Michael took Gavin's death the hardest. It had been his idea to go to the at the Doorbell, it had been him who didn't shoot the bagged fuck before he stabbed Gavin, it had been his fault Gavin died. In the hours since Beardo, or whatever that cunt's name was, murdered Gavin, Michael had sworn vengeance to every higher power he could think of. He alternated between carefully cleaning his rifle, pacing around the penthouse, and sitting on the balcony. He and Gavin had spent long hours on that balcony, leaning over the rails, beers in hand, discussing some stupid hypothetical situation or taking pot shots at shit they threw off the balcony or just standing in a comfortable silence.
What Michael wouldn't give to make fun of that dumb British accent one more time.
He hadn't washed the blood off his face and arms from leaning over Gavin's body and sobbing. Ryan was the one to pull Michael off, once he returned from his chase of that fucker Beardo, or whatever that asswipe was called. Ryan would never admit it, but Beardo had pulled off the cleanest getaway that he had ever seen. At least with Dave, there had been some surveillance footage, but all the security cameras had been disabled before Beardo even entered the building. Jack held Michael whilst Ryan covered up the markings on Gavin's chest, made a fake id card for him, and took his body to the hospital morgue.
It was the hardest thing Ryan ever had to do for the Crew. He barely held himself together behind his mask, telling himself over and over that this was the only option for Gavin to get a burial outside of a shallow grave in a field on the outskirts of the city; they had no way to take his body, and nothing would change the fact that he was dead. When Ryan slid his body into the morgue refrigerator, he took one last look at Gavin, once so full of life and questions and the best tech specialist he had ever seen, still and silent in death.
Jack refused to let anyone see him mourn. He could barely speak more than one word at a time without his voice cracking, so he chose not to speak at all. He couldn't blink without tears flooding his eyes, so he slapped on a pair of sunglasses. Jack drove the Crew back to the penthouse, Jack sent a text to Gavin's open-secret girlfriend Meg, Jack slipped right back into his new routine of coordinating the jobs of the Crew. Jack appeared to be completely unaffected by Gavin's death, a facade which earned him a whole speech of profanities from Michael. Michael had shut up and left him alone the second Jack shot him a blank stare that spoke volumes about how internalized his pain was.
The paranoia wasn't helping Jack much, either. Two of the Main Crew murdered in as many days? It didn't sit well with Jack at all, and he transferred three teams from mercenary work to guards for the penthouse building. The transfer eased Jack's mind for a while, and the four shots of vodka eased it further. It made the thought of going out to collect the money from the fronts in the city almost bearable. Almost.
Jeremy had gone out to collect what information he could on this new rival gang. He was new enough to the Crew that his face wasn't plastered on telephone poles with a large bounty underneath, so Jeremy could saunter into any crime den in the city, Crew affiliated or not, order a drink, and chat up some informants. The Pit was one such fine establishment; a Crew owned bar with a side room full of weapons with a questionable legal status. Jeremy personally hated The Pit, but anyone who wanted to make a move against the Main Crew would likely need to stock up on weapons.
The Pit was never overly busy, but a liquor license and cheap ammo kept a steady stream of patrons in the doors. The only true regulars were the arms dealers, about five men and women who each got their goods from different sources. Most of them had foreign contacts, but occasionally a weapons factory employee would get bold. Every few months, one of the dealers wouldn't show up around their regular times, and another looking for money would quietly slip into the regular crowd.
Jeremy sat down at the bar and ordered a drink. He had barely taken his first sip when a young woman in expensive looking clothes slid into the seat next to him. "Come here often?" She asked, flagging down the bartender.
"When things at work get rough." Jeremy recognized her almost immediately. Mica Burton. She had been selling at The Pit longer than Jeremy had been in the Crew, much less the Main Crew, never disappearing like the other dealers had dozens of times over. If the rumors were true, her father was rich, and Mica had been skimming off his wealth for years to fund her arms deals. The one time she was confronted about the rumors, she broke a man's arm and politely informed him that she had clawed to the top with her own money.
"Aw, bad day at the office?"
"You could say that."
The bartender placed a brightly colored drink in front of Mica. "Y'know," she said, running her finger around the edge of the glass, "this seems to be the place to go when everything's gone to shit."
Jeremy chuckled and shifted in his seat. His mind flooded with possibilities to find out what he needed to know without blowing his cover. Jeremy knew that Mica knew that he knew she sold weapons. The trick was getting her to believe that he was just a simple mercenary. "And why's that?"
"They sell the best drinks in the city here." Mica always hated running through the motions, getting her clients to buy a gun or grenade or rocket launcher without ever saying the name of a weapon. Still, it kept her relatively safe from any cop that tried to bust her, which was more than she could say about some of the other dealers that had been led out of The Pit in handcuffs.
Jeremy snorted and placed his beer glass down on the bar. "I'd never figure that out."
"Might be because you're used to shit," Mica replied. She glanced up at the bartender and winked. "I could get you something with a little more kick." Mica finished her drink and stood up. "Unless you're chicken." She slipped off to a nondescript door and disappeared through it after a quick glance back. Jeremy sighed, and followed her, patting the knife hidden in his belt.
He was a little uncomfortable with how much Mica's script felt like prostitution, especially the whole following her into a darkened room. On the other hand, Jeremy was impressed with the whole escort cover; it was much more likely to get a blind eye from cops, even ones that hadn't been bribed to hell and back.
"So, what exactly did you have in mind?" Mica asked. She had perched herself on the edge of a metal table, which took up a majority of the floor space in the room.
"Oh, I'm not looking to buy," Jeremy answered, closing the door behind him. "I'm looking for a buyer."
"No deal, kid. All my clients are anonymous and confidential." Mica pulled out a small pistol and passed it from hand to hand. She didn't mean it as an outright threat, Mica liked to let her more confrontational buyers know that she was never unarmed.
Jeremy frowned. As much as he should've counted on Achievement City's most successful arms dealer carrying a weapon, it had completely slipped his mind with all the drama of the day. He had literally brought a knife to a gun fight. "I'm not looking to fight, either," Jeremy said, holding up his hands. "I want information, and I'm willing to pay. Well."
"And who's saying I have the information you want?" Mica casually twirled her pistol around her finger.
"You're the biggest weapons dealer in the city. Word is, no deal goes through without your input."
Mica chuckled. "My reputation precedes me, then." She jumped off the table and stepped towards Jeremy. "So, who're you looking for? This just screams 'revenge'."
"I want to know who made the biggest purchase in the past month."
Mica stared at him a second, then began to laugh. She patted him hard on the shoulder. "You're out of your depth, kid," she said after regaining her composure. "The Fake AH Crew's been buying up most of the city's stock for the past year. If you're hunting the Crew, you might as well kill yourself now. Nobody fucks with them and lives to tell about it."
Jeremy scowled. "Then who's the second biggest buyer?"
"Freelancers," Mica said, pinching Jeremy's cheeks. "Might be one of your mercenary buddies, assuming you are a merc. Listen, if this is your first time getting "revenge"," Mica gave exaggerated air quotes, "you might want to hire someone a little more experienced."
Jeremy slouched. This had gotten him nowhere, and Mica was no closer to giving out names than she had at the beginning of their interaction. "One more question."
"Shoot." Mica made a finger gun with her empty hand, and 'shot' it at the wall.
"If fucking with the Crew is suicide, then why was Geoff Ramsey's murder all over the news?"
Mica froze. "Do I look like some detective to you? What happens in the Crew is none of my business. As long as someone is putting money in my pocket, I don't care who runs this city," she snapped, glaring at Jeremy. "Look kid, stay out of things that don't concern you. The Crew is fucking dangerous. Almost all the high explosives in the city go to them through one dealer or another, and I heard they broke into the military base and stole two jets just to try and land a motorcycle on them. They're crazy, heavily armed, and well funded."
"And that's your expert opinion?"
"That's my sane opinion. Now do you want to buy something or not?"
Jeremy paused. If most of the weapons went to the Crew, could it be possible that all the independent mercs were trying to move in? "Are there any deals that you don't know about?"
"I don't know about any deals. I don't even know why you're back here," Mica raised her gun. "Only paying customers are allowed."
"Aggressive business model." Jeremy felt for the door handle behind him.
"Thanks," Mica said. Jeremy opened the door. "A word of advice, kid: stop asking so many damn questions."
Geoff gasped, sitting up sharply and immediately hitting his head. "Motherfucker!" he cursed. His head hurt like hell, not entirely from busting it on whatever was a few inches above his face. He felt around and found not much space around him. Geoff cursed again. Outside of his tiny prison, he could hear muffled voices moving closer.
Great, someone finally got the drop on him and shoved him into a cooler. What kind of fucker shoves The Geoff Ramsey into a tiny ass cooler? A soon to be dead fucker, that's who. Probably that dickbag Dave. That was the last thing Geoff could remember, Dave pulling a gun on him and screaming about some other bitch moving in on his city. Dumbass must've panicked and knocked him out.
Geoff started banging on the sides of the cooler, trying to get the attention of whoever was talking about some stupid shit outside. There would be hell to pay when Geoff gets out. "Hey, assholes!" Geoff yelled, accenting each syllable with a hit to the side of the cooler. Some clattering made it to inside Geoff's cooler. Good, he scared them.
Geoff calmed down slightly when he heard a hiss of the cooler being open. Instead of light pouring in from above him, like Geoff would've expected from a cooler, it came from just above his head. Suddenly, Geoff was being pulled out of his cooler headfirst, and he sprang up to a fighting position almost immediately.
Two people in long, white doctors gowns stared at him. One passed out, and the other ran screaming. "Shit, don't do that!" Geoff said, running after the doctor. Geoff tackled the doctor down. "Where the hell am I?"
The doctor didn't stop screaming. Geoff sighed and bashed the doctor's head into the ground for the silence. He stood up and looked around. Three examination tables stood in the middle of the room, and a row of stainless steel fridges dominated one wall. The fridge that Geoff had formerly occupied rested open.
A morgue.
Well, no time like the present. Geoff picked up the unconscious doctors and shoved them in their own fridges. "See how you like it," he muttered. Geoff suddenly realized that at some point, he'd been stripped of his fine-ass suit. A quick search left it no where to be found, but Geoff did find some decent scrubs and a doctor coat. Geoff strolled out of the morgue. It certainly wasn't the strangest situation he'd ever found himself in.
The rest of the Crew just might die laughing when Geoff told them some fucker shoved him in a morgue.