"Ah, here he is. Good morning to you Mr. Anderson. Heard about your latest job. Marco Chicon. One of the biggest thorns in my ass there ever was. That's not an easy feet, what you did."
Blaine enters the posh office space, Lieutenant Briggs by his side as he approaches the prodigious desk; the heavyset man sitting behind it decked out in an impeccably cut blue suit, brunette hair perfectly combed with a side part slitting the crisp strands. The blocked name tag sitting at the head of the desk top made from some sort of expensive wood is marked by the title: Mayor Warren Hamilton.
"Um - thanks. Just doing my job, sir."
"Well doing your job the way you've been doing it is why we asked you here today son."
"Sir?"
"Lieutenant Briggs here has informed me that you're the best of the best. And that's what we're going to need to pull this particular job off."
Blaine takes note of the other figure standing over the Mayor; embellished in a military uniform; the breast pocket draped in silver badges and decorative pins that signified this man's accomplishments in the field.
"Forgive me Mayor Hamilton, but I'm not sure where you're going with this. I'm just an undercover cop. Wouldn't this be out of my - um - jurisdiction?" he states carefully while eying the towering military officer as way of implication.
The taller, middle aged man adorned in the pale green uniform coat, strides from around the desk, closing in on Blaine; his deep voice booming.
"This is exactly within your expertise. Twenty-three years old and nearly sixty arrests. You're the youngest, most successful undercover officer we've ever had on record in this city. My name is Colonel James Carr, and I'll cut to the chase Anderson. I'm here because yesterday afternoon, there was an armored truck stolen by some of Goolie's hounds."
Blaine's face scrunches up in confusion. "And that requires military intervention?"
"It was what was on the truck that requires military intervention. You see, they caught the driver at a traffic light, put a remote bomb on the door killing the driver and blasting the door apart for their access. Then they took the truck to their headquarters - the truck which contains a military sanctioned nuke. Dustin Goolsby is now in possession of the one of the deadliest weapons in our entire country. And the damn thing is rigged with a timer that started counting off the moment that door was blasted off its hinges."
Blaine looks over at the Lieutenant, both men harboring a grim expression.
Mayor Hamilton leans forward in his plush office chair, fingers laced together over the widened desk. "We received a call last night from Goolie himself," the Mayor continues. "They want a ransom for it. If not, well... who knows what he has planned. Lord knows he has the juice to turn that thing loose on whatever, or whomever he sees fit. But he made it pretty clear that he was planning to use it specifically on the District."
"Perfect. So how much damage are we talking?"
"We're talking the complete obliteration of the entirety of District B13," Colonel Carr answers firmly.
Blaine feels his heart pumping furiously at this news. Thousands of people: women, children, heaps of innocent unsuspecting people at the mercy of the twisted, nefarious mindset of what Blaine considered a mad-man. He inhales, then speaks as evenly as he can manage.
"How much time?"
"Thirty-six hours," the Colonel counters.
"And you want me to stop it?"
"No. We want the best undercover cop, doing his best work, to stop it," Mayor Hamilton infers.
Blaine hesitates, trying to forage and make sense of this insanely immense request. He can't help but think of the rumors; what he deems practically common knowledge about the Mayor being underneath Goolie's thumb. He braces himself to be tactful with his next statement.
"With all due respect Mayor Hamilton, but I know, like most of us in the department, that you don't do much to rock Goolie's boat... so to speak."
He could see the look pass over the pudgy face; a flash of loathing burning in the brown eyes, then a sudden attempt at an unaffected smirk alighting. The Mayor retorts, his tone dangerous.
"Look boy, I do what I need to do to keep this whole town from falling apart. This isn't about whose the best god damn boy scout. This is about stopping that nuke before that whole place is lit up and blown off the map."
Blaine narrows his eyes, the thick eyebrows nearly knitting together under his scrutiny of the two men positioned across from him.
"I don't have any experience deactivating bombs -"
"You won't need it," Colonel Carr says simply, waving him off as if the sentiment was of ill importance. "It requires a code to deactivate it electronically. Plug in the numbers, and it'll shut off immediately."
He hesitates, his mind mulling over all of the potential problems and barriers; swarming like bees ready to sting him dead.
"I've done a lot of jobs. But getting inside the District - the way you need me to get inside, under Goolie's operation - it's damn near impossible."
"Ten steps ahead of you son," Mayor Hamilton chimes in, his voice almost pleasant sounding, as if the earlier exchange had never occurred mere seconds before. "You won't be on your own. We have someone; the perfect candidate to get you access. He knows the District inside and out, from every gutter to every wall crevice. He's an expert of those streets, like you're an expert at cleaning them up. I've no doubt he could get you inside."
Lieutenant Briggs speaks up then after having observed in a keen state of silence. "So who is it that you have in mind then?"
"Hummel!"
Carson slows the extension of the push up he's currently performing, beads of sweat sliding over the bare skin of his torso. He stands up, throwing his orange uniform shirt over his head as the corrections officer unlocks the cell door.
"What's the occasion?"
"Transfer. Moving you to minimum lock up."
"I must've been a good boy."
The officer answers by cuffing his hands, then shackling his feet before roughly shoving him forward.
Carson shuffles down the long hallway, ignoring the hollering and taunts from the other inmates as he makes his way toward the main entrance with the trio of guards tightly pressed to his sides.
He'd been counting it down, marking the days in his head.
Five months, seven days, and if he was being technical, twenty-one hours. He's spent each day burning inside with a cold fury, purging the moments of helplessness that would threaten to overwhelm him by focusing on establishing himself here; making sure to enforce the necessary image to maintain his safety.
He'd had to go hard early on, making sure to make an example of the first bestial figure who'd tried to take advantage. It didn't take long for the rest to realize that Carson wasn't to be fucked with; a respect that had earned him several roadies - a small but substantial clique that made it easier to pass the time without daily conflict.
It made the time pass with a miniscule sliver of increased ease. That was until he began to hear the rumors circulate around the place, stabbing at his heart like a freshly sharpened ice pick.
Each time usually ending with him finding an excuse to hit someone as the unrelenting rage spilled out of him, landing him lengthy stays in the prison hole, isolated and alone enough to let the silent tears fall.
"Goolie's got some little queen he keeps on a tight leash. Guess he used to work in that market on the west side."
It was Kurt. Kurt was alive.
"Heard he's like a fuckin' slave or something. Whatever Goolie wants, he gets."
Kurt was Goolie's lap dog.
"Kid's asshole is probably as open as a church on Sunday. Sometimes they pass him around. But I heard Goolie likes to keep him to himself."
Kurt was being tricked out.
"Chained up like a dog, man. Little fag stays drugged up, smack him around when he needs it; keep him that way so he don't run."
Kurt was chained up, beaten, and used...
But he was still alive; and Carson couldn't stand the notion of what his brother had been rumored to have become - the conditions in which he was suffering.
For the life of him he couldn't figure out why he was suddenly being transferred to the minimum security unit. Not with all of the assaults and the amount of times he'd been locked up in the hole listed on his record thus far within his five month stint.
All he knows is that he needed to be on high alert, because the only way he was ever getting out of this shit stain institution, was through blatant escape.
The fifteen years he'd been sentenced was simply fifteen years too long, and perhaps this sudden relocation would be the exact opportunity he'd been looking for. He had nothing more to lose, except his time, and frankly he had plenty of that to give, and was more than certain they were looking for him to serve whatever they saw fit anyhow. In the end, he would probably be left in here to rot for his remaining days, nestled away and unable to cause any more trouble for the carefully built system, corrupted by the marriage of the law with Goolie's empire.
He's chucked into the back of a transport van, narrow benches lined against the sides where he finds a seat, and waits; his mind whirring furiously on how he can use this transport as an opportunity to gain freedom.
Suddenly he hears the sounds of a struggle outside, standing up again to glimpse through the barred window and observe the source of the noise.
He sees a smaller man, dark head, and olive features, fitted in the standard prison uniform being drug out by four guards. He was putting up an impressive fight, kicking one in the stomach and elbowing another, before the guard to his left clips his leg, raining consecutive blows down on the figure with his night stick. The other guards then join in, the man eventually succumbing to the blows by curling into a protective ball to fend off the unjust assault.
They pull him to his feet forcefully, dragging him to the van and throwing him inside carelessly. Once they shut the door and signal for the driver to drive off, the man sits up, seeming surprisingly alert after his recent encounter with the prison guards.
He smiles, a thin black bobby pin sliding from in between his lips, clenched tightly in his teeth. He brings his cuffed hands up, removing the pin, and begins working on unhooking the cuffs, jamming the pin into the keyhole and twisting it.
"I'm not planning on staying. You could either join me, or wait until these fucks grab you up and shut you back in that shit box again. Your choice. Either way, this van's goin' on a detour."
Carson remains silent as the man removes the cuffs and begins picking at the door. He unlocks it, looking back before pushing one of the back doors open. The guy spits out the pin with a scrutinizing glare at Carson, a moment of curiosity causing him pause; as if waiting to see if Carson would choose to partake. Then he swiftly exits out the back, grappling the side and disappearing onto the van roof. He overhears the sound of feet thundering across the roof, and knows when he hears the front door being pulled open that the driver was likely unceremoniously yanked from the drivers seat; another thud signaling the passenger being kicked out of the other side.
He witnesses two bodies rolling along the graveled streets through the opened back door as if on cue as they speed away, and suddenly the window connecting the midsection of the van slides open.
The dark haired man was now behind the driver's seat, the opened cuff link still dangling from his wrist like a fashionable bracelet from one of Kurt's collectible fashion magazine's, the other end fastened securely around the tan skin.
"So?"
Carson blinks, pondering something, then quickly uses the pin to unclasp his own cuffs, slinking through the opened mid-window, and plopping into the passenger seat.
"So was there a plan involved here?" Carson queries monotonously.
"Not exactly. I figured we could lose 'em in the district."
"How were you planning on doin' that? They have wall crawlers blocking the way in."
"Fuck if I know. I figured that's our best chance, though."
As they come nearer to the wall's border patrol entrance, Carson states clearly, "punch it."
"What?"
"You wanna get in right? Punch it, and drive through 'em. I'll tell you what to do from there."
The thick eyebrows raise up in question, but the man shrugs and then exhales before pushing the pedal into the floor.
They brace themselves, several patrolmen already signaling for them to pull over as part of the customary check-point search. The van careens past the barricade, bullets now mauling the van as they crash through the gate.
The tires are shredded as they run over the road spikes set up, but the olive toned figure keeps his foot on the gas pedal, the van jarring and vibrating as they continue forward, rolling on nothing but the buckling tire rims.
"Turn left and then make a quick right. There's an alley into a back street. They won't follow, trust me."
The man nods, struggling to maneuver the steering wheel, swiping the side of a parked car as they barely make the first turn.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"The steering's fucked up."
"Well slow the fuck down on the turns jack ass!"
"Name's Kane actually," the smaller man grunts, making a show of pushing the brake pedal as nothing happens in response.
"Brakes are done too. This thing took too much damage on the way through the blockade."
"Never mind. Go up the street. There's a place we can use to slow up."
They rush ahead and through a neighborhood that looks to be blocked off by a fence, lined up with old dumpsters and in front of that, suspiciously lavish cars.
"Uh - suggestions on how we stop. It's blocked off ahead."
"Like this."
And Carson mashes the guy's foot down on the gas, steering them into the cult-a-sac, plowing into a large SUV which substantially slows their speed, and then ramming one last car, a beautiful Ferrari that flips over, leaving the front end of the van pinned underneath part of the once impressive roadster.
The man called Kane is shaking his head to ward off the potential concussion, trying to push past the air bag which was obstructing his sight, a thin line of blood trailing from a gash at the root of his hairline. Carson can feel that his lip is probably busted judging from the shock of copper that envelopes his taste buds when he swipes his tongue across the sensitive pink lip. His wrist also feels potentially sprained, but he ignores it.
Before he can officially relinquish the thing, Carson slips the other end of the Kane's opened handcuffs onto the steering wheel, clicking them into place.
"Wha - what the fuck?"
"Sorry, Kane. Got no time to play babysitter to some cop."
"You don't - I'm not a cop."
"Right. Well good luck. I'm sure you'll be welcomed here with open arms. I in the mean time have an overdue appointment with a certain Kingpin."
The man jostles his wrist, unsuccessfully removing the cuff link. A few guys are starting to slink toward their broken van, searching it out with guns drawn; Carson just barely being able to discern their approaching frames through the smoke sifting from the van's cracked engine.
"You're going after Goolie. I know. We can help each other."
"No. I don't need or want help from some pig -"
"I'm not just some pig. Look, I get why you'd feel that way -"
"Don't pretend like you know. You don't know shit about what fuckers like you are to me."
"I know about your brother."
Carson pauses, blue eyes burning with something new at the statement. The man continues, as if Carson's silence was permission to do so.
"You can't get to him on your own. No matter how good you are. I can help you. I will help you. But right now this city's got a problem that's much bigger than both you and me. Something that'll effect us all if I don't get to Goolie myself. We both have the same goal in the end. We can work together on this and make something happen. Really make a difference."
Carson contemplates this, eying the gang members gradually closing in as he sits in a brief space of silence.
"What's your real name?"
The man hesitates, his hazel eyes gleaming.
"Anderson. Blaine Anderson."
"Well Blaine Anderson, no thanks. Last time I trusted one of you, I ended up in that so called shit box that you just pretended to come out of with a fifteen year sentence and my brother becoming Goolie's fucking pet."
Carson then wrenches open the passenger door, flying across the debris, in between other cars and disappears before anyone can blink an eye, or catch sight of his retreating frame.
A full minute later, Blaine hears it.
"Eh! Whoever the fuck you are in there - you're a dead man! Comin' in here bustin' up my ride. This is Viper territory muthafucka!"
Blaine breathes out a heavy sigh, wondering by what miracle he was going to manage to get himself out of this one.
He's familiar with the Vipers. A notiorious gang comprised of mostly black affiliates and soldiers who have created quite the rep, and nearly single-handedly own the southern west portion of the District.
He looks around for something to unlatch the cuffs linking him to the steering wheel. There was nothing, so he begins to yank as hard as possible, hoping that he can loosen and pull apart the wheel, using his feet against the dash for extra leverage.
"Yo! You better come out man. I ain't fuckin' with your ass."
The sweat on his forehead stings as it mingles with the gash on his hairline, his pulling desperate as he can feel the van being surrounded. He hears the voice barking out orders for several of his soldiers to check out the heap.
The wheel seems to loosen as a thin black man wearing a blood red du-rag finally looks through the opened driver side door, the door hanging precariously after the crash. Blaine has enough time to glimpse the metal pole tightened in the man's grip before they lock eyes, and the man strikes, jabbing the pole toward him.
Blaine slinks out of the way of the uncoordinated movement, then dodges another jab with the beam, twisting the cuff link around it and using it as leverage against the wheel.
His assailant attempts to pull at the reedy pipe, jiggling it in hopes of jarring it loose. Blaine uses his booted feet to push the steering wheel to its breaking point, and with a battle cry, disconnects the thing.
The du-ragged soldier loses his grip, and in his surprise at the action, Blaine is able to push the pole into his thin chest, and swiftly bring it up to crash against his jaw, sending him flying back into a piece of the Ferrari's broken frame. Another Viper soldier peaks in through the passenger side window, and is met by the other end of the pole; Blaine wielding it like a billiards stick that catches the corn rowed figure in the face.
A stalky Viper sporting a thick gold rope around his bulging neck steps over the du-ragged soldier from before, his gun pointed directly at Blaine.
Blaine slides forward, landing both feet in a drop kick motion against the square build. Then holding up the steering wheel as a shield, bursts through the driver's side, tangling the wheel in between himself and the determined soldier.
Several shots ring out as Blaine forces the gun hand away from its target, slamming the boorish body into the car frame behind them. He then grabs the wheel between both hands, lifting it upward and cracking it against the heavy jawline, following it quickly with another two handed swipe of the wheel across the full face, laying out the enforcer just in time for another soldier's approach.
He swings his hand outward, allowing the momentum of the gesture to whip the wheel out and smash into the figure's nose, then brandished the impromptu weapon like a nun-chuck, slinging it upwards into another Viper's chin, causing the lithe body to shoot backward and hit the ground hard enough for dust to conjure and fly about in a puff of coated smoke.
"Hell no, dude! Get this muthafucka!"
The same voice rings out from somewhere to his right, but he has no time to deduce the source as a fist flies past his face, followed quickly by another unsuccessful strike.
Blaine unleashes a round kick to the soldier's stomach, buckling the figure into a hunched position. Spying another attacker closing in, he rolls over the buckled soldier's back, and runs full speed toward a nearby dumpster while the newest Viper gives chase.
He pushes off of the metal material with his foot, the motion merging into a back flip that clears the head of the determined Viper who stumbles into the dumpster, Blaine now facing the back of the Viper's sweat soaked, red undershirt.
As the undershirt sporting soldier turns to face Blaine, he's met by an expertly executed spinning back kick that knocks the wind from his body, the man choking and gasping as he slumps to the ground. Sensing the newly recovered soldier whose back he'd rolled off of rushing at them, he ducks, steadying his shoulders against the soldier's lower body. This causes the Viper to succumb to a launched somersault, flipping over Blaine like a rag doll and landing harshly on his broad back.
Blaine commits a forward somersault, slamming his heel into the fallen Viper's stomach in the form of a heavy leg drop that draws the breath out of the stalky character. He attempts to roll backwards off of his victim, but is caught mid-retreat, strong arms holding his legs and leaving the upper half of his body incapable of defense as he dangles upside down.
He has no time to work out a counter-attack as he feels himself spun like a carousel by his legs alone and rocketed over the hood of another car face first.
He hisses at the pain in his back at the assault, barely missing the bat coming down against the side car door, a strike aimed directly at his head. Another blow that dents the side with a crunching noise that thankfully misses its mark again, and Blaine uses the steering wheel to crack the newest assailant across the hand, then kicks the soldier in the back of the leg sending him onto his knees. Blaine then manages to grip the bat and bring it against the guy's throat, crushing it in place from behind.
"STOP! Back up! I said back up! NOW!"
Blaine has the bat secured in place in a potentially lethal position, holding both ends of the bat from behind as the metal compressed against the dark-skinned neck. He forces the soldier to stand as he brings himself to his feet. The others are all in a combined state of righting themselves as well, or slowly meandering forward, guns pointed.
"What makes you think I give a fuck if you kill that foo?"
"C-c'mon Az, don't do me like that man -"
"Shut up!" Blaine cries while bucking the metal more tightly into the throat.
The one called Az, a rotund but impressive figure holding a nine millimeter at eye level as he points it at Blaine, huffs, biting his bottom lip in anticipation. He had thick lips, surrounded by a clean goatee, his round face currently scrunched up in a death-glare. Blaine recognizes his voice as the one that'd been shouting out orders since he'd first infiltrated their space.
"Look. I know about the Vipers. You have my respect. I didn't mean to bust through here like I did. I only crashed in here 'cause I was duckin' from wall crawlers. I mean you could kill me, I get it. But not before I'd break his neck. And if word gets out that some white boy came in here and took out one of your own, under your watch - without a weapon even - what do you think's gonna happen to your reputation? That respect that you put all that work in to earn? Hell, then every other gang is gonna think this territory will be easy pickin's. If one little white boy can come in so easily like that."
Az seems to hesitate, his eyes darting from Blaine to the ground, then back again. He adjusts his grip on the gun, then slowly lowers it.
"Leave. Before I change my mind. White boy."
Blaine guides the man forward, then slips the bat away, holding it at the ready by his side. The soldier gasps before hitting the ground on his knees, his hands clasping over his throat protectively as he chokes in the air that he'd be struggling to get before.
"Thanks," Blaine nods, taking several steps backward with his eyes still trained ahead on the leader called Az. After backing up a fairly safe distance, he takes off at full speed, bat gripped tightly in one hand, and the steering wheel dangling from the other.
The thought of finding Carson specifically to kill him is now at the forefront of his mind.
A/N: Slow coming I know. Life in all of its time consuming wonders. Hope you enjoyed it. I know it flip flopped a bit in terms of POV, from Blaine to Carson, then back to Blaine. I'll probably do that throughout the story, switching up POV, perhaps sometimes with Kurt too, so hopefully it wasn't too confusing. Please review! Your feedback and all definitely keeps me invested in continuing.