back from it."
"Sounds fantastic," Liz said. "Do I get to shoot anybody?"
He smiled, grim. "That remains to be seen."
She raided the factbook for some basic intel on the city: Roanapur. Just east of nowhere. He wasn't kidding when he said there wasn't any glory in it. The city was under the thumb or the cartels; Chinese, mostly, though some Russians were making a play. Lots of expats; she'd fit right in as an American. Even if it wasn't anything like what she'd trained for.
They wanted her to get into the Ripoff Church, an organization as legit as its name. Reming had given her the file. Gun smuggling mostly. Working there would give her a line into every cartel in the city and a chance to pass information back home if it gained any importance. She'd get to play with guns, anyway. A lot of guns, if the intel was right.
The previous agent had disappeared two months ago. From the file, Liz guessed there were bits of him scattered around the city. He hadn't known much about discretion either, but he'd been sloppy, too. Liz might be a slut, but she wasn't sloppy.
She twisted her mouth in thought. There was a lot to think about.
But even as she did that, she knew she'd say yes to the assignment. All she needed to do was create the right character.
She couldn't play mousy like she had in DC; it hadn't worked out that well, anyway. Maybe she could use some of her natural talents. A big blonde American looking for chaos. She could use plenty of her own personality; she liked guns and money and blowing shit up. The church would probably welcome her into its loving bosom.
She put her reading down, got up and walked into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. She could make this work. Play it up with bright lipstick, let her hair go wild. She could land in Roanapur in search of a good time, knock some heads, and make connections from there. Look dangerous and tough, and half the work was already done. She'd have to brush up on her weapons training, but that was hardly work at all.
Backstory. She'd need to come up with something good. No 'I didn't get enough hugs as a child' crap. Military brat, maybe, which would explain what she knew about the rest of the world and why she knew so many weapons inside and out. Kicked out by Daddy for fucking the wrong man, or woman, or maybe both.
She’d cut ties with her mother a long time ago. Her brother was halfway to drinking himself to death; he wouldn’t miss her. It wouldn’t take much work to leave Elizabeth Dawn Allen behind for good.
She smiled at herself in the mirror. Oh yes. This would definitely work.
She knew Roanapur would be a hot, miserable shithole, but she'd completely underestimated just how hot, miserable and shitty the place was. It was so humid her shirt was soaked through by the time she'd walked halfway to her fleapit of a hotel. A rickshaw driver saw her and started talking fast, but she waved him off. "Gotta save my money," she said. "Though you're cute."
The guy grinned at her and pedaled on. She had to be careful; look cheap but not too desperate. Desperate would get every pimp in town on her doorstep. She was going to skip that step, thanks. She had better shit to do.
She needed a gun.
Or maybe a drink. Then she might be able to get the locals to tell her about the Church. Save her from having to talk too much. Get pointed in the right direction, and she could play things from there. The CIA said there was only one bar really frequented by the local gangsters. She'd start there.
She hiked her skirt up a little and headed down the street.
The Church was pretty. Western. God knows how many people had fallen off the rafters and into Eternity making the damn thing. "Hey," she shouted at the door. "Anybody here?"
The thick wooden door opened as slowly as the grave, revealing an old nun in a black-and-white habit. She wore an eyepatch over her grizzled face.
"Pirate look. I hear that's in this year."
"So you're funny." Her face was smiling, but her good eye had a sharp glint. Eda was getting weighed and measured. "Anyone can pray here, dear, you don't need to raise your voice so."
"Yeah, well, I heard you were looking for converts."
"Are you feeling spiritual, then?" She turned around and let Eda follow her through the church doors. "The Church's word is always ready, for those ready to listen."
"Oh, I'm listening," Eda said. "Believe me. Gan said you were hoping to spread the light in the darkness." She'd been drinking at Gan's bar for the better part of two months, and her charms had finally led him to let her in on the code. Well, she hoped it was the code. She'd have to think fast if it wasn't.
She and the nun made small talk as the nun led her down a narrow path at the back of the church. What the weather was like, how long she'd been in the city, how bright and lovely the marigolds were this time of year. "Marigolds were often brought to the Church by the poor," the nun said, "when they could afford no better offering."
"Shakespeare mentioned them," she said.
The nun looked back, catching her eye. "Gan really did send you," she said. "Is he right, I wonder?"
"I think you'll find me reliable, Sister."
"We'll find out," she said, and led Eda down a flight of rickety stairs. "Right through there."
"Right through here" was a metal-lined bunker with a single wooden table. On the table were a Kalashnikov, a Sig 9mm, and an SKS.
"You know the drill," the nun said from the doorway. "Take them apart, put them back together. I'll be timing you."
She shut the lights off and closed the door. Eda started as soon as she heard the click of the lock.
The Kalashnikov and Sig were easy. The SKS was a piece of shit; the mechanism kept jamming, and Eda wondered if it was a trick question or they just had a bunch of crappy guns. "Hey Mother," she yelled at the door.
"That's Sister Yolanda to you," the nun said. "Your Mother Superior, if you're feeling the call."
"Oh, I feel it," she said. "The Good Lord's calling my name. But the Good Lord says this SKS is busted. You want me to keep going? Are we trying to kill somebody?"
"Not this time," Sister Yolanda said calmly, and flicked on the light. "You pick up quickly."
"I'm flattered," she said, leaning against the steel table. "You're trusting."
The Sister's wrinkled face creased in a smile. "Not really. But I am heavily armed. What is your name, girl?"
"Eda."
"No last name?"
"Not any more."
"You're American, huh?"
"From the good ol' red, white and blue," she said.
"Where'd you learn all this?"
"Dad was in the Army," she said. "I liked guns. Still do."
"Come along," she said. "I'll show you to your quarters. You can start training today."
"Sounds good to me."
"You will need to work on your piety."
"I've been told. I'll just have to look for guidance, I suppose."
"Turn your thoughts to the Lord," she said cheerfully, "and all paths become clear."
“As long as we don’t run out of bullets,” Eda said, “that’s fine by me."