Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Crossed over with
NCIS
The Dying of Skid317
by Lancer47
STFarnham
Summary:
A tale of revenge with supernatural power.
This started out to be a subplot in Buffy Returns to Washington. But it just didn't fit, at least not without going back and changing a lot that was already posted. However, it dropped out neatly into a standalone story, so here it is.
Warning: This story gets dark, much darker than I expected when I started to write it. But it will end well.
Rating: T (or R). For scenes of violence and some characters use words that start with an 'F'.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As far as I know, there is no ship named the USS Blackett Strait, CG 80. No character is based on any real person. Any similarity is strictly coincidence and unintended. I'm trespassing on other peoples turf, but I ain't makin' no bread offa this. So it's cool.
This is distributed under the Creative Commons license, others may play here as long as correct attribution is maintained. No commercial application is allowed.
Prologue
"Life is nothing but a competition to be the
criminal rather than the victim." Bertrand Russell
Ziva and Tony got out of the van and ducked under the crime scene tape. Gibbs nodded to them and turned to the uniformed police officer with his badge, "NCIS, what do you have?"
"Fourteen year old black male, stabbed in the chest. Discovered just before dawn by BM2 Ostermeyer on his way home from the mid-watch at the Washington Naval District Headquarters – he's over there," he pointed across the street at the Navy Yard Police car. "We identified the victim as an enlisted dependent, a Marcus Worthing, Jr. He's about three blocks from home. We haven't notified the parents yet."
Ziva kneeled to inspect the body, "Anybody know what these tattoos mean? They look like gang tats, but are there gangs on a Navy base? This is the Senior Enlisted Married Housing area, right?"
"Yeah, but he might have been attending a local off-base school, or maybe they just moved here. Could have been any number of things, or maybe they're not gang related," said Tony.
Ziva nodded, unconvinced.
They went through the usual routine, canvassing, searching the scene, notifying parents, Dr. Mallard pronounced death and removed the body.
A day later they got Ducky's report. Ziva read it and got to the cause of death, "What the hell? There were splinters in his heart? He was killed with a wood stake? Who would do something like that? Why would someone do something like that?"
Gibbs shook his head, "That's what we need to find out. Do we have anything yet?"
DiNozzo said, "Yeah, I talked to the Washington DC Police Gang Unit, our boy Marcus sported tattoos that identified him as Skid317, a local gang. They're a major problem: drugs, prostitution, murder, you name it, if it's illegal and either fun or profitable, they're doin' it."
"So it sounds like somebody did us a favor by killing this kid," Ziva said.
Gibbs glared at her, "Ziva, he was only fourteen years old! We don't know if he was involved in any crimes, we could have, should have, got him out of that life."
"Sorry Gibbs," she replied, but her attitude wasn't particularly sorry.
Chapter One
"They are not all saints who use holy water."
Old English Proverb
"So I said, shit man! The fuckers gonna scream! And my boy here, he put it to 'em, you shoulda seen it! My man! Stuck that sucker like a pig! With a hunk a iron! Should a seen it!"
"Heh, heh!" laughed Stretch, otherwise known as Seaman Apprentice Jefferson, and my homeboy, Jamie Wilson, not known by many to be a minor heroin distributer here in DeeCee. He's also my brother. Me? I'm a Petty-fuckin'-officer, Third Class Fire Controlman, yeah! I shoot the big muthers!
Wilson nodded towards the package at his feet. "How much ya thinks there?"
I replied, "That box has about three point zero zero kilos muh man! Pure dee shit! One hundred per cent! And we got twelve boxes! Jonson got the other eleven boxes – he'll deliver 'em to the warehouse tomorrow. That's 'bout eighty fuckin' pounds my man! Eighty fuckin' pounds of pure profit! We're all gonna be mil-yon-airs! This ain't a bad crib you got here, bro, but soon we'll have mansions!"
"Bro, you fuckin' pulled it off! How'd ja do it?"
"It was easy! Our ship was cruisin' the Gulf of Arabia man. We made our contact easy, 'cept it was in a falling-down building with animals running around in some really crappy little town. Course, killin' the supplier was tricky, but that kept the cost down. Then my boy Stretch here just brought it on board when I had the quarterdeck watch one night – two trips with with the stuff in a backpack – slicker 'n shit. All I had to distract was the OOD and send the messenger off on an errand. Piece a cake! But our ship's clerk had bought hash! Loads of it, so I turned him in, anonymously a course. So when we got to port, they brought dogs on board and went straight to the secure stores! The stupid shit hid his stash in a compartment that only him, two Chiefs and the Captain were the only ones on board had a key. You can bet he got his ass tossed in the brig! Then they stopped searching, assumin' there wasn't no other contraband on board. Then, a little midnight re-con and here we is!"
I didn't see any reason to mention to my brother how terrified we were when we had to kill the supplier. That goat fucker whipped out the biggest fucking sword I ever saw and commenced to swinging it at me! I tell you, it was a mighty close thing. We was lucky to get away alive, much less with the drugs and money both. Lady luck surely shined on us that night. Then once we hit NoFuck, there was the problem of getting the H off the ship, that took some plannin' and a big dose of pure chance!
We all slapped palms and thought about our money. Just then I heard a noise that didn't belong, a thump from down the hall. "Hey," I said softly, "y'all hear sumpin?" We turned, and there, much to our amazement, was a girl walking towards us out the shadows, sort of sashaying along like she knew something we didn't.
"Hey baby, watcha doin here? I din't let you in, someone give you a key? You're like a present for me?" asked Wilson with a big shit-eatin' leer.
The girl looked to be about sixteen, seventeen maybe, thin and cute, and vaguely familiar. She walked up to my brother, flashed a savage smile, and without a single word she viciously plunged a wood knife or something into his chest. Jefferson and I both stood shocked to our very core at the sheer cruelty. Then Jamie fell on the duffelbag at his feet, a gusher of blood spurted all over the carpet, the white couch, the table, and us, his eyes wide open while his jaw worked reflexively as he tried to get enough air to scream.
We pulled our guns – Jefferson got off two shots from his Ruger twenty-two, but he insisted on holdin' his gun gang style, sideways, and he missed. I told him before not to do it that way, do it like boot camp, but no, he had to be stylin'. The girl didn't miss though, she shoved her stake so far into Stretch's chest the point came out his back, right through his tee. The stake got caught on his ribs or something and she couldn't get it out. I pointed my trusty 9 mil at her and glared over the barrel as I started to pull the trigger. But her foot came outta nowhere and kicked my gun outta my hand. Then she hit me so hard I flew into the wall and slid down to the floor, stunned into immobility. I could only watch as she put her foot on Stretch's chest to brace him while she yanked the stake out, then she walked over to me. The lasts thing I saw was that stake plunging towards me. I wanted to ask, why, but there wasn't no time. I didn't feel no pain as the world went dark on my ass. I was terribly disappointed; I always thought my dying would come with more fanfare than that.
--- ---
"Did you hear that? Were those shots?" asked Detective Simms of the Washington DC PD Anti-Gang Unit. He sat on a rough crate in the back of a crappy old van, hunched over a dilapidated receiver, holding headphones to his ear while an ancient tape recorder spun steadily.
Detective Walter shook his head, "Could have been from a twenty-two, I suppose, or a thirty-eight with a suppressor. Can you hear anything else? It seems awfully quiet all of a sudden, those skells were nothin' but talk for the last twenty minutes, why would they suddenly shut up?"
Simms and Walter listened for another twenty or thirty seconds. Simms finally said, "I don't like this, somethings wrong, let's move in." He picked up his microphone and yelled, "MOVE IN! GO! GO! GO!"
Sirens blared and tires screamed as five police cars screamed in and slammed to a stop around the small apartment building. Uniformed cops on foot ran after the cars and covered all possible exits. Another dozen ran into the building and down the halls. Simms and Walter pounded into the apartment, guns drawn, yelling "POLICE! POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" But when they got to the scene, they were greeted with silence, blood, and bodies, mercilessly lit by bright living room lights with police car flashers from below reflected eerily in the windows. The detectives skidded to a stop and looked around wildly, trying to catch their breaths.
Simms asked into his radio, "Did anyone see anything at all? Anyone? Anybody?" There was no answer. Simms and his partner looked at each in disbelief. "How could someone murder three people under our noses? Three people we had covered! Three people we were listening to and they were murdered while we listened! What the hell happened here!"
Walter said callously, "On the other hand, they saved us some work."
"Oh blow me, you know damn well this is gonna cause us way more trouble and paperwork than if we'd arrested them, Walter."
"Well, you right 'bout that. But I'm still not gonna shed any tears for any Skid317 assholes. This Wilson was a hell of a bad motha-fucka. Frankly, I'm glad he's dead, the city will be better off without him."
"Yeah, but who stabbed these guys under our noses and wafted away without anybody noticing? Everyone's gonna think cop conspiracy. This is gonna be huge trouble, you mark my words."
Less than an hour later many more cops had arrived, including a couple of assistant chiefs, crime scene technicians, an ADA, crowd-control officers, reporters, neighbors, onlookers, and just plain curious folk. It had turned into a regular three ring circus, if circuses ever performed at dawn.
One of the assistant chiefs was haranguing the detectives, "If I find one single uncrossed 'T' or undotted 'i', your ass will be mine!" he hissed angrily, "I don't know what the hell went down here, but black guys murdered under cop's noses don't play well in DC!"
"But they're Skids, Chief!"
"It won't matter! If I had a reason to take your badges—but I don't, yet," he said darkly.
He would have kept on, but one of the crime scene techs had fished out the wallets of the victims, and after checking the contents, said, "Hey, two of these guys are active duty sailors!"
The detectives silently thanked their gods that something was there to take some of the pressure off of them. Simms said, "Well Chief, we need to call the Navy, right now. You know how irritated they get if we don't notify them immediately when one of theirs gets in trouble."
Even the Assistant Chief brightened at the news, "Yeah Simms, call NCIS, we'll stop processing the scene until we find out what they want us to do. Of course, they're gonna want to investigate you two, then maybe I won't have to put IAD on your asses." The two detectives frowned.
The most senior officers and officials decided they had more important business elsewhere and departed before NCIS arrived, only twenty minutes later. Ziva held up her badge to the cops and stalked into the building behind Gibbs while McGee and DiNozzo got their investigating tools out of the van. Gibbs stopped to talk to the detectives, who were drinking coffee and lounging in the hall just outside the apartment.
"I see you guys are busily employed holding up this wall." Gibbs looked around at the police officers and crime scene techs, all waiting for him, apparently.
"Yeah, Agent Gibbs, this here building would probably collapse if weren't for us bracing it," Walter replied lazily as he took a sip from his Starbucks cup.
"Our tax dollars at work. Whatcha got?"
Simms straitened up and said, "Well, this is actually kind of a, what's that phrase you sailors use when you have a huge screw-up, a cluster-fuck? Yeah that's it, a cluster fuck."
Gibbs glared, "I'm not a sailor, I'm a Marine, different thing entirely!"
"Uh, sorry Gibbs, but you're a civilian now anyway, right?"
"Once a Marine, always a Marine! Now tell me what happened here."
"We had Wilson, that one," he pointed, "under surveillance. We have his apartment bugged, but not the hall. We could hear them, we had the hall visually covered on both ends, but we couldn't see them once they closed the door. We did get pictures of these two," he pointed to the other two bodies, "walking in the building and the apartment, around 4:30 AM. They talked for about twenty minutes, we got it all on tape, then one or more persons came in and stabbed them without saying a word, then got away. We don't know yet how they got in or out. We didn't see who it was, we din't see anyone else, at all. After a few seconds of silence, we moved in, broke down the door and found the bodies, exactly as you see. We discovered these two were active duty Navy, so we stopped processing the scene and called you."
Gibbs stared at the detective and said, with anger and disbelief dripping from every syllable, "You don't know what happened? Three people were murdered during your watch and you're all 'See no evil; hear no evil; please boss, didn't do no evil'? Just how stupid do you think I am?"
"Not stupid at all Gibbs, we wouldn't try a story like that if wasn't true."
"No suh," agreed Detective Walters sarcastically, "we wouldn't try to fool you Feds for nuthin', no siree bob."
Gibbs shot Walters an angry look, then went into the bloody apartment.
Ziva, already inside taking pictures, inquired undiplomatically, "This is the police force that used to work for a crackhead mayor, right?"
The cops around her stiffened and glared. They couldn't think of a fitting comeback, though.
Ducky had arrived and started to examine the bodies. He turned Wilson over and uncovered the duffel bag. Ziva unzipped it and looked inside. She leaned back, startled, and said, "GIBBS! You'd better look at this!"
Gibbs stepped over and looked in the bag, "What the hell is that doing here?", he inquired to no one in particular. He bent down and carefully lifted out a navy-gray metal case bearing stenciled labels that said: 25MM MK 38 - USS Blackett Strait, CG 80, with a long part number underneath. Gibbs lifted the case easily, the cops around him reacted by moving back.
"Holy shit, Gibbs, what the hell'd ja find? That's not gonna explode, is it?" asked Detective Simms nervously.
"No," replied Gibbs, "this is an ammunition box for a crew-served Naval gun, but if this box were full of cartridges, I wouldn't be able to lift it, at least not without straining something."
Gibbs put it down and opened it. Some of the cops thought he was being a little precipitous and backed out to the hall, but nothing happened. Gibbs looked inside and frowned deeply. He poked a knife into a plastic wrapped package and sniffed it cautiously. He stood up and said, "I think that's heroin, I suspect it's about as pure as it gets." He looked around at the cops and studied their reactions and thought about everything they did or said in the last few minutes. Finally, he said, "Well, where there's this much heroin, there's usually a fair chunk of cash. Anyone find any?"
The cops all looked at each other and shrugged. Simms said, "We haven't searched the place yet, except for part of this room."
Gibbs didn't see anyone getting nervous, so he said, "All right detectives, NCIS is now the lead agency on this investigation. I want copies of your case files, evidence, and notes, but I want you to continue on your end and interview friends and family of the vics, if you can find any. We'll interview the crew of their ship, and trace the drugs," said Gibbs, "furthermore, your involvement is – on review, depending on what we find. This case is full of anomalies. McGee!"
"Yeah boss?"
"What have you got on the Navy victims?"
McGee had been tapping industriously away at his laptop through a wifi connection. "Seaman Apprentice Jefferson is from the USS Blackett Strait, CG 80, and so is FC3 Thomas Wilson. The Blackett Strait is home-ported in Norfolk, and that's where it is now. These guys are on an authorized four-day liberty, due back Monday morning."
"Looks like they're gonna miss morning quarters," DiNozzo commented.
Ziva quietly asked Tony, "What's an FC3?"
"Fire Controlman."
"He's firefighter?"
"No, no, he controls the firing of big guns and missiles and stuff like that."
"Ah."
McGee continued, "Jefferson has been to Captain's mast at least twice, last time he was busted down from third class Damage Controlman, for, hmmm, 'talking back to an officer'. Does that sound right to you, boss?"
"Well," replied Gibbs, "I'm sure the whole story is more complicated than one sentence would indicate, but yeah, it's possible. We'll go talk to the Captain of the Blackett Strait and get the whole story."
DiNozzo asked, "I wonder how come they thought of smuggling drugs in an ammunition case? You'd think it would be harder to get that off the ship than the heroin."
Ziva said, "Yeah, and don't they inspect cars on the way out of the base?'
"Not everyone, not in depth, not everyday," DiNozzo answered, "and when they do inspect it's usually a pretty cursory look unless there's special circs."
"You'd think somebody would've noticed a sailor going on liberty carrying an ammunition box down the gangplank, though."
"Ziva," said Gibbs sorrowfully, "how many times do I have to tell you? It's not a gangplank, it's a brow!"
"And that makes sense how?"
"It's traditional Navy jargon, just go with it," said DiNozzo.
"At the very least, you'd think someone would want to look inside," Ziva continued her earlier train of thought.
"Obviously they got it off the ship some other way," said Gibbs.
Dr. Mallard, studying Wilson's remains, got a grip on his hair and bent his head back until he had exposed the neck, "Look it this Jethro, familiar?"
"Yeah," he replied grimly.
"Yep, these guys are all Skid317," said Simms, "including your sailors, I believe, though they don't have the tattoos. But it looks like they might have had them lasered off, in my opinion. The autopsy will tell us more."
"Hmmm," Gibbs mused, "I want you guys to check any if you've had any other similar murders, and have your pathologist recheck any recent stabbing victims for wood splinters in their wounds."
"What? Why?"
"Because we had another murder on base a few days ago. A fourteen year old boy, with Skid317 tattoos, stabbed in the chest exactly like these three, and he had wood splinters in his chest."
"And these wounds," said Ducky, "look very similar to my eye."
The detectives scribbled in their notebooks.
Chapter Three
"I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a
nice letter saying that I approved of it."
Mark Twain
The next morning the DC detectives met the NCIS agents in a conference room at the NCIS Navy Yard office. They started out by exchanging information. NCIS was quite startled when Simms revealed that, on review, they had discovered six more deaths in their morgue with wood splinters in the wounds, usually in the heart. All the victims were Skids, and all the deaths had occurred within the last two months.
"All right," said Gibbs in a rare display, "I owe you an apology, but you gotta admit, it sure looked bad when we got there."
"Yeah," said Simms, "apology accepted, and for what it's worth, our own bosses jumped to the same conclusion you did."
"So," Gibbs said, "moving on, have you found anything else that connects these events?"
"Damn Gibbs, what else do you need?" exclaimed Walters, "obviously we have another gang murdering their competition."
"So who do you know pounds sharpened one inch dowels into the chests of people they don't like?"
"Uh, well, no one that we know of, yet," mumbled Simms, "how about you? Did you find where the drugs came from yet?"
DiNozzo answered, "The Blackett Strait just got back from a long cruise in and around the Persian Gulf. The heroin probably came from Afghanistan, the DEA is working that end. Our late entrepreneurs smuggled it onto the ship, probably when FC3 Wilson had the Quarterdeck Watch one night, and stuffed it into the ammunition case. We're still checking to see where the ammunition is – possibly it was already fired and was an empty case, but the Navy tracks that stuff pretty carefully and it shouldn't have been possible. It was probably taken off when all the ammunition on board was removed in preparation for drydocking the ship. We're still working on how they got the box out of the shipyard armory and off-base – that shouldn't have been possible, either – but that's as far as we've gotten. A team of Gunner's Mates are in the process of opening and checking every ammunition case in the armory, as well as carefully inventorying the ammunition. They really aren't happy about the assignment, it's gonna take awhile and a bunch of guys got their liberty cut short."
"Yeah, here's transcripts of the surveillance tapes," said Simms, passing out reports. One interesting thing, your man Wilson said he had twelve cases of heroin. And even better, someone else is delivering the other eleven cases today. We don't where though, and we don't know who. I do know that we would do well to keep that shit off the streets."
Detective Walters plopped a cardboard box full of tapes down on the table and said, "Here's the entertainment boys and girls. Police videos of the crowds around the scenes and surveillance tapes from nearby stores."
"Didn't I see a couple of pole-mounted cameras along the avenue in front of the apartment?" asked Ziva.
Simms grimaced and said, "Yes, you did spot some surveillance cameras. That's part of the mayor's new public camera system intended to keep us safe from terrorists. But the city doesn't have enough money to actually turn the cameras on, yet. It's hoped that the mere presence will deter crime."
The NCIS agents didn't laugh, they were aware of the political and financial difficulties concerning the District of Columbia.
Ziva grabbed some tapes and said, "OK, how we gonna split these up?"
Hours of watching the dullest imaginable tapes later they met back in the conference room.
Abbey, who was co-opted into tape watching, said, "I saw this blond girl a couple of times, she looked out of place and her shoes looked the right size and style."
"Shoe style?" asked Detective Walters incredulously, "what has that got to do with anything?"
"Oh," Abbey replied, "this is new information—it's in the notes I passed around. I just put it together this morning after you guys sent over the data from the other crime scenes, but several of the victims were kicked and some of the crime scenes have good shoe impressions that are 9-1/2" long, high heeled too. That makes them women's size 7 or men's size 5-1/2. Pretty small either way really. I'm inclined to say woman because not very many men wear high heels, at least not in public. The bruises left by the kicks are consistent with the impressions in the ground of some of earlier incidents, as well as two good bloody shoe prints in the carpet at the most recent scene."
Everybody around the table stared at Abbey.
"What?"
"You're telling us a woman with tiny feet kicked these guys, these very tough guys who don't take shit from anybody, and then hammered stakes into their chests while they – what? Sat still and offered commentary? How do you think would that work?"
"Beats me," said Abbey insouciantly, "I bring you the facts, you do the crime solving. Although I should add that the heels were chunky enough to have been cowboy boots, maybe. But you don't see all that many guys wearing cowboy boots in the District either, at least not outside the White House."
When they finished comparing notes, they found Abbey's blond girl at most of the crime scenes, mixing in with the crowd. Abbey finally found her on the Washington Navy Yard tape, this time with a visitor's pass hanging from a button on her jacket. A little backtracking and they spotted her at the gate and were able to identify her: Buffy Summers.
"Sure, that fits," DiNozzo said sarcastically, "with a name like Buffy she's gotta be a serial killer!"
--- ---
Buffy slammed the door shut behind her and flopped to the couch on her back. She said with disgust, "Lost her!"
"Again?" said Willow, "well, don't worry, we'll find her yet. She's probably lonely and all, what with her wandering around the darkest alleys and graveyards of our nation's Capitol, looking for vampires to slay without knowing the reason why."
"I don't know Will, it almost seems like she's avoiding me on purpose. But I'll tell you one thing, this city really is the crime capitol – it seems like nearly every time I get near her, I stumble on a crime scene. It's getting ridiculous. Plus I got mugged twice."
"What did you do with the muggers?" Willow wondered out loud.
"Oh, I tied 'em up, called 9-1-1 anonymously, and made certain that their weapons were tucked into their clothes, out of reach of their hands. I would think they'll be in a little bit of trouble, although I am not certain how good the Washington police are – bound to be better than Sunnydale's though."
"Well that wouldn't be saying much," observed Willow, "so what happened this time?"
"Well, the first location turned out to be the middle of a huge hotel, you failed to mention which floor so I was kind of flummoxed, what with forty or so to chose from. This location spell of yours needs a little work in the accuracy department. Then you called to warn me she was on the move. I figure I was only fifteen or twenty minutes behind her, but her next position was near another crime scene, an apartment building, surrounded by cops and CSI people, even some kind of Federal Agents. I wandered through the crowd of onlookers to see if I could sense her, but I think she was long gone."
"So what did you do the rest of the day, and night?"
"Oh, I found these great shoes, look!" She dumped out a shopping bag on the bed. Willow spent some time admiring Buffy's purchases when Buffy said, "I almost forgot, these are for you!"
They were admiring the knee-high soft leather boots that Buffy had found for Willow when an authoritarian knock on the door, followed by "NCIS, OPEN UP," startled them.
"OK, OK, hold your horses!" Buffy shouted back. She asked Willow, "What would NCIS want here?" Willow shrugged.
Buffy opened the door. At first it appeared that the three agents and two plainclothes cops were all ready to barge in and subdue vicious criminals. But they stared at Buffy and Willow and the pile of shoes on the bed just long enough to feel a little stupid about that plan.
Gibbs walked in and asked, "Are you Buffy Summers?"
"Yes, and who are you?"
"I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Buffy shrugged indifferently, "Go ahead."
"What were you doing at the Washington Navy Yard last Wednesday?"
"I was touring. Which follows since I'm a tourist. I quite enjoyed the architecture of those old buildings. And the USS Barry was very educational. Going to sea in the Navy must be really uncomfortable, I kept hitting my legs on the metal seal-thingies on those watertight doors."
The male investigators all glanced at Buffy's legs.
"That's why we call them shin-knockers," said Gibbs, "and what were you doing on 'H' street yesterday?"
"Shopping," Buffy pointed at the pile of shoes on the bed, "and I saw all those cops and wandered over to look. You guys really have a lot of crime in this city, but I suppose you already know that."
"And," Gibbs continued, "we found you, on tape, wandering around at several more crime scenes, all in the last ten days. Can you tell us what you were doing at those scenes?"
"No."
"No? You won't tell us what you were doing?"
"No, as in I don't really remember. I wasn't there because of the cop cars, those were all by accident, and I was just curious. And besides, I've only been in town five days."
Detective Simms said, "I think you need to come down to the station with us, if it's alright with you Agent Gibbs." Gibbs nodded assent.
McGee picked up a shoe and looked at inside. He frowned a little.
"What McGee?"
"These aren't size sevens."
Buffy, clearly affronted, said, "No, I wear 6-1/2."
--- ---
Ransom heard a horn and stepped cautiously outside the warehouse. He nodded at the driver of a van and looked around nervously. Reassured that they were unobserved, he said, "Hey Jonson, my man! How ya doin'?"
"Got's the stuff dude, open the door and let's get this van inside, the fucker's hot and I ain't talkin' 'bout the engine."
Jonson backed the van into the warehouse, Ransom closed the overhead door and they both looked admiringly inside the van at the stack of gray ammunition boxes.
Ransom looked up when someone else came into the garage area. "Hey Slick! This here's some good lookin' shit! Is Wilson back yet?"
"Naw, don't know where that bitch is got to," he said, "he ain't answering his phone so I suppose he's getting' some pussy." Slick was irritated at the thought of someone else getting it on while he was stuck in the warehouse.
Ransom counted the boxes as they unloaded them by hand onto a pallet, "Twelve boxes? Didn't Tee Wilson have one one with him last night to show Jamie? There should only be eleven here, we got some extra shit?"
"He said twelve, I got's twelve," said Jonson stolidly.
"But if he has one, and you have twelve, that's thirteen."
"He said twelve. There's twelve."
Ransom reflected that it was probably not worth thinking about Jonson's higher thought processes. He reached into the van and started to lift the thirteenth ammunition case but he could barely budge it. "Shit! What the hells in this one?" He dragged it to the door's edge and opened it – all three looked at the contents with varying degrees of surprise.
Jonson said slowly, "Huh. No wonder that box wuz heavier than the others."
"Fuckin' A!" said Slick, "it's full of big-ass bullets! These fuckers are an inch across! What's that, six, eight inches long? Damn near half as big as my dick!"
"I seen your dick, Slick, no way. Now mine on the other hand..."
"Oh fuck you Ransom!"
"So, what we gonna with these, Slick? I can't see any of us firing a one-caliber gun, you?"
"One caliber gun, funny. I dunno Rans-man, maybe we could toss 'em hard enough to make 'em explode."
--- ---
They took Buffy to the Police station, Gibbs figuring that the general roughness and dirt would be better for the purpose than the relatively clean atmosphere of the NCIS building. Besides, it was closer. They spent the afternoon questioning her, taking turns, doing the good cop, bad cop thing. But, nothing happened. Buffy acted like a tourist in Washington, and never did or said anything that suggested she was anything but a tourist. Eventually they drove her back to her hotel – they didn't even warn her to stay in town. Gibbs and the detectives were about ninety-five percent certain she was innocent.
--- ---
Buffy stomped into the hotel room and slammed the door. Willow woke up from a deep trance and sleepily asked, "How'd it go?"
"We have a problem."
"Yeah?"
"During the entire afternoon of questioning, in which I convinced them I'm an ordinary tourist thank you very much, they managed to drop a few facts. They have a string of unsolved murders, ten, so far. Every single victim was stabbed in the chest and has wood splinters in the wounds."
"Persephone personified!" cried Willow, "that can't be good. Do you suppose...?"
"Yes, I suppose what you suppose – our missing Slayer seems to be a serial killer."
"Well, something like that happened before, we shouldn't be surprised that it happened again. But these people she's killing, is there a connection?"
"Yes, they are all members of a local gang. They're really bad guys: murderers, drug dealers, pimps, the list goes on."
"So we should give her a medal?"
"No, Slayers shouldn't slay people, you know that. Except in self-defense, but what little I could learn from their questions I don't think this was self-defense. Our defiant Slayer is systematically wiping out one particular gang, the Skid317, for reasons known only to her. Let's keep an open mind though, she might have a very good reason."
Willow looked doubtful.
Buffy added, "I think I need to talk to Giles, can you arrange things so we have a private conversation? I don't want any nosy police listening in."
Willow smiled, "Yes, I can fix that. We also better get the Coven in England on the case. Sometimes they are able to come up with a name, and I haven't been able to, yet."
"Aren't you more powerful than the coven?"
"No, well, unless you want me to go black-Willow on you, and I don't think you want that."
"No, not so much. Also, it would be helpful if we could get copies of all the police reports, and NCIS reports. I'm pretty sure I know what Giles is gonna say – we need to find our girl and spirit her away to England."
Willow said, "At least Giles has a better handle on stuff like this than the old council and their stupid 'wetworks' team."
"I wonder if she should share a room with Dana."
"Yeah," agreed Willow, "we get any more like that and we can start a summer camp for wayward Slayers."
"Dana did give us some experience in that sort of thing," said Buffy, "but let's leave Andrew out this time."
"I don't know Buffy, he actually did a pretty good job that time. And he'd make sure we're fed properly. I'd kill for some of his Cardassian Sem'hal Stew with Yamok Sauce right now – it's a lot better than you would expect – and his Romulan porridge – he makes it with brandy you know – is to die for..." She noticed Buffy's glare and added, "I'll shut up now."
End Part One