HIT & RUN

Chapter 2

"Shiver"

"Hold still," Eliot grasped Quinn's jaw and smeared numbing gel onto the cut on his cheekbone.

Quinn had come out of the shower with a slightly clearer head, and now he was sitting on the toilet lid in a pair of Nate's sweatpants, holding a bag of frozen peas to his head with one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. "I don't need no damn stitches," he complained thickly, as though his mouth was still trying to remember how to speak.

"Well you're gettin' them anyway," Eliot retorted. Leaning in close, his deft fingers quickly sewed four neat stitches while Quinn stayed still as a statue, eyes closed. He had very long golden eyelashes, and a ton of faded freckles across his swollen nose and spattering his temples. Tattoos riddled his skin, some obvious home jobs and some so pale and faded they had to be done when he was a teenage. A crown adorned his shoulder, below it a date in Roman numerals, and on his other arm, just above his wrist, was an anchor with a very familiar insignia on it. He'd been a Navy SEAL. Eliot would have thought Marines with that cocky attitude of his.

"So you gonna tell me what happened?" Eliot asked him as he cut the last stitch.

"I was working."

Eliot gave him a look. He sighed, took a sip from his glass and began, "This European cat..king of some dusty country...paid me upfront to pick up his daughter at boarding school and deliver her to her mama in Manhattan. I know what you're thinking -" Quinn suddenly sounded defiant as he glared at Eliot, "- I wasn't trafficking. Her daddy wanted someone off the books and I needed the cash."

Admittedly, his first thought had been that Quinn was smuggling some foreign child bride across the border. It was a valid assumption...that's what guys like him did. What guys like them did.

"I did the job, I got the kid into the US...but things turned to shit when we got to Manhattan."

"And the kid?" Eliot handed Quinn an old t-shirt.

"Marigold is safe where she is," Quinn mumbled, wincing as he pulled the t-shirt over his head, "Soon as I can see straight I'm goin' to get her."

Eliot pressed his lips together. There had to be a kid involved. "Okay," he said finally, standing up. "I'll talk to Nate, see if we can figure out a plan."

"Wait," Quinn got to his feet surprisingly fast and caught Eliot's arm. "I wasn't askin' for you to get involved with this. You paid your debt."

"You can't do it alone," Eliot poked him in the ribs, making him flinch painfully.

"I have to," Quinn's voice was suddenly vulnerable. Quickly he added, "I want to get paid."

"You'll get your money," Eliot rolled his eyes, "This is what I do, Quinn. What my team does. You want Marigold alive, don't you?"

Quinn tightened his jaw, resisting, but he had to relent. "Fine. But if anything happens to her I swear to god-"

"Have you forgotten who I am?" Eliot smirked. "We'll get it done. Finish your drink...we got work to do."

"I don't trust him," Sophie declared, wrapping her cashmere sweater tighter around herself as she glanced in Quinn's direction. He sat gingerly on the sofa, trying to ignore Parker's unwavering stare.

"You don't have to," Eliot countered in a low voice, "Trust me."

Sophie's eyes softened. "You know I trust you, Eliot. But Quinn...I mean, he's murdered people, Eliot -"

"So have I."

There was a brief flash of horror in her eyes. "I didn't mean..." she backed-tracked, "I just meant that...well, he's not like you. He's killed innocent people."

Eliot looked her in the eye and said softly, "So have I."

He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips and he looked away, unable to make eye contact with her. She looked back at Quinn and said, "I just mean that Quinn is different. He's not trying to make amends. He's still in that life...look at his face, Eliot, look at the violence he's brought with him."

Eliot shook his head. "That violence is with me every day," he said, and walked away from her, ending it.

"I think your geek is speaking in tongues," Quinn said as Eliot sat down on the arm of the sofa.

Hardison rolled his eyes. "I was trying to explain my facial recognition software, but I guess someone is too cro-mag to understand it."

Eliot sighed. He couldn't deal with this today. "Hardison, speak English. Quinn, stop being an ass."

Quinn muttered under his breath and shifted his position, wincing. "Those painkillers not kicked in yet?" Eliot asked.

He shrugged dismissively. "I'm fine."

Eliot watched Quinn carefully. He knew he was taking a risk trusting him. He wasn't even sure if he did trust him. Quinn was a loaded gun, lethal and damn unreliable.

Hardison pulled up a page of mugshots and candids. "Any of these guys look familiar?"

"All of 'em," Quinn said, "None of them were in the warehouse, though."

"You're gonna have to narrow it down, Hardison," Eliot said. Hardison sighed dramatically and sat up straight in his chair.

"Okay, let's try this. Can you describe any of them?"

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, a few of them were Spanish. Maybe Cuban? And one had a British accent. You know, that shit-eating posh type. Probably ate paste and wet the bed as a kid." Quinn rubbed his good eye with the heel of his palm, looking like he wanted to put a boot through someone's skull.

"Hair colour? Eye colour? Tattoos, scars, piercings?"

"Hardison," Eliot warned.

"The one I want had grey hair," Quinn said distantly, "blue eyes, beard. Around forty-five. Six feet. Guys called him "boss" but he wasn't calling the shots." Quinn glanced at Eliot dully. "I'd say he was local, and locked up recently."

Eliot nodded, but Hardison scoffed. "How do you know that?"

Quinn's jaw twitched. "He hit like a guy who's been in a cage for awhile."

Hardison tapped away on his keyboard, the soft click-click-click sound filling the quiet room. The photos on the screens vanished and were replaced with the profile of one Simon Pryce. Eliot recognized him vaguely; he showed up from the UK a few years ago and ran with a few crews, mostly small time stuff in the Boston area, but Eliot had never met him.

"That him?" Eliot asked, looking at Quinn. He glanced briefly at the screen and away again, nodding.

The apartment door opened and Nate staggered in. Eliot could smell the booze as soon as he saw him, as if the bloodshot eyes and inability to stand up straight wasn't indication enough that he'd just been down at the bar inhaling a bottle of Irish whiskey.

"Does he need an IV drip or something?" Quinn muttered to Eliot, who bit back a smirk.

"Glad you could finally join us," Sophie said to Nate in disapproval. He waved his hand and slumped onto a stool at the island. Sophie sighed and poured him a cup of coffee.

"Hey Nate, we found the dude who beat the daylight outta Quinn," Hardison said, sounding far too gleeful about Quinn's circumstance. Eliot rolled his eyes.

"That's great, Hardison." Nate said disinterestedly. Hardison continued, speaking to Eliot instead, "I can't find an address but I did find the place he hangs out at the most. Place called Shiver. He goes every night, has some wings, a little lager, and then has some fun with Miss Tootsie Pop."

As he spoke he clicked through a series of candids, showing Pryce in front of a seedy downtown strip club. Hardison stopped at the photo of Pryce getting handsy with a rather large, rather masculine stripper wearing a bright neon wig.

"My guess is you'll find him there tonight." Hardison smiled.

Quinn got to his feet clumsily, purposely keeping his eyes off the screens. "Guess I better get miss Tootsie Pop on my good side, then."

Eliot caught his elbow. "Not without me. Hardison, text me the address of that club."

Quinn looked ready to protest, but instead he just pulled from Eliot's grasp and departed, slamming the door behind him. Eliot flexed his fingers, trying not to ball them into fists.

'Shiver' was even less appealing in person than in photographs. Eliot and Quinn got out of the car and Quinn pulled his hood up, sucking in a breath at the strain of lifting his arm.

"You sure you can do this?" Eliot muttered as he stepped up to the door, concealed beneath decades-old posters and grafiti that plastered the whole front of the building. "I can go in alone."

"You just want Tootsie Pop all to yourself," Quinn said. Eliot followed him into the club, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness. They walked down a narrow, stinking hallway and through another door. The bouncer was standing behind it, and Eliot paid for himself and Quinn before going over to the bar.

"You see her anywhere?" he murmured. There were girls everywhere, on the stage and hanging off old men in the booths, behind the bar, and flitting around the room with trays of drinks held high.

"Over there," Quinn said, "Under the titties sign."

Eliot looked, and sure enough there was her neon wig and long, muscular legs, hunching over a man underneath a large flickering sign that read 'titties! titties! titties!'. Classy.

"Should we let her finish?" Eliot asked. Smirking, Quinn flagged down the bartender and said, "It's only polite."

Quinn ordered a shot of tequila, but Eliot refused one of his own. "You shouldn't be drinkin' with all those pills in your system," he warned, but Quinn ignored him and downed his drink without batting an eyelash.

When Tootsie Pop was finished, she came up to the bar and sat down with a huge sigh. "Gimme a double," she said in a deep, rumbling voice. Quinn gave Eliot a pointed look, and Eliot sighed before sliding up beside her and laying down a few bills.

"I got this one," he said to the bartender. Tootsie glanced at him through thick fake lashes and smiled.

"It's fifty for a dance," she said.

"I'm not lookin' for a dance," Eliot replied, and glanced over his shoulder at Quinn. She followed his gaze and shook her head.

"Sorry sweetie, I don't do threesomes."

Eliot smirked. "I'm not lookin' for that, either. I was wondering if you could tell me about this man..." he slid a photograph of Pryce across the counter. She immediately looked up at the ceiling.

"You cops?" she asked.

"No, we're not cops. We're just trying to find our friend."

"Yeah, right." Tootsie took another sip of her drink, still not looking at either Eliot or the photo. Quinn pulled up a stool on her other side and said, "Look, we're just lookin' to speak with him, okay?"

She looked at him and her face softened just a little. She nodded at his face and inquired, "He do that?"

Quinn nodded. She reached out and gently brushed her bedazzled fingertips along his bruises. "Alright," she said, "But you gotta let me give you a dance. I can't be seen talking to just anyone about my clients, y'know?"

Eliot shelled out a fifty and she tucked it into her bra before taking Quinn by the hand, leading him over the black leather sofas. Eliot followed, sitting down warily on the arm.

"You gotta understand," Tootsie said as she began her dance, "Simon's different than the other guys who come in here. He's sweet, or at least, he can be. He doesn't treat me like shit like most guys."

"Yeah, I'm sure he's a real sweetheart," Eliot grunted. He watched Quinn's face as she gyrated against him.

"He has a temper, that's all," Tootsie defended, "I don't know what he did to you guys or what you plan to do to him, but you need to know, he's a good guy on the inside."

She turned around to face Quinn, pushing her breasts against his chest as she slid herself over his knee. "You guys promise not to hurt him too bad?"

Eliot nodded. She bit her full, glossy lip and slid off Quinn's lap, finished with her handiwork. Quinn opened his eyes and adjusted himself discreetly before standing up.

"He'll be here in about an hour," she said, "He usually comes by around six for the buffet. I take him to the back after that. You guys can wait there. But make it look like I didn't have anything to do with it, okay?"

She started to leave, but Quinn got her wrist. He looked her in the eyes and said softly, "He may treat you good sometimes, honey, but I promise...he's not a good guy."

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then she took Quinn's hand and held it between hers. "Maybe not. But there's worse out there. Way, way worse."