Francis sat in a darkened room, slouching casually in a padded metal chair that he was altogether too large for. The fingers of his left hand drummed on the mahogany tabletop in front of him, and his right hand hovered near - but not quite touching - his revolver. His posture was one of extreme nonchalance, but his eyes constantly flicked around the shadowy room, scanning for hidden threats.
Across from him, almost entirely shadowed save for his forearms arms, which rested on the table and were garbed in the sleeves of a very expensive-looking navy blue suit jacket, sat the man he had been talking to in the car ride to this building. At least, Francis assumed it was the same man, because his voice sounded the same.
"Mr. Dixon," the voice said, silky and smooth, "Is it true that you have been bombing CEDA facilities across the country?" Francis gave the man a wolfish grin, and said "Hell yeah it is. Bastards had it coming." The shadowy figure waved a dismissive hand, and said "Irrelevant, Mr. Dixon. My business is not that of a judge. I am not here to decide whether or not what you did was justified." The shadowy man leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs, and continued "I am here as part of an investigation into a series of events which I believe concern you."
Steely eyes flashed in the darkness, and the shadowy figure's voice took on a menacing undertone as he added "Events in which I believe you might be the culprit." Francis raised a thick eyebrow, but said nothing. The other man produced from within his jacket a manila folder, which he slapped down on the table. Dozens of papers slid out onto the wooden tabletop; pictures of people - mostly headshots - pages and pages of text, short biographies, criminal records, and several other collections of information that Francis couldn't readily identify.
"This folder contains every bit of information we could scrounge about twelve people who went missing without a trace recently. Adam Brooke, Robert Fletcher, Cameron Smith, Gabriel Thompson, John Harvey, Nicholas Derringer, Joseph Harper, Melissa Roberts, Emily White, Sonya Parker, Nicole Humphries, and Kim McArthur. All of them were carriers of the Green Flu."
A newspaper followed the manila folder, the front page declaring 'Templars on the March' over a picture of a burned-out husk of a building. The shadowy man said "And then we have the Templars. They're a radical religious anti-carrier group who believe that the infection was the work of the Devil and anyone infected with it - IE carriers - is an abomination in the eyes of God. They're also known for hating CEDA with a passion, and they have a fondness for explosives. Templar activity has doubled in the past week alone."
Leaning forward - though not far enough to illuminate his face - and steepling his fingers on the table, the shadow figure finished "And then you come in. You've been waging your own war on CEDA - with explosives, I might add - leaving a trail of destruction from Colorado to New Mexico and destroying more than a billion dollars worth of government property. Now, Mr. Dixon," the man leaned back, spreading his hands in a sweeping gesture toward the evidence on the table and Francis himself, "I don't subscribe to coincidence. I believe all of these are connected somehow." The man's hard, steely eyes flashed again, and he finished "And I brought you here to tell me exactly how."
Bill had straightened his beret, thrown on his military-style camo-pattern pants and jacket and was lacing up his combat boots when Zoey burst through the door, looking slightly stunned and more than a little afraid. Her hair was mussed, as her shirt was dusted with what looked suspiciously like soot.
"Zoey?" Bill said, looking up from his boots. "What's going on?" Zoey leaned against a nearby wall, paused to catch her breath, and said "Someone with a rocket launcher just tried to kill me." Bill's eyebrows shot up, and he lurched stiffly upright - much to the displeasure of his back - with a cry of "What!" "Well," Zoey corrected herself, "I don't think they were specifically after me. I think they were after Francis, and I just happened to be in his vicinity."
Bill narrowed his eyes, his mental wheels spinning. So. That rocket that he'd seen earlier had been aimed at Francis, had it? "Well, this just got a lot more interesting," Bill said, picking up the assault rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. "Interesting how?" Louis asked from the other room, as he belted on the holster for his pistol.
Bill shot the younger man a glance, and said "Interesting meaning someone just tried to kill Francis. They were very direct and personal about it, and they didn't want to fail."
"But they did fail," Zoey put in, still looking a bit shaken. Bill gave her a brief nod, and said "True. But if they didn't care about their chances of success, they would have kicked in his door and shot him. The reason they resorted to such extreme measures as a rocket launcher is because - to an extent - they're afraid of him."
Francis restrained himself - barely - from launching himself over the table and strangling to man. Instead, here merely leaned forward, gave the man his best withering glare, and snarled "I don't know a damn thing about how any of this shit is connected. All I know is that I was having a beer with my girlfriend, and suddenly half of my fucking apartment is incinerated by some asshole with a rocket launcher!"
The man across the table recoiled slightly, both from Francis' tone and the profanity lacing the single sentence. Clearly used to calmer, more high-brow conversations, the shadowy figure took a second to regain his composure, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, then said "So… it was your apartment that got hit with a rocket this evening? Interesting…"
Francis leaned back, and said "What, you thought I was the master planner behind all this? You thought I was working with the Templars to abduct and kill carriers?" Leaning forward again, Francis jabbed a finger into the tabletop, and half-yelled "News flash, asshole! I am a carrier! The Templar's ain't exactly chummy with me, and you'd have to be stupid to think that they would actually take orders from me!"
The shadowy figure on the other side of the desk stiffened. His smooth, silky voice took on a deadly edge of anger, and steely eyes flashed in the darkness as he said "Mr. Dixon, you would do well to watch your tone with me." Placing his palms on the table, the man added "Now, this 'girlfriend' of yours… who is she?"
Francis's mouth snapped shut with an audible 'clack'. Folding his powerful arms over his chest, the big man glared daggers up at his interrogator, but said nothing. And continued to say nothing for five long seconds of awkward, dangerous silence.
The man on the other side of the desk growled wordlessly, and leaned forward farther, his face entering the light. Hard, chiseled features were revealed, topped with a neatly-combed shock of black hair and framed with a two-day stubble. His nose had that bend in it that implied it had been broken multiple times, and an eyepatch covered part of the long, jagged scar that ran across his left eye. The smooth, silky tone in his voice had vanished, replaced with a hard, merciless growl. "Who. Is. She?"
He didn't speak particularly loud, but the simple three words carried enough force to make Francis lean back a little. Standing up very slowly, Francis leaned forward until his face was not more than two inches from the other man's, and snarled "Fuck off." Then he pulled a fist back, and slugged the man across the jaw.
The man's bodyguards were on him before he could blink. The two large men in expensive suits had been standing behind him, flanking him throughout the whole interview. Their boss hadn't even hit the floor as they lunged forward, each one taking hold of one of Francis's arms and holding the larger man fast. Francis struggled like a cornered lion, snarling oaths, but the two bodyguards held him fast.
Wiping blood from his mouth, the man Francis had punched picked himself slowly up off the ground, muttering imprecations and comments on Francis's parentage. Finally reaching his feet, he snarled "Bad move, biker boy," and reached into his jacket. From out of the well-tailored depths slid the sleek, shining form of a long-barreled .50 caliber Desert Eagle, which the man leveled at Francis's chest. "Very, very bad move."
Bill stopped at Ellis's shop first, both to check in on the boy and to see if he knew anything about the situation. Stepping through the door, Bill glanced around the darkened interior of the shop, realizing that, at this hour of the night, Ellis might not even be in. This fear, however, was proved unfounded as a bleary-eyed Ellis stumbled out of a side-room with his hair in a jumble and a shotgun in his hand, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants - presumably his sleepwear.
Holding up his empty hands, Bill said "Whoa there, kid. Who were you expecting to come through this door?" Ellis shrugged and relaxed, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry, Bill," he said in his thick southern drawl. "Old habits die hard." Bill grunted in acknowledgement. He could understand that. Surviving out in the zombie-infested world for as long as they had was bound to give anyone instincts such as this, for the very simple reason that if you didn't have them, you died.
"So, what brings y'all out here t'night at this hour?" Ellis said, setting his shotgun down on a nearby table and wiping the sleep from his eyes. Bill exchanged a glance with Zoey, who had followed him in, and then the old vet looked back at Ellis, and said "We think Francis is in trouble."
Ellis's eyes went wide, and he said "Well shit, man, why didn't'cha say so b'fore?" Walking over to the fridge set against one wall, Ellis popped the door open and hoisted out a six-pack of beer, the glass bottles clinking together as he moved. Flipping a switch that brought to life the old incandescent bulbs in the ceiling with a hum, Ellis pulled out three chairs at the one and only table in the room for his guests before flopping down in the fourth, setting the offering of beer in the middle of the table.
Bill, Louis and Zoey slid into the proffered chairs, but only Louis took one of the beers, popping the cap and taking a hearty swig. Bill leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, and said "Ellis, do you have any idea who could have tried to kill Francis? Does he have any enemies around town?" Taking a generous swallow from his own beer, Ellis set the bottle down on the table with a grim chuckle, and said "Shit, man, he's got more'n I c'n count! He ain't exactly in th' friend-makin' business, y'know."
Bill grunted, and leaned back in his chair, scratching his beard in thought. There was silence in the room for several long moments, and then Zoey said quietly "I… I hope he's alright." Louis gave Zoey a small smile, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "Don't worry, Zoey," he said. "Francis is a badass. I don't think anyone in this town could kill him."