Author's Note: The US equivalent to the Knight Bus is borrowed from one of whydoyouneedtoknow's one-shots set in the sublime Living With Danger universe.
Tony Victorelli looked from printed CV to prospective employee and back. "Despite your effort to disguise your identity, Mr Pettigrew, your reputation precedes you. Your face is in half the newspapers of wizarding Europe." Peter fought to keep his expression neutral. "I know, I know. My countrymen can sometimes come across as rather insular. But I run a very large and diverse range of business concerns in one of the biggest port cities in the United States, Mr Pettigrew; I need to keep abreast of events in the wider world. Especially Europe. You do know that Division Six are fully aware that you made it out of Britain?"
"I see," Peter replied, thinking Bollocks. 'Division Six' was the popular nickname for the FBI's Unconventional Crimes Department.
"This, Mr Pettigrew, causes me -and probably anybody else to whom you have submitted speculative applications- a certain amount of reluctance in hiring you. You are a known face. The law-enforcement agencies of this great nation do not like cop-killers, regardless of the nationality of victim or perpetrator. And let's not even get started about the whole bomb thing." He fixed Peter with a steely glare. "Terrorists are not popular in New York right now, Mr Pettigrew. We New Yorkers have a very large hole in our skyline to remind us of the consequences of terrorism." Victorelli stood up, his accent becoming more pronounced. "You targeted innocent women and children in that bomb, Wormtail. I have three kids in Salem. They get the special from Platform Zero in Grand Central. I ain't gonna make out that I'm one of the good guys, but there are some lines a man does not cross and still deserve to be called a man. Now disappear."
Dejected and furious, Peter stalked out of the small office building and wondered if he should risk hailing a cab. Better to use the subway, he decided; that five grand would have to last. Well, the hell with it. If I have to go to the Muggle Mob, so be it. I'm pretty handy with a gun, I don't mind getting my hands a little dirty. Your loss, Mr Victorelli!
Actually, if he had wizarding law enforcement on his tail over here it mightn't be a bad idea to drop out of sight into the Muggle world for a bit. Not that it would help all that much if the FBI had his pertinent details on file.
The relationship between wizard and Muggle (or Drab as they had it Stateside) government was rather closer in the United States than in Europe. There was no equivalent of the Ministry of Magic, with most things being handled at state and sometimes county level. The various magical education facilities were regarded as independent fee-paying schools in US law, and were therefore subject to more or less the same legislation as their non-magical equivalents. However, since they were highly specialist, highly specialist inspectors were required... Such quiet gentlemen's agreements existed at every level of government, and even where Constitutional principles were at stake or the Republicans were in office they got along somehow.
There was also no US equivalent of Azkeban; in fact, the employment of Dementors had been designated cruel and unusual punishment and abolished over a hundred years ago. Wizarding criminals were dealt with by the mainstream judicial system, and many police forces had a so-called 'Unconventional Crimes Unit' to deal with detection and capture, often referred to jokingly as either 'Division Six' or 'Special Unit 2'. (As an aside, the creator of the latter is reputed to have been a Squib.) Peter found the thought slightly comforting, but a stay in San Quentin was pretty high up on his personal Top 100 Things To Make Sure Don't Happen.
He spent most of the subway trip brooding on the question. He'd have to gloss over the whole Voldemort thing, and splash out on a few more forged certificates, but never mind. One way or another, he was going to make it big in the Big Apple!
Six months later, he felt he might actually be getting close to achieving his aim. His post wasn't glamorous by any stretch of the imagination; it consisted of all the frightfully dull adding-up that the Devil's Children of Spanish Harlem were too idle/proud/dim (usually all three) to do for themselves, as well as the occasional presentation to prospective clients whose bigotries were too severe to tolerate a sales pitch from a Latino. For all that, it was steady work at a good enough salary to afford a modest appartment in a somewhat better neighbourhood and a tolerably flashy motorcycle to commute with. Anybody who asked would be told he was an accountant for a small pharmaceutical supplies importer, which wasn't really a lie.
He carefully chained the bike to the railings outside the row of somewhat dilapidated shops, and headed for the small record shop at the far end. Nodding a brief greeting to the old man on the till, he headed for the first floor and his office.
"Morning, Krystal. Any mesages?" he asked the girl who manned the phones and generally acted as secretary.
"Just one sir, from Senor Esteban; today's delivery's gonna be two hours late. Something about an engine problem, I think, but the cellphone signal out there is terrible."
"Bugger. Pass me the phone; I'll let Ramon know." She gratefully passed it over; Ramon's temper was legendary, and his repertoire of Spanish invective truly impressive. He dialled the number. "Ramon? Hi, it's Pete. I've got bad news; Esteban rang just before I got in, the ship's got engine trouble or something. We're now looking at an ETA of... Kris, what time exactly did he call? Thanks. Eleven o'clock. Oh, take it easy for Christ's sake! If you want to be pissed with somebody, why not be pissed with the chief engineer of that rustbucket carrying our merchandise? Besides, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Sales have been down this week anyway, Lent or something I suppose. Yeah, I'll keep you posted. Adios." He hung up. "No, I'm going to go one better than that. I'll have that oily little tit Esteban call him direct. Krystal, be a darling and nip over to Starbucks, please?" He wrote down his order and gave her a ten-dollar bill. "Thanks a lot. Have a latte on me if you like."
"Thanks, Mr Patterson. Back in ten, 'kay?"
Peter grinned, and bent over the week's payroll figures. I'm definitely in with a chance there... A few seconds later, the phone rang. "Sanchez and Patterson Import-Export, how can I help?"
"Hello again, Wormtail."
Oh, balls. "Moony! Nice to hear from you again! Where on Earth did you find this number?"
"A little research, a few pointers from a certain Mr Victorelli. How have the mighty fallen? One of the most wanted terrorists in the United Kingdom reduced to crunching numbers for a crack dealer."
"There are worse ways to earn my keep. What do you want, anyway? I refuse to believe you're just calling to gloat."
Remus laughed. "Oh, not at all. I'm calling from just outside your office, which is currently surrounded by a mixture of NYPD SWAT and DEA officers. You're going home, Peter."
Pettigrew sighed deeply. "God damn it, what do you people want from me? I lost, didn't I?" But Lupin had hung up. "Arse. Arse bugger shit fuck balls!" He took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head, then strode hastily to the cupboard at one end of the room and extracted an MP5K submachine-gun and a Russian-made autoloading 12-gauge shotgun. Placing them on a nearby desk, he further equipped himself with a Kevlar vest and a set of US Army surplus combat webbing, already weighed down with spare magazines. Grabbing both weapons, he tried apparating, but Lupin and his Stateside opposite numbers already had wards up. Okay, so be it. Snapping off both safety catches, Peter strode down the stairs with weapons upraised. No matter what, I'll be damned if I'll go out without a fight!
He reflected briefly on the strangeness of it all. Death Eaters were supposed to hate everything about Muggles, yet here he was in a Muggle neighbourhood, carrying Muggle weapons... But the Big V had learned the hard way that the Killing Curse was rather on the cumbersome side compared to, say, a Kalashnikov on full automatic!
It appeared that luck was not on the side of the righteous this day. Some helpful soul with an anti-authoritarian streak had alerted Ramon that his offices were under seige, and a battered black van full of heavily armed and utterly wired gang members skidded to a halt mere yards from the assembly of black-and-whites and SWAT vans the very moment Peter booted open the front door with a weapon in either hand and a look of displaced rage upon his countenance. (Author's Note: Anybody feel up to doing this as fan-art?)
Captain of Aurors Remus Lupin, on asignment to the Unconventional Crimes Division of the New York City Police Department, stared at the man he'd come to extradite in utter amazement. Oh, Padfoot, you're going to be sorry you missed this! he thought fleetingly, drawing his sidearm. The young Latino ruffians were engaging the police with more enthusiasm than tactical skill, but since one of them had an M60 they were liable to cause some serious damage. The majority of the police officers moved to engage the new arrivals, but Remus seized the initiative and took aim at Peter. Before he could fire, Pettigrew let go with the shotgun. It was loaded with very light number nine shot, nearly a hundred pellets, but two officers went down. Remus went to the nearest, who was screaming in pain from the pellets that had hit his eyes. "I need a paramedic over here!" Remus yelled, picking up the wounded man's weapon. It was an M16 assault rifle, which he knew was capable of penetrating bdy armour. He raised it and fired a three-round burst towards Peter, but missed. As he watched, a particularly courageous plainclothes DEA officer broke cover and advanced, firing his pistol as he did so. Peter knocked the man backwards with a three-round burst from the MP5, then levelled the shotgun and fired.
From less than six feet, the man's head was obliterated. Wit an inarticulate yell of rage, Remus brought the rifle to bear and sprayed the entire clip at Pettigrew, but it was too late. A small brown rat disappeared into a storm drain.
After the memorial service for the DEA officer and two NYPD men killed by the gang members, Remus was debriefed by a senior officer in the UCD. "There'll be the usual post-mortem formalities, but I've spoken informally to several of my superiors. They're of the opinion that nobody was to blame. There was no way to put up anti-transformation wards in time, and we'd no idea he'd have that much backup or that much firepower of his own."
"I know, I know," Remus admitted. "I just wish..."
Deputy Commisioner Bill Sachs placed a reassuring arm on the younger man's shoulder. "We've all been there, Lupin. The guys in white hats can't always win."
"That doesn't make it easier to bury colleagues, especially ones you count as friends. This psychopath has caused more than enough carnage!"
"Yeah. I need to warn you that extradition proccedures might be somewhat tricky now; we don't hand over cop-killers too readily."
"Fine by me," Remus replied with a very lupine snarl. "I'll be forwarding a recommendation to my superiors that we leave him to face trial in the United States. And personally, I hope he gets the death penalty."
Meanwhile, Peter Pettigrew was boarding a WhamTrak train for Las Vegas, blissfully unaware that he was getting most of an episode of America's Most Wanted to himself.