It's becoming kind of a theme. Not sleeping, he means.
Tuesday's a late night at the office, organizing the details for the Ortiz funeral – and he has to call it that, because it feels kind of like he's got an engine block on his chest when he even thinks the name 'Letty' – and figuring out who's gonna be where and what they need to be looking for. There's a lot of room for shit to go south with this one. A lot of shit they got to think about.
There's Braga's crew. Now that Letty's been outed, everyone around her is fair game. It wouldn't be the first time someone hit a snitch's funeral, and knowing who all's gonna be there, Brian's not taking any chances.
Which brings him to his second problem: everyone that's gonna be there. He knows there's gonna be Mia, and that's enough trouble on its own. It's already everything he can do to keep Stasiak and his posse of pricks off her; it's half how he got in this mess in the first place.
The real problem isn't Mia, though. It's still a Toretto – fuck, he thinks, it's always a Toretto – it's just not that one.
Dom's gonna be there. He may not be there at the service, but he's gonna be someplace in eyeshot, watching, and he's definitely gonna be back in town. And damned if that doesn't throw on a whole other heap of shit that Brian really doesn't need right now. Because Stasiak…he wants Dom bad. Brian doesn't think it's just about sticking it to him, either. Dom's a big fish. Maybe the biggest. He's the FBI's 'one that got away' and the guy that brings him down…shit, he'll have it made. Big office, big paycheck, big name, and that's all a little fuck like Stasiak cares about.
Sticking it to Brian's just a bonus.
The only thing keeping Stasiak from bringing heat down on Mia is his deal with Brian. Except it's not really a deal, because that makes it sound like both people are getting something out of it. Brian knows he's being used; he just doesn't have any other options.
With Dom back in the states, though, that's just more incentive, and Brian's thinking that might run the risk of tipping the scales. If Stasiak thinks he can get him, he might lean on Mia anyway, and then everything Brian's trying to do – keeping the closest thing he's ever had to a family, even if he's lost it, safe – and everything he's done…it'll all be for shit.
So, yeah, that's a problem. And Brian's always been one to roll with the punches, always been one to keep his cool, but those punches are coming a lot harder and the heat's getting a lot hotter, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep this up.
Only, like he said: he doesn't have a choice.
It's almost midnight by the time Brian finishes up at the office and makes it home. He doesn't even bother to turn on the light, just walks in, toeing off his shoes and shedding his clothes as he goes, until he's dropping onto his bed in his undershirt, boxer briefs, and a single sock that just wouldn't let go.
He doesn't actually have any trouble falling asleep tonight. Not that he doesn't have a lot on his mind, but he's just too damn tired. He's out before his head even hits the pillow.
He's waking back up just as fast, though. Or, at least, it feels that way. It feels like he's just barely closed his eyes before he's opening them again, because his phone's buzzing on his bedside table. And he knows that's what it is, without even opening his eyes, because that sound…that sound haunts what little sleeps he gets.
He wants to let it ring. Wants to just ignore it, roll over, maybe put a pillow over his head, and pretend he doesn't hear it. He probably should, too, because he knows that answering that phone means something bad's about to happen, not just to him, but to someone else because of him. That alone should be enough to make him ignore it. Or, even better, grab it and throw the damn thing across the room and watch it shatter on the wall. It wouldn't be the first time.
That gets expensive, though, and it's not like it helps. So, instead, he pushes himself up, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed and grabbing up the phone. It's not buzzing anymore, but he isn't expecting it to. It's never a call; it's always a text. The number's always private, and the message always says the same damn thing.
Same place. 1 hour.
Above it, the clock on his phone reads 1:36, and he should be upset that the prick's got to text him now, but honestly, that's the least upsetting thing about this text. This shit isn't exactly the kind of stuff that happens in broad daylight, anyway.
He sighs, sitting his phone back on his bedside table and running his hands through his hair. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to do this shit anymore. He's spent so long being everyone's pawn – the LAPD's, US Customs, and now fucking Stasiak's – and he's just so fucking tired of it.
This time, though, it's not just about him. The LAPD, Customs…he was doing all that for himself. He could back out, and that made it bearable. This, he's doing for them, and that means there's no backing out. He'll see this through until the end, whatever the hell that means.
So, he pushes himself to his feet, and fuck, he's definitely feeling that fall, now. He pads over to his drawers, grabs some jeans and a sweatshirt, because this isn't exactly dressing-up work, and he shrugs them all on with the mechanic ease of someone that's done something many, many times, and has resigned himself to doing it many, many more.
He crouches to open the bottom drawer, moving socks and shit out of the way to lift the false bottom. There's a gun there, because bringing his registered service weapon would just be stupid, along with a knife, gloves, and a balaclava, and he grabs all of them before making for the door.
His foot's a little heavy on the drive, but then, his foot's always a little heavy, and there's not that much traffic out this time of morning. Besides, the sooner he gets this done with, the better.
The gates are open when he arrives, just like they always are. He guesses it's about as close to rolling out the welcome mat as he's ever going to get, but truth be told, it doesn't make him feel very welcome. It makes him feel expected, and he hates that. He hates that Stasiak knows he'll be here, hates that he knows he's got him backed into a corner, almost as much as he hates being backed into that corner.
At least, he thinks, they're on even turf. The "same place" is the truck loading and storage bay under the actual FBI headquarters, because one of Stasiak's crew works in security for evidence. He shuts off the cameras. No eyes, no witnesses, no mess.
When he gets out, he doesn't know if he's happy or annoyed to see no signs of Stasiak in the garage. Happy, because he can't stand the guy, and even the shittiest situation is made a little less shitty when he's not around. Annoyed, because he knows that Stasiak's at home sleeping so he can be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for their funeral detail later that morning, and shit, Brian thinks, they're his damn messes. He should at least lose a little sleep over cleaning them up.
God knows Brian does.
But no, there's no sign of Stasiak. There's a car there, but standing by it is a different guy. Brian thinks his name might be Randy? DEA guy, if he's not mistaken, working on the Braga task force. He's big and burly with a shaved head – Brian wants to laugh at him, because he's only ever seen one person pull that off, and he's so not him, it's funny – and beady eyes, and his chest and arms are all so thick, it looks like he's having a hard time keeping them crossed.
"Stasiak send you here so he could get his beauty sleep?" Brian says by way of greeting, leaning back against his car. He doesn't want to be anywhere close to that guy, so the few yards between their cars are good. "He says jump, you say how high, right?"
Randy doesn't answer, but his scowl deepens, and he flings something at Brian with just a little more force than Brian thinks is really necessary.
Brian catches it anyway. He's always had pretty good resources, and back when he worked at DT's, they didn't believe walking over to hand each other shit. And damned if he doesn't make himself a little sad, thinking back like that. Those were the best times of his life, and now look at him.
Sad or not, though, the fact remains that, after catching a couple torque wrenches, a rolled-up folder's nothing. Brian snatches it out of the air, and doesn't bother asking for an explanation, because he knows he's not gonna get it. He rolls the rubber band off, and opens up the folder, and looks for himself.
It's a record. There's a mug shot, a rap sheet, and a shit ton of other documents that Brian could read if he had the time and patience, only he doesn't have either, so he decides it's time to try talking to the wall again. "Jarrod Guillermo," he says, and he knows he butchers the last name, but he doesn't give a shit. "I've heard this name before." He's seen the face before, actually.
"What do you want? A prize?" Randy snaps.
Brian chuckles despite himself, shaking his head. "That's cute. Are all you dirty cops this funny? Because I think I might've pegged you all wro—"
"Don't you ever shut up?"
"Not even when I'm sleeping." He says it with a seriousness that isn't completely fake. He actually does talk in his sleep, apparently. And move. A lot. It's a problem. "So, what am I doing here?"
"Stasiak wants you to pay Guillermo a visit."
Brian nearly winces at the word. Visit. How many times has he paid visits to people in the last few months? "I'm guessing you don't mean the social kind."
Randy ignores him. "He's a local drug dealer, works with Braga. Stopped paying his dues, and the boss's thinking he might be getting a little wild."
"Yeah? And what am I supposed to do about it?" He's kind of got an idea already; he just wants to know specifically how bad his morning's about to be.
And how bad Guillermo's is gonna be.
"Make sure he ain't gonna flip on us if his number comes up on the roster for the Braga investigation." He pushes off his car and takes a few steps forward, and Brian forces himself to stay leaning back against his car, legs and arms crossed, the picture of cool. "And persuade him to make good on his financial arrangements."
Persuade. There's another word that Brian's not to fond of. On the other hand, though, the whole financial arrangements bit is kind of a relief. If Stasiak wants to keep getting his bribes, that means he needs Guillermo alive. If it weren't for that….
Brian doesn't like to think about it.
"So, how's Stasiak want me to do this?" He's learning there are a lot of ways to make people do what someone wants them to, and it's bad enough that he has to do this shit; he'll let Stasiak do the thinking on it.
But then Randy smirks – and holy shit, that's a jacked up grill – and Brian thinks that maybe Stasiak's thinking isn't gonna be the best guiding light if he wants to keep his conscience anywhere close to intact.
"Put the fear of God in him, O'Conner," Randy practically purrs, and Brian feels his stomach give a sick sort of turn. He doesn't say anything, just clenches his jaw and tries to keep his face steady as Randy backs away and gets back in his car. It starts to move, and Brian thinks for a minute that he might be going, but just as he's passing Brian, he stops.
It's all Brian can do not to groan.
"And O'Conner, Stasiak wants it done by that bitch Ortiz's funeral," Randy says, leaning one massive arm out the window of his car. Brian wants to wipe that smug ass look right off his face, but something tells him he'd live to regret it. "It'd be a shame to have to bring Mia Toretto in for questioning during the funeral. Imagine what a scene that'd make."
He drives away then, before Brian can reach in the window and drag him out and show him the meaning of scene. And Brian waits until he can't see the taillights anymore to get in his car.
It's two o'clock in the morning by the time he drives out of the delivery bay of the FBI building.
It's time to go to work.