Strike and Heat slowly entered the building, but walked like they had business to tend to. Heat had set foot in this building once before, so he knew his way around. Strike followed his lead. They caught the elevator to the top floor, and had to find a set of stairs to lead them to the roof. Conditions were windy as soon as they opened the door.
Once they got there, they saw Pinky, laid stomach-down on a blanket with her sniper rifle firmly in place. She was dressed in black jogging pants with a matching black hoodie, with black tennis shoes to match. There were still traces of pink in the get up. She was wearing what looked like a black wig.
"'Ey, Heat, just chill here for a second and keep my back, dude," whispered Strike, pulling out his Glock. Heat pulled out his special made chromed-out Magnum .357.
"A'ight, homes," he replied. "You think she's gonna be stupid enough to buck up at you?"
"Not unless she wants to shake hands with some of her deceased kin-folk tonight," retorted Strike, getting up to start approaching her.
Strike had a great number of martial arts styles under his belt, over the years he'd been trained rigorously by the best. He had no problem sneaking up on Pinky. Since it was fairly cloudy outside, he didn't have to worry about her seeing his shadow. When he got close up enough to view her setup clearly, he laughed to himself. She actually had food and a can of Diet Pepsi resting by her side. Guess she wasn't too professional after all…
Heat, who was posted behind the walls built around the door leading to the roof, cocked his gun and steadied his grip around the handle, and rested his finger gently against the trigger.
Strike cleared his throat loudly, and Pinky almost knocked her rifle off the roof. She looked up in the direction it came from and saw Strike standing there, dressed in a long, black trench coat, a black button-down shirt with a dragon on each panel, black slacks, and black dress shoes. He was also wearing a black Kangol hat backwards with a pair of black mirror-lens shades.
"You scared the SHIT out of me," hissed Pinky, trying to pull herself together. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"
"You fuckin' cussin' me???" sneered Strike. "I'd think you'd be happy to see me as opposed to looking down the barrel of a Desert Eagle."
"I have a job to do here, in case you haven't noticed," snapped Pinky.
"You's a DUMB bitch to be talking all this trash in my fuckin' FACE," quipped Strike. "Unless you haven't noticed, I have a fully automatic weapon compared to that cumbersome rifle of yours."
Pinky reached in her hoodie and pulled out the tiniest Glock Strike had ever laid eyes on, aiming it at him.
Strike laughed almost hysterically, holding his stomach. "What the fuck is THAT?!? A .22??? What do you expect to do with that? Even at a shot this close a range, the most it'll feel like is a mosquito bite… I've been shot with more power than that and I still laugh about it!"
Pinky looked up at him with wide eyes. "You really are insane, aren't you?!"
"Didn't get where I am by bullshittin', and cryin' over stupid shit. I came here because I need a favor, but it would be so pleasant of you to get that tiny piece of shit the fuck out my face. This ain't Men In Black, and you ain't Will Smith."
"HELL NO!!" yelled Pinky. "I've been planning this shit out for the last three months. I have 27 million dollars riding on this one job!!"
"27 mil? That's it?!" scoffed Strike, with a mocking look on his face. "I can wipe my ass with that." He looked off in the distance onto the street. "Fuck that chump change for now. Can you please get that piece of shit out of my face?!?!"
The second it looked like Pinky was going to pull the trigger, a shot knocked the gun out of her hand. She looked in the direction of the shot and saw Heat standing there, dressed in a maroon dress shirt decorated with a black flame pattern, a black blazer with flames on the pockets, maroon slacks and black dress shoes, with smoke rising from the barrel of his gun.
Pinky growled in anger. "What do you want from me?!" she spat angrily.
"First of all, so you can quit your bitching," said Strike as he picked up her rifle. Immediately he aimed and fired at a gentleman wearing glasses with thinning hair dressed in a business suit, and stepped away from the ledge.
Pinky gazed down at the lifeless body through her binoculars. In amazement she asked "How the hell did you know that's exactly who I was supposed to kill?!?!"
Strike shot her a wicked smile. "Who the fuck do you think set you up for this job? That muthafuckah stole about 12 million dollars from me last year. I thought I'd go ahead and test you out to see where your loyalty truly lies. That's why I asked you last week if you were still going to go though with the job. I could have easily offed him myself, but I didn't think he was worth it. Then I realized, to the average person, 12 mil ain't worthless at all. It's all about principle."
"So… you set me up?" asked Pinky.
"Partially. I knew I'd be here for business after a while; I just had no idea that we'd cross paths this way."
Pinky frowned at him angrily. "So what about my money?! I sat up here for 3 hours for nothing?!"
Strike tossed a small suitcase at her. "There's your fuckin' scratch, bitch. Even though I knocked off a few mil. I figured I'd rather off him myself, but you get paid for your effort."
Pinky looked at him, and then started counting out roughly 17 million. She didn't like the fact that Strike had basically pulled her chain and was making a sheer pawn out of her. And it was amusing him.
"You thought I was bullshittin' when I said I own you, bitch?!" cackled Strike, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "And ain't shit you can do about it, but DEAL with it. Now I have another job that's a SHIT LOAD more important than wiping another faceless business suit off this planet. I need you to do what you do best."
Pinky's face was red with anger. "And what's that?"
"Awwww… poor Pinky. Don't be that way…" he cooed in a fake manner. "I just need you to make a small infiltration for me. You will get paid for it, so you won't think I'm completely pimping you. This'll be a job that's right up your alley…"
"Alright, fine. Just tell me what you want," said Pinky, almost begrudgingly.
Strike motioned for her to get up and started to inform her more about the job…
When Strike and Heat got back in the car, they checked the clock. They had just enough time to meet Hiro-kun at the Piku Piku Bistro, and eat while they waited for him.
"Damn, Strike, I gotta give you mad props, ese," grinned Heat. "You don't play!"
"Shit, neither do you. I never had a cat watch my back like you, bro. I really appreciate how you shot that itty-bitty piece of metal out of her hand. I just had to make sure she was on the level. 'Cuz if she ain't, she's of no use to me."
"Remind me to stay on your good side, homes…" tittered Heat.
"Shit, if you don't know what rubs me wrong by now, I'll at least let you off yourself."
Heat shook his head. "So what's she gonna be doing for you?"
Strike only smiled as they passed the street where the man was found murdered. It was cut off and spectators were scattered everywhere, with police trying to clear everything up. He shot a bird in the dead man's direction. "You'll see all this in due time. See, I got a plan with 3 back-ups worked out as we speak. We're going to see what's up with Hiro and maybe I'll let you in on some more…"
"You sneaky mutha—alright. This is getting so juicy now, I gotta know what's going on… but I'll just see what tricks you got up your sleeve."
"Good… good," purred Strike as they continued on to the bistro…