Nick Wilde had just finished up the day's 'work' with Finnick. The van was rolling away, and Nick was halfway through a lazy wave goodbye when his phone began to ring in his pocket. Whipping it out, the fox raised a brow when he saw the caller ID said 'Private Number'. With a careless shrug, he swiped the icon towards 'answer'.
"Nick Wilde, business or pleasure?" The phrase was said with just a touch of sass. No one called this number for pleasure.
"Mr. Wilde? Call me Ms. Hertz. I'm told you know everybody?" Her voice was smooth and dark, like tinted glass. Nick smiled.
"You were told right, Ms. Hertz. How can this humble fox help you?" He hadn't used his own 'tinted glass' voice since his stint with the Bigs. Glad to know he could still pull it off.
"I need something to… Disappear." The pause, rather than hesitant, seemed to be made for dramatic effect. That made Nick smile wider. He could appreciate someone with flair.
"Let's talk in person. Can't trust phones these days. You can never be sure how many people are on the line. Have you heard of Stripe's Bar?"
Nick met her at the door. A lioness, she was tall and slender for her kind, though she carried herself with an ease and grace that he had only seen a few times before. She wore sensible business attire. Lady's slacks, a white blouse and a black jacket. She carried a simple black briefcase.
She allowed Nick to lead her inside. The bar was actually quite nice, and most of the tables and booths were full of mammals in casual and business wear. Nick, wearing one of his usual tropical print shirts and slacks, fit right in, as did the lioness. Still, they got one of the more private booths near the back.
"Now, when you say 'disappear'..." Nick prompted after the waitress had taken their orders. The lioness smiled reassuringly.
"I need to leave the country with as few witnesses as possible," she said simply. Nick nodded, masking his relief with a smile.
"That is easily arranged. Depending on your…budget, several options are available."
The lioness smiled knowingly. Placing her briefcase on the table with a muffled thump, she opened it before withdrawing a large manila envelope. She slid it across to the fox, who took it with a raised brow. Opening it, the sight of the numerous hundred dollar bills inside had both of his eyebrows raised high.
"The Deluxe Package it is, then." Quickly mastering his surprise and excitement, he favored the lioness with an easy smirk. Dropping the envelope to the bench seat, it disappeared just as the waitress returned with their drinks. Once they were alone again, Nick took a hold of his glass. He refrained from taking a sip, instead gently swirling the glass, setting the amber liquid inside to spinning.
"Well, Mr. Wilde? Are you satisfied?" Far from sounding impatient, Ms. Hertz was practically purring. Nick's mask remained perfectly unaffected, eyes half-lidded and smug smirk still perfectly in place. He'd been doing this too long to get suckered by a feline's charms, especially if that feline was twice his size. Life over libido, and all.
"The money's good, but I'm not selling you a used car, here. If you want to get out of here quietly, without raising any eyebrows, I need to make a few phone calls, lubricate a few bureaucratic gears. Tomorrow night is the earliest I can do." When it seemed he was about to stall her, the lioness looked ready to object. But, the mention of the next night calmed her.
"Very well, Mr. Wilde." She looked slightly put off, but resigned to the delay. "How do we do this?"
"Your part in this is very easy. Meet back here tomorrow at ten. I'll guide you to the captain of a very comfortable two bedroom yacht. Then, you'll be on your way and I'll be on mine."
"Hm. That's agreeable. However, I am putting some faith in you. How do I know you won't cut and run?" A raised eyebrow accompanied the question.
"I know what you are." The quick response seemed to darken Ms. Hertz mood, and her face certainly matched. Nick continued, before any misunderstandings were made. "You're a killer. A good one, if my read on you is right and, trust me, it always is. I want your money, not you after me. If I take this," he held up the envelope, "You can know that I'm going to hold up my end of the bargain."
Everything hurt.
Nick stumbled down a dingy alley, the disoriented fox barely able to keep upright as he trudged along. The fox felt like he'd been worked over by Mr. Big's polar bear goons, again. Muscles were stiff and sore, ears were ringing, vision was blurry, and if it had ever hurt this much to breathe before, he certainly didn't care to remember it.
The fox stopped to lean against the rough brick facade of the building next to him, gasping, trying to get his breath back in spite of the amazing pain in his chest. Obviously, he couldn't go on like this. However, a lifetime of skirting the law had taught him that acting without thinking was a sure way to get caught. Time to strategize.
Hospital?
No, thanks to that mess back there, the cops will definitely be checking local hospitals.
How about a farther away hospital?
Less chance of capture, but still risky. The hospital always calls the cops when someone gets shot...
The fox let out a sigh, one part annoyance, one part exhaustion, and three parts agony. Why did it have to hurt to breathe so much?
Okay, if not a hospital, then a back alley doctor. Who's closest?
Honey's hidey hole is in Rainforest District.
Yeah, the other side of the Rainforest District.
So? Better than dying. Just need transport.
What transport? You're covered in blood! No cab is going to take you, the bus lines shut down hours ago, and the trains don't take cash.
We'll call Finn.
How? You didn't bring your phone.
Nick grunted in annoyance. That was a problem. To get a burner cell, he would have to go to a store, which had cameras. What few working pay phones that were still around were always in view of a traffic camera. Hell, just going out on the street to ask a random passerby for the use of their phone held a huge risk of getting recorded. Damn Orwellian surveillance state.
Think. Lots of mammals sell burners. Some of them hate cameras as much as me. One or two of those are nocturnal. Any near here?
The pain was distracting, but eventually Nick got through his mental catalog of criminals, nutcases, and fellow con-mammals. One name stood out from the rest. Kinky Joe, off Banana Lane.
Course decided, Nick set off through the night.
After a blurry, painful, exhausting experience ducking and weaving through the Canals, Nick felt like it might actually be a better option to curl up and die, rather than walk the last three blocks to Kinky Joe's hidden pavilion.
The fox leant heavily against an apartment high rise disguised as a baobab tree, trying to get his breath back for the fourth time in the last half hour. He swallowed painfully, his throat dry from constant gasping.
"Excuse me?" The unexpected voice made him flinch. The fox glanced over his shoulder to find an elderly beaver crossing the street towards him. Nick turned away with a groan, dropping his head against the tree bark facade. Eyes clenching in frustration, he silently cursed himself for allowing his flagging reserves force him to take the quick route, rather than the hidden one. The beaver spoke up again as she got closer.
"Excuse me, do you need me to call an ambulance? It sounds like you're having an awful lot of trouble bre-aaah," she trailed off lamely, having finally gotten close enough to Nick to see him clearly in the dim streets. Beavers had excellent hearing and smell. Poor vision. "You're a fox." She shifted nervously, clutching her purse. In spite of his completely exhausted state, Nick still found enough energy to smile sardonically.
"Rugh-" the rasp that escaped his throat surprised him. He swallowed and tried again. "Really?" He almost couldn't recognise his voice, it was so rough. Wouldn't stop him from making a smart-ass remark, though. "I was an ewe an hour ago. Some-" He was forced to take a deep breath, annoyed that talking was tiring, now. "Someone must have spiked my drink." Hopefully the beaver would get the hint and leave.
"I'm trying to help you, boy." No such luck, and now she sounded offended. Nick did not have the energy or the patience to deal with a pissy old broad. Taking a moment to gather what was left of his reserves, he turned to face her, fully intending to look her in the eye and say something really rude.
"Listen, you old cu-" was as far as he got. Then the screaming started.
"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" The beaver was backing away now, staring at his chest with horror. Nick flinched away from the sudden noise, pressing himself against the wall behind him and staring at the beaver like she had lost her mind. When she turned and began to run, not hurry, run, Nick got the idea that maybe it was possible that he looked worse than he felt.
"What, never seen a fox covered in blood before?" It was only pure smarmy reflex that kept him talking, as the beaver was already too far away to hear him. Realizing that the interaction had a very real chance of bringing police attention, the fox took off immediately. The shouting, combined with the fear of capture, gave him just enough adrenaline to get him into the next alley with some haste.
He spent a few minutes hiding behind a dumpster, breathing deeply and waiting for his energy to return. So far, he had resisted the urge to touch his chest wound, as he knew that would only make things worse. Now, haunted by the beaver's horrified expression, he raised a shaky paw to check the damage. Carefully, he touched the edge of the jagged hole. Just as expected, a sharp shock of pain radiated from the contact. He gasped and whined, but persisted. Feeling along the edge, he found the hole larger than his palm, and lay just above his sternum
His paw hovered over the grievous wound, shaking while he tried to psych himself up for the, without a doubt, agonizing process of determining the depth of the wound. However, just before he could reach inward, the image of his paw touching his exposed heart popped into his mind. Courage gone, he dropped the paw to his side.
This time he stuck to the hidden route, no matter how tired he was.
Pushing aside a wooden panel, he let it drop to the ground with a thud. Stepping over it, he turned to his right and started shuffling towards the haphazard amalgam of sheets, tarps, sticks and rebar that was his destination.
"He-Hey! Kinky! Kinky Joe!" he called out as he drew closer. A smile of relief spread across his face as someone responded.
"Que porra é essa? Must be dat filho de puta Wilde! I tol' ya! My name's Kevin." Nick put a paw over his wound just before the tarp that covered the entrance to the ramshackle tent was pulled back. A two foot tall mammal stood before him, with beige fur and beady brown eyes. His body was slim like a ferret's, but his tail was as long as he was tall. His species name was 'kinkajou', hence Nick's irritating nickname.
"Sorry, Kinky. You know me, too stupid to remember a proper name." Nick smiled cheekily, careful to keep the exposed teeth to a minimum. Kevin rolled his eyes.
"Whatever, cuzão. What do ya'…" Kevin trailed off as he began to take in Nick's sorry state. After a slow once over, he leaned in to take a sniff, only to recoil at the overpowering stench of blood. Putting a paw over his nose, he glared up Nick. "Porra! Ya' messed up, Wilde! The hell happened t' ya?"
"Someone crashed my party. Say, you wouldn't happen to still be selling those…" Nick paused to take a breath, then continued, "burners, wouldja? I need to make a call."
"I don't doubt it! Who ya gonna call, yo' priest? Ya look like ya about t' drop!" Nick just shook his head.
"C'mon, Kinky. Help me out. I got cash." It was as close to pleading as Nick had gotten in a long time. Kevin eyed him suspiciously, then turned away with a shrug.
"Whatever, fox. I got watcha' need. Flip 'r smart?" he dropped the tarp without waiting for an answer, disappearing into his tent.
"Whichever is cheaper!" Nick called through the flimsy barrier. There came some grumbling, then the sound of shuffling boxes. Within thirty seconds the kinkajou was back, carrying a plain white box with the picture of a flip phone on it. He had to hold it with both paws, as it was made for animals several times his size. When Nick reached out for it, Kevin jerked it away. He glared at Nick's confused look, dropping the box so he could hold up one paw, digits rubbing together in the universal sign for money.
"Ah-ah, babaca. This aint' no charity. Cash first. Forty spots or ya' walk." Nick rolled his eyes, but reached for the small stache in his back pocket. Soon he had two slightly bloody twenties held out. Kevin reached out to take the bills, but paused. His eyes slipped to Nick's other paw, which was still covering his chest. The instant the kinkajou's eyebrow rose, Nick knew there was going to be trouble.
"You don't want to see this. Trust me. The last mammal ran screaming." The attempt to discourage curiosity only seemed to intrigue Kevin. Face spreading out in a nasty smile, tail waving in excitement, he made his intention clear.
"Well, now I just gotta see. I know ya' need dis cell, Wilde, now show me what ya' hidin', 'for I start raisin' the price." He looked into Nick's eyes, daring him to disagree. With a defeated sigh, the paw covering the wound dropped to the fox's side. Nick's growing sense of unease turned to outright alarm as the kinkajou's face first showed curiosity, then confusion, then disbelief. Finally, fear, stark and profound.
"Vodu. Magia negra! Uma Maldição!" Kevin's voice started at a whisper, but rose rapidly to a shout. Snatching the box from his side, he flung it at Nick's head, who barely managed to raise his arms in time to block the improvised projectile. While the fox fumbled with the package, Kevin spun and rushed back into his tent, totally panicked. "Vá embora! Fora! Go! Get away!"
"What's gotten into- WHOA!" Kevin darted back out of the tent, tire iron brandished in one paw. Nick threw himself backwards to dodge a swing at his snout. Stumbling over his own feet, he fell to the ground on his back. With no time to collect himself, he was forced to scramble away on all fours, the box with the burner clutched in one paw, to avoid a downward swing. The tire iron bounced off the concrete with a sharp clang! Nick continued to crawl away, only rising to his feet once there was a few yards between him and the inexplicably violent kinkajou.
"Aborto! You don't come back, hear me! I smash your skull! Diabo!" He brandished his tire iron, swinging it threateningly over his head. Nick watched him wearily and backed away, not daring to let the kinkajou out of his sight until he reached a corner. Then he turned and fled.
While the box was pretty beat up, the packaging saved the cell phone from any damage. Which was good, because after his brush with an irate Kinky Joe, Nick didn't think he could walk one more block. So, it was with a profound sense of relief that he finally made that call to Finnick.
"The hell is this!? You better have a damn good reason for calling me right now! Some mammals have to work to make living, you know. I oughta-!" Nick smiled while he listened to his little friend rant, his unusually deep, gravely voice a soothing balm after this hellish night. The red fox waited for the fennec fox to run out of breath, then interjected before he could start up again.
"Finn, I need your help." The statement seemed to surprise Finnick, if the silence that followed was any indication.
"Nick? That you? You sound bad, vulp." Hearing Finnick's gruff concern made Nick feel a little warm inside. Usually he would have relished the chance to tease the smaller fox over any perceived weakness. This time? He was just too tired.
"It's bad, Finn. I'm a couple blocks from Kevin's place, Banana Lane. I need you to come pick me up." The admittance of 'need' between the two was usually taboo. Nick's use of it highlighted how dire his circumstance was.
"How bad we talkin'?" Finn's voice was all business.
"I need you to take me to Honey."
"Damn, that bad?"
"Yeah."
"I gotcha, Nick. Be there in twenty."
"Thanks, Finn."
"Hey, wait. You bloody?"
"Afraid so, big guy."
"Then you ride in the back."
Twenty minutes later, almost to the second, the familiar van came to a stop just outside the alley where Nick was hiding. Wasting no time, Finnick threw the gear into park and jumped out the door, handling the four foot drop to the pavement with an ease born of practice.
Hurrying around the van, he moved as fast as he could without drawing suspicion. The streets might look empty, but years of skirting the edges of the law had taught the diminutive fox to never discount the possibility of being watched, especially somewhere that hadn't been scoped out.
Nick met him at the mouth of the alley, already shuffling towards the van's back door. Finnick stared in surprise, shocked that the taller fox looked so terrible. Anyone that knew the red fox knew he had a silver tongue. He was quite gifted at talking himself out of trouble, and it had been years since so much as a punch had been thrown his way.
Once he got passed just how much blood he could see and smell on his business partner, the fennec noticed other things. The wound in his chest, carefully covered by a paw, was the first thing he noticed. That was somewhat expected, considering he asked to go to Honey.
The second thing he noticed was the exhaustion. Wilted ears, sunken eyes, slumped shoulders, limp tail, and dragging paws all pointed to a serious lack of energy. A red flag was immediately thrown up in his mind.
"Wait a minute." Two steps took him into Nick's path. The taller fox stopped, staring down at him in bewilderment. "Can you get in the van?"
Nick continued to stare, utterly bemused.
"...yes," he rasped.
"Without smearing up my paint job?" Confusion gone, Nick leveled a half hearted glare at the shorter fox.
"Finn, I am dying. Could you put aside your mechaphilia, just this once?" Nick asked, tone tinged with genuine annoyance.
"I don't care if yer dying! Yer not messing up my ride!" Bared teeth and and sharp eyes put some bite into the statement. "Imma' get the ramp out. Get outta' those nasty threads, they're not coming with us." Finnick turned and disappeared around the side of the van, apparently done with the conversation.
Nick stood there for moment, contemplating whether or not the fennec was serious. Finally deciding that yes, he was serious, the fox began the process of peeling off his ruined clothes. The first part was the hardest. The blood had dried and stuck his shirt to his fur, and it was eye wateringly painful to pull it away from the edges of his wound. That done, he dropped the soiled garment onto the pavement. The pants were much easier.
Once he was standing in only his boxers, the fox resumed his trek. By the time he made it around to the passenger side door, the aluminum ramp was already set up.
Finnick stood near by, glancing around suspiciously at all of the nearby buildings and their many darkened windows. He kept his back turned as Nick limped up the ramp behind him, letting the fox keep as much of his dignity as possible.
Nick was annoyed, but not surprised, when he found the floor was mostly covered in a thick sheet of plastic. Still, it was better than the street, and the fox felt immense relief as he laid down, finally allowing his aching, exhausted body to rest. He was so tired he didn't even flinch when Finnick threw the ramp back into place, the ramp sliding home with a clang!
Before Finnick had even gotten back into driver seat, Nick slipped into a hazy stupor, caught somewhere between warm, numb sleep and cold, painful awareness.
With the rumbling growl of the engine, they were off.
