Undercover
A Zephyrus Production
A/N: And here is where I felt like my interest petered out. It has all sorts of fascinating potential as a story, but I never quite figured out what happens next. And yes, I will shamelessly admit that reviews help the creative process, if only to spur me on to write more. So if you liked this little drabble, review!
Summary: Tired of being a desk jockey and desperately searching for an assignment far away from his romantic troubles, Harry Potter takes an undercover assignment in Roanapur. There, he finds that life is short, violent, and ever so fun.
Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor Black Lagoon. Pity.
Chapter 1: An Englishman, A Mexican, and Italian Walk Into a Bar...Part 1
Most job descriptions did not include staring down the barrel of a shotgun wielded by a crazy, giant, Mexican cowboy. As an Auror of his hard-earned rank, the most he had to deal with these days was the occasional upstart dark wizard and keeping an eye on the more unsavory practices in Knockturn Alley.
And yet there he was, hands raised in an attempt to look as nonthreatening as possible and beads of sweat rolling down his forehead that had nothing to do with the heat of the night.
"Well, motherfucker? You got any last words before I blow your fuckin' head off for stealing from me?"
On parchment, any wizard worth his salt could easily deal with a muggle and any firearm he foolishly decided to use against his magical counterpart. Reality is a far cry from parchment. If a wizard was victorious in surviving a face off with a muggle armed with a gun, it was assumed that said wizard had been alert, prepared, and had seen that muggle coming from miles away.
Even Voldemort wouldn't have survived if Harry had somehow managed to surprise him and shot the scaly bastard in the back.
In any case, Harry's options were quite limited in his current situation.
One: He could die.
Two: He could just be horribly maimed if he somehow managed to survive a shotgun to the face.
Three: He could beg for his life and attempt to curse the Mexican into oblivion if given the opportunity.
The first was out due to obvious reasons. The second was distinctly unappealing due to the equally low survival rate of option number one, in addition to Harry being fond of his dashing good looks. The third was distasteful, but survival trumps pride every single time in Harry's opinion.
"Mr. Lupe, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. I've only just arrived in Roanapur a short while ago."
The Mexican reached out with a booted foot and nudged the briefcase by Harry's stool. "Oh, is that so? Well, I guess some other gringo musta put a hole in my little cousin's guts and made off with 7 bricks of MY coke in that briefcase."
Lupe stepped forward in one swift movement and jammed the butt of the shotgun into Harry's gut.
Air whooshed in a single hot breath from Harry's lungs and he felt bile surging up his throat. He cradled his hands protectively over his stomach and toppled from the barstool to the dirty floor, gasping and retching.
Distantly, he heard Lupe say, "Do you think I'm fuckin' stupid? Huh!?"
A boot slammed into Harry's side, forcing the bile that he had somehow managed to keep down to spew all over the floor and the front of his new suit. Harry's glasses were knocked askew with the blow and tears of pain welled up in his eyes. Dimly, he could see the figures of a few patrons scrambling for the front entrance, eager to escape the coming bloodbath.
Harry heard the sound of a round being pumped into the chamber of the shotgun. "Fuckin' moron. Give Satanás my regards."
"Hey, Lupe." Dutch swung around in his seat and leaned up against the bar. "The kid's telling the truth."
Out of the corner of his watery eyes, Harry could see Lupe turn his head to regard Dutch. "The fuck you say, Dutch? This filthy gringo is guilty. The briefcase is right there and I can smell the guilt on him."
"Check the briefcase first, Lupe. You don't want it getting out that you kill every white dude you come across just because he smells funny, do you? Shit, half the junkies in the city smell like they rolled in a pig sty. It's bad for business, my man."
Lupe eyed Dutch for a moment. He then jerked his head at the briefcase. "Fine. Never let it be said that the Coyote isn't unreasonable. Open it, Dutch."
Dutch leaned down and picked up the briefcase. He set it on the counter top and undid the latches. He flipped up the lid and his eyebrows rose along with it. He let out a low whistle and tilted the briefcase towards the Mexican so he could see.
The briefcase was lined with currencies from Britain, America, France, Germany, Russia, Japan, and Thailand. There had to have been at least a quarter of a million dollars in combined currencies, to both men's practiced eye.
Lupe licked his lips lightly, his eyes having taken on a greedy sheen. "Shiiiiiiiit, gringo. What kind of stupid fuck walks around with a briefcase full of moolah like that, eh?"
Dutch nodded his head in amazed agreement. "Can't believe the kid wasn't mugged the second he set foot on the island."
The Ministry had authorized Harry's use of that money in a variety of currencies, for him to transfigure as needed to suit whatever currency moved best in Roanapur. It had been expected to last him out the month for food, lodging, bribes, and transportation. The majority of the contents of the briefcase had been intended as a means of buying a ticket onto Red Aviary's roster.
While he had been a little nervous about carrying around that much cash on his person in a place like Roanapur, Harry had been perfectly confident in his ability not to be mugged on the street like some ignorant tourist. He should have been more wary about being mugged by rampaging drug dealers bent on revenge in bars.
Harry coughed lightly, wiping some drool and vomit from his lips on his sleeve. He eyed the barrel of the shotgun warily as he adjusted his glasses. Lupe was enough of a professional that he only let his weapon waver slightly when the contents of Harry's briefcase were revealed.
If I can just get him to move a few more inches to the left, I think I can slip my wand out unnoticed...
Harry's wand was nestled in its holster on his right forearm. A quick flick of his wrist and he'd be armed and deadly. He was pretty sure that any sudden movements on his part would be greeted with Lupe pumping him full of lead.
"Mr. Lupe, I'd be more than willing to give you that briefcase in order to clear up this little misunderstanding."
The Coyote threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Oh, you're going to give me all that money, eh?" The cold metal of the shotgun nudged Harry in the chin. "Why shouldn't I just blow your head off and take the money anyway?"
Harry shrugged nonchalantly as best he could. "It's like Dutch said. Do you want a reputation as a thief? Or someone who kills in a fit of greed? You'll scare off all of your customers."
"Kid's right, Lupe. Use your head," Dutch said over his shoulder, having gone back to his drink.
Lupe paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. He eyed the briefcase, humming in the back of his throat. Harry's life depended on how much a drug dealer valued his reputation with his customers. Harry was sure that there was something amusing about that, but he was hanged if he could find it.
A flash of motion caught Harry's eye and he slowly tilted his head to get a glimpse between Lupe's snakeskin boots. The mustachioed man that had been sitting to Harry's left before Lupe burst in was creeping out from behind the bar, briefcase clutched to his chest. He was very nearly to the hallway that lead to the exit in the back before one of his feet accidentally kicked an empty whiskey bottle, sending it clattering loudly across the floor.
With the shotgun never wavering, one of the Coyote's hands flashed to his hip, brushed aside his jacket, and smoothly drew out a Colt Peacemaker in what appeared to be one single motion. Harry was impressed, in spite of himself. The Coyote's appearance wasn't just for show, then.
The Peacemaker boomed once and a shower of wood splinters erupted from a fist sized crater in the door frame next to Mustache Man. He whirled around with a little shriek of terror, throwing his hands high in the air.
"DON'T-A SHOOT ME, FOR THE LOVE-A THE VIRGIN MARY!"
The briefcase the man had been holding tumbled to the dirty wooden floor, popping open open contact. Two bricks of a white powdery substance spilled from the briefcase and no doubt several more were hidden in the briefcase's depths.
Lupe's eyes went flat and cold at the sight of the bricks. Harry could see the cowboy's knuckles bleed to white with the force that he was gripping the Peacemaker. "I should have known it was you, Rafael, you fuckin' dago. Hector was always complaining about how you were late with your payments."
Rafael, apparently an Italian, grinned nervously and started to slowly lower his head. "Hey Lupe, it'sa me! Do I look like-a the kinda guy that would shoot your cou-"
Another clap of thunder boomed and the gangly looking Italian shrieked again as he was showered in more wooden splinters. Harry was sure he heard Bao sighing loudly behind the bar.
"Looks like we found your thief, Lupe." Dutch commented, still calmly sipping his drink.
What the bloody hell is wrong with that man? Doesn't he have a sense of self-preservation?!
Harry could only heave a sigh of relief. Lupe would dispense justice on the thief and leave in peace with his drugs, and Harry could give thanks that he hadn't pissed himself in fear.
"Yeah Dutch, I guess we did." Lupe's eyes darted from the drugs and to Harry's briefcase of money. "But you know, today must be my lucky day, eh? I get to avenge Hector's death, retrieve my stolen goods, and get a bonus to boot."
Harry groaned pitifully and banged his head against the floor. The sound drew Lupe's attention.
"Listen gringo, no hard feelings, eh? I just got a little overexcited because of Hector. He was like a brother to me, you know?"
Harry couldn't very well argue with a shotgun in his face so he just nodded woodenly. "No hard feelings. Sure."
"Anyways, I'll be taking that money with me. Think of it as payment for me not blowing your head off."
Harry nodded yet again, too pissed off to say anything. All he had to do was wait until the cowboy's back was turned. Harry's wand hand twitched slightly in eagerness at the payback to come.
Two loud clicks reverberated in the room as two hammers were simultaneously cocked. Lupe stiffened, a look of dread morphing onto his face.
"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck is going on?"
Harry dared to shift his head upwards. Standing to Lupe's side and almost cradling Harry's head between her combat boots was a diminutive, fierce-looking Asian woman armed with two ridiculously large handguns, dressed in a black tank top and daisy dukes, and a sneer of annoyance on her face.
The twin barrels of the guns were aimed directly at Lupe's head.
"Goddammit, Revy. You have really shitty timing." Dutch's tone was obviously exasperated.
Harry did some quick thinking. Dutch knew this woman. This woman had Lupe at her mercy. It was probably safe to trust her.
"Ah, miss?"
The woman's gaze darted down at Harry, eyes narrowed. "Who the fuck are you?"
"My name is Harry Potter and I will pay you fifty thousand dollars to remove Mr. Lupe's weapon from my face."
The woman's face went from boredly pissed to wolfishly joyful. Baring her teeth in a wicked smile, she said, "Sure thing, boss."
Bao yelled in the background, "You stupid motherfu-"
Harry's world exploded in a roar of gunpowder.