9. That Old Gang of Mine, Part II
"Crazy. I'm crazy for feeling this lonely."
Doyle sat with one arm propping up his head and the other slung around the slender shoulders of his girlfriend. They were both engrossed by the performer currently seated under the bright spotlight of Caritas' main stage.
"Something feels very wrong about this." He commented.
"You're the one who let her pick her own song." Cordelia said accusingly, lifting her glass of diet soda from the table and taking a sip.
"Inappropriate song choice aside, she's really not half bad." Wesley declared from the other end of the small circular table.
Doyle shot a curious glance at the other man. He was gazing up at the tiny brunette through his spectacles, an added glimmer to his eye. Doyle recognized it at once—the nascent signs of a budding attraction. It wasn't necessarily a surprise, considering what Doyle knew of the person Fred would become. Which, was to say, not quite as crazy as she was now. Doyle knew where this was going—that Wesley was on the verge of falling hard—but he doubted the other man was cognizant of it as of yet.
Mostly because Fred was still currently riding the crazy train.
"I swear, it only took minimal arm-twisting on my part to get her to leave the hotel." Cordelia enthused. "This is real progress, you guys."
Doyle's attention was diverted away from the stage by a familiar figure weaving through the dense demonic crowd. Doyle hadn't been sure the guy would show after recent events, but there he was, sporting his trademark gangster apparel, and tossing furtive glances at all the other demons populating the joint. Making a beeline for the bar, Penny quickly flagged down the bartender.
That was Doyle's cue. Reclaiming his arm from around Cordelia's shoulders, he shifted his weight off the chair he'd been occupying. His sudden movement attracted Cordelia's attention and she leaned forward to eyeball the shady figure at the other end of the bar. "Please don't tell me Meyer Lansky over there is a friend of yours?" She asked disdainfully. "You don't owe him money, do you?"
Pausing in his tracks, Doyle turned back in her direction and she arched was faced with a questioning brow. "He isn't a bookie, love." He assured her, trying to keep an annoyed frown off his lips. "He's just a guy who knows some other guys who know some things."
"A source? Is that why we came here tonight?!" She filled in the blank unenthusiastically. "I thought we were here to show Fred a good time."
"Looks like she's having a great time." He countered, gesturing toward the giggling female still warbling into the microphone. It wasn't a lie; he'd never seen Fred as pleased as she looked this evening. "I'm multi-tasking."
Doyle flashed Cordelia an impish grin, dimples and all, and quickly dropped a kiss onto her cheek. He then retreated from the table before she could lodge any further objections to his work-play ratio.
As he slipped away through the crowd, he paused only to give a firm slap on the back to the owner of the establishment. The tall demon winked conspiratorially in return, brandishing his customary pink drink, complete with little paper umbrella. As Doyle proceeded past the other demon, he could hear Lorne's words of greeting, directed toward the probably irate girlfriend Doyle had just left behind. "Well, aren't we all looking extra dazzle-y this evening—and completely boil-free."
The benefit of having a psychic for a pal—Lorne had impeccable timing. He'd undoubtedly sensed Doyle's need to quickly extricate himself from his table of coworkers and had come swiftly to the rescue, bearing flattering words of distraction. Those always seemed to work well on Cordelia, in particular.
"Penny." Doyle stated the man's name as he sauntered up beside him, and leaned one of his elbows against the bar. "Wasn't sure you'd show."
The slightly shorter man glared up at Doyle from under the brim of his hat. Clearly, he was more reluctant to take this meeting than their last one. His lips were twisted in obvious disapproval. "Neither was I." He sniffed in reply. "You've got some real nerve calling me again after what your buddy did to Larch." The bartender came over at that moment, placing a tumbler down in front of Penny. He swiftly lifted the glass, drained it of its contents and slammed it back down on the bar. "How do you expect to get info from a dead guy, huh?"
"Y'think Angel's the one who tore your guy apart?!" Doyle asked, his brows skyrocketing upward. "He wouldn't do that, man—not without reason. We're detectives, not killers. We're investigating the case; Larch isn't the only demon who's been murdered recently."
"Murdered." Penny scoffed. "You say it like that, it almost sounds convincing. But, you've always been a great bluffer, Doyle—not to mention, a demon-hater. Which is why I don't know if I can trust you on this particular issue." Penny poked an accusatory finger into Doyle's chest. "Only reason I risked coming here tonight is 'cause of the non-demon-violence bit. Don't expect me to do it again. Truth is, I hate this joint. Messes with my own natural abilities, know what I'm saying?"
That was a surprise to Doyle. He wasn't aware that anything could stop Penny from doing what he did best, which was making other people see what wasn't really there. Doyle let out a dry chuckle at the revelation. "Guess we shoulda been playing cards here all those years. Woulda kept more money in my pockets."
"I never cheated you." Penny claimed, snapping his fingers at the bartender and the pointing to his empty glass. "You were just a lousy card player."
"Ah, so it was just all those other poor saps ya cheated." Doyle commented facetiously. "Guess I was special."
"Y'know, calling me a cheater isn't making me feel very forthcoming with any information I may or may not have." Penny grumbled in reply.
"No, but it does bring up a good point." Doyle refuted. "This little arrangement's never been about trust, yeah? It's 'bout keeping things even. You do me a favor; I owe ya. And that means a lot more nowadays than it used to."
Doyle watched as Penny pondered that statement, considering the deeper implications.
It was a damn good thing it wasn't just money Penny was after; Doyle knew he could find plenty of that elsewhere. No, what Penny wanted—what every demon living in the dawn of the apocalypse wanted—was an insurance policy. And no one of this earth could give such a thing. Doyle's greatest asset was his connection to the Higher Powers… or rather, he used to have one. And, thankfully, Penny didn't know he'd lost it.
The smaller man took the bait. He began to nod his head and opened his mouth to reply—
BRACKA-BRACKA-BRACKA
A deafening explosion of fireworks broke out in the contained space!
No, not fireworks. Gunfire.
The bullets sprayed throughout the room without warning. Splatters of demon blood hit the walls as some of those bullets hit their targets. Bodies flew left and right as some ducked for cover, while others were brought down in the sudden storm gunfire.
There wasn't time to think or breathe or do anything other than drop to the ground. Doyle also had the instinct to grab Penny by the collar and yank him down as well, but it was pretty apparent that ducking wouldn't be enough. Still gripping the material of Penny's starched dress shirt, Doyle propelled them both toward the opening in the bar where they could gain some cover. The calamitous sound of automatic gunfire filled the air; both Doyle and Penny covered their ears and shut their eyes as nearly every bottle of booze behind the bar exploded into a thousand shards of wet glass.
Silently, Doyle prayed that Cordelia had also found cover. He couldn't see her; hadn't had time to so much as glance in her direction when all hell had broken loose. Wesley would protect her, he was sure of that. And Fred—poor Fred, if she survived whatever this was, she'd certainly never step foot out of the Hyperion a second time. Doyle just hoped she'd be able to step back into the hotel—she didn't survive five years in a hell dimension to die here tonight, in a karaoke bar.
"Party! Yoo-hoo!" An unfamiliar voice cried out from the other side of the bar, as the gunfire finally subsided. Doyle sensed an influx of individuals who'd just come pouring into the club through the front door, their sneakers squeaking on the slated floors of the club. An educated guess told him they were all heavily armed. And as far as Doyle could infer, all completely human. They had to be. It was the only way they could perpetrate violence in this place—the only way to bypass the rules.
"It's time. Let's truck!" Another voice replied, eager to flee the scene of the crime. That would be a real good choice, Doyle thought. Most of the inhabitants of Caritas were demons; not a single one of them could fight back. Including Doyle himself. It was like shooting fish in barrel. Something these guys probably knew already, which is why they had chosen to target the place.
"Woah, don't be in such a rush, man!" The first voice insisted, a hint of laughter audible. This was fun to him. A celebration of death. "You're always in such a hurry. You're liable to miss out on some of the more interesting things in life. Yo! Charlie Gunn! Come on, now. I know you're in here. Where you at?"
Doyle's stomach rolled over as he heard the reference to his teammate. Doyle hadn't even realized Gunn was on the premises until that very moment. His senses had been clouded by the dense smell of demons and alcohol, but now he honed in on Gunn's signature scent even before he heard the other man's voice permeate the air. "I'm right here."
There was the distinct sound of several pistols being cocked and it wasn't hard for Doyle to picture what was going on. These men had turned their loaded weapons on one of his friends.
"G-man. What're you doing here?" The less-intimidating voice queried, and it was at that moment Doyle decided to slide toward the opening of the bar and peek out into the room. He had to see for himself what the damage was—more importantly, he had to make sure Cordelia was alive. From beside him Penny gave a cautionary look, begging Doyle not to draw attention to their hiding spot. But Doyle ignored the plea, carefully inching sideways as noiselessly as possible.
"Come on. Tell him! Tell him how you been rolling up in here for months tossing back drinks with your demon buddies." The laughing guy said condemningly.
It was then that Doyle stuck his neck out just far enough to get a visual. Gunn was standing there in the center of the room, shell-shocked. It was obvious that he knew these guys—judging by their code of dress, it was fair to say that these guys were members of Gunn's old crew.
"What he's saying—that ain't true." One of the other gang members denied the accusations of the first. He looked vaguely familiar; Doyle had probably seen him before.
"Why not? His best friend's a vampire. What you expect?" The first guy retorted, waving his machine gun around the room. Doyle's eyes followed the weapon as it pointed wildly. He could see demon bodies littering the floor, as well as the general wreckage of broken and displaced furniture. He nervously glanced at the stage, hoping he wouldn't find Fred lying in a pool of her own blood. It was a relief to see that the stage was empty.
"Rondell, go." Gunn pleaded with his old comrade. "Just take your crew and leave."
"No. Not until I get some answers." The man called Rondell argued back.
Movement from the other side of the room caught Doyle's eye and he saw a familiar shirtsleeve moving behind one of the tables. He couldn't see the body attached to it, but he knew the blouse in question belonged to Cordelia. A dark head of hair popped partway out from behind the other side of the same table—it was Wesley's head. Doyle breathed again. It was likely that Fred was hidden behind that makeshift-barricade along with Wesley and Cordelia. These assholes better pray none of them were injured otherwise they'd have a furious Brachen demon on their hands… who couldn't do a damn thing to save himself or his girlfriend or anyone else, for that matter. As much as he had always appreciated Caritas' lack of demon violence, it was proving to be problematic at the moment.
Doyle had tuned out the conversation between Gunn and other gang members, but it had become no less heated. And it was the next sentence out of Rondell's mouth that made Doyle's blood run cold. "What makes these demons any different than all the others we killed? They deserve to die, whether they're living underground like rats, or drinking in fancy clubs where they don't belong!"
It was crystal clear now. These were the guys who had killed Merl and Larch. And along with that unsettling revelation came another one.
Gunn knew. And he hadn't said a word.
Swallowing against the bitter pill of betrayal, Doyle settled back, away from the opening. Just as his back flattened against the base of the bar, an arm reached down and yanked him to his feet. Penny, too, was violently yanked upward. The two demons were dragged to the front-side of the bar by armed gang members, guns pushed into their ribcages. The man holding Penny was the mouthy crewmember who seemed most likely to shoot first and ask questions later, which meant there was a good chance he'd do exactly that.
"Hey, watch the suit!" Penny objected, hanging on to his fedora with one hand and smoothing down his lapels with the other. "Custom-tailoring ain't cheap."
"Shut it, demon." The man spat in Penny's face.
Doyle stood nearby, also being manhandled by another member of the crew; he bit his tongue for the time being. Getting smart with these guys didn't seem like a good idea, considering how heavily the odds were stacked against him.
"Yo, what you doing, Gio?" Gunn demanded, stepping forward in objection. "Those two look like demons to you?"
The loud mouth, now identified as Gio, said nothing as he knocked Penny's hat off his head, revealing a set of small bone-colored horns that had been hidden underneath. "This one does." He declared spitefully. "The worst kind—a demon pretending to be one of us. How much you wanna bet there's a set of hooves hidden under these expensive threads?"
As Gio roughly yanked at Penny's jacket sleeve, the smaller demon backed himself into the bar, holding up his hands in surrender. "Listen, there are ladies present. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather die with my suit on."
"Fine by me." Gio answered, shoving the butt of his gun into Penny's throat and flashing a wide, threatening smile.
Although he knew better than to bring attention to himself, Doyle couldn't just stand by and let Penny get executed. Not when he'd brought the other demon here; not when it was his own teammate partially at fault. "Hey, bud, is all that really necessary?" Doyle wondered, holding his hands up to show that he wasn't going to resort to violence—since he couldn't do that even if he wanted to. "What's he ever done to you?"
"Doyle, man. Stay outta this." Gunn warned, with more than a trace of fear—he was worried for Doyle's safety. That made two of them. "Gio, put down the gun."
"You're forgetting, you ain't in charge anymore, Charlie-boy!" Gio sneered, pressing his gun deeper into Penny's flesh. "The guy's a demon. We kill demons. It's what we do!"
Impulsively, Doyle morphed into his spikes, which caused the man named Gio's eyes to go wide as he swiftly removed the gun from Penny's neck and swung it toward Doyle instead, pointing the barrel right at the bridge of Doyle's nose. The other man, Rondell, also lifted his weapon in Doyle's direction, as did a few other members of the crew.
Now it was Doyle's turn to gulp—this hadn't been the best plan ever.
Penny was batted aside like a ragdoll. He sunk to the floor, grabbing for his hat and placing it back on his head to cover the horns. His hands remained over it in a submissive position. He was no longer the primary target in the room. That honor now went to the more prominent red-eyed, spikey-faced demon who was anything but bullet proof.
"NO!" A shriek from the other side of the room drew some eyeballs. Cordelia bounced out from behind her makeshift barricade, with Wesley and Fred half-visible behind her. Doyle shook his head, wishing she hadn't revealed herself—now some of the guns that had been trained on him, were pointed at her instead. "Please don't! He's good!"
"Hey, she's human!" Gunn shouted to the men who were now angled toward Cordelia. "You better not hurt her—or him. These people are with me."
"But he's not a person!" Gio argued ferociously, his bloodthirsty eyes still focused on Doyle. "See. I told you, Rondell! Your boy Gunn is now a demon-lover. All his friends are demons or they're sleeping with 'em—we supposed to just let 'em breed now?!"
Gunn moved forward, batting aside the barrel of Gio's gun and stepping in front of Doyle. "I ain't gonna let you murder him in cold blood, man. That was never what it was about." He insisted, turning his eyes toward Rondell, who appeared to be the current leader of the crew. "We used to face death 'cause we had to. Now you're chasing it down for the fun of it. That ain't right."
"Looks to me like you're protecting demons instead of fighting 'em!" Gio said accusingly, his gun was pointed at Gunn now, and the fact that he was human didn't seem to faze the man at all. "How can you be friends with this… thing?!"
"It ain't about friendship." Gunn countered. "It's about the mission. Doyle here ain't a friend of mine. Angel neither. Nothing personal, it's just the way it is. They are who they are, and I am who I am—but they use who they are to do a lotta good. That's why I fight with 'em instead of against 'em. Ya'll lost the mission; they still got it."
As much as those words chafed, Doyle wasn't completely surprised to hear them. He'd always liked and respected Gunn, but they'd never exactly been close. Just about the only thing they had in common was their dislike of the demon species. Maybe Doyle had been deluding himself into thinking that Gunn saw something in him other than the demon.
It didn't matter now. Gunn's true feelings were out there in the open, and yet he still stood in front of Doyle, defending him. Nothing had to change. Not unless one of the bullets in the room left its cartridge.
"Yeah, well, maybe we should decide who's lost the mission after your vampire pal gets here." Rondell piped up, moving toward Cordelia. He pulled her forward and gave her a little shove toward the front exit. "Go on. We'll wait here while you fetch him. And if he don't show—your boyfriend will be the next dead demon in this room."
Doyle's entire body had flinched in her direction as he saw her manhandled by Rondell, but he was relieved to see that she was free to go, even if she herself wasn't looking nearly as relieved. She anxiously locked eyes with Doyle, silently communicating her desire to keep him living and breathing. He gave her a subtle nod, encouraging her to go. She stumbled a few uncertain steps and then finally raced for the exit to do exactly what she was being sent out to do—draw Angel into an impossible situation, where he couldn't fight back.
As plans went, it wasn't a great one. Doyle didn't want to die in this club, nor did he want to bring Angel down with him. What he did want is for Cordelia to be safe, and for Wesley and Fred to get out of here as well. For now, he'd just have to hope that Gunn had better negotiating skills than he thought, and that Angel would find some way to even the playing field rather than dying on it.
