It's easier than he thinks it should be.
Not the sneaking in part. Although, now that he mentions it, that's pretty damn easy. This is a legit millionaire drug-dealing crime lord with the blood money mansion to prove it; Brian shouldn't be able to just hop the fence, knock out one measly thug – and he's talking about number, not size, because that guy was fucking huge, just not real observant – and break into Guillermo's office without at least breaking a sweat. It's pathetic.
But that's not what he's talking about. That doesn't bother him so much, because honestly, the sooner he gets this done, the better.
Nah, it's not the doing the deed that's the problem; it's the thinking about it. The feeling. It shouldn't be this easy to make himself do this shit, breaking into private property, choking out a guy whose only crime, so far as he actually knows, is taking a paycheck from the wrong guy. He should have to struggle more with himself.
He doesn't, though. It just…happens. It's a role. It's a part that he plays, a mode he slips into, and it's almost like he's another person. At least, it is for now. It'll hit him eventually. A couple hours from now, when it's all said and done, it'll hit him like a fucking semi, and then he'll wish it was as easy as it is now.
For now, though, it's too damn easy.
There are a couple ways he could do this, he thinks, as he scopes out the office. The damn thing's bigger than his whole apartment.
He could go upstairs to the guy's bedroom, give him one hell of a wake-up call. The FBI, for all he knocks it, is pretty thorough on its intel, and he's pretty sure he could make it up there without running into anyone else.
Except…there're a lot of things that could go sideways with that. One time, he walked in to find the guy a) not sleeping, and b) not alone. He was…a little tied up at the time, and while that made Brian's job a lot easier once the babes cleared out, there was just some shit that couldn't be unseen.
Besides, he's learned that some guys aren't as in-control of bodily functions when they just wake up as they should be, and he'd like to get out of this without smelling piss if at all possible.
That leads him to option number two. It's a different kind of wake-up call, and he thinks it's probably the best way to do it. It's the way he's going with, anyway, and he sits down on the corner of the desk, grabs the phone out of its cradle, and dials the number he memorized from the file in the car before he parked it a couple blocks away.
He gives it a few seconds. One ring. Two rings. That's okay; he's figured out it usually takes about to the third or fourth ring before they pick up, and thanks to Guillermo's shitty security, he's actually good for time.
Sure enough, about halfway between the third and fourth rings, the line picks up. He doesn't wait for Guillermo to get a word out, though.
"Jarrod Guillermo," he says, and shit, he still can't get used to the way his voice sounds through the changer in his mask, It's low and metallic and just fucking eerie; it's unnatural. But he guesses it gets the job done. "I think you and me need to have a conversation."
"Who are you?"
Brian tries not to sigh. They ask the same damn thing every time. Who are you? What do you want? They never ask the important questions, the ones he thinks they should be asking, like 'Why the hell are you calling from my office phone? In my house?' Because he knows he wouldn't give a shit who they were or what they wanted if they were in his house at two in the morning sounding like the doll on fucking SAW.
But then again, if these guys were Einsteins, they wouldn't have gone into drug running anyway. And they definitely wouldn't have fallen in with Stasiak.
Yeah, he knows. Pot and kettle and shit.
"If you checked your caller ID, you know where I am. You have two minutes. You'll come in alone and unarmed." He doesn't bother telling him what'll happen if he doesn't, because Guillermo may be an idiot, but he's been in the business. Brian wouldn't be doing it like this if he hadn't covered all his bases. As far as Guillermo needs to know, he has. "Do you understand?"
There's a pause on the end of the line, but then, "I understand."
Brian hangs up the phone, then, and he's about to push off the desk when his hand bumps something. Instinctively – and because he's got approximately a minute-thirty to kill – he picks it up. There's Guillermo; he recognizes him immediately. But beside him, there's a little girl that takes Brian a little longer to recognize. She was in a picture in his file, with another Latino woman. According to the file Stasiak passed on to him, Guillermo's got an ex-wife and an eight-year-old daughter. It was up near the front of the folder, and Brian knows damn well there's a reason for that. There's not a whole lot better leverage than family.
Brian knows that too damn well.
There's a twinge of something that feels an awful lot like guilt in his gut, and he knows it's just a taste of what's coming. Soon as it hits, soon as this…whatever it is switches off and he's back to being himself, back to being Brian O'Conner, this is gonna fucking tear him apart, just like it always does. For now, though, it's just a twinge.
Just to be on the safe side, he flips the picture face down.
Steeling himself, letting the cool wash over him again and the mask that's even more a disguise than the balaclava slide into place, he walks across the office to stand against the wall by the door. He knows he told Guillermo to come unarmed, and he knows it should be pretty damn obvious that he should do what he's told, but he knows better than to count on the brains of a guy like him.
So, instead, he stands by the door. He waits until he hears footsteps on the hardwood outside, his muscles tensing as he does. His one hand goes to the gun at his hip, and there's no telling what's gonna happen. Every one of Guillermo's guys could come rushing through that door right now, and there wouldn't be a whole hell of a lot Brian could do to stop them. Intimidation is the name of the game; it's all a bluff, and even though no one's ever called them before, that doesn't mean this won't be the day it happens.
It's kind of a rush. And he's gonna feel bad about that later, too, but for now, he just rolls with it. He lets his heartbeat ratchet up, lets his muscles tense in anticipation, because there's a better-than-good chance this could go sideways, a chance that, shit, he could die right now.
There's a part of him that kind of thinks he deserves it.
The bigger part, though…it knows better. He's doing what he has to do to protect the people he cares about, and he'll keep doing it until they're safe, and then he'll move on with his damn life. There's no other option. This shit's temporary, and there's gonna be a day when he can tell Stasiak to go fuck himself and put all this in his rearview.
In the meantime…
The door opens, and it's automatic. Soon as Brian sees the shape in the low light of the single desk lamp, he reaches out and clamps a hand on the back of the guy's neck, pushing him forward until the only option he has is to fall flat on his damn face or stumble forward like Brian wants him to. That's always been the way to do it: catch them off balance, get them when they're not expecting it. And as the door closes behind them, he's shoving Guillermo, still in his damn silk pajamas, into the office chair.
"Who the hell are—"
Brian slaps his hand over Guillermo's mouth with probably a little more force than he has to, but he doesn't really care. He don't feel right about roughing up the guy on principle, but he's seen his rap sheet, and the bastard probably deserves a hell of a lot worse.
That's what he tells himself anyway. Not that it helps.
He leaves it at that, though. He's got a gun and a knife, but he doesn't pull them out. The bluff's more important than the threat; a man's imagination is a hell of a lot scarier than anything Brian can come up with, and he can tell from the wide look in Guillermo's beady ass eyes that his imagination's on a fucking spin-out.
Brian's happy to let it keep spinning. "I talk; you listen," he says. "Comprendes?"
Guillermo starts to mumble something, but Brian gives him a Look – as much of one as he can manage with the ski mask, at least – and he quickly goes to just nodding. Brian takes that as his cue to let up off his mouth, and he does. He's still got one hand on the guy's collar, bunching it up until he's pretty sure he feels the fabric ripping, which he doesn't feel too bad about. The guy's probably got like ten of these things, and they probably cost more than Brian makes in months, so the bitch can deal.
"You know why I'm here, don't you, Jer?" he says almost friendly-like. He thinks that's a hell of a lot scarier than yelling. Draws a lot less attention, too. He sits down on the corner of the desk, and the chair's still close enough that he can keep a hand on Guillermo's neck, pushing him back in the desk chair until he's pretty sure he could tip it with a light shove. Which he might end up doing before it's all said and done. "You made a deal, remember?" And instead of waiting for a response, he moves his hand up from Guillermo's collar to grip the underside of his chin none-too-gently and bob his head up and down for him. "We keep the Federales off your shipments; you compensate the services, right?"
Guillermo doesn't answer.
"Right?" Brian presses, and he gives Guillermo a little shove for emphasis.
Huh, guess I was wrong. The chair doesn't actually tip over. Although he thinks he feels one of the legs leave the carpet, 'cause the chair kind of bumps and jerks, and Guillermo lets out a noise that he probably didn't mean to.
It does the trick, though, because Guillermo starts nodding. Brian's really glad he's wearing gloves, now, because Guillermo's not a small man, and he's sweating like a fucking pig, so his double chin's getting nastier by the second.
Brian grits his teeth and pushes forward a little tighter. "So where's the compensation, Jer?" he snaps through gritted teeth, and now there's definitely two legs up on the desk chair. If Guillermo wasn't sitting so low in the seat, he'd have probably toppled over by now. And maybe it's that, or maybe it's the fact that a complete fucking stranger's got him pinned in his own desk chair with God only knows what in mind, but the guy lets out another sound that's a lot like a whimper. Brian leans in closer. Intimidation. "I didn't catch that."
"Y'all's shit is blowing up, man!" Guillermo spits. Literally spits. And damned if he doesn't seem to start finding his balls again, because his eyes harden a little bit, and Brian can see he's starting to lose him. "You think I wouldn't figure it out? I got guys, too. I know you've got IA on your ass, and it's just a matter of time." He's definitely getting his balls back, because the bastard actually smirks at him. "Your house is falling, amigo."
That's new to Brian. He hasn't heard anything about IA. But then, Stasiak doesn't exactly publish a newsletter, and sure as hell not to Brian. Besides, Brian's operating on a 'less is more' policy with Stasiak; he doesn't want to know shit. So this IA shit? This is the first he's heard of it.
Guillermo doesn't need to know that, though.
He doesn't miss a beat. "If I was you, I'd be worrying about my own house," he says, and fuck, yeah, he's about to have to go there, and he already hates it, but he needs leverage back. He needs to tip the scales again.
Guillermo's already-narrow eyes narrow even more. "What the hell you talking about, gringo?"
Instead of answering right off the bat, Brian reaches back to the desk and grabs something. It's the picture from before, and he holds it up to where they both can see it. Soon as he does, Guillermo's eyes widen, and he knows he's touched a nerve. Now he's just got to bring it home.
"Cute kid," he says, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he's going to hell for this. This is crossing a line, but he doesn't have a choice. He keeps his voice steady somehow, and his hand doesn't even shake as he holds the picture. "She's your daughter, right? From your last marriage?" Like he said – FBI intel is thorough. "I bet you love her a lot, don't you?"
"You son of a bi—"
Brian silences him with a hard punch to the gut that knocks the air out of him, and he tightens his grip on the man's thick throat. He's not quite cutting off air, but it's a warning: he could.
And then he continues like nothing happened at all. "It's gotta suck, her living with her mom and all. Lakewood, right? But I guess seeing her sometimes is better than never seeing her again." And that…that's a threat. He knows Guillermo knows it, too. But just in case, "It'd be a real shame if anything happened to her, you know? Her mom, too. Shit, next to that, saying goodbye to a couple grand doesn't seem all that bad."
He leans back, then, because he knows he's made his point. He can see it in Guillermo's eyes: genuine fear. Because nothing's scarier than the thought of losing family. Nothing's a greater threat than something that threatens them. In that, he can sympathize with the guy. They're both being manipulated. They're both being used.
It's just the way of the world.
"Just remember," Brian says as he stands from the table, sitting the picture frame down deliberately so that it's facing Guillermo, "we're family, too. If our house falls…so does yours." And with that, he gives the man's thinning hair a rustle, and he walks right out knowing Guillermo's never gonna talk.
Because he did his job. He did what he was told.
He put the fear of God in him.
