2020-06-08 - Those Who Stay Bought

Captain, ride with me. However friendly it was, coming from Chief Thatchery, it wasn't really a suggestion or an offer. So now they're in the Chief's car, Ruiz and Clarence, riding along while Clarence explains a few troubling things:

A few weeks ago, a couple of unfamiliar 'gentlemen' made an offer he wasn't meant to refuse. Having his people turn a blind eye to certain crimes, in exchange for some unofficial bonuses to his salary. "Now, of course, I refused. We don't have truck with any of that in this department, especially after that mess with the last Mayor. That was before your time, of course. Nasty business." And yeah, Clarence can say all of that with a straight face. Maybe he means 'getting caught'. He explains briefly that he didn't bother reporting the attempt, figuring it was some idiots passing through, and that they'd 'get sorted out' in time.

Who was going to sort them out, he doesn't say.

"But they haven't gone away. Instead, they've become more," he licks his lips, "persistent. So we're gonna bring 'em in. I've already picked a team and arranged a meet. But I want you there, Captain. This'll be good press, and we could always use a little of that, don't you think?" His grin is easy and professional, more politician than cop. And the part he doesn't say, but assumes is understood, is that having both ranking members involved will mean that everyone in charge is very clear on the fact that Clarence never entertained taking a bribe. Not even for a moment. Good PR, in exchange for corroboration on Clarence's purity. Surely that's a good deal between professional colleagues?

Ride with me. And of course he does. They've had these sorts of conversations before, off the record and off the clock. Just taking the temperature of things, Captain, he'd say with that easy smile, and never mind he rarely gets one in return.

The Chief's car's an older model cruiser, one of the Crown Vics that used to be the top of the pursuit game until the hot shit Chargers came along. Not that he does a whole lot of chasing down criminals these days, and maybe you get older, you get more resistant to change. De la Vega's sprawled in the passenger seat, dark eyes roving between the open laptop mounted on a swivel between them, and his window as they drive. Half in uniform and half out, he's stripped out of his jacket and overshirt, and pulled on a faded black Seattle PD hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he doesn't give a shit how much ink's on display in front of the Chief of Police.

At the now, of course, I refused, his mouth skews into a smirk that Clarence won't see, with his head turned away. And then as the other man continues, a furrow begins to form between his brows, expression circumspect. "A team. What, are we talking a task force, sir? Is this something the FBI are going to come sniffing around about?" His head turns slightly, tonguetip brushing a canine when Clarence starts talking about good PR. It's pretty clear what he thinks of that. "I'd like to see the casefiles on these gentlemen. Names?"

"Don't have them," Clarence admits. "Names they gave me don't send up any flags, so they're obviously fake. I can tell you that they're not local, but they've done enough research to know what they're stepping in, and they think they've got the chops. They talk a good game, at least. If we don't cut this off at the pass, I'm afraid it's going to turn into a bodycount and concerned citizens." He says the last as if it's more important than the bodycount.

"If you mean the task force?" He rolls to a smooth stop at a red light, and reaches back to grab a small stack of folders, offers them to Ruiz. "Picked them myself. They know how to follow orders, decent shots, not likely to lose their head under fire." Which isn't a given in a small town police force, even in a small town as messed up as this one. The five cops in the folders are all solid sorts - not squeaky clean, but experienced, and steady in Ruiz's experience of them. "And no, we don't need the feds sniffing around our business, Captain. We can keep our own noses clean. We grab these couple of guys, ring 'em out until one turns on the others, then break up the rest of them, ship 'em out." He snorts. "They never should have started at the top, if they wanted a good run of this."

Ruiz gives the Chief a hard, and slightly slanted look. It's nothing the other man is any stranger to, coming from the captain. It's his carefully assessing face, with a dash of something smells off about this. He grunts at the mention of concerned citizens, and reaches for the stack of folders once they're handed over. A glance up at the windshield, and the red light, then the first one's cracked open and he starts rifling through with a thumb. The furrowed brow stays furrowed.

"I mean the task force," he confirms quietly, glancing over the names as he comes to them. "Begs the question of why they started at the top. Unless they're fucking idiots. Do you think they're fucking idiots, sir?"

"No," Clarence says, slowly. "That's the thing. They don't handle themselves like idiots, but they're doing something idiots - or very confident professionals who think they're dealing with a bunch of yokels - do. That's why I wanted you in on this, as much as anything." He shrugs. "You've dealt with big city problems before. I figure once we bring these guys in, you might be able to identify them, tie them to any wider operations we need to know about. Normally, I'd put some eyes on them and wait until they made a different sort of mistake, but in this case? I just feel we need to cut this off before it gets started."

Well, you know, call Clarence what you will; a corrupt panderer, a mouthpiece who cares more about keeping up the appearance of doing his job, than actually serving and protecting. But he was, once, probably actually a decent cop, and his instincts aren't usually entirely wrong. There's a weary sounding sigh from de la Vega as he listens, and shuffles some more papers around. The people the Chief's chosen all look fine. But that's not what's bothering him.

"If they're connected, if they're just trying to feel things out, then they're looking for an answer to a question." He closes the folder, rubs at his nose with inked knuckles. "They're playing a game. We've got to play that game better than them. And I don't know that we can. But I'll do my best, sir." The tension lingers in his shoulders, in the brutish line of his jaw. He glances at the laptop's screen again, then back to the window.

Clarence flashes him that politician's smile, warm and full of confidence. It's the kind of smile that makes less experienced cops straighten their backs and get all excited about policing when it's bestowed on them. "I know you will, Captain." His eyes turn back to the road. "I've set up a meet for tomorrow. You're going in with me, so vest up, but keep it neutral. We're supposed to be small town boys cooperating. The team will take up strike positions, and move in on our word. We won't have earpieces or mics, unfortunately, so it'll be a standard visual sign. They'll search us, so be prepared to give up your piece, temporarily." He says it like he knows Ruiz will hate that; a touch apologetic, but firm.

The captain, unfortunately, just sort of sits there and returns the look somewhat blankly, with that pinched expression on his face that suggests he still isn't happy with some part of this. Or all of it, perhaps. He blows a breath through his nose, which turns into a grumbly, agitated sound when surrendering his gun is mentioned. "Mmmmaaaaare you sure that's a good idea, sir?" he interrupts, already shaking his head before the words are even out of Clarence's mouth. "You're telling me to go in blind, with no names, no fucking nothing, and now you're saying I might be unarmed?" Now the hesitance shifts to anger in the hard line of his jaw, and slant of his eyes as he watches the other man.

"If you think you can keep a holdout through a search, then be my guest," Clarence says, with a sigh. "But if we assume these guys aren't fucking morons, it'll be a thorough search, and if you kick up too much of a fuss about it, they're going to be on edge. If they're on edge, they might get twitchy, and one of our guys gets dead when they come in." He raises his eyebrows, wordlessly saying, you see what I'm saying, here? Then he blows out a breath, an easy sympathy settling on his lined features. "Look, Captain. I'm not happy about it, either. But I think this is our one shot to stop what could be a nasty gang war before it starts. If I thought there was a better way, I sure as hell would take it." His voice lowers to a grumble. "Isn't like I do fieldwork anymore, you know."

The anger, it must be noted, is not directed at the Chief. His logic's reasonably sound, with a few small exceptions. It doesn't make de la Vega any less tetchy for it. The attempt at smoothing things over gains a rough snort in response, and the sound of the folders hitting the back seat as he twists around and ditches them, once he's finished going over the salient details.

"I understand, sir," he murmurs, dropping his head against the seat back. Teeth together, that infamous temper of his held in check. What he isn't telling his boss, of course, is that he has no intention of letting these fuckknuckles end him. Whether that means finding a way to smuggle in a weapon, or simply fall back on his Gift, and burn their bodies from the inside if they even think of screwing with them.. "I'll be there. We'll make it work." He even tries to smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.

The Chief nods. "We will, Captain. No one's coming into my town, and taking over on our watch. Break up this little party, and we'll soon have these guys running back to wherever the hell they came from." Another flash of that 'you know you'd vote for me if you could' smile, and then he switches effortless into more jocular talk. "Let's pick up some wings on our way back, eh? The wife's got me on a diet, if you can believe that bullshit, and apparently tonight is 'vegetarian' night. What kind of meal doesn't have meat? Not even fake meat. No, she wants to explore the 'wonders of tofu'."

He complains cheerfully enough in this vein for a while as they head back to the station.

--

The next day is drizzly and overcast, which gives the warm air an unpleasantly humid cast. Sweat rises easily, and pools in the worst of places. Especially for the poor bastards in the tactical team, who have been in place for a while, in full gear. Clarence looks to be dressed about the same way he was yesterday; suit, tie, badge, gun. Only difference is that the experienced eyes of Ruiz can pick out a subtle bulkiness at the chest where the Chief has broken out his vest. He's still a man in fairly good shape - whatever his wife might think - so it doesn't stand out too much to casual inspection.

The meeting place is in the Forest; one of the abandoned campgrounds that is normally closed off. This isn't exactly a hotbed of park management, however, so 'closed off' means a single gate with a latch and no lock, and a sign politely asking people not to trespass. Clarence has Ruiz open it; and the Captain can see by the markings on the rust that someone else has already done so. Perhaps the first surprise is when they arrive. The car waiting for them is not unfamiliar to Ruiz: it belongs to one Joseph Kelly, although it's definitely not Joey lounging casually on the hood. The man is tall and rangy, anywhere from mid-twenties to thirties, with dark hair, bronze skin, and dark, piercing eyes. A couple of tattoos mark the sides of his face; a cross on the left, some sort of curled...thing on the right. It's difficult to make out from a distance, but either way, it marks him as a lifer - someone who never expects to get a 'legit' job. His back up are two burly fellows, one white, the other black, but otherwise largely unremarkable and identical in their silent menace. All three are brazen enough to be carrying openly in the meeting with the cops, and watch silently as Clarence pulls into a space and gets out. "Gentlemen, a fine day for a meeting," he offers, with that trademark smile, as the rain hisses off the canopy around them.

It's been a while since Ruiz last ran one of these. Months? Years? Maybe not since he was undercover, with the support of an agency the size of Portland's. He's opted for one of his ratty, nondescript hoodies pulled over the department-issue body armour, which brings down its profile slightly. But anyone who knows what to look for, knows he's protected. And knows he's carrying. Some flavour of Sig, its bulk easily visible under his clothing. Cargo pants and hiking boots in keeping with this weather today, he keeps his head slightly bowed to the rain, and his eyes go right to that familiar car. Ka-thump goes his heart, like he knows something's wrong here. That's not Joey perched on the hood.

He draws to a halt, takes up a posture that's both casual and non-aggressive, and yet suggests authority. Hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes on the apparent leader of this little operation. No smile from the captain; he lets his boss take the lead in the so-called negotiations, and hangs back slightly. Watchful, tense. He knows their tactical team is watching for his signals; that if his hands come out, he'd better have something to do with them. "El auto no es tuyo," he tells the lifer with a hitch of his chin and a slight furrow of his brows. If Clarence is good cop, guess what that makes him.

"Solo lo tomé prestado de un amigo," the lifer answers, with easy confidence. He's fluent, but the accent isn't Mexican, or even Californian. Somewhere north of the border, maybe; Ruiz has run into quite a few second and later generations who run smuggling across the northern border, after all. He offers a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Neither is his loose and lazy posture reflected in those eyes; they're sharp and hard. More? He shines in a way the Chief would never have noticed. And from the way he looks Ruiz over, he knows enough about what he can do to know what he's looking at in others.

The other two? They gleam, just a little, but it's a fitful light. As the cops come close, he upnods to one of his boys, and they both approach. Switching to English, which still carries just a bit of a northern accent, he says, "Sorry to be ungracious hosts, Chief, but I think we'll all be more comfortable if you let my boys here make sure that you didn't bring anything to the party you don't plan to share." His smile is friendly, and empty, as his goons approach. Clarence shoots Ruiz a brief look, outwardly untroubled as he steps forward and raises his hands like a man who has been on the receiving end of this before. His search is insultingly thorough, but also impersonal - these guys are enough of professionals that they don't need to posture by making it humiliating. Clarence's sidearm is taken, and when he makes a protest, the lifer winks. "Hey, hey. Just a precaution. You'll get it back once we come to an equitable arrangement."

A goon steps forward to submit Ruiz to the same treatment, a watchful wariness in his eyes. They haven't talked to the Captain before, after all.

Borrowed it from a friend. The words are as empty of meaning as everything else the man is giving him, and it's got Ruiz's hackles up. The eyeing over is a mutual affair, like two yard dogs sussing one another out. He's older, a little mangier, looks like he's got a few too many miles on him and probably a bum knee or two. But he shines like a bonfire in the dark, hungry for fuel; the scent of ozone and blown electrical circuits can be detected at the very periphery of the man, in the kythe.

The two henchmen are given their due attention as well, and Clarence's glance is returned with a slight nod. They have an understanding. Inside his hoodie's pockets, his hands curl into fists, and the muscle up his forearms and biceps and shoulders tenses slightly. Then one of them moves toward him, and his mouth twitches like he's going to full-on snarl at the guy. How dare he. He breathes in, then out, jaw hard, then nods once jerkily. Hands pulled out of his pockets, arms spread out to the sides, fingers fanned out. Stay watchful, says his body language, to the tactical team. He needn't tell them he's about to be disarmed; they can see for themselves.

"De acuerdo," he murmurs, "Hablar."

The search is thorough, but professional. The man's face is blank; he could be handling raw meat for all he cares, and from this close, even without trying Ruiz can get a whiff of his emotional state - he's not bored, but this sort of thing is business to him, and he'll kill with the same professional detachment. Ruiz's gun is checked for ammo, then put on safety and tucked into his waist as he steps back, giving his boss a brief nod. None of these three are nervous teenage gangbangers or boisterous MC members looking to expand turf. The lifer's smile is steady at the curt murmur. "See? Talking things out. That's the way you build trust." He pushes himself off the car and ambles to a more conversational distance, although he's careful to stay out of range of a sudden leap. "So, Chief," his eyes shift in that direction. "Do you think we can build that trust? You and me? You won't regret it; if you deal straight with us, then you and your man here will find things go a lot smoother, and more of your guys make it home to their people every night. Not to mention the other benefits." He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a thick wad of cash.

He tosses it casually to the grass in front of and between Ruiz and Clarence. To pick it up, one of them would have to bow or kneel before him. Clarence looks down at it, briefly, but doesn't seem impressed. Then again, the old man has a damned good poker face when he wants to, and he's using it now. His voice is even. "What sort of shows of trust are you expecting, Mr...Lopez, was it?" The hesitation just enough to make it clear that he knows damned well that isn't his real last name, and wants the guy to know it, too.

More, he wants him to say out loud what the deal entails. Not strictly necessary, under the circumstances, but always a good step. Even so, he frowns slightly when the lifer says, easily, "Oh, the usual. You stay out of our way. If any of my people end up in jail, they don't stay there. Our product doesn't stay there, either - except for just enough to keep people from getting suspicious. We do our business, you get to keep doing yours." It's blunt; he's either confident or stupid.

Or both. And Ruiz has had a terrible feeling about this meeting since the moment he heard it was going to be happening. He doesn't protest as he's divested of his weapon, because of course they were going to find and remove it. Do they notice the smaller caliber pistol he's got shoved into his boot, or the knife he's got taped to his forearm, though? Depends on how thorough that search is. Either way, he's clearly irritated at losing his Sig, and narrows his eyes slightly at 'Lopez' when he hops off the hood of the car.. Joey's car and saunters in closer.

His posture is kept at that lurksome, vaguely dominant yet not outwardly threatening slouch. Not so much as a flinch when the wad of cash is tossed at them. Not his place to take it; he'll follow the Chief's lead, unless he does something spectacularly stupid.

And then the terms are made clear, and he knows this can't possibly, possibly end well. His right hand shifts subtly. Three. There are three of them. A flick of his eyes to make sure there's no-one else camped out nearby. A sniper, maybe, hidden up a tree; it's the sort of thing he'd do. Not a word from the captain, though. This is the Chief's show; his job has now officially shifted to trying to get them out of here alive.

The holdout gun is found quickly. The knife is almost missed, but in the end the goon really IS a professional - although there's a flicker of new evaluation when he finds it. It's not a cop weapon, or a cop way of carrying a weapon. 'Lopez' gives the weapons a side-eye. "Nice. You sure you didn't steal that badge, friend?" A cheeky grin, prodding just a little at the edges of Ruiz's temper.

But in the next moment, he's business. "So. You know what we need. We don't want this to be rough for anybody it doesn't have to be. Say we have a deal, take your money, Chief. There'll be more where that came from, as long as you don't try to fuck us over. Easy, right?"

"Right," Clarence says, expression impassive. Ruiz scans the surroundings. He does see a sniper, well concealed in the canopy of a tree. But the man is a fellow Gray Harbor cop, one of the Chief's team. He's in a damned good vantage point for spotting any other 'eavesdroppers' on their little party, but he doesn't seem worried. Either he doesn't see anything suspicious, or whoever they are, they're better than him and Ruiz both. Clarence smiles, just a little. "Well, you've laid out your offer, Mr. Lopez. And I appreciate that." He bends down to pick up the cash, managing to make it look as un-servile as possible under the circumstances. Maybe it's the suit. As he checks the cash, the stack lets him create a small shield for his hand for a moment. Just long enough to flash the 'move in' signal where Ruiz...and hopefully the rest of the team...can see it.

Four cops in full tactical gear (gotta love that mil surplus at discount prices to tiny police departments) emerge from the underbrush, and the Chief smiles wolfishly at the three 'gentlemen'. "I appreciate it so much, I'll let you choose your cell when we get back to the precinct, how's that?"

It's Ruiz who seems to notice that the cops on the squad aren't pointing their guns at the three criminals, but rather at their own chief and captain.

It tells them something about each other. What de la Vega's willing to do. What he might be, under the thin veneer of cop. And just how professional Lopez's little outfit really is. The captain doesn't look particularly worried, but his heart's going like a jackhammer when the goon finds and removes his knife. He locks eyes with the sniper in the tree as the guy moves away from him, and for a moment, he can't remember whether they'd talked about putting him up there.

His mind is half on this impossibility, and half on the conversation between the Chief and Lopez over there. The money being picked up, the rain pelting off the canopy and grass and starting to soak into his hair. He tries to keep a bead on his gun and the Chief's gun as the signal's given to move, and he's in position to lunge for them- and realises that these men aren't here to back them up, at all. His gut twists as he realises what's happening, and he does the only thing that makes any kind of sense under the circumstances.

He surrenders. Hands up, fingers locked together and behind his head, they already know he's unarmed. Loud enough to ensure the men can all hear him, "Vale, vale. Nos tienes."

Clarence? For all his poise, he's not as accepting of the sudden twist of the situation. He shoots Ruiz a look when the Captain puts his hands up - but it only takes him a second to follow his gaze and see what Ruiz saw. He goes pale, his face turning hard and blank, even as he, too, raises his hands. "What is the meaning of this? Caleb," he calls out one of the cops directly, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Caleb licks his lips, and something like guilt twists over his face, but the gun remains steady. "Sorry, Chief."

"If you're sorry, then point the damned guns at the bad guys and not your fucking superior officers," Clarence snaps.

The guns stay where they are. The cops look to Lopez. Who smiles. "Don't blame them, Chief." He puts an insulting drawl on the word. "They're the smart folk in your outfit. They can see what's coming, and they want to be on the right side of history. For themselves. For their families. You can't fault them that." The smile falls away, replaced by a blank, killer's expression. "But you? You need to blame yourself. You said you were gonna play straight with us. You gave your word. Then you came out here to lure us into a trap and fuck us over. So whatever happens next, that's your fucking fault, man."

He turns his attention to Ruiz. Looking at the weapons taken from the cop, then back to him. "You. You, I ain't sure about. Maybe you get to walk away from this. Maybe you and I, we start building a foundation of trust. Like I've built with these fine men here." A gesture at the tactical team. "How's that sound to you?"

Clarence says nothing, but a muscle in his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth.

If there's any offense taken, any shock of betrayal, any rattled hubris whatsoever beneath the captain's steely exterior, it's not abundantly obvious. The glint, perhaps, of something in his dark eyes when Lopez looks him over, and makes his brief assessment of his character. Something terrible and hungry and savage. Just a flicker of it, like a shadow passed across the sun, briefly sublimating the light.

He doesn't meet Caleb's gaze, or any of the other cops. Men he's sat around the break room with. Drank with. Worked cases and burned the midnight oil with. Trusted to watch his fucking back. The reality of what's happening courses through him, and he's stalwart in the face of it. Just a single swallow, a bob of his adam's apple to signify his discomfort, a slight shift of his shoulders as the muscle starts to ache from being held thus.

"No hagas esto," he murmurs to Lopez, voice soft and scratchy from a lifetime of abuse. Drugs and drink, just to start. "Sabes que no puedo aceptar ni negar." His eyes pinch a little at the corners; he looks almost visibly pained. Might be an act, might not. Fifteen feet between he and the guy holding his weapons. He knows Lopez knows he's aware of it. The rain soaks into his eyelashes, and he blinks it away, sniffs the dampness out of his nose.

"No hay fiestas neutrales aquí, mi amigo." It's not said with any anger. 'Lopez's' eyes are without any particular malice - or mercy - as he considers that flash of savagery. It's probably matched by something in the man, himself; but he keeps his chained with those empty smiles and a focus that's cold rather than hot. He pulls out a pair of thin, leather gloves from his jacket, pulls them on before reaching for Ruiz's hold-out pistol. He idly checks the ammo on it, his fingers delicate, doing their best not to erase any fingerprints already on the weapon.

He looks up at Ruiz again, then nods to Clarence. "Man's got your money, Captain. Go ahead. Take it. We bring this to a swift conclusion, and you get to go home. With new friends, and new opportunities. It's a good way for things to go." He takes a breath as he slides the clip back into the gun. His voice softens, just a little. "Estas vivo. O estas muerto. Vamos, toma el dinero de él. Quedarse vivo." The tactical squad watches Ruiz with a fixed expression, wary and a little guilty - but they're in the shit now, and they know it. Backing out isn't an option for them.

The gloves come out, and Ruiz already knows why, and what's going to happen here. What has to happen here. He can't stop it from happening, but there's a difference between preventing something and abetting it. Clarence is finished; he knows this like he knows the ground beneath his feet, and the air he's breathing. When 'Lopez' mentions the money, though, he doesn't so much glance at the Chief. Doesn't take his eyes off the lifer with the ink decorating his face, not for a moment. And if Lopez is smart, he knows what's coming, too.

"No planeo morir hoy. Pero si es mi hora, es mi hora." His eyes crease up slightly at the corners as he gives a gruff little chuckle. And then the second. The second the man's attention is diverted for a fragment of a moment, the Mexican is lunging for him. And he really is unreasonably fast for a guy his age. He collides with Lopez with a harsh grunt, and scrabbles for the weapon in his hands. There's no point going for one of his goons, or trying to talk down the cops; he goes right for the proverbial fucking jugular.

Lopez is, perhaps, just a little cocky. He's seen some of the tattoos, heard the gutter accent of Ruiz's Spanish, seen the hunter in his eyes - he figures him for a survivor more than a cop. Someone who, when faced with overwhelming odds, will shut up and play along and live rather than cause trouble.

So he really doesn't see the lunge coming until that last second, those gruff words. He's ready in an instant, but it's not quite fast enough, and the men grapple. Ruiz gets his hand on the gun, knocks it to the wet grass. The two thugs try to intervene, grabbing and pummeling. But Ruiz is a vicious old cuss, and for a moment? He holds them all off with fists and elbows, managing to protect his vital organs from a couple of brutal pistol whips meant to send him reeling.

Then one of the cops, Caleb, shouts, "Stand down, Cap! Goddamn it, stand the fuck down!" And all those guns - including the sniper in the tree - are pointed right at Ruiz. The cops' expressions are twisted; they'll feel guilty about pulling the trigger.

Doesn't mean that they won't. And Clarence knows it, too. He says, "Javier." Just that. His tone and expression resigned.

And that tells them something about each other, too. That's the thing about violence; it's like a conversation, only with one's fists instead of words. You can learn a lot about a man through his blood and sweat and tears.

For a moment, it almost looks like he might have the upper hand. He never really did, of course, but for a moment he manages to fend off all attacks like he has eight arms, hits connecting with the force of a freight train. The exertion of it leaves him on his knees in the grass, hand around the grip of his gun, panting. Breath fogging the damp air, and fuck if he knows how many guns pointed at him. Fuck this. Fuck this, and fuck Clarence. When his name's invoked, he cuts dark eyes up to his boss, and the look on his face is one of seething fury. "En qué carajo estabas pensando?" he bellows, his voice echoing oddly off the treeline. It's a harsh, raspy bark that he has, not well suited to being pitched loud.

He drops his gaze again eventually, pushes to his feet, and kicks the gun away. Those dark, ferocious eyes are turned back on Lopez. Waiting.

Clarence doesn't speak Spanish, but the tone conveys the censure pretty well. He winces, and looks away. Looks to his men, his team, who are no longer his in any meaningful sense, and he just sighs. "I'm sorry, Javier." It's quiet, barely able to be heard over the rain.

Lopez, for his part, steps back a couple of steps from the seething, panting Ruiz. He gives his henchmen a look that says really? There are two of you motherfuckers and he's got to be, like, fifty. It's an eloquent sort of look. When the gun is kicked away, he turns and retrieves it, picking it up from the wet grass with a sigh. Not quite as useful after being rubbed with wet grass. But it still shoots, and he's getting tired of these yokels. So he just lifts it and fires twice without further fanfare, the bullets passing dangerously close to Ruiz. He's not their target. Clarence grunts with the impact as the two slugs hit him high - neck, head. It's red and messy, and the sack of meat that was the Chief of Police a minute ago just topples backward and lands with a wet thump of dead weight on the grass.

Lopez turns the gun to Ruiz, aiming right between his eyes. Really, it's somewhat superfluous with all the other guns. But from the tightness of his lips, he probably wasn't happy that the Captain brawled, and brawled well. "Last chance, amigo. My patience? It is not extensive at the best of times, and these are not those. You pick up that fucking money, and you play ball. Or you die." No smiles, now. And this close, Ruiz can see what that other tattoo is - a curled scorpion, the color faded, but it once was probably red.

Fourty-six. Motherfuckers. Though they still probably ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Ruiz knows precisely what happens next, and he can't bear to make himself watch it. I'm sorry, Javier, is the last thing he hears, though probably not the last thought that goes through the man's head before that bullet does. The wet, solid thud of his body hitting the ground makes the captain swallow, and duck his head against the onslaught of peppering rain. And then he feels the other man's approach shift the kythe around him, and their breath fogs and mingles in the damp air. Near enough for him to spot that mark on his neck. The scorpion.

And what's he to do? Refuse, and have two rounds put in him, as well? And then they'll move on down the chain of command, and rot the whole thing from the top. And wasn't it already rotten to start with? He squeezes his eyes shut a moment, then reopens them, and looks directly at Lopez. Meets that chill with his own, chained heat. "I'll take the money. I'll do what you want." The way a captive tiger obeys its handlers. He takes a slow step toward the man, and the gun trained on him. Opens up his palm. To accept the money, of course.

And just like that, it's all smiles again. "See? I thought you looked like a smart man. Who knows, maybe even Chief material yourself." He glances casually at the body. "I understand a position just opened." It's not gloating, exactly; more like work-related humor. A construction guy joking about the building he just set the charges on - a certain amount of professional satisfaction, but no real malice on the surface of it. Except in this case, work is murder. When Ruiz opens his palm, though, he snorts, lightly. "What are you looking at me, for?" He upnods at the corpse, the stack of bills - now spattered with blood - still clutched in one hand. "There's your money. Take it. Our mutual friends," he smiles at the tactical team, "will be watching to see how sincere your friendship is gonna be. I hope I can trust you, Javier. I really do." He and his two lieutenants start retreating towards Kelly's car.

"We'll keep in touch, one way or another. Nice little town you've got here, and we appreciate the hospitality." Okay, that? That was gloating. He offers a cheery little wave - with Ruiz's holdout pistol - and climbs in the car. Unless stopped, the three rev the motor, and drive on out of the little parking area.

His hand remains like that, outstretched, inked fingers slightly curled, until Lopez gives that little snort. Then his arm drops back to his side, and he looks for all the world like the defeated thing he probably is. His own men turned against him; the man he reports to, missing half his face, and god knows what he's going to need to do to make sure the department's chasing their tails over it indefinitely. He doesn't move immediately toward the body of the man he once considered a friend. Never a close friend, but a friend nonetheless. He didn't deserve to die like this.

Once the three are inside their car, he pivots and moves briskly toward the Chief. But doesn't stop once he reaches him. It's the fence he's aiming for, and his fist driven into it. Again, and again, and again, and again until the knuckles are bruised and bloody, or one of the cops drives him back.

At some point, he'll have to go and fetch that money, and stuff it into his pants pocket. He'll have to dig out his cell phone and call in the suspicious death, and the missing firearms, and then he'll have to sit down and figure out how to untangle this mess.

The tactical team? They fade back into the woods without more than an awkward clearing of the throat. They're clearly not proud of what happened here, today. But at the same time, their very silence in the face of 'Lopez's' assertion that they'll be watching Ruiz speaks volumes. At least for now, these men have a new master.

On the bright side, Ruiz knows their names, faces, and where they live. And if they're watching him, he's in a perfect position to watch them. But for now, they're gone, leaving Ruiz to his frustration and thoughts.