o()o
Author's Note: Happy 30th Chapter guys! Yeah, I know this is a speedy update, but I'm an attention whore, so what can you do?
Nifty Fact for the Day: Cosa is Spanish for thing, Malparido means bastard or son-of-a-bitch
o(30)o
The loud pounding on his hotel room door jolted Smecker out of his dismal excuse for sleep. Groaning, he slid out of bed, reaching for a robe that was haphazardly tossed over one of the chairs.
This had better be good. He thought irritably, this had better be the friggin' end of the world as we know it.
Tying the robe securely around his waist, he flung open the door, ready to give whoever had the balls to hassle him this early an earful. The friggin' sun wasn't even up yet for God's sake and here this asshole was . . .
The angry words he had been planning died on his tongue when he saw Connor and Murphy standing in the doorway, their faces drawn and grim. Both men were fully dressed and Smecker could tell that, under their thick coats, they were both wearing their guns.
His gut immediately went cold at the sight of the brothers. "What's happened?" he asked, gesturing them inside
"They took Danae." Murphy's voice was choked and Smecker watched as Connor placed a comforting hand on the back of his brother's neck, squeezing slightly.
There was no need to ask who they were, but Smecker's sleep numbed mind was still a little reluctant to catch on to what Murphy was saying. "The girl?"
"Aye. They took her from her job and left us a chunk of her fuckin' hair as a warning." Connor said, his voice low.
Frowning, Smecker ran a hand over his face, trying to force himself further into wakefulness. "Why her?"
The brothers exchanged a glance, some lightning fast message being relayed, and Murphy looked down at his shoes. "Because o' me." He said softly.
"You?"
"Don't make me spell it out for ye, Smecker."
Oh.
"Someone must've connected her ta us." Connor continued, again reaching out to console his twin.
Throughout the conversation Murphy had grown paler with each word spoken, his eyes stricken and pained; and Connor, although undoubtedly unthinkingly, mirrored his brother each time Murphy winced.
"What the hell happened here, you guys?" he said, "I can't help you properly if I don't know the whole story."
Connor sighed, "The fellows that took Danae called us. They. . ." He stopped, swallowing, "They hurt her so we could hear it."
"Jesus Christ." Smecker grimaced at the idea and Murphy made a quiet noise of distress deep in his throat. "How did they find her?"
"I lost something she had given me at the warehouse during the mission." Murphy said, the words coming out barely above a whisper, "The fuckin' thing was in the envelope with her hair, and someone must o' found it and recognized it."
"Impossible." Smecker said. "That scene hasn't even been cleared yet. Nobody but the police gets in until then, and nothing like that has been turned in as evidence."
"Besides," Connor interjected "We didn't leave anyone alive ta find it. There's no way . . ."
Connor was still speaking, but Smecker missed the words as the last puzzle piece clicked into place in his mind. If there were only cops allowed at the scene and all the Street Priests were dead then it only made sense that a cop had found the bracelet.
A cop, working with the Street Priests, someone who had access not only to this latest crime scenes, but the previous ones as well. Someone who had access to all the records and reports and could alter them as needed.
And there it was, that sensation of lining up the dozens of tiny details and creating a perfect, rational, picture of exactly what happened. He couldn't help but smile; damn he loved that feeling.
Eureka.
"What's so fuckin' funny?" Murphy's eyes had gone dangerously dark, losing the rueful look he'd been wearing since they had arrived beside him Connor stiffened also eyes narrowing as he frowned.
"I think I know who to talk to about your friend."
"What the fuck are ye talkin' about?"
Sighing, Smecker ran a hand through his hair, "Let's just get down to the precinct, I'll explain along the way."
Connor opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short, eyes widening as he glanced at something behind Smecker, his eyebrows darting up towards his hairline. Looking, the agent noticed a matching expression spreading across Murphy's features and the brothers shared a fleeting, amused look.
Glancing behind him, Smecker saw Nigel standing there, cigarette in hand, naked as the day he was born.
The Asian man lifted an impish eyebrow. "Old boyfriends?" he inquired, dark eyes flitting from Connor to Murphy.
The twins exchanged another glance, this one less amused and more alarmed.
"No!" they both exclaimed as one, eyes wide.
Turning, Smecker gave Nigel a hard smack to his backside. "Get dressed and get out."
Unperturbed, Nigel took a drag off of his cigarette and blew the smoke in Smecker's face
"Bitch." He said coyly before turning and sauntering off, humming under his breath.
Fighting the blood that was trying to rush to his face, Smecker returned his attention to the MacManuses, who were looking at him with identical knowing expressions.
"Knock it off." He snapped. "We have work to do."
o()o
Bill Croghan was having a downright shitty day. The chief had dragged him out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn to go and inspect some dump of a crime scene at the other end of town, apparently the detective who was supposed to be there was off with his wife, having a baby or some shit like that. It was a shame that the week had started off so well only to end so poorly.
He'd gone to Arturo at the beginning of the week delighted with what he had found in the FBI agent's briefcase. That faggot had been working with the sons of bitches that were taking out the Street Priests all along and now he had proof. He could take Smecker down and had just given Arturo his vigilantes.
It couldn't have been more perfect
He had been examining the bracelet thoughtfully as Arturo made plans on finding these men through the FBI agent when a dark, oily, hand had shot out, grabbing his wrist.
"Where the fuck did you get that?" the greaseball holding his wrist had sneered.
"None of your goddamn business," Croghan had snapped back, trying to reclaim his hand, but the schmuck had held on, wrenching his hand up for Arturo to see.
"I've seen this before Señor Mendoza," the asswipe had said, his spiteful grin showing teeth that had, at best, had a nodding acquaintance with a toothbrush in the past year.
"Let me go you candy-assed moron."
Arturo had stopped mid-sentence, giving both men a look usually reserved for the guardians of squabbling children. "Bring it here." He had said softly, dark eyebrows arching.
Snatching the bracelet from Croghan's hand, the greasy piece of shit had practically skipped up to Arturo, dangling it in front of the older man's face.
"Where did you get this?" Arturo had asked Croghan, his face still deceptively calm.
"The warehouse," Croghan had replied, beginning to sweat under the Spaniard's intense stare, "While I was investigating this latest attack."
"I've seen this cosa before!" the shit-eater had repeated, his voice rising in excitement.
"So you've mentioned, Tomas." Arturo had said, holding out his hand for the bracelet. Croghan had to give the man credit; the bastard had the patience of a saint for dealing with prats like these. Dimly he wondered why, aside from a select few, most of the Sacerdotes seemed to be dangerously close to brain-damaged. "Where?"
"When Carlos and I was at the hospital, looking for those malparidos that took out the first shipment! The bitch at the desk was wearing it."
Arturo had cocked an interested eyebrow. "Are you certain?"
"Si. She was typing and her fingers were going so fast and Carlos said he'd like to have hands that fast wrapped around his . . ."
"I see." The older man had interrupted, giving the shitstain a disdainful look before turning his attention to Croghan. "And you're certain that his was at the warehouse?"
Croghan had simply nodded his reply.
Turning his attention to the bright rainbow of crystal beads in his hand, Arturo had given a ghost of a smile. "Then, Tomas, I think you should get Ramiro and pay a visit to the hospital as soon as you're able. Bring this girl to me; I want to see what she knows about our vigilantes."
Now, drinking coffee that could be used to run a lawnmower, looking at the chalk outline and splatter of blood where a body used to be, Croghan sighed. It really was time to retire. From being a detective on the force, from being an associate of the Sacerdotes, from everything. It was only a matter of time until the shit he was messing with got him killed.
"Detective Croghan?"
Looking toward the voice, he suppressed the urge to groan seeing Agent Queer-As-A-Football-Bat Smecker standing just outside the yellow tape, beckoning to him.
"What can I do for you, Agent?" The words were civil enough, but Croghan didn't have the energy to fake his normal pleasantries this morning.
"You can come with me for a minute." Apparently, the agent didn't have the energy for phony cheer either.
Sighing wearily, Croghan made his way over to Smecker, frowning. After so long on the force, he had honed a sort of instinct for danger, a sixth sense that warned him of approaching peril. It had saved his live more than once during his career.
Maybe it was the early morning, or maybe he was just getting old, but by the time that instinct kicked in, Croghan's arm was firmly twisted behind his back and there was the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.
"Let's have a chat." A thickly lilting voice sneered in his ear as he was hauled away from the crime scene and into a shadowy alley nearby. "And if yer thinkin' about callin' out, me brother here will happily blow yer fuckin' head off afore ye get a fuckin' breath drawn."
The gun against his head dug in painfully to illustrate the point being made and Croghan nodded, trying to keep calm. That painstakingly honed, but apparently pretty goddamn rusty, sixth sense was now screaming that he was in serious trouble.
"Let's talk about the girl." A new voice said behind his ear. The lilt, Mick by the sound of it, was the same as the first voice, but the unadulterated malice in the new tone made a shudder try to skitter its way up Croghan's spine.
"I don't know anything about a girl."
"Wrong fuckin' answer." The second voice snarled and Croghan heard the telltale sound of the gun being cocked. "Try the fuck again."
"A girl." A sharp rap of the gun against his skull punctuated the first speaker's words. "She worked at the hospital." Rap. "Her name is Danae." Rap. "And ye turned her over ta the fuckin' Street Priests."
"That wasn't my intention." The words earned him vicious shake.
"The fuck it wasn't!" the second voice shouted angrily. "Do ye know what they're doin' ta her? Do ye have any fuckin' idea . . ."
"Murph." The first voice said softly, a gentle warning.
"Murph?" Croghan repeated, "Listen, Murph, I don't know who told you I had anything to do with this girl's kidnapping, but I didn't."
"Ye picked up her fuckin' bracelet at the warehouse, didn't ye?" The fist voice was calmer than the second, but Croghan could still hear the anger bubbling just under the surface of the words.
He closed his eyes as realization gave him a sharp kick in the balls. Here were his vigilantes. He'd spent so much time looking for them it had never occurred to him that they'd be looking for him as well. But they had found him first and he could tell that they weren't bluffing about blowing his brains out. He was eyeballs deep in shit now.
"Yeah." He said weakly. "I found it."
"And ye took it to the Street Priests?"
"Yeah." Damn. The Sacerdotes had screwed him royally this time; there was no way he was going to talk his way out of this disaster.
"Then I'd say ye fuckin' had everything ta do with her bein' taken."
"And now yer goin' ta tell us where the fuck she is." Murph chimed in, his tone changing from smoldering fury to icy rage with startling speed.
"I don't know where she is!"
"Lyin's a sin, detective." The gun barrel bit deeper into his scalp and Croghan felt a wet trickle of blood where the skin had split. A forceful kick to the back of his legs drove him to his knees and he froze when the barrel of a second gun was pressed just inches away from the first.
"This is yer last fuckin' chance."
o()o
Author's Note II: What do you guys think about Smecker and Nigel, is it worth a closer look?