A little over an hour later, Brian's pulling into the FBI loading bay. His tires squeal as his car jerks to a stop near the other two that are already there, and he's cursing himself, because it shouldn't have taken him so long to get over here. He got caught up following Campos, and then he'd had to wait for them to clear out of that backroom so he could sneak in and nab their glasses – they're sitting in his console now, in an evidence bag – and by the time he got out, he only had about five minutes to get all the way across town.

He hauled ass to get over here, and he's still about fifteen minutes late. Fucking LA night traffic. It's the middle of the night, and the streets were still a nightmare. He guesses that's the problem with weekends. Besides the fact that he doesn't get them.

He sees Stasiak standing by his car, and that doesn't do anything to brighten his mood. Stasiak only comes in person when it's a big deal, or he's pissed about something. Considering his little stunt with Mia a couple days ago, he knows it's definitely the latter, and now that he's had some time to sit on it, he's thinking that maybe he's had better ideas than doing what he did. Stasiak's the kind of guy that doesn't take being humiliated very easily; he's kind of worried what the guy'll do to get back at him.

But then, something tells Brian that if he was gonna roll on him to Penning, he wouldn't be here right now. No, he's thinking Stasiak's got another job for him, which is both a relief and a kick in the face, because while it means he's still got his job and Mia's still safe for now, it also means he's about to have a really shitty night.

Again.

Waiting's not gonna help, though – if anything, it's just gonna piss Stasiak off more, and he's thinking he should keep that to a minimum for now – so Brian steels himself and gets out of the car.

He barely even gets the door open before something closes around the back of his neck and he's shoved roughly forward. It's enough to knock him off balance, and he hits his hands and knees hard. The asphalt bites into both, but he ignores it; he's about to push himself up, to figure out who the fuck's going at him, because he can see Stasiak right the hell in front of him, but he barely gets one foot on the ground under him before he gets another shove.

He catches himself, but when he looks up—

Crack!

Something hard and solid connects with the back of his head, and his vision flashes black for a second, but he doesn't pass out. His ears are ringing, and his stomach flips, but this time, when he feels something grab the back of his shirt, he grabs back. His hand closes around what he's pretty sure is a wrist, and he throws his elbow out.

The grunt that sounds behind him tells him he's struck gold, and he gives the wrist he's holding a jerk. In a flash, he's got the son of a bitch that hit him down on the concrete, one knee between his shoulder blades and his arm twisted behind his back so tight that one good jerk'll dislocate his fucking shoulder. Maybe break his wrist to boot.

It's Forsythe. He'd recognize that shitty comb-over anywhere, and he sees the gun lying on the ground beside him where the ashole must've dropped it.

He's lucky the safety's on. Forsythe, he means. Because if that shit had been off, Brian would've done a hell of a lot more than pistol whipped his sorry ass.

"You wanna hit me?" he growls instead, giving Forsythe's wrist a torque for emphasis. "You wanna hit me, you son of a bitch?"

"That's enough, O'Conner! Let him go."

Brian looks up to see Stasiak staring down at him, and it'd probably be a hell of a lot scarier a look on his face if he didn't look like a fucking raccoon.

He's not convinced. His adrenaline's still pumping, and shit, Forsythe had a gun. He doesn't know what the hell's going on, but he's not sure he's willing to give up his leverage.

"What's this about, Stasiak?" he says. His head's pounding a steady, booming pulse in his ears, and his vision's still a little cloudy around the edges, but he's keeping his eyes narrowed and his face steely, because it's like that thing with Mia: if he gives any, he doesn't know what Stasiak'll try to pull next.

Stasiak just narrows his eyes, although it's hard to tell how much of it's intentional and how much of it's swelling from that nice little busted nose Brian gave him. "I said let him go."

And Brian figures, if Stasiak was really gonna do something, he'd be doing it instead of asking him nicely – his version of nicely, anyway – so he does. He gives Forsythe one last shove into the concrete for good measure, and then stands, grabbing the gun as he goes and shoving it in the back of his jeans. Maybe he'll give it back, if Forsythe's a good boy, or maybe he won't. Either way, it makes him feel better having it.

Forsythe gets to his feet a little gingerly, and Brian thinks he might know where his elbow caught him now, because he's walking kind of funny as he walks back over to Stasiak. When he turns around, he fixes Brian with a glare that falls a little flat, what with how his eyes are watering and all.

"Are you shitting me with this guy, Stasiak?" Because seriously? He knows the guy works evidence, but this is just sad. He'd heard he got demoted for roughing up a few too many suspects, but he's really starting to doubt it.

"Shut the fuck up, O'Conner," Stasiak snaps, and oh, he thinks he's big and scary. And vaguely, it occurs to Brian that maybe he should be scared, except he's always had a little bit of a problem with that. The concussion he's about ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure he has probably isn't helping. "Did you think I was gonna let you get by pulling that shit with Toretto?"

Brian's temper flared. "The shit I pulled?" he says, pointing to himself, and when he steps in closer, he thinks he sees Stasiak's throat bob. Good. "You had no right bringing Mia in. We have a deal, remember? I play errand boy for you, and you and your guys stay the hell away from Mia Toretto."

"That was before Dominic Toretto came back to—"

"Dom being here doesn't change shit!" And yeah, Stasiak definitely looks a little shaken. He's trying to look hard, to stare down his swollen ass nose at Brian like he always does, but Brian can tell he wasn't expecting this. Which kind of makes him wonder, "How'd you see this going, Stasiak? You think I'd show up here, you'd get your boy to rough me up? Scare me a little?" Clearly, Stasiak doesn't know him at all. Violence doesn't scare him. He grew up around it, was practically raised on it. Getting beat on a little bit is more annoying than anything.

And Brian is definitely annoyed.

He stalks right up to Stasiak – Forsythe's staying clear, he notices – and now the tables are turned, because he's staring Stasiak down. He's cool. Cold. Fuck, he's frigid, because he knows that if he screws this up, if he pushes too far or backs down too much, this could all come down on him. He's walking a thin line, and he knows it. He's got to keep walking, though.

Stasiak answers by squaring up his shoulders and scowling, and Brian can't help thinking he looks pissed. "I think you forgot where you stand here, O'Conner," he practically snarls. "You don't get to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do, and you do it!" He's shouting by the end; he's in Brian's face, and it's taking every ounce of self control Brian has to stand there and take it. "Or else I rain hell down on Dominic Toretto, Mia Toretto, and anyone that's ever so much as smiled in their general-fucking-direction, your punk ass included. Do you understand? I own you, O'Conner. I. Own. You." He punctuates each word with a jab of his finger into Brian's chest, and fuck, Brian should snap the damn thing off, but he can't.

Because Stasiak's right. It's bad enough that he's got him on Mia, but after all the shit he's done for Stasiak, there's no doubt in his mind that the snake'd find some way to pin it on him. And even if he thinks he could throw it right back at him, he's pretty sure they'd both come out smelling like shit, and if he thought those charges for aiding and abetting were bad, this particular brand of shit would make that seem like a parking ticket.

He grits his teeth. His fists are clenched at his sides so hard that they hurt, and his stomach's in knots, because he realizes now how close he came to fucking up the other day. How easy it would've been for Stasiak to flip on him right there to Penning.

The thought kills any smartass remark or argument dead on his lips. He bites back a sigh, too, but for a whole different reason – he knows he's beat; Stasiak doesn't need to – and tries to relax his jaw enough to get some words through his teeth.

"Did you just call me here to chew me out," he says, "or did you need something?"

The only thing he hates more than the smirk that curls on Stasiak's face is the fact that there's nothing he can do to wipe it off.

"The only thing I need is for you to do your job." Your job, he says. Like this came with the badge.

It has nothing to do with the badge.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that," Brian tells him, and his voice is bone dry and dead even. This isn't about being smart anymore; this is about getting whatever shit needs doing done so that he can get back to trying to get Braga and claw his way out of this mess. And something tells him Stasiak's not gonna make that easy on him, but he'll figure it out. "What's the job tonight?"

Stasiak seems to decide it's time to cut the crap – finally, Brian thinks, and thank God – because he reaches into the pocket of his blazer and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper that Brian ends up having to catch out of the air when he flicks it at him.

There's a printout of a driver's license on the paper when Brian gets it unfolded. Edward Odell. Fifty-two years old, San Francisco address, and he looks a little bit like John Wayne when he played Rooster in the original True Grit. Minus the eye patch, which is a shame, because that'd be pretty cool. Even still,

"Guy looks like a hard ass."

"Well then I guess it's a good thing I'm not asking you to go after him," Stasiak says.

Brian's surprised, but he's a little too cautious to be relieved just yet. "You're not?" He sounds skeptical, even to himself.

"He's IA. Only an idiot would go after him directly."

Brian stop himself just shy of repeating himself. And you're not? he wants to say, but he doesn't, because it's just not worth it. Best just to see what the hell Stasiak wants and get it done. Besides, he's got aspirin in his glove box, and the sooner he gets done with Stasiak here, the sooner he can climb back in his car and down a good two or three or ten.

That goal in mind, he folds the paper and shoves it in his jean pockets. "Alright, then," he says. "So what's the play?"

Stasiak reaches into his pocket again, and this time, he comes out with a small manila envelope that looks an awful lot like the one that tech had handed him when he was finishing the Skyline.

"We need ears on him," Stasiak says as Brian dumps out the envelope into his hand. There's a pair of small devices that aren't quite the same thing as what Brian got, but they're similar enough that Brian knows the score. "One in his car – a blue 1972 Firebird, tags 4TGD7188 – and one in his hotel room. Address and room number's on the sheet."

"Guess it's too much to ask that you got your hands on the key."

"I got to do everything for you, O'Conner?" Stasiak sneers. "Want me to hold your hand, too?"

Brian tries really hard not to shudder at the very thought, and he thinks he might taste a little bit of that tequila from earlier that night on the back of his tongue. He thinks his lip might curl; his stomach definitely does. "I'll figure it out."

"I want it done by tomorrow morning."

"Wow, giving me…" he pauses to check his watch, "three whole minutes." It's 11:57; looks like he's not gonna be making his curfew again. "You're all heart."

Stasiak narrows his eyes again. "Don't get smart, O'Conner. Get to work."

"Only 'cause you asked so nice." And pocketing the envelope, Brian heads back to his car.

"O'Conner," he hears Forsythe call, and he turns around. "My gun."

Brian pauses at the door just long enough to take the gun out of his belt, drop the magazine, empty the chamber, and toss it to Forsythe before getting back in his car and driving away.

Soon as he makes it out on the road – and out of eyeshot of Stasiak and his bro – Brian downs a few aspirin and gets ready to go bug a couple of old birds.