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Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.
Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. Italics indicate thought.
AN 2: Okay, the reason for such late posting is that my computer suffered violent, painful, COMPLETELY UNPROVOKED death, and the repair time has taken a while. Grr…Thus, the lateness is not Entirely My Fault nervous chuckle The next part will be posted in a more timely manner. Again, I offer my apologies.
Angelus POV
1:25 AM
June 21, 2005
Penthouse Apartment, Los Angeles Branch of Wolfram and Hart
Angelus hated sleeping alone. For one thing, the bed was colder. For another, bedmates were distracting. If he was lying next to his one-night stand, the older twin didn't need to think about anything. He could drift blissfully in between orgasms and ignore any darkness in his own mind.
Alone, it was different. It was harder not to ponder the mysteries of life while staring at his ceiling, the lights of the city playing across it. Some nights, Angelus' thoughts were of family. His father, sometimes, but not often. The lingering childhood bitterness tended to make such thoughts dark and pointless. Can parents ever go through their lives without doing damage to their kids? It wasn't a question Angelus could answer and, frankly, he didn't really want to try. It wouldn't do anybody any good, least of all himself, and Angelus was always looking out for number one.
Nor did he think of Kathy very much. She had made her feelings for him painfully clear the last time they had met.
-"You do terrible things," she told Angelus. They were in the hallway of their home, where their bedrooms had once been. Kathy's was still mostly intact, being as how she visited often from college. She was going to school to be journalist, and Angelus had often entertained the notion that she would probably make her debut investigating him.
"Do you really believe that Angel has never done any terrible things either?" he asked. Kathy resembled both of her brothers strongly; apparently, their gene pool was not a terribly creative one. She had all of Angel's goodness and all of Angelus' stubbornness, and that made her a force to be reckoned with.
"But you make him do it," Kathy hissed, her eyes narrowing. "Don't think I don't know what you do. Mom might not have and Dad might not care, but I do." She shoved past him and made to go down the stairs, back to their family, who were happily celebrating Thanksgiving. But as she placed her hand on the banister, she squinted and turned back to her oldest brother.
"You're a monster," Kathy told him, pretty brown eyes blazing with the righteousness of someone who had yet to be beaten down and dirtied by the world.
Kathy was what neither of her brothers could be any longer. She was an innocent. So Angelus checked the urge to snap some awful, shattering comeback. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow and smirked. With an angry huff, his sister stomped down the stairs.-
What else was there to say? It was futile to think of Kathy because it didn't matter what Angelus might consider or hope. Kathy would always believe he was a monster. She was probably right, but it still stung.
No, Angelus mostly thought of his mother. He missed her. He had never gotten to say goodbye. It was stupid and common and painful. The CEO was supposed to have no weakening emotions, no weaknesses at all. But oh, how Angelus wished he could simply call up his mom and talk about soap operas or the weather in Connecticut or any of the other things that mothers and sons found to talk about. But she was gone and no amount of money or influence could bring her back. Lying in bed, Angelus could not deny these facts. And they hurt him deeply, in a way that he refused to acknowledge.
Other lonely nights were filled with vague, guilty thoughts that could never be given form to. Those thoughts didn't keep him awake, for the most part, but they were annoying. Sometimes he thought about Angel, and the things that happened between them. But he appeased any guilty thoughts that might spring up by remembering Connor and how he had taken care of his nephew, to the best of his abilities. Some nights were filled with Darla. Others were filled with Lilah. A few, just a few, were filled with Winifred Burkle.
This was why Angelus didn't look at his own pain, most of the time. He had the quiet, solitary nights like tonight, where he could stare up at the ceiling and brood. Those were the only moments of weakness he could allow himself.
"Need to get laid," Angelus muttered as he rolled over and stared out his window. "Never brood when I get laid."
Gunn POV6: 54 AM
June 21, 2005
Boat Docks, Redgrass, Michigan
Although Gunn had never had a particular talent in math, one equation was making itself known quite loudly in his mind. Cold nights plus hard labor equaled some serious lower back pain. Because of this unfortunate equation, Gunn was currently doubled over an empty packing crate, trying and failing to straighten out his back muscles.
"Yo, Charlie, you okay?" asked Rondell. Rondell was one of Gunn's boys, a natural spy and a damn good fighter too. It was probably bad for morale to see the boss hunched over and moaning like an old man, but Gunn was unable to care.
"Yeah, I'm cool," he muttered, even though he was a couple counties over from cool.
"You don't look cool; you look like you're losing a fight with gravity." Rondell was leaning against the crate, irritatingly upright and pain-free.
Gunn hissed and tried to straighten up. Most of the muscles in his back screamed in bloody protest and he would have fallen over if Rondell hadn't grabbed him. Chuckling, the spy helped prop his boss up until Gunn could stand on his own. "What's a matter, Charlie? You gettin old?"
"No, I'm getting worn down," Gunn responded, limping along painfully. Fortunately, there weren't many people around to watch Rondell practically carry him along, so he wasn't too humiliated. "Man, my other jobs, I either sat at a desk or I fought someone. There was no lifting involved. Why do people gotta go liftin' and movin' things anyway? Can't they just stick 'em where they belong the first time?"
"You should get yourself promoted," Rondell suggested. "Sit at a nice, comfy desk, sign papers, wear a suit. We could all laugh at ya then and call you 'Mr. Gunn'."
"Y'all oughta be calling me Mr. Gunn now," the bald man growled. Oh thank God, the almost permanent cramp in his back was starting to loosen a little. Walking was less painful and Rondell wasn't supporting all of his weight now. "You just have no respect. 'Sides, I wouldn't want to hang out with those donut-eating slobs we have as bosses. They'd cramp my style."
"Whatever you say, Charlie," Rondell grinned. By the time that the pair reached the main thoroughfare out of the dockyards, Gunn was standing normally again and walking with only the occasional wince. He'd have killed for a chiropractor though. Recurring back pain could not be healthy. Surely that was written in some medical magazine somewhere?
The employees at the docks had put in a hard night's work, and now they were ready to go home. There was the palpable sense of weariness combined with relief that hung in the air as the massive stream of workers moved through the main gates out of the docks. As Gunn and Rondell drew nearer to the gate, the workers became closer and closer together, causing people to brush against each other. Once such brush resulted in something slipping into Gunn's coat pocket, the slight weight barely noticeable. A few more brushes, a few more slight weights, and Gunn was feeling very pleased. His boys and girls had been busy indeed, and that would keep the Spiky-Headed Angelus Clone (his least offensive name for the annoying white guy who was trying to order him around) off his back.
Gunn finally got to his truck, careful not to let any of the papers fall out of his pockets. The vehicle rumbled to life. Gunn didn't need some big, ugly, gas sucking SUV to make himself feel important. Besides, his truck kicked ass.
The radio was Gunn's only form of entertainment as he sat in the usual traffic jam that occurred when work at the docks ended for the night. He had long outgrown the itch to take out the papers from his pockets and scan them. It was too risky; the possibility that someone could see him looking over dozens of little papers and wondering 'What's he up to?' was too great. So Gunn tuned into the country station, the only one his truck could pick up, and tried not to grimace. Any music was better than no music at all. It helped keep him from thinking too much about the things that would put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Things like New York and the penthouse apartment he'd had once upon a time. Things like the gang he'd used to run with. Things like his sister. Music was distracting. Music was good. Even if it was that hillbilly twanging crap that went by the name of country.
When Gunn finally got onto the streets, he faced a dilemma. Where to go, where to go, the bald man wondered. He could either return to the warehouse, which was a painfully boring option, or he could go visit Anne's Diner. Yeah, he was going with that one.
Anne's Diner, while not the most creatively named restaurant, was the best in town. The fact that it was the only one in town did not matter. If there had been others, Anne's still would have been the best.
Anne Cambridge had come to Redgrass two years before Hamilton's big land grab, and in that time she had managed to make quite an impression on the townspeople. There were only two options with Anne: love her or hate her. And for the most part, people loved her. It was mostly the grouchy old folks who had a beef with her. She could have avoided that entirely if she hadn't been as open about her past. Anne had run away from home. She'd done drugs, been homeless, and been a part of not one, but two different cults.
To some people, this was appalling, disgusting, and an example of a person who should be exiled from society in general. To others, Anne was a brilliant success story. She was clean, hadn't been in touch with either cult since she'd left, and had managed to make an honest living for herself. Anne had even given a speech at the high school about the importance of getting an education and staying drug free.
From Gunn's perspective, this made Anne nearly a saint. Anne was one of the good ones, the lucky ones, the ones who cared. Plus, she was stubborn as hell. Through some legal maneuvering that Gunn admired greatly, Anne had managed to keep possession of the diner when Hamilton had bought nearly every other building in Redgrass. Currently, this made her a member of the twenty-person minority in Redgrass who weren't employed by Hamilton in some way.
Finding a parking space in the diner was hard to do, since it seemed like half the town turned up once their shifts were over to eat at Anne's. But Gunn was unconcerned with the total lack of open spaces, and parked on the street. It wasn't like Redgrass had a police force. Well, perhaps it technically did, but they were enforcers more than they were actual cops.
With a frown, Gunn noticed that one of the walls on the building had graffiti sprayed across it, and there were empty spaces where some of the bushes should have been. In addition, the door leading into the restaurant had two panes smashed out, and the empty spaces were covered with cardboard. Dammit. The cops had been here, it seemed.
When Gunn opened the door to the diner, he was hit with a blast of noise. It was, as usual for this time in the morning, packed. He scanned the crowds for any signs of Anne's blonde head, but could barely see a few feet in front due to the number of people crammed in the restaurant. The spymaster was beginning to have vague thoughts about building capacity when he heard a light, female voice call his name.
Anne was behind the cash register, looking harried. "Hey Anne," Gunn greeted as he came to stand next to her.
She smiled at him before she became distracted and needed to direct several workers to a table. Seeing three large, two-hundred pound men taking seating orders from a girl who looked like she weighed maybe a hundred pounds was an entertaining sight if Gunn had ever seen one.
After the workers had found seats, Anne returned her attention to Gunn. "Good to see you," she said cheerfully. Anne was pretty and looked every inch of the twenty-something that she was, but there was also an old look in her eyes, like she'd seen too much. And really, Gunn reflected, they all had. Everyone in this town has seen more than any person ever should.
"Yeah, sorry I couldn't come in the other day," Gunn apologized, leaning against the table that the register was on. He had to speak pretty loudly to be heard over the noise in the restaurant. "I felt like if I did, I'd fall asleep facedown in my eggs."
"Couldn't have that. People would think there was something wrong with the eggs." The blonde woman grinned, but her laughter quickly turned to a groan when she saw three more cars begin circling her lot, trying to find a place to park. "I really don't think we have anymore space. People are going to need to eat standing up."
Gunn went up on tiptoe, trying to spy an empty booth. But it seemed like Anne's was filled up for the morning, and he returned to a normal standing position, shaking his head. "Sorry, but I don't think you can squeeze in any new customers."
"Considering my diner's filled to capacity, I'm all right with that," Anne responded, rubbing her temples. Anne got migraines on an almost daily basis and they often incapacitated her. Gunn sensed that this was about to be one of those times.
"Hey, Miguel," Gunn called to one of the waiters, "take over the register. I'm taking Anne to the back."
"Sure," Miguel said cheerfully. Working the register was generally easier then taking orders, because at the register the customers didn't demand anything but seats and change.
The back of Anne's Diner was composed of the bustling kitchen, the bathrooms (which were in relatively good shape considering the people who used them), the storage room, and Anne's office. That was the one Gunn was headed towards, towing Anne along behind him.
"Really, I'm fine, just a little sick," Anne protested as Gunn pulled her along.
"If you were missing your entire lower body, you'd say you were fine, just a little sick," Gunn responded amiably. "If you were being pecked to death by chickens, you'd say you were fine, just a little sick. You're a masochist, girl, you love the pain."
Making Anne smile really did help to brighten Gunn's day. The only girl sweeter than her was Fred, and Gunn had long since decided that Fred had some sort of weird, super happy DNA.
Anne's office may have once been a fairly large closet. It was only possible to open the door about halfway before running into the desk, which had papers stacked at least a foot high. There was also a small cot shoved into the back corner, on which Anne and other employees of the diner often slept.
After making sure Anne was lying down on the cot, ("but I'm fine!"), Gunn began rummaging through her desk for the prescription strength headache medication she kept there. It was hard going, considering Anne never seemed to throw anything away. Gunn finally found the bottle in between a broken stapler and a crumpled, three-year-old McDonalds receipt.
"You're going to have to take them dry," he told her. She smiled at him from where she sat on the bed.
"You take good care of me, Charles." That gave Gunn a very warm, not particularly manly, fuzzy feeling in his chest. That grateful, affectionate look reminded him of the one that his sister had used to give him. Back before things between them had fallen apart so spectacularly.
"Ah Anne, you'd be fine on your own, you're just taking advantage of me," Gunn grinned, feeling it stretch the muscles in his face.
Anne laughed and rolled her eyes before swallowing the pills with a grimace. It was hard for Gunn, sometimes, to not equate Anne with Alonna, but he knew that wasn't fair. It wasn't right to try and use Anne to exorcise his demons and work out his sister problems.
But still, Gunn felt a sense of family as he sat in the back room of Anne's Diner, in a town filled with criminals, knowing full well that he was only there to destroy Redgrass and move on. That after he was done here, he could never risk seeing Anne again. So really, it was better to take advantage of things now.
Lorne POV
6:45 PM
June 21, 2005
1212 Whedon Street
Lorne wanted a seabreeze. That in itself was not a truly unremarkable thing. Everybody wanted something. OJ Simpson wanted the world to forget about DNA evidence. Angelina Jolie wanted to adopt the entire pre-pubescent population of Africa. Orlando Bloom wanted Johnny Depp to stop stealing his scenes in those pirate movies. People wanted things, that's the way it was.
He was almost regretting drinking all the Wal-Mart wine the first night he came. Almost, but not quite, because that stuff had truly been cheap. If it had cost over four dollars, Lorne would have been greatly surprised.
The warehouse was starting to wake up. Wesley had already wandered down the stairs, looking as prim as ever. Lorne winced at the thought of how uptight that man had to be. The brunette was quietly glancing through some papers, occasionally scribbling on them with the pencil he kept close at hand. There was nothing on the TV, meaning Lorne could either talk to Wesley or go back up to his depressing little room.
"So, what is it that you do, exactly?" the club owner asked as he flopped down in a chair next in front of Wesley's desk. Considering that everyone else in the Wolfram and Hart A-Team seemed to be dressing as inconspicuously as possible, Lorne sometimes felt out of place in his flamboyant suits. He had tried to pack his least colorful clothing, aware of the fact that people in Michigan would probably not enjoy the bright colors as much as the Angelinos did. But Lorne was still a peacock among sparrows.
The path of Wesley's eyes was easy to follow, and Lorne amused himself by watching their journey. First they were drawn to the purple suit and red shirt that he was wearing. They came up to Lorne's admittedly prominent chin, stared for a moment, and then moved on to his even more prominent nose. Finally, Wesley's baby blues came to Lorne's orange-yellow hair, before dropping down to look the club owner in the eyes.
"I, erm, file things mostly. Make phonecalls. Organize the information." Wesley gestured to the maps. "For example, Angel has been asking me to find buildings that aren't likely to have much security. Fred and Gunn are both undercover, and they have their own people who are also undercover and help to gather information." Wesley gestured to a pile of notes.
"And I just bring you gossip," Lorne added.
"Yes. Um, wait, no, that's not, uh, what I meant." Wesley, bless his little heart, was getting flustered.
"Relax, English Patient" the club owner said with a smile, "I'm only kidding." Wesley looked confused at first, but smiled back.
About half an hour passed, Wesley reading his papers and Lorne playing 'Six Degrees of Separation from Kevin Bacon' with various celebrities. He had nearly figured out George W. Bush when Angel came down the stairs, as immaculately gelled as ever.
"Well, look who's finally dragged himself out of bed," Lorne muttered, giving Angel the evil eye. The big lug was spending far too much time actually working, and Lorne felt distinctly uncomfortable with most of his other "teammates." The only one who didn't give off the impression that they were only a few traffic tickets away from Uzi-ing everyone in their path was that adorable Fred girl.
"I was working all night, Lorne, I have the right to sleep in," Angel responded, wandering towards the large cardboard box that stood atop the refrigerator. That box was where the residents of 1212 Whedon Street kept their grain products. Apparently, Angel had opted for a healthy breakfast of Ritz crackers.
"Excuse me? You were sitting in a car and walking through alleys spying on a guy in a suit from afar." Lorne snatched some of the crackers out of Angel's hand. "I, on the other hand, was inhaling cigarette smoke and beer fumes the entire night while schmoozing with criminals. Have you ever tried to get a drug dealer to tell you his deepest, darkest secrets, pudding pop?"
"Yeah," mused Angel, munching on a cracker, "but I'm pretty sure my way was more violent than yours."
"Doubtless."
The sudden burst of knocking startled Lorne so badly that he dropped the remaining Ritz onto the floor, which made him grimace. He was starving, and no longer able to survive on seabreezes, bar peanuts, and karaoke alone. Such was Lorne's hunger that he was actually considering snatching the cracker off the floor and eating it. Wasn't there a ten second rule or something?
As Angel fumbled to get the door open, Lorne instead went for a box of Triscuits. He needed something absorbent to settle his stomach after all the drinking he'd done last night.
"Anything interesting going on?" Gunn asked as he walked in the door. "And can we carve me out a secret passage or something? I'm getting tired of having to knock to get in here."
"If you get a secret passage, I'm using your shower," Angel muttered. "The other one is too crowded."
"You're just vain," Spike offered as he descended the stairs and sidestepped a box filled with papers. "Everyone else gets in and out of the bathroom just fine. You're the one who'd spend all eternity in there if we let him."
Angel shot Spike a sour look. Lorne wanted to laugh at the tension between them; it was more entertaining than TV.
Gunn settled into the easy chair next to Lorne and held his hand out for some Triscuits. Lorne considered explaining that he was on the verge of eating the cardboard box, but decided against it. He needed to bond with these people, and his instincts said that Gunn was a good person, despite his sometimes hostile 'tude.
"If we got Fred down here, we could have the meeting over and done with in a coupla minutes," Gunn observed around a mouthful of salted crackery goodness. Out of the corner of his eye, Lorne noticed Spike battling Angel for the Ritz crackers.
"I'll go get her," Wesley said quickly, sitting up so straight that Lorne was surprised his back didn't go out. The Englishman was up the stairs in record time, leaving the rest of the group staring after him, somewhat amused.
"I think Percy might fancy our girl," Spike chuckled.
"Could be," Gunn agreed.
Angel noticed his blonde partner's mischievous expression. "Leave him alone Spike."
"Oi!" the blonde man protested indignantly. "I haven't done anything to the git besides make fun of him a little. I do that to everyone. You're the crazy bastard who was threatening him at gunpoint."
Lorne felt the temperature drop a noticeable amount, especially around Gunn's corner of the room. The bald man was glaring through narrowed eyes at Angel, his expression of anger not concealed at all. Apparently Gunn had not known this little tidbit of gossip.
"I didn't threaten him," Angel replied calmly, pretending not to feel the Death Glare that Gunn was sending him. "I offered him some advice. He pulled out the gun first."
"Oh, 'he started it'. Real mature," Spike snorted. Gunn looked ready to throw down with Angel and Lorne was already wincing. He was a pacifist by nature. A lover, not a fighter. The possibility of having to be involved heavy-duty, Matrix-style violence was one of the reasons the club owner had been extremely reluctant to join Team Angelus. Well, that and the whole kamikaze-come-home-victorious-or-don't-bother-coming-home-at-all feel that the operation had.
Fortunately, any unpleasantness was prevented by the appearance of Fred. It seemed none of the males were willing to give in to their macho instincts when the skinny Texas ray of sunshine was around, and for that Lorne loved her even more. "Hey guys," she greeted, unaware of what she'd just interrupted. "I hope y'all weren't waitin' on me?"
"Nope," Gunn said quickly.
"We were just-" Angel began.
"-Talking," Spike finished, and the two gave each other self-satisfied nods.
"All right." Fred smiled a little wider, and Lorne wondered what in all the levels of Hell was this sweet girl was doing working for Angelus. He had a sneaking suspicion that the answer was not something that should see the light of day. The club owner tried to put that out of his mind as Fred took a seat in the lawn chair next to him.
"Ah, I believe we were starting the meeting," Wesley intoned, sitting at his big desk. Despite seeming very content surrounded by books, the Englishman was looking more and more worn out. It made Lorne nervous. The entire operation made him nervous. "Gunn, I've recorded most of your notes, but would you mind telling everyone else?" Damned if Wesley didn't resemble a teacher trying to prod his students into speaking.
"Sure." Gunn rubbed his neck. "The eastern part of the docks is the most vulnerable. Fewest guards, and only one dog. I'm having my people try and break the lock on the fence around the place, but it'll take them awhile. The shoreline where the ships and cargo come in is too well guarded to stage any sort of attack. The southern edge where the workers come in is littered with cameras, which we could get around. It'd be tricky though. As for the western edge, well, we'd need a whole helluva lot of Milkbones to get through." At the uncomprehending looks of the others, Gunn elaborated, "Dogs. A bunch of 'em, and their handlers all have guns. The western edge is where they store the cargo, and it's like a fortress. We don't have any spies in there."
Angel sighed. "That's okay, we'll work around that. Somehow."
Gunn snorted and rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that one."
The detective was making a valiant effort not to look annoyed as he asked, "What about the workers in general. I don't mean our spies. The actual criminals."
"What about them?"
"How do they feel about the management?"
Looking perplexed, Gunn answered, "Uh, they aren't exactly doing jumping for joy over Hamilton, but I don't think they hate him or any of his flunkies. At least not in my neck of the woods."
"Some people complain," Lorne chimed in, happy to have something to contribute. He might not like his forced assignment, but he hated feeling useless. "No one seems like they're about to snap, but there are plenty of people who don't like their bosses, or their paychecks, or the people they have to work with. It's a business; someone's always going to be unhappy."
That particular bit of news made Angel perk up a bit, which was not exactly comforting to Lorne. He was not used to seeing Angel the Criminal. It worried him a little. He'd seen people get pulled into the darkness and never get away. Angel had gotten out once. Lorne wasn't so sure the big guy could do it again.
"What about you, Fred?" Wesley asked, casting her puppy dog eyes that were probably unintentional.
"Um, not much to report. We're still getting steady shipments from Venezuela. Knox is trying to negotiate the weapons deal with the group from Rwanda, but there are difficulties. They might end up sending people here to try and negotiate." The most bizarre thing about Fred discussing weapons was how pleasant she looked. Like she was talking about a sunny day or her niece's birthday party. It was a little bit creepy, in Lorne's opinion. Maybe she did belong at Wolfram and Hart, and that was a scary thought if there ever was one.
"Be sure and tell us if they actually come," Angel instructed her. He had a cunning look in his eyes. The gears in his head were obviously hard at work. It reminded Lorne of Angelus, which was not good at all.
"What about you Lorne?" Wesley asked, pencil poised expectantly over a notebook.
Lorne swallowed. "Um, some of the, er, prostitutes don't speak English, and the bouncers at the brothels don't really appreciate it. I get the impression the girls and the employees get along well." The club owner strained his mind trying to remember anything else of importance. This wasn't fair! Everyone else had specific assignment, but his job was to listen and try to find something important in the dull myriad of things that are inevitably told to bartenders. Oh, hey…"I think Mayor Wilkins is having some sort of disagreement with Hamilton. Some of the security guards at Town Hall were taking bets on whether or not the two of them would start screaming at each other."
At that news, a slow smile (more of a smirk, really) spread across Angel's face. "A fight with Hamilton, huh? Wes, how long has Wilkins been the mayor?"
"Ah," Wesley went to a box at the side of his desk that had the words 'Richard Wilkins III/Mayor' written on it in small, precise letters. After rummaging through it for a moment, he pulled out a sheet of paper and answered, "He was mayor the year that Hamilton took over. Apparently he helped Hamilton make his land grab. Being as how Redgrass no longer has mayoral elections, it's safe to assume that Wilkins will remain mayor until Hamilton decides otherwise."
"So he's definitely an ally," Spike summarized.
"But allies don't always get along," Angel pointed out. He was tapping his fingers absentmindedly as he thought. "Wilkins had control over the entire town before Hamilton took over. It's possible he's resentful of that."
"Guns," Fred said suddenly, sitting up straight. A few strands of hair fell from the messy bun she had pinned at the nape of her neck.
"Beg pardon?" Wesley asked in confusion.
"I remember Knox telling me that Wilkins didn't like the weapons deals that came into Redgrass," Fred explained.
"Uh, excuse me for asking, but who's Knox?" Lorne asked. He had yet to memorize all of the major players in this Bizarro World Stepford town.
"My boss," she explained quickly. "Anyway, Mayor Wilkins doesn't approve of the arms deals that we make. He thinks it's bringing too many outsiders into Redgrass, and that it'll lead to the town being uncovered."
"Wesley, do we have anyone who is close enough to the mayor to know his personal habits?" Angel looked like he'd just found the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle he'd been working on for months.
"Yes. His personal assistant is on our payroll."
Angel smiled. "Spike and I are going to be staking out his house tomorrow."
"Any particular reason, O Poofy One?" Spike asked, raising his scarred eyebrow.
"I have a plan," was the smirking response.
Spike sighed. "Oh goody."
TBC