Well shit, it wasn't his fault he was pasty and Welsh. You can't exactly blame him for that.

But still, despite his outward appearance of a malnourished Brit, Mick had other ways of protecting himself. And he had Ethan, which made it all a bit easier. Still didn't stop him from being nervous.

Without even thinking he dug out his carton from his pockets and slipped out a cigarette, not bothering to light it but keeping it between his lips for comfort. He had his gun in it's holster and his rifle at his back, but damn it if either of those brought him comfort.

But he's come too far.

"After you," he offers, glad that he's not the one leading the operation here. If he was, well, he'd freaked out a lot while ago.

Ethan sets off towards the door without hesitation, and they're quickly approached by gun toting gangsters at their finest, the horrible turn of the weapon down pat and everything. Krieg doesn't raise his hands and doesn't back down, instead speaking firmly and with sure power. He knows this game, and he won't be made to back down to anyone in it.

"Bro. Seriously. Bro. Calm the fuck down." Ethan points to both at once, using the index finger of both hands to do so. "I'm here to see your boss."
"He's not here right now." One snaps back, weapon turning upright and head rearing back as a flash of a lovely grill shows.

"Bullshit. I can smell his black tar heroin and his callgirls from here. Now let me the fuck in before I shove your heads so far up your ass you can tell your small intestines I said hello." Ethan strides forward and simply grabs the wrists of both men, twisting them down with his painful strength. He doesn't let go until the guns drop, and it's then he walks between them and past like nothing happened.

"'At's right, up your ass," Mick attempted, almost instantly regretting it just because of how dumb he sounded. But then again, he doubted these men could so anything to him when Ethan nearly broke their wrists. Bonus points for creativity on Ethan's part. And for such a short man he did seem to have some kind of strength. Baffled Mick, really.

Having to scoot between them as the wailed out in pain, he kept himself close as he could behind Ethan as if to protect himself. Ethan made a better fighter, and Mick could protect himself better when he only had one side to worry about.

The sight of others smoking inside the building gave him the courage to finally light up, letting go of anxiety the instant he was able to smoke. It had better last, too, he was running out and didn't bring any additional packs.

"Fuckin' ridiculous in 'ere," he whispers, bending low enough to keep it just to Ethan's ear. "Bleeding 'ell."

He was scared, honestly. Anyone new in this situation would be. But the nicotine made him able to hide it. At least, feel like he was hiding it. He just hoped it would be good enough

Ethan keeps his cool and doesn't reply, just huffing in amusement as he powers forward. He isn't afraid, and he'll prove it. This is his turf, this is his game, and he won't be knocked out this easily. He came here of his own accord and he'll leave the same way. For now, though, he's got to keep his focus in place and prepare for what's coming. He's got more than just his own life on his hands at this point.

They're flanked instantly by angry thugs, but Ethan pushes straight through to the office he knows the boss is going to be in. He pushes the door open and enters with a loud tone of voice and a shit-eating grin. That's Krieg for you.
"BRO! Long time no fucking see! Heard you lost some men the other day. Pity your operation's down a few pairs of hands, isn't it?"

"What the fuck do you want, Krieg? You're not fucking welcome here no more. You know that." Torres snaps right back, pointing angrily with the pen that was in his hand. "You've got balls, showing your face again."
"Don't I know it."
"Who's the pale guy?" He glances at Mick and scoffs in laughter. "Your part-time fuck or something? Come ON, Krieg, take out the trash!"
Mick's got one chance to stand up for himself. This would be it.

"Excuse me?"

Oh, there it was. The instant Torres insults him the anxiety and fear drains away. Instead, his brown eyes lock on the other man's and he uses his height to give him a ground. You could bruise a sniper a lot of ways, simply just teasing him sometimes pissed him off if it wasn't from certain people. But direct insults? From this asshole? Hell no.

There were a few times Mick could recall where he just about shot off a suspect's head back in the day. Mostly because they were disgusting assholes, and he had no time for assholes. But he had his boss there to help him keep his cool back then. Now? He just had Ethan in his way.

Neatly pushing past Ethan, he all but grabbed the little shit and all but yanked his 45. from it's holster to rest against the shorter man's temples.

"There's a diff' between me and trash. Trash don't 'old a gun and know which area of the fuckin' cortex to shoot when needin' to put a man down."

He doesn't even bother to remember where he is or who all is around him. He's just anger. Maybe it's more from acting his part. Or maybe he's got a couple unresolved issues that have just exploded into an episode. Either way, he's peacocking, and about five seconds away from probably doing something incredibly stupid.

There's a moment of silence as Torres stares down Mick and the 45 once the sniper has spoken, but it breaks when he abruptly grins and laughs. Tension in the room falls instantly, and even Ethan is borderline to it himself. The man claps a few times before nodding and pointing at Mick.
"You've got spirit. Fine. You're both in. Cut's the usual, Krieg. But the instant you cross me-"
"We're out. But I won't stay long enough to do that. Consider it a favor to get revenge on the motherfuckers who killed a friend of mine."
"Personal reasons are horrible reasons in this business."

"No worse than trusting your latest prostitute to not bite your dick off or give you an STD." Krieg's little smirk makes it clear he knows how to handle this man verbally. The two banter like old friends, but that doesn't quite seem like the right word for them.

"No shit? You always think good about this shit, Ethan. But I KNOW what you do. Got a name, gringo?" Torres looks to Mick now, eyeing him carefully. "You some kind of hopped-up ex army guy?"

He snorts, surprised it worked.

"Rawson," he doesn't trust this man with his first name, nor really his last, but at least Rawson sounded slightly hardcore. Or at least, Mick tended to think so. Still, he keeps his eyes pinned on Torres, backing off and sliding his gun back into his holster at his hip. "Could say that."

Elaboration of "hopped-up" would probably be post-special forces and American FBI PTSD suffering Welshman with anxiety and slight depression. So yeah. A little hopped up.

But instead of going into that, he kept quiet. He didn't know these men, and besides asserting he isn't to be fucked with he really doesn't know what he should say to these people. But he's established something with himself. He steps back, giving the floor to Ethan, and takes a smoke to keep himself steady.

If any of them did do anything, he'd be quick to show them just how big his rifle actually was.

"Ex military types are good. Stick around and you'll advance fast, gringo." Great. Looks like names don't mean much until the use of them is earned. Ethan knows the signs and takes the queue to leave, patting Mick on the shoulder and stepping back. Time to get situated neatly now that nobody will show up to slit their throats at night. They can't talk too heavily about the plan here, after all.

"OH- Rodrigo, got a job for us? He works with me, he proves himself faster, right?"
"Got that shit right. Sure, you want to shake up a dealer who owes me a cut? Be my guest. You remember the Admiral?"
"Crazy fucker with the navy officer's cap?"
"That's the one. He owes me 5k. Get it and you're solid."
"Thanks, bro." Ethan grins and nods before heading to the door. Mick can follow or stay in the lion's den.

Well that went well. Anytime Mick didn't die, he was pretty sure it went fabulous.

Barely realizing his cigarette was nothing but a wasted stub by the time Mick made it out the front door, he just let it drop from his mouth before dragging his shoe over it.

He knew something smelt nasty in there. The fresh air was a relief.

"Just a thought, E. How many little errands we gonna 'ave ta run for Torres before we actually work out your plan?" he got getting themselves solidly inside. And hell, he could go for a little harassment. But long term? That was a whole other thing.

"Two, three? Four? Who the fuck knows. Patience, Herr Garnele." Good think Mick doesn't know German...right? Ethan's demeanor is reassuring enough, cocky in its understanding of his surroundings. He's unafraid to face what's before them. After all, this is a game that he plays quite frequently. He's good at it, too. He gives a flippant little wave to the guards out front before finally talking more freely to Mick once they're out of earshot. He knows neither was bugged and as always he's watching for tails and shadows that indicate they aren't being left in trust and trust alone. When your life is easily forfeit in this profession, you develop the habit.

"This guy. The Admiral. Real nutcase. Got out of the navy a while ago, been pushing heroin and crack on the streets. Laced some of it with some shit one time, killed a few people. The police couldn't tie it back, but we knew."

"A nice bloke, I'm sure," Mick mutters, trying to recall what little German he knew to figure out what the fuck Ethan just called him. Ah, well, didn't matter. Not when he had the idea of a shakedown.

"How you wanna work it? Get 'em alone, rough 'em up? Or ah, lemme kill 'em?" He hoped for the former. Maybe because he was itching for it. Murder was like a drug, do it enough times and you start to enjoy it. Especially when it was putting down a scumbag. He didn't like killing civilians, whole former law enforcement thing. But guys like the Admiral? Well, totally different story.

"This guy? Nah. We don't kill. But we ruin him, and we push him to the point he might just end up accidentally killing himself. Nobody would suspect a thing. He's just a dealer with a criminal record and a no-good tendency to take lives for the fun of it. Not quite a serial killer, but a complete psycho. I'm not saying we can't wound him grievously, though. I mean...actually? You know what? We torture him, get the money. Or I can torture, you can kill at the end. Give me a good reason to take his life and it's a deal." Ethan glances to Mick, expression open and words honest. He's all ears.

He can work on the fly, that's for sure.

Bummer.

He snorted. He didn't have a good reason other than "Cause i jus' wanna kill the man, mate", so he just sighs. "Al'ight, fine. We don't kill 'em. Woundin' 'em though seems good enough."

It's a small, sad sacrifice but at least they'll get paid for it. and Mick's dealt with bigger psychos that what this guy sounded like. If anything, he'd probably let Ethan rough him up and stand there to be sure he didn't run ad that they got what they needed from him. Simple. Plus, there was still his little murder from the night before. Adding this one would just increase polikce activity, and he didn't have a need for that.

"Let's get out man's quid, hmm?"

"You can let out that anger some other way later." Whatever he has in mind by that is anyone's guess. Chances are, though, it will do the trick. This is Ethan Krieg we're talking about, after all. He doesn't do bland and normal. "Let's work on this. It could be tough to find him, but he knows my face. I can go in and blend in perfectly. You? You're going to have to either scout it out from some little perch or play the dumb tourist. I'll leave it up to you. I know my plan of action, but how comfortable are you going in blind and deaf to harm's way? You can carry some small weapon, but not much, if you choose to play the idiot."

Planning is a strong suit for Krieg, and that much is likely becoming clear. He's an old hand at this business in and among this type of people. As he talks, he's walking and leading the way without blatantly doing so towards a seedy bar and the last known location (to him, anyway) of the man they're seeking.

"I'll find some spot and attempt to blend in. I can scope the area and keep tabs on who goes where, yadda yadda," it was where he was best anyway. "If push comes to shove I'll do better there than I would on the floor. Too risky for me to just stroll in. If anyone gets curious about me I'll do the tourist thing. Try out my Cockney, maybe."

"Whatever you do, you call the shots," it wasn't that Mick was afraid to take a leadership role, he was a soldier, he liked to have direction and instruction and it made sense that he'd step down when Ethan clearly had a good set up as he did. Plus, he was dying for a little alcohol. And maybe, he just wanted to see this man in action more. Made him curious, Mick had been around the supernatural enough to know that Ethan wasn't part of that world. But...something was weird about him. Perfect opportunity to observe.

Ethan in action is quite a sight to behold, and nobody could blame Mick for wanting to watch it, as voyeuristic as that sounds. If Mick is ever bold enough, stupid enough, or brave enough to try and get out and up to where Ethan seems to disappear in the mornings, he'd get one hell of a show. Krieg trains, but he has to do it in places and at times where people won't find him, bother him, or record video footage. He doesn't mind the interest of kids, but there are limits to his patience. He can be pushed past the breaking point remarkably fast, and that whip-like temper has earned him several scars on his lifetime, chiefly the two small ones decorating his face.

"Right. Set up, stay busy, and I'm going in. I have a feeling you'll figure out how to get my attention if you need to. I know I can find you, sticking out like a sore thumb." Half joking, his little grin makes it clear the statement isn't an insult at all. Ethan likes different, and he's been growing bored of his surroundings. A little change isn't a bad thing.

Krieg leaves Mick truly alone this time, heading towards the bar's entrance and slipping outside. His form can be seen through the murky glass, but it's clear he isn't planning on staying long. The man he sits down beside to greet with a fist bump and a hug doesn't match the description of the Admiral. He's fishing for information. Whatever he's saying, though, is completely out of Mick's ability to hear. Maybe one day they'll work out a mic system, or bugs. Until then, though, they're improvising.

"Ever since the ODs, that crazy fucker ain't selling 'round here no more. People even thought he might be dead."
"Until he borrowed Torres' money."

"Yeah. But isn't it possible someone else picked up the mantle? People don't know what the fuck he looks like. Just that stupid-ass hat of his." That gives Ethan room to pause and think. His friend has a point. A gentle frown crosses his lips before he hesitantly nods.

"You have a point. I'll keep that in mind. But who the fuck would want to use the identity of someone that's so hated?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. People might want his blood, but nobody's going to fuck with a nutcase like they do guys like us, Ethan. But...hey...Krieg. Stay safe." The warning gets an odd little huff from Ethan, who nods and slips away.

He has nothing to do but wait outside, he'd already found tow buildings he could take if Ethan brought the fight outside before Mick moved in. He had his rifle to his back in case any of that did come into play, cleverly hidden in cardboard inside of a nylon case, parts strapped down with wire and packing material. He wasn't short on improvisation for his weapon but damn if he was just gonna throw it around.

He gives Ethan a cigarette before he decides to go in or not. Best to let the time spread between E's entrance and his. The sweet taste of nicotine builds up his confidence, even though he's still being stared at by almost every person in the vicinity. When a man stops to stare at him hard, Mick cleared his throat and in his best attempt of an American accent he mutters "They don't let you do it inside anymore, huh? Fucking ridiculous." He sounded like a damn Southerner. Still, helped with the tourist bit.

Seemed to be enough, the guy left him alone and he let out a sigh. It was these times he wished he and Ethan had worked out some kind of messaging system. Texting, even, but he didn't know Ethan's number.

He let the time pass as he finished off his cigarette, moving in in case their man showed up and Krieg would need back up. And to order himself a beer before flipping the collar of his jacket and trying his best to look like a lost tourist too tired to ask for directions for the night all while hunching himself over and keeping his head low at a back table. Seemed good enough, for now. Now he just had to wait. If the Admiral showed, He'd probably either slip out and head for the roof or wait and see if Ethan would somehow signal him. But for now, it was the Welshman's call.

Ethan questions one more person, his conversation brief and also quiet. The language is questionable, but if Mick has a good ear he might pick up an unholy combination of English and Spanish. Ethan doesn't know much, so he has to just deal with it and improvise. There are worse fates in this world. When he's got what he needs, he's got his phone out and he's dialing. He stands and moves towards the door, brushing past Mick as if he were no more than a stranger. He speaks a few words that would likely catch the sniper's attention, but more than that the gum wrapper with an address written on it that is slipped into the man's hand would.

"Hey, man! My name's Mitch. Yeah, buddy of mine recommended you. I need a fix, and you're the man that's got it cheapest, right? Fuck yes. Where can I meet you? Got it. Be there soon." He's out the door while speaking almost as if he never meant to enter at all. He's got a location.

And now? Mick gets his wish. Ethan breaks into a jog before he leaps neatly, bounding across the two lane road in two long strides, curb to middle to curb. That simply shouldn't be possible.

Bingo.

He memorizes the address before crunching the wrapper and sliding it into his pocket. Ethan would get there long before he did anyway, he's seen how fast he moves. The distance will allow Mick to travel without having to constantly distance himself from Ethan, keeping suspicion off him and the other assassin. He counts to thirty before slamming cash on the table and sliding out, making his way to the address that he'd just tapped into his GPS on his phone, headphones jacked in to keep the audio just to himself.

His instinct is to the roof, but again, he's not here to kill the man. Maybe play the part of tourist junkie? Maybe give another roll of that good all ol' terrible American. He watches, seeing what Ethan's wanting to do when he'd finally caught up. Defiantly getting radio next time. This silent routine isn't gonna work out long.

Ethan...er...MITCH, at the moment, is talking with several homeless men and laughing with them like he belongs. They probably don't know him personally, so he pulls it off well enough. He jokes and teases, taking on a faint accent and dropping his slang. He sounds like he belongs here, now. None of the standard American voice remains, which probably leaves Mick to wonder what he really sounds like when he's not watching himself. Can the sniper ever get Ethan to be that vulnerable to him? It would be hard, just about as much so as getting his story. Ethan's aware Mick has a past, too, but he doesn't ask for fear of having to return the favor when questioned about his own. This is rather obvious and surely has been picked up on. He doesn't hide the fact he's nervous about things like this.

Shortly after Mick's arrival, though, a lean and gaunt figure dressed in an oversized coat approaches Ethan, the cap described resting jauntily on his head at a rather off-kilter angle. Ethan greets him, and discussion goes smoothly. There's a brief exchange before Ethan reaches for his wallet. Mick's got a chance- will he make a move and cause a distraction or let Ethan handle it?

Hell he could interfere, but then again, he was itching to see how Ethan handled himself. So he kept his distance, wandered around, and offered some of the homeless men around him cigarettes in exchange for conversation, practicing his American and keeping a close on on Ethan in case he needed him.

With the way Ethan had handled the guards earlier, he doubted he would even be needed. He wanted to see fully what this man was capable of.

"Wait. Wait, let's take this inside, ok? I don't want to actually collect it out here." Ethan snaps the words with sudden paranoid violence, like someone who can't let others know he uses.

"Fine by me, kiddo. Let's go over here, then, off where the prying eyes won't see a thing." He sounds something like...Mr. Timn, quite honestly. It's almost disturbing, and frankly the image won't get out of Ethan's head now. The Admiral leads the way into the alley from whence he came, and Ethan follows like the naive fool he's playing to be. He's got the man out of sight. Now's a perfect time to take him down.

He keeps bloody moving.

Still, the Admiral looked like an absolute tosser, like the kind of guy you'd want to beat up just because he looks ridiculous. Especially that hat. What.

Thanking the men around him by giving out the rest of the cigarettes from the Night Market he had on him, he decided he'd been hanging around too long and decided finally on what to do. Wasn't exactly much he could do, really. Not when Ethan had the man on his own. So he kept his distance, debating still on if he'd follow or watch from afar.

If he walked in, the Admiral could get spooked, and, as Ethan and several other folks had pointed out, Mick stuck out like a sore thumb. He couldn't exactly hear what Ethan was saying from where he stood, and he made a mental note to invest in a mic. Wouldn't be a terrible purchase, no?

It was too risky for him to move in. Didn't mean he couldn't sneak up when Ethan distracted him, no?

"For this price, are you positive it's pure? I don't want to die shooting up and have everything I've built go down the drain." Ethan sounds sincerely worried and talks like a complete douchebag. He's pulling this off a little bit too well for anybody's comfort.

"It's as pure as you're gonna find anywhere. Trust me on this. I know my shit." The self-righteous bastard points two thumbs towards his chest and grins like he's doing Ethan a favor selling him a product that could easily kill him regardless of what is being promised here. After all, it's the same fate that befell the other guys.

"Man, what's your supplier? Where do you get this stuff? I don't want to get involved in any gang wars. I hear Torres and his men are chomping at the bit. Something about being cheated out of money." Ethan's words are concerned and somewhat flightly, but they get the desired flinch out of the Admiral. Bingo.

"No gang wars with my product. Pure, grade A shit, man. Nothing that will get you killed for buying it, either."
"Plenty that will get you killed for selling it, though, motherfucker." The punch comes so fast that there isn't really time to react. The nose breaks and crunches inward, and the facial bone itself also takes a solid hit. The man goes down hard, unconscious.

The murmuring noises had faded into nothing and his curiosity got the better of him. Peering around the outer alley wall, frowning when he saw Ethan standing over the Admiral's unconscious body, looking at the two of them in a state of oblivious confusion.

It took him a few moments before he walked up on them, gesturing at the unconscious form a few times, making some strange, sharp sounds before finally finding words.

"Okay, I 'ave a few questions, actually. Ones I would actually adore answers to," he cleared his throat. "One, 'ow'd you do that? With the face? An' two, how the fuck are we supposed to shake out the bloody money from a man who's nose you just shoved into 'is skull, eh?"

He's seen people get punched. Hell, he's gotten a few fists in his face a few times. But never had he seen damage like that. He couldn't even look at it, and imagining the sound makes him cringe.

"Unless you're thinkin' torture once 'e wakes up."

Ethan listens, testy and somewhat annoyed evem though he has no right to be and this is all his fault. Go figure. He glances at the man before he looks at the state of his own hand. While his gaze is on his knuckles, he speaks to five the answers requested.
"One, I punched him. Hard. Two, we wake him up. We can probably do it with his own product...if if doesn't kill him, that is. Help me get him inside?" He points to the back entrance to a worn building bearing a sign for a Boys and Girls Club. It looks abandoned, or at least inactive for the moment.
Ethan drags the Admiral with no real care for his head or neck. Talk about brutality.

"Remind me to never make you mad, then."

That did raise more questions than he wanted, but the job was a bit more important than Mick pestering the other assassin for more information. Grabbing the unconscious body's legs, he helped Ethan carry the damned heavy body. Ethan didn't seem to have a problem with the weight, made Mick a little jealous. Eyes sharp as an eagle's, arms weak as sticks held together with peanut butter.

Still, he managed, getting the man through the door though maneuvering and almost just shoving him in. "I've got some twisty ties from when I 'ad to work my gear we could use to tie 'em up if we need. As for the drugs that's your call. Far as I can tell you missed the pressure point but the man's gonna already be in a world of pain, which 'ill either 'elp or hinder us. Either way, that was a damn 'eavy blow."

"Smart man." Ethan replies to the dark little joke with the words and the briefest of grins before the two make their way inside. He does what he can, and it's quite a lot. He's strong as hell, and there's no way around that fact. Mick will only come to learn that further. In truth, they'll work together well. Ethan isn't dumb- anything but. However, he's brash and tends to rush into things before he plans them out very well. Mick can right that and stop him from acting so impulsively, and maybe check him more on other problems. However, calling him a mindless thug or something else meaning the same is the fastest way to get him hurt and to make him hate someone. His pride is easily wounded, and he knows he's simply not like that. Nobody else has the right to say so, either, in his eyes.

"You tie him up. I'll deal with the drugs. Deal? Deal." Without waiting for confirmation, Ethan is off to scout for them.

"Right," shrugging off his disguised rilfle case and setting it to the side, he dug around in his coat pockets to produce a few zip ties he

It was good Ethan had brawn, that could balance out the fact that Mick was as dangerous as a puppy with nothing in his hands. As for a street thug, he just saw him as someone with a lot of shit going on that wasn't a lick of Mick's business. Hell, he respected Ethan, any man who could do what he did so quickly to another as he did the Admiral, well, that had to demand some respect from others, right?

Making sure the ties were tight, Mick stood up and stretched, glad they were back to being stationary for a little while. Gave him some time to just rest for a second.

You'd think so, but Ethan more often than not finds himself as the joke of the crowd like he had accomplished nothing at all. Now, how is that fair again? Life doesn't like to take it easy on someone like him. But he's gathered his ashes and he's added to them, and what he's burned to rise will fuel him for a long time to come as he continues to stoke the fire to a dangerous degree.

His search finds exactly what he figured. The moving boxes are dingy and old, stacked about three high, but some stacks are missing a member or two. One's tape has been cut open neatly with a knife or a key. He pops it open and glances inside to find exactly what he figured he would.

"Heroin. Definitely not pure shit. Some idiot buys this, they're probably fucked. Best part is, some idiot already bought some. There's a ton missing here. I want to know if this fucker is poisoning it to hand out or not. More than that, I want to know WHY his entire face has changed." The joke is clear. This isn't the Admiral, even though he claims to be.

"You sayin' 'e's an imposer then?" Great. Fantastic. More running around. Now he really wished he had his car. "Wait, I thought no one's seen this guy's face? So 'ow you know this isn't our man?"

Good question. Then again, Mick isn't from here and still doesn't know who Ethan's dealt with in the past. And well, all he had on intel on this man was hearsay, defiantly not enough for a profile and without any visuals he couldn't be faulted for assuming this was their guy.

"Right, okay, so we could follow the trail back, track down the drugs, track down our man. Or manage to find out why this nice gentleman is co-opting our sub's style, yeah? Depending on if he ah, wakes up before the day's over," he added casually, turning away to light up a cigarette while they waited. "How you gonna test the drugs?"

"I ain't seen his face but I know his reputation. And that he's supposed to have different colored eyes in addition to a nice scar beneath that part of his voice I basically destroyed. Not that you can tell that now, mind you." Ethan sniffs with disdain and picks up a package of heroin, all wrapped neatly and taped shut. He hefts it up and down, tosses it from hand to hand, and then steps over, tucking it under his arm.

"Guy's a fake. So the real one's probably decomposing somewhere. Maybe in this God-awful drug supply, wherever it is. But why would anybody want to steal the identity of someone the entire hood wants dead?"

"Fifteen seconds of fame, most likely. Like the kids who make fake celebrity blogs. Take the identity of a man who's well known, either loved or hated, especially if 'e makes money and prance around in a costume until some plonker punches off your nose. You've also got your ah, you copycats, generally younger men but this guy seems a bit older. They see somethin' they like, usually a killer and take over when the original is either dead or arrested. Or 'e was 'ired to do so, trap someone, maybe, fool some of the local gangs into believein' the man was alive to lull them into an ambush."

He's mostly coming up with these suggestions on experience. Honestly, if the real man was dead, unless money was involved, Mick's instincts told him a trap. But he'd wait to come to that conclusion. "Either way, if e's fake, 'ow're we gonna get our money? I doubt this wanker 'as it, or maybe it was the original man who's borrowed in the first place? Fuck it I'm cross eyed."

Jesus, this was complicated. With a team of profiles, they'd have some kind of conclusion in seconds. And, well, Mick was rusty as hell. "Or I could just be bonkers and maybe prattlin' on about nothing."

"The money's gone. LONG gone, if any of this has gone down remotely like you said. Or any other way, really. If the motivation wasn't money...fuck, bro, this is Detroit. It couldn't NOT be money. Let's be perfectly honest here, that's all most people care about here. I'm weird. We've established that. So I'd think that-"
"DROP IT, asshole!" The gruff voice rocks out to echo before the man strides forward, gun held steady and eyes blazing. He's large and intimidating, although a bit overweight. That doesn't disguise the muscle he's got, though. Thinning black hair and piercing eyes make him seem even larger than he is, and for once even Ethan freezes in his tracks at the appearance. "What the fuck are you doing here? Who are you two assholes? This is a DEA investigation!"

"Oh. Shit." Ethan looks to Mick in panic, the weapon abruptly moving from Krieg to Mick. Talk fast, Mick.