Harry Potter and the Runecraeft of the Norns
Chapter 2: The Rotten Apple
"I don't like this," Rome said, as the shadowrunner tightened the zip tie around the thief's wrists, restraining their arms behind them.
"We built this plan based on the intel you provided and the legwork we managed this afternoon," he said. "You have a problem with it?"
"The plan doesn't include how you're going to get him to spill the location of his stash!"
"I said I'd handle it," said the brunette, pale amber eyes darting towards the blonde sitting outside the cafe across from where they were going, a cup of tea and a folded newspaper on the table besides her as she drew in the large spiral-bound pad in her hands; gone was her eclectic outfit with its numerous colors, replaced by blue jeans, a plain T-shirt and a ballcap that blended in with those around her. "You don't believe me?"
"I just met you this morning!" Rome protested. "Of course I don't believe you!"
"What's the alternative, you run until somebody catches you? At least, this way, you get payback and rid yourself of the bounty problem in one go."
"I don't like it," the thief reiterated, sighing. "But I'm in."
"Good," Liv said, before shoving Rome by the shoulder, while Harry pulled on a pair of gloves. "Move it."
"Hey! No need to get rough!" cried out the bag-snatcher in indignation, right before the shadowrunner slapped a piece of duct tape over their mouth. "Mmph!"
Then, the ferryman dropped a black canvas bag over the thief's head.
Ignoring the thief's thrashing, the physical adept closed his eyes in concentration, forming an inverted tattva mudra. "Muto corporem."
As fatigue briefly washed over him, the Hermetic mage's face shifted as his mess of black hair lengthened, lightened and lengthened into a slicked back peroxide blonde, taking on the appearance he often used when doing something illegal or otherwise suspicious.
"Malfoy? Really?" asked the dragon, as she passed a hand in front of her face and it took on another shape, her brown hair brightening to the color of an orange flame and her heart-shaped face lengthening as her cheekbones shifted upwards. Sweeping her copper locks backwards, she quickly secured it in a ponytail with a hair-tie, then shucked off her leather coat, handing it to the shadowrunner before unstrapping the holster bag at her hip and putting it into her rucksack as the boy turned the jacket inside-out—revealing a beige counterpart—and handed over his ball cap, which she turned backwards. "Let's do this."
Grabbing Rome by the arm, the shadowrunner yanked the thief to their feet as the Norwegian Ridgeback slid the door of the stolen panel van open, and the two pulled the bound, gagged and hooded bag-snatcher out of the vehicle; as they dragged their prisoner down the street, the boy noticed every passerby averting their eyes or looking in any other direction but at them, and he could sense the influence Mister Rogers had on the neighborhood.
"Hey! What are you doing!" shouted one of the burly men stationed in front of their destination as he stepped away from the door, hand under his jacket.
"We got something for Mister Rogers," said the dragon, pulling the bag from the thief's head.
"Mmph mmph!" Rome tried to shout, but with the silvery tape over their mouth, it came out unintelligible.
"Like she said, we've got something for Mister Rogers," said the boy, as Norwegian Ridgeback replaced the hood.
The man studied the trio in front of him for a moment, then brought a two-way radio to his lips.
*beep*
"Mister Rogers, I've got two kids here with that thief Rome. I think they want the bounty."
A tense moment of silence followed.
*beep*
"Send them in."
The man who was obviously muscle waved the trio past him, and the two Hufflepuffs hauled the hooded thief off the street, through the security-gated doorway and into a tight, short corridor, controlling Rome's movement with one hand firmly on the back of their neck over the black canvas bag. As they passed by the open doors on either side of the hallway, the ferryman and the dragon noted the assembled hired muscle watching sports on the telly and playing cards, their weapons—mostly Glocks—haphazardly strewn about on various tabletops.
Then, they were buzzed through the door at the end of the hall and into a stylish office, with dark wood paneled walls, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and an ornate desk facing the doorway; the expensive and elegant decor of the room did not match the peeling paint and blinking fluorescent lights of the hall leading into the space, giving it the air of somebody trying too hard to give themselves a sense of legitimacy they didn't have.
"Well, well, well, who do we have here?" said a slight, nasally voice as the oversized office chair turned around, revealing a rail-thin man with side-parted hair, a hooked nose and horn-rimmed spectacles flanked by a heavy-set guard. Carefully brushing off his bright red jumper as he considered the shadowrunner, the dragon-in-girl's-form and their prisoner, he said, "My men will need to check your bags."
"There's no need," said the ferryman, shifting into an understated accent he had carefully cultivated by studying Patience's as he unshouldered his haversack. "We don't need them right now, so we can leave them here until we're done. That'll save us all some time."
The muscle gave their boss an askant look as the boy and the dragon dropped their baggage to the floor; from where he sat, the hook-nosed man frowned almost imperceptibly but nodded to the guards on duty, who visibly relaxed.
"I'm Mister Rogers," said the seated man with feigned congeniality, which the shadowrunner immediately recognized when his smile failed to reach his eyes. "I've never seen the two of you before, and I know all the players in the Bronx."
"I'm Hunter, and my friend is Rook," said the boy as the dragon looked around in awe. "We just came over from Newark looking for work when this kid tried to run off with some of our stuff. After we caught 'em, we heard there was a bounty on their head, so we brought 'em here."
With those words, Liv pulled the hood from the thief's shoulders, revealing the panicked expressions on their face; with one shove, the dragon sent Rome tumbling forward to their knees, their legs splayed out behind them as they fell on their butt.
"Ahh, Rome," said the man, as he leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Hi," interrupted the dragon-in-girl's-form, suddenly waving earnestly at the seated man, who turned his head towards her with an expression of barely-concealed disdain. "Can I have a closer look? I've never seen so many books in one place before."
"Go ahead," the man said, before turning his attention back to the boy and his prisoner. "Take off the tape."
The shadowrunner roughly yanked the tape off the bag-snatcher.
"Who are you? Where's May and Lash? What're you doing?" Rome asked in rapid succession, words falling out of the thief's mouth as their voice rose in pitch in fear.
"Quiet!" ordered the man in the seat, before suddenly turning his attention back to the only redhead in the room, who was reaching out to touch one of the books on the shelf she was in front of. "Stop it! Those are rare and expensive first editions!"
"I'm sorry," she said, jerking her hand back as though struck, looking suitably chastised.
"As long as you don't touch," said the man.
"Yes, sir," said the dragon-in-girl's-form, head leaning from side to side as she continued look at the books on the shelves, shuffling sideways until she accidentally bumped into the nearest of the two guards posted by the door, immediately recoiling away from the contact as if shocked. "Excuse me."
"Listen, 'Hunter' was it? If you make Rome 'disappear', I might have a job for you and your friend there."
"You know, I'd love to, Mister Rogers," said the Hermetic mage. "There's just one problem."
"A problem?" asked the man, leaning back in his chair and giving the boy a look that anybody else would find imposing. "What problem would that be?"
"You are the job."
The physical adept surged forward faster than anybody else could react, hurdling the desk and kicking Mister Rogers in the chest as he slid over the tabletop, sending him and his rolling office chair careening backwards into his bodyguard. Landing on his feet, he darted around the chair as the bodyguard tried to get clear of his employer, steel flashing in the ferryman's hand as he unleashed two quick swipes, one aimed at the neck and the other across both thighs even while he pulled the pistol from the front of the muscle's waistband.
Leaping up, Liv grabbed the guard she had just collided with a moment earlier by the side of the face and slammed him skull-first into the doorframe with one powerful shove, leaving a dent the shape of the jamb in the other side of his head as he slumped bonelessly to the floor.
In the middle of the room, Rome could only manage a squeak of terror.
The shadowrunner had already rolled back across the desk in retreat, pointing the pilfered pistol at the seated man. Behind Mister Rogers, his bodyguard's eyes went wide in panic, his hand immediately going to his throat, but it was too late, and blood spurted out between his fingers and soaked his pants where his femoral arteries had been slashed.
As the other guard at the door reached for his weapon, the dragon hurled the corpse at him, bowling him over; before he could even get up, Liv was on him, grabbing his cranium with both hands and torquing it sideways, severing his spine as she nearly tore his head clean off.
"Do you know who I am?" shouted the man in the red jumper. "You and your families are dead!"
"We're professionals, drekhead," said the shadowrunner, making a show of twirling the knife in his hand like a pen, closing it mid-spin and pocketing it, then ejected the magazine of the pistol he had taken from the bodyguard he had killed, sliding it back into place once he had seen the number of bullets still in the magazine. "Of course we know who you are."
"Listen, if this is about money, I can pay," Mister Rogers said, trying to appear dispassionate in his attempt at pacification, though his eyes betrayed his terror as the bodyguard behind him slowly slid to the ground in a pool of his own blood, arterial spray decorating the surroundings.
"It's not about the money," said the shadowrunner, the gun still aimed at the seated man. "We're here for everything you own."
"I can give you money, but I won't give you anything else!" snarled the bespectacled man in false bravado. "You can't make me!"
"I mean we could try torture, but it'd take too much time," said the Hermetic mage, before gesturing towards the man in the bright red jumper with a tilt of his head. "Rook, do your thing."
Pulling on the rucksack she had dropped by the guards, the dragon-in-girl's-form tossed the haversack to its owner, who caught and shouldered it, before blinking out of existence and reappearing directly in front of Mister Rogers in a puff of green fire and grey smoke. The moment their eyes met, both froze in place, much to the confusion of the restrained thief.
"What's going on?" Rome asked timidly.
"You know that thing you call your 'superpower'?" asked the boy rhetorically. "It's not exactly a superpower; it's magic, and you're not the only person who can use it."
"What?" asked the confused bag-snatcher.
"Magic is real, and that thing you think is a superpower is just a form of magic that you've learned to use on your own," explained the Hermetic mage, cutting the restraint that held Rome's arms behind their body. "May and I do magic too, and right now, she's using magic to read his mind and find out what we need to know."
"Wait, are you Lash?" asked the thief, rubbing their wrists as they started to piece certain things together.
"Let me reintroduce ourselves," said the boy, extending a free hand. "I'm Whiplash Hunter, and she's Mayhem Rook. We're shadowrunners, and you're the client."
"I don't understand," Rome sputtered. "What's happening?"
"She's reading his mind to find out where his stash is," the shadowrunner explained. "I mean, this is a heist after all, which means there's a score to be had."
A beat followed, uncomfortable silence filling the air as the thief looked everywhere but the broken and bloodied corpses. Then, the bag-snatcher seemed to realize something.
"Wait, did you say 'magic'?" they asked.
"Yep," the Hermetic mage answered shortly, before gesturing, as if to prove a point.
"Perdo corporem."
The corpse of the bodyguard evaporated into thin air, along with the arterial spray formed by his arteries being slashed and the blood pool around the body.
"What was that?!"
"I told you: I'm magical," said the shadowrunner, looking at the bookcase behind the desk where the stock-still Mister Rogers sat. "I wonder if there's anything valuable…"
"What?" Rome asked, confused.
"He said 'rare and expensive first editions'," said the shadowrunner. "Come over here and tell me if you see anything that looks old and valuable."
Rome started towards the shadowrunner, but froze mid-step as the dragon-in-girl's-form came back to life, stepping away from Rogers and slowly sliding a hand into the rucksack at her side.
Suddenly, the seated man jerked as if shocked; then, his eyes widened as his expression turned into one of horror.
"No! No! No! No! No!" cried the man in the red jumper, scrambling out of his chair and towards his desk. "What have I done?" he bemoaned, pulling open the top drawer and a pistol out of it.
"Gun!" Harry shouted, spinning from the shelf as he pushed off of it, flying across the room and tackling Rome to the floor, rolling through and rising to his feet with the pilfered pistol raised.
There was the loud report of gunfire and the wet sound of flesh exploding apart; slowly getting up from the floor, the thief caught one look at the mess of grey matter, bone fragments and blood painting the ceiling and averted their eyes, only to see the remains of Mister Rogers' head—a sagging ruin of crumpled flesh, jagged skull and oozing brains—and gasp in horror, retching violently before throwing up a morass of half-digested pizza and cola.
"What the frag, Rook?" snarled the shadowrunner at the Norwegian Ridgeback, who looked quite pleased with herself. "What was that for?"
"He was taking advantage of runaways," Liv said, tone clipped. "I saw them in his head; the ones he couldn't use as thieves, he got hooked on scag and crank and sold to flesh peddlers. I was just doing what you taught me to. Besides, he was never going to walk out of this alive."
"How did you even…?"
"I gave him back his conscience."
"And you couldn't have put a time delay on it?"
"If I did, we'd have a harder time getting out."
"Every complication's an opportunity" said the boy, as the intercom at the door buzzed.
"Mister Rogers? We, uh, heard a shot, sir, and wanted to make sure everything's copacetic," came a voice through the intercom.
The physical adept snapped his fingers twice, pointing at his throat, and the dragon waved her hand through the air.
Coughing and clearing his throat, the shadowrunner went to the intercom; his mouth moved, yet the voice passing his lips was not his own but was that of the recently deceased. "Our young friends were a little too enthusiastic in taking out the trash."
"Will you be needing a tarp, sir?"
"Our young friends say they brought a couple things along to help with the cleanup, so we'll see. I don't want to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon."
The boy clicked off the intercom as the voice on the other side responded with a "Yes, sir," then turned to the others in the room. "We've got a couple hours at most to finish this up, so let's make them count."
"Sierra?" the dragon-in-girl's form asked, more suggestion than question.
"Definitely Sierra," agreed the shadowrunner.
"Who's Sierra?" asked the thief, confused.
"What's the scenario?" Liv continued, ignoring Rome's question.
"Locked room suicide. We were never here."
"All right then."
Without another word, the Norwegian Ridgeback went to the dead man with the smashed skull, emptying his pockets onto the floor; all she found by the time she was done was a Glock pistol, a keychain and a well-worn wallet.
"Take pictures of his fingerprints," said the shadowrunner, vigorously shaking the trio of photos in his hand as Liv caught the Polaroid camera.
Quickly, the dragon snapped two pictures, holding one between her teeth as she took the other, then tossed the camera back to the boy, who caught it easily with one hand and slipped it back into his haversack, before picking up the billfold, keychain, ballpoint pen, penknife, penlight, cigarette lighter, matches, mostly empty pack of Marlboros, polymer-framed handgun and fistful of coins he had found in the pockets of the corpse with the broken neck, sealing them inside a plastic bag and dropping the package into his haversack.
"We good?" asked the dragon, and received an affirmative from the ferryman; concentrating for a moment, she waved her hand languidly through the air, and the two dead bodyguards started to disintegrate into a fine grey mist, softly wafting away into the air until there was nothing left. The pool of stomach acid and molten pizza did similiarly a moment later, returning the room to its previously pristine condition minus results of the suicide.
"Who's Sierra?" Rome asked again.
"Exit strategy Sierra," corrected the Norwegian Ridgeback, a wide, predatory smile forming on her lips as she pulled a knightly sword out of her rucksack.
"'Exit strategy Sierra'?" repeated the thief, no less confused than before even while stepping back from the sword-wielding maniac.
The dragon passed two fingers over the blade of the sword in her hand like a warrior out of a wuxia movie, then drove it into the sliver of space between two of the bookshelves, carving along its outline before pulling the weapon free, giving it a twirl before she passed her fingers over the blade again and slid it back into her rucksack.
Liv pushed the bookcase with both hands; with a sound of stone scraping against stone, it slid backwards, revealing solid brick behind the wood, and then the alleyway behind it.
"Wait," said the shadowrunner, as the bag-snatcher started towards the suddenly existing exit; reaching into his haversack, he tossed it at Rome, who caught and unfolded the wad of fabric.
"A ski mask?"
"A balaclava of disguise," said the Hermetic mage. "I'm guessing, unlike Rook and me, you're in your natural form, so put that on and think of somebody else's face."
"What? Why?"
"The balaclava will read it off your surface thoughts and transform itself to look like the face you're thinking of. So when we walk out, nobody will think twice about you walking out when you were just delivered for execution."
"Was this your plan all along?"
"Something like that…"
Even as he left the sentiment hanging, Rome pulled on the mask, covering their face with the satiny fabric; after a long moment, the black of the balaclava changed color and shape, blending in with Rome's original skin as it turned into the face of a handsome square-jawed young man with straight black hair cut in a high top fade.
"All right, put this on too," said the physical adept, tossing the thief another bundle of fabric, and they unfurled it to reveal a duster that they quickly donned. "All right, that should make you look different enough to not be recognized."
"We should go," said the dragon, passing a hand downwards in front of her face, which transformed back to its usual human form; next to her, the Hermetic mage nodded as his face lost the appearance of the Malfoy heir, returning to his normal lean, determined countenance and he handed the beige jacket back to the Norwegian Ridgeback, who turned it inside out before flipping it around her shoulders like a cloak before taking off her baseball cap and pulling it down over the physical adept's face.
Quietly, the trio slipped out of the makeshift passageway without a word, the dragon pushing the displaced wall back into place once they were out and passing a hand over where the cuts had been, magically repairing the damage she had wrought upon it until it was like it had never been disturbed.
Exiting the alleyway, the shadowrunner pushed the bill of the cap he was wearing further down with two fingers; across the way, the blonde nodded slightly, watching the three depart and continue to draw for another minute before setting her pad atop the newspaper on the tabletop, sweeping it all into her messenger bag with one smooth motion and standing up, walking away in the other direction.
It took a good bit of walking and blending into crowds, but the thief, shadowrunner and dragon reunited with the artist a few blocks away at a previously agreed upon rendezvous, reconvening around a table under the shade of a parasol outside of another cafe.
"What do we have?" asked the shadowrunner, as Luna finally joined them at the open seat with a steaming mug.
"Nobody followed you, at least as far as I could see," declared the artist, lifting the cup to her lips and taking a sip.
"All right, then. Rook?"
"Can I borrow a sketchbook?" the dragon-in-girl's-form asked the blonde, and she was given a spiral-bound drawing pad and pencil by the artist. Quickly, she scrawled onto the paper with long, rough strokes, before setting the sheaf of papers onto the table, revealing a hastily drawn map of what appeared to be a warehouse.
"As far as Rogers knew, there's entry points here and here," Liv said, as she pointed to one doorway after the other on the architectural plan she had just drawn. "There's no skylights or sewer access, which is why he chose it for his stash house. It takes two keys—which we left on Rogers' body—to get through the two locks on the doors; after that, there's no other security measures in place; the only people who knew of its existence were Rogers and his personal security detail, all of whom are now no longer in this life, and he relied on the stash's anonymity to keep it safe."
"If it's just locks, I could pick them," Rome offered.
"Couldn't you teleport past the door and unlock it from the inside?" Luna asked.
"I need to know or at least see where I'm trying to go to do that," the thief explained.
"Do we know where the warehouse is?" asked the shadowrunner.
"It's somewhere on Warehouse Row, but I don't really have anything beyond that. I'll know it when I see it, though."
"That means it's probably in the Meatpacking District," Rome said. "If we leave now, we could get there in an hour or two…"
"Then what are we waiting for?"
~ooOoo~
"That's the one," Liv said quietly, pointing towards one warehouse among a row of them with a quick, slight jerk of her chin.
As a group, the dragon's companions looked in the direction she indicated, and a sigh escaped the thief's lips as they squinted at the locks on the door from a distance.
"What is it?" the shadowrunner asked.
"Those are Medecos," Rome said. "I can't pick Medecos. I mean I can, but maybe one out of every ten tries, and it'd take me fifteen minutes at least, and that's a lot of time to get caught."
"You're right, that is too long," agreed the physical adept. "Why don't you unlock it with magic?"
"I don't know magic," the thief protested.
"What does it feel like, when you teleport?" the Hermetic mage asked.
"What's that got to do with anything?" Rome said, annoyed.
"Humor him," Luna said reassuringly. "I promise he's going somewhere with this that's worth it."
"Fine," said the thief with an exasperated sigh. "There's this warm feeling, in here," they explained, patting their belly where the smoldering green ember lay, "that spreads until it wraps me up in it and takes me where I need to go."
"All right, then," said the Hermetic mage. "I want you to take that warm feeling, stretch it up your spine, down your arm and out your finger into the lock, all while you picture the internal mechanism of a lock in your mind and form picks with that same warmth to pick it."
"But I don't know what that lock looks like on the inside," the thief protested.
"That's not the important part," Harry said. "The important part of this whole thing is the concept of a lock being picked. As you finish picking the lock in your mind's eye, use the incantation, 'rego terram', and that'll open the lock."
As if to prove a point, the distinct sound of a lock being opened could be heard over the ambient street noise.
"I don't believe it," Rome said, eyes widening. "How'd you do that?"
"Like I told you, I'm magical.
"As are you, so give it a go."
The thief's brow furrowed in concentration, eyes squeezed closed, whispering the incantation under their breath again and again. Then, their eyes suddenly sprang open as the other deadbolt clicked unlocked.
"Did I do that?" they asked, looking to the Hermetic mage, who nodded. Then, an elated exclamation of amazement: "I did that!"
"Let's get inside before we're spotted by more people," interrupted the dragon, pulling the door open and gesturing the others into the warehouse, but once inside, they all stopped short, even as the door closed behind them.
"Is that...?" asked the thief.
"A pallet of cash money? Yes," confirmed the shadowrunner, crossing over to the currency and looking it over, picking up a rubber-banded pack and flipping through them with his thumb. "Looks like this is all in non-sequential hundreds, a hundred a stack."
"That'd be thirty million, give or take," said the blonde after a moment. When the ferryman and the dragon gave her an inquisitive look, she shrugged. "It's pretty simple, just take the size of a bundle and split the big pile of money by that."
"And that's not counting whatever stuff's on the shelves," the dragon.
"We're going to need you to introduce us to your fence," said the ferryman to the thief. "We need to liquidate all of this as soon as possible."
"But why?"
"We're not going to be in New York for very long, so we can't wait for your fence to match the merchandise up with buyers; better we sell off everything all at once."
"Well, it's not like I've got any place to keep any of this anyways," said Rome with a sigh.
"All right, let's pack this drek up and go meet your fence," said the shadowrunner. "Cash in duffels, same with any chems you find; everything else in the storage chest."
Without a word, Liv and Luna pulled empty duffels from their respective bags, filling them with banknotes from the pallet; meanwhile, the physical adept moved deeper into the warehouse, removing art, fine china, jewelry and electronics—likely all stolen—from the shelves and carefully arranging them into neat stacks before wrapping them up tightly with a large roll of clear plastic wrap with the thief's help.
"How are we going to move these?" asked the thief.
As if to answer them, the physical adept pulled a much-larger trunk out of his haversack, and Rome blinked in surprise.
"How'd that fit in there?"
"It's bigger on the inside," the Hermetic mage said matter-of-factly.
"What? How?"
"Magic," said the dragon, dropping the eight duffels she had slung over one shoulder in front of the trunk, where they landed with heavy thuds, while the artist gently set down the two bags she had brought over from the pallet.
"How much to a duffel?" asked the shadowrunner.
"Three million, give or take," said the artist.
"This one's for you," said the physical adept, using one hand to toss a bag to the thief, who was promptly bowled over by its weight.
"Get it off me!" Rome cried out, struggling against the bag of money pinning them down.
"Slot me sideways," Harry growled, quickly hurrying over to the bag-snatcher and lifting the duffel off of them. "Sometimes forget how strong I am."
The thief coughed violently, wheezing, slowly sitting up, clutching their side. "I think you cracked a rib," they gasped, wincing in pain.
Quickly, the Hermetic mage snapped his fingers, making a sharp cracking sound with his thumb and middle fingers alone, pointing at the thief with his forefinger; from a distance, Liv waved a hand lackadaisically in Rome's direction, and instantly, their labored breathing eased.
"How did you…? Oh, right. Magic."
"You're catching on," observed the artist, before turning to the ferryman, without any condescension in her tone. "Do they always take this long?"
"I don't know, this is my first time meeting somebody this new to magic.
"Now let's get this sorted so we can get out of here and meet the fence."
~ooOoo~
"Rome! What are you doing here? There's a reward out for you!"
Even from the door, it was easy to hear the concern in the voice of the gentleman with salt and pepper hair from where he was across the room, dusting a rather large armoire; immediately, he rushed to the door, peering out and looking both ways before quick closing it and turning the sign over so the "Closed" side faced outward.
"Are you all right?" asked the man, clearly the proprietor. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, Greg," said the thief. "You don't have to worry about the bounty any more; my new friends…"
"Business associates," corrected the shadowrunner.
"...helped me take care of it."
"Helped you how?" asked the man, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"He grew a conscience and ate his gun," said the ferryman flatly.
"And how did you make him do that?"
"With magic, obviously," said the dragon, her tone dripping sarcasm despite the actual truth of her words.
"If you don't want to tell me, fine, but there's only so much I can do if you don't tell the truth."
"We only need a few introductions," said the shadowrunner.
"What kind of introductions?"
"An independent appraiser, a mover who can handle upwards of a million in merchandise and somebody to clean what the mover brings back."
"And why would you need those kinds of introductions?"
"Just hit up the dead man's stash house; it's all got to go somewhere, and we all need to be somebody, especially Rome, who might want to be somebody else, somewhere else."
"What are you talking about?" asked the thief.
"We go see a crime lord with you as bait, he offs himself, and then someone hits up his stash before his body's even cold? Even without the bounty on your head, people are going to want to ask you some questions, and not in the nice friendly way, over a cup of tea."
"So, I'm going to need to get out of town for a while."
"Exactly, but I'm sure the payout from the job will ease the pain."
With that, the shadowrunner gave the dragon a look, nodding slightly in the direction of the display case, and the Norwegian Ridgeback easily placed the duffel she was carrying onto the countertop and unzipped it, pulling it open to reveal its contents. "So, can you make the introductions we need?"
"I'll make some calls and see what I can do."
"All right, we're going to head out," said the ferryman as he handed a small card with a string of numbers written on it to the shopkeep. "Here's the number to my satellite phone; call me when you've made arrangements."
~ooOoo~
Gregor Reznik wasn't sure what he expected to find when he arrived at the address in the Meatpacking District Rome had given him after confirming he had set up the introductory meet the thief's new associates had hired him to make, but he wasn't expecting the door to open to an interior full of goods, carefully organized by type, as though the thief's associates had worked through the night to ensure everything was properly catalogued and stored. It was so different from his antiques shop, with its cold fluorescent lights and sparse wall.
"You're here," said the boy.
"I am," Gregor agreed. Gesturing towards the man on his left, he said, "This is…"
"No names," the boy interjected.
"This is the mover," Gregor continued, gesturing to the man on his left, flanked by two bodyguards, "and this is the cleaner," he added, meaning the man on his right. "Unfortunately, I couldn't get in touch with an appraiser, but I can appraise everything you have here."
"Why am I even here?" asked the mover, disinterestedly examining his fingernails.
"We need to offload what we have here today, and we're willing to sell it to you for fifty cents on the dollar," said the boy.
"No, I think I'll just take it from you," retorted the other fence.
The two men at his side went for their guns but never got to them, falling backwards to the ground before their weapons even cleared their waistbands, the back of their skulls exploding outward in a mess of torn skin, bone fragments and brain matter as blood pooled on the floor.
The boy had a pistol in his hand, smoke wafting from the barrel.
"Listen, I…"
The other mover didn't get to finish; the muzzle of the boy's gun flashed fire, and the fence crumpled limply like somebody had cut the strings of a marionette.
"What's your appraisal on this? Rough is fine," said the boy, as he slipped the pistol in an actual holster under his shoulder.
Gregor swallowed hard, quickly looking around, trying to gauge the value of the obviously stolen goods placed around the warehouse before making a few mental estimates.
"One, maybe one-point-five large?" he ventured nervously.
"How much clean cash can you get together in an hour?"
The antiques dealer did a bit of quick mental math. "Fifty-five grand."
"We'll take that, and you can have the lot minus the cash. Deal?" proposed the boy, then turned towards the money launderer once the fence nodded. "We have twenty-four million in bills here. I know the usual service charge for cleaning is about ten, fifteen percent, but if you can get it together within the hour, we'll let you have it for fifty cents on the dollar."
"That's too good of a deal to pass up," said the other man. "What's the catch?"
"It needs to be in a corp bank account belonging to a holding company you'll transfer ownership of to me."
"I can do that."
"Then do it. We'll take care of the bodies and see you both back in an hour or so."
It was only after he had left the warehouse and started to gather the cash for the transaction that Gregor realized he had not only witnessed the boy pull off three perfect headshots inside of two seconds, but there hadn't been a single gunshot the entire time.
Author's Notes: I did say the morning of the first Friday of each month, Eastern Time, didn't I? That was a Thursday afternoon.
Draco Malfoy's going to have a hell of a bragsheet, isn't he? First, when he shot up the parking lot to help out the arms dealer, and now, in a run against a crime lord...
A bit of violence to demonstrate the difference in level between normal people and an adept (and a dragon).
When I'm putting together a scenario, I put it together in a way that fits reality as I know it; when I'm trying to resolve it within the context of the story, I ask, "How does somebody with magic break this situation?" Then, I throw in one or more complications—in this case, Liv not sticking to the plan, the fence trying to pull a double-cross on what he thinks is just a couple kids—and take it from there.
Harry's never really been secretive about magic; sure, he doesn't bring it up out of nowhere in conversation, but he also doesn't shy away from talking about it when necessary. People might be dumb, panicky dangerous animals, but a person, not so much.
I should have covered this in last chapter's notes, but forgot: I couldn't find much trustworthy information about satellite phone availability in the 90s, but according to Narcos, it was commonly (at least for sicarios and drug lords) available in Colombia around that time, so I just went with it, since I figured the U.S. would have an even more economically viable market. I also take a few creative liberties with the satellite phone, but hey, this is a story that features magic.
The pandemic is still on-going, so please take care to be safe.
Once again, many thanks to my long-suffering editor Romantically Distant and to pmansell for proofing and editing my work. Also, thank you for reading what I've written.