Pushing the door to the bar open, the latest arrival looked around with a neutral expression. He didn't show any sign of what he really thought of the old establishment, or the twenty-six or so mostly male people inhabiting it. The half dozen women looked even more dangerous then the men, and everyone there seemed to be drinking, talking, or both.
The conversational volume dropped slightly as he entered, then rose again, several people glancing at him then going back to their own business. He could feel eyes on his back the entire way across the large room, although when he looked around a couple of times none of them were visibly watching him. The sole exception to this was the bartender, who had one eye on him while otherwise apparently concentrating on a book, the cover old and tattered.
He'd spotted his target from the door. The information he had was accurate, obviously. The one he was after was something of a creature of habit, although also wise in the ways of such as him, and prone to doing things every now and then just to cause them problems. It had always been the case, even before his current location.
That was certainly what his file showed.
Inspecting the target from the back as he approached, he wasn't particularly impressed. Big, yes, and clearly very strong even at his age looking at the corded muscles that were visible through his shirt when he moved, but he was over sixty years old and white-haired. And hadn't even looked up when the noise in the tavern dropped. Poor situational awareness, possibly problems with hearing loss from age. Still, even with this he might have his uses.
The other two men at the table with the target were playing cards with him, the smaller man scowling and the larger one, who was very large indeed, smirking slightly. This one looked over the target's shoulder and met the new arrival's eyes for a moment, his own gaze oddly evaluating. He was considerably younger than the old man in front of him with his back to the man who'd come in, and looked like someone who could potentially be difficult.
Stopping just out of reach, the visitor opened his mouth.
"No," the target said without looking up. "I'm retired. Fuck off."
Somewhat taken aback, the man who'd come in on a mission paused, then said, "I just want to talk."
"Sure you do. That's what they always say." The considerably older man looked over his shoulder at this point, his face blandly disinterested but his eyes sharp. "Then they start to insist. Then something happens. Usually to them. So fuck off." He went back to his cards.
Now somewhat annoyed, the visitor frowned slightly, before looking at the target's companions, who exchanged a glance. Both of them looked at the target, the large guy with a raised eyebrow.
The old man sighed faintly. "This won't take long," he grumbled. "I'll have another one of these." Picking up an empty glass he wiggled it at the smaller of the two men with him who took it with a grunt and stood up. The other guy paused for a second, then shrugged and followed him. Both went over to the bar and started talking to the barman, who put his book down.
Moving to one of the now-empty chairs the new arrival pulled it out, cleaned the seat with a handkerchief from the pocket of his expensive suit, then sat. He regarded the older man who was now studying him impassively.
"What do you want?" the white-haired guy asked impatiently. "I was busy. You're interrupting drinking time."
"We have need of you." The younger man looked him up and down, slightly dismissively. "If you're still capable of what we need you for."
"Talk like that's liable to get you a broken nose, kid," the target said without rancor. "Especially in these parts."
His visitor smiled slightly, not impressed by the bravado. He knew his own abilities and this old man was no match for him, despite his size and history. "Sure, whatever you say," he commented.
"Still not interested," the older man said after they'd stared at each other for a few seconds. "Like I said, I'm retired. Just fish now. And play cards. I like it like that."
"Really."
"Yes. So for the third time, fuck off. I'm not interested, there's nothing you have that I want, and I've got other things to do."
"Such as drink yourself into a stupor?"
The oldster grinned nastily. "I seldom go that far. But I do appreciate a good beer, and Pat's is the best. Unless you're buying, I don't care what you want."
"Your country has need of you."
"So? My country fucked me over more than once." The older man shrugged uncaringly. "I did my bit. Your lot screwed most of it up, like they normally do, but that's nothing to do with me. And as I've said, I'm retired."
The man who'd come looking for his target sighed slightly, then reached into his jacket. He didn't miss the way his current companion tensed without visibly moving a muscle. There was something about the eyes…
Pulling out a large envelope, he dropped it on the table. The target looked at it, then him. "And?"
"The mission."
They locked gazes. After a few seconds, the older man shook his head slightly and picked up the envelope, popping it open with one gnarled fingernail and shaking the contents out onto the table. He separated them out with his forefinger, inspecting the number of photos without changing his expression. Then he reached out and retrieved the half-dozen pages that were stapled together and folded once, unfolding the document and reading it without a word. His visitor watched his face, not seeing it change at all.
When he'd read the last page, the old man put the paperwork down and fixed the visitor with a hard look. "You people are insane."
"We need to know. Your old organization was the best at this job. You're the only one left. And no one will suspect you."
"Look around you."
The visitor did, then looked back to the older person. "Yes?"
"Every single man and woman in here, one way or another, owes them something. Work, friends, whatever. Go outside, look around out there. Same thing. You'd have a hard time finding someone in this city who doesn't owe them something, even if they don't know it. They don't care about that, but they do care about the people. And they have very long memories."
"I fail to see what that has to do with..."
"I don't doubt that, if you did we wouldn't be having this conversation."
The white-haired guy tapped one photo. "This one, she's smart. A lot smarter than any of your guys, that much I can guarantee. She's calm under pressure, friendly, helpful, genuinely nice, and will rip your fucking heart out and feed it to you if you even look sideways at someone she's protecting." He smiled just a little at the expression his visitor got. "With her bare hands."
He moved to another photo. "This one, there wouldn't be anything left. Of you or your people." Another one was tapped. "Her, she'd know you were coming before you did. She probably already knows what we're talking about." He moved to the fourth one. "I don't even need to explain about this one, I hope?" The second to last photo was indicated. "You'd better hope that one of the others gets you rather than her. It would be a lot quicker."
The younger man was feeling somewhat discomfited by the assurance in the voice, and couldn't help a quick look around. No one seemed to be paying attention although he couldn't avoid the feeling on the back of his neck that was making him somewhat twitchy.
The finger moved to the final photo. "Him..." White hair moved as the man shook his head. "You would not like him if he was angry. And he has one hell of a lot of friends who you'd like even less. Them, they'd kill you. Him, he'd make it hurt." He collected all the photos into a pile and carefully returned them to the envelope, along with the documentation. Resealing it he handed it back. "That's what you need to know. You can tell your people that. Leave them alone, because you won't like what happens if you don't, believe me." His eyes were like flint now, totally emotionless.
"Go home and tell them Brockton Bay is out of their league. All you can do is watch." A tiny humorless smile came and went. "It'll get weird, but a lot more people will live than doing it your way. If you want to be part of them, don't stick your nose somewhere it will get bitten off."
There was silence between them for a while.
Eventually the younger man said, "That's not going to fly. The people higher up want answers."
"They're going to have to live with the disappointment," the other one said, shrugging slightly. "Because I'm sure not going to risk upsetting them. I like them, aside from anything else. And, of course, I'm retired." He smiled again, in a mildly amused yet annoyed way. "They're bringing the fish back too, and I don't want that to stop. No one around here does."
"There are rumors about him..."
"Quite possibly true. I know some things about that. But again that's not something you want to poke into. Not unless you like swimming with a bucket of cement on each foot." He smirked slightly. "People down in Jersey are traditional and have no sense of humor. He might not even have to ask."
"Our remit is..."
"Irrelevant."
Breathing through his nose as he glared at the recalcitrant old man, who still seemed only vaguely amused and mostly impatient, the considerably younger visitor thought. He finally picked up the envelope and put it carefully away. His hand stayed inside his jacket for a moment, making the other person watch him carefully.
"I could insist."
"You could. Wouldn't get you anywhere, but you could."
They stared at each other, motionless. After about ten seconds the visitor became aware that all sound in the bar had stopped.
"You'd better be very sure you want to do that, son," the old man said softly. "And I'd advise checking your surroundings before you make a decision."
Cautiously, the younger man risked looking to the side. Then the other side. A mild sweat broke out on his forehead when he saw that every single patron in the place was now looking right at him. Most of them over a weapon of some sort.
"Ah."
"Indeed. Your choice."
A short pause later, the hand came back empty and landed on the table. "Good boy. Well done. I would suggest that it's best if you didn't come back," the old man smiled. "Tell them I'm fucking retired and if they try this again, I'll ask some friends of mine to come and explain what 'retired' means, OK?" He made a small shooing motion with one hand. "Off you go."
With gritted teeth and a certain level of worry, the agent stood, looking down at the former target, who was looking slightly too smug for his liking. "This isn't over," he warned.
"Oh, I'll virtually guarantee it is," the other man said cheerfully. "And if it isn't… well, that would be unfortunate. Tell Smith I said drop dead, will you?"
The younger man glared, then turned on his heel and walked out. As he passed the bar the man behind it put the shotgun he'd been holding away under it and resumed filling a pint glass from one of the taps.
He didn't look at the person who was heading out, or seem particularly concerned by recent events.
As the door slowly swung shut, the agent heard the barman call, "Erwin, you old sod, are you going to pay me this time?"
"Ah, Pat my son, we'll get around to that in good time," the old man shouted. "But I have a raging thirst right now and can't concentrate on things like money until I sort that out."
The younger man shook his head at the laughter that was cut off when the thick door closed. His superiors weren't going to like his report.