2020-06-21 - Can We Not Torch the Boss' Car??!

(TXT to Joey Vic) Cristobal : How's the strip search going, Kel?

(TXT to Cristobal) Vic : Cruz, where are you? Coming to pick you up.

(TXT to Vic) Cristobal : Guess I better put on pants. 42 Elm. I'll meet you at the curb.

(TXT to Cristobal) Vic : 3 minutes out.

(TXT to Vic) Cristobal : Copy that.

The throaty rumble of Vic’s special edition Ram is hushed for such a vehicle. The owner clearly values stealth over flash. It slows to a stop in front of 42 Elm with the windows down. Classic rock emanates from the speakers and the burning cherry of a cigarette indicates Vic’s presence. She’s dressed for work, and that doesn’t mean bartending.

She’s in all black, her hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck.

To the contrary, Cris saves his black on black ensemble for when he's working the club. Now, he's dressed in worn-in jeans, boots and a white tank, and if he's packing it's hidden beneath the orange and black flannel he's thrown over the top. As promised he's waiting right at the curb, the house behind him dark, but there are lights on in the garage apartment in the back. One that Vic wasn't invited up to.

"S'up." He asks as he slides into the passenger seat, flicking the last dregs of his cigarette to the gutter before he slams the door shut. "Roll, mamacita." And after last night? You damn well bet he wears his seatbelt.

“Where were you when he tried to run you off the road?” Is Vic’s version of a greeting. She knows the car was in the Firefly Forest. A second point of data gives her a starting vector. Get close enough and she’ll be able to hone in on a location.

She is definitely packing. Shoulder holster is visible under the short black trench. No doubt there is way more.

"Between Hoaquim and Grey Harbor, about five miles out on the road that stretches along the seawall." You know. Fun cliffs, steep drops, and now battered guard rails keeping Cris between the others. "Was coming back from making a drop. The guy followed me, was tipped off, or just saw me drive by, by luck. Your guess is as good as mine. Wounded him though, I know what much."

Vic puts the truck in gear and pulls out, heading for the road in question. “I don’t believe in luck. So either he was following you, or we have a bigger problem. Let’s hope it’s the former.” She glances over in the dimness to look Cris over and see how banged up he is.

“If he’s wounded, he’ll need patching up. If he has resources it means he has a base of ops here. If he doesn’t he will likely hit up a vet or the like, avoid hospitals.” Because that is what she would do.

Cristobal looks, well, surprisingly okay for having gotten caught in a bout of road rage from a Mad Max reject. But then again in the land of glimmer, there is a chance some of the worst marks had a giant eraser of Healing Arts taken to them because Cris just can't afford to be off his game right now. "Yeah, well, if Kelly was pulled in by the Pee Dee, I'm thinking it's time to tighten a few choke collars, shorten a few leashes. If there is a leak, we'll find it."

His pale gaze goes out the window, watching Gray Harbor as Vic weaves through it. "It was dark, no telling if I winged him or got him square. No telling if it will require a bandaid or a priest. But it's a start. Joey's car will have a shot out back window and a scraped up driver's side. No way you'd drive back through town and risk that attention."

"Do a drive by of the hotels off the highway, there's only a few. There's cabins a little further out, my bet is they're holed up in one of those rentals, no nosy neighbors, and can't spot the car from the road." Vic is methodical. It is painfully clear at times like these that she was a cop, and not a beat cop, a full blown detective who had forensics experience to boot.

It's written in everything she does; the way she doesn't touch either the money or the product when doing pickups or drops, the way she keeps her skin covered and her hair contained on a job, to minimize the chances of leaving behind any of her DNA. She is the worst nightmare of a police force, a criminal who knows what they require to do their jobs, and is capable of denying them that.

She swings into the drive of the first of the no-tell motels off the road, truck lights flipped off the moment the turn is made. She gestures towards the glove box for Cris. "Maglite in there, use that. Sweep the vehicles in the lot for Kelly's while we drive by." They stay dark, and only light up what they need to see. She cruises through the lot slowly, quietly, giving the man time to check every car.

Cris was straight up beat and border, judging by the blue in his language and the way he carries himself. He doesn't have the eye or the inclination for detective work, but the procedure and the training of the force are still ingrained in his blood.

He pops the glove box open to grab the flashlight, clicking it on and down towards the floorboards to check it before he starts flashing it at the vehicles. He doesn't need a long look at any of them, because a blown out back window from gunfire will be easy enough to spot. "You're kinda hot when you get all bossy, and you've got that Laura Croft thing going for you. Not the Angelina Jolie sexy pout and accent thing, more the pointy pyramid boobs of the videogame..."

"Jokes on you, I take that as a compliment. I can even do that handstand thing she did in those old games. Besides, I know my rack is fucking spectacular. Can't break me down there, Cruz." She keeps an eye out for anyone looking for them in the meantime, while Cris scans the vehicles. "Look for the car, not the damage. If he has someone with that fix-it mojo, he could have had them already repair the window. If they even know about the Glimmer shit."

"The fact you think I'm trying to break you down is telling enough." Cris says drolly as they roll through the motel parking lot, "I know the plate number. How do you think I recognized the asshole in the first place. And in case the next words out of your mouth are 'they could have changed the plates' this isn't my first rodeo. Just because I got the looks in this little outfit doesn't mean I was spared the brains."

Vic just smirks and keeps her eyes on the area. "Are you that insecure you have to try and get a rise out of everyone? Or is it a fear response?" she asks, deadpan. "But yeah, good work, keep looking. I seriously doubt they'll be here but .... son of a bitch." They are there. "Hang on, we're parking and walking around the side. I can feel that fucking vanity plate. Might have just ditched it but can't be too careful."

She parks the Ram in the darkest corner of the lot and turns to flip the back seat up with a thought, after manipulating the hidden lock with the same. If you don't have TK, you aren't getting it open without a strong fucking magnet. Weapons and tools beneath it. She pulls out a pair of metal batons which have their own harness. She shrugs into it. It's for the less shoot, less paperworky, harder to track hitting of breakable things.

"Wrong on both accounts, would you like to try door number three?" Cris says to the window instead of Vic, still checking plates and cars but he can FEEL they're starting to get close, unsettling as it is but it means his time spent with August is starting to pay off. As Vic echoes his sentiment - and with more conviction - his gaze flips that way. "Too bad Muscle Man was already taken, huh?"

He eyes her little trove of treasures as he pops his own door and steps out, drawing his sidearm and checking the clip before chambering a round. "See. Laura fucking Croft."

Vic twirls the pair of batons expertly before sliding them into their rig. Escrima is a fun art. "Yeah, well, I'm sadly lacking Lara's immense fortune, mansion, helicopter, you know, the fun stuff," she mutters. She moves then, quickly and quietly, to round the side of the motel and continue following the thin thread of location.

Cristopher keeps the maglight braced over his shooting arm, lifting the beam and sweeping the area until he catches sight of the GTO. "I got eyes on her." Because all sweet muscle cars should definitely be called by feminine pronouns and with great fondness, the state of his own sitting in Itzhak's shop a weight on his heart. That shit was original paint! He moves in tandem with Vic, countering her movements and spreading out, keeping an eye out for surrounding trouble.

“You got the moving magic, same as me, right?” Vic whispers to Cris. She reaches out with her Physical sense to see if the weapons are still in the trunk. Getting those out is priority.

"All depends on how lucky you're feeling." Clearly his 'gift' is not one he's entirely comfortable with, but with August's help at least he's learning to control it, and use it as by will and not just born out of his anger or stress. He has zero clue that Joey had something in the trunk the man wanted to keep hush hush, he just wanted the man's fucking sweet ass ride back and to find the bastard that tired to kill him. What he does pick up on however, is the fact that the car is not in the same state he left it on road with the window shot to shit but that it's been knit back together, the spiderweb cracks still there as he shines his light across it. "But looks like we're not alone in the Shiny way. Look, car's been repaired. At least a bit."

Vic pauses, and she frowns deeply. "Some things that were in the trunk went missing, and there is something else taking up space in there. And look," she tips her chin to the ground, where there's a dime size drop of blood on the pavement.

"I'm gonna open the trunk from here, don't want any surprises." And with that she'll reach out with her physical ability to unlatch it and open it.

When the trunk pops, Cris comes up to the fender, pressing his hip to it and aiming his gun down at the trunk, waving Vic over with the barrel for her to come pop it the rest of the way manually and he'll cover her. Just in case of zombies or not quite dead bodies hiding in there. "Could be from the twat waffle I winged." He says of the blood, but taking zero chances.

Vic grunts as the trunk doesn't pop open as expected. She moves to the other side, putting a gloved hand on the lid and lifting it as slowly and quietly as she can.

Cris' eyes flick down to the trunk, noticing the quite dead body before they flick away. Not because he can't stomach the sight, but he's watching Vic's back as she takes inventory of what else remains in the trunk, his eyes going to scan the rooms closest to the vehicle. "This our mess or someone trying to pin it on us?" Us, the organization, not Joey specifically but he'd be the first to be hauled in for it no doubt.

"Someone definitely trying to pin it. Take the bag to my truck. I'll get to cleaning," Vic states flatly. Her eyes go blank, the way a professional's do when the really unpleasant work needs to be done. She pulls out a knife from one of her coat pockets, but it's not the body she's cutting, it's the air, beside the vehicle. Time to get rid of a body somewhere the mundane police won't go looking.

Cris' eyes cut to Vic, hard. It's clear he's disagreeing with her plan the way his jaw clenches and he wants to spit the alternative in her face, but he's reaching down to slip the maglite into his pocket and swoop up the bag. "Your funeral." He merely says, going to do as instructed instead of securing the site first.

Cris isn't dumb enough to take a pot shot at that window, but goddamn does he want to. His finger is just itching to unload into that second story, but with the all too familiar look of a cruiser is enough to seal the decision not to storm the castle. This time. He puts his fingers to his lips, giving a shrill whistle to alert Vic. Time to blow this pop stand.

His mind reaches out, like a whisper into a tin can on a string, trying to feel out for Vic. <<Either finish or torch it. We got company incoming Gotta roll.>> Sorry Joey.

The touch of Vic's mind is a feral, predatory thing. Both hunter and hunted in turn. It has a darkness, a feline sense, like one of the great cats of the world, silent and hungry and very dangerous.

I got all the shit from the vehicle, and the body, taking it walkabout on the other side. Get out of here Cruz. I'll contact you with coordinates where I come back out. Right now all they have is a stolen car. Vic rips the vanity plate off just to give them more time, and she hops through to the other side, to begin searching for a thin spot for another door.

"You coulda left me the goddamn keys." Cris says to nothing and to nobody. Good thing he knows how to hotwire.

Well, it's not pretty - Sorry Vic - But Cris manages to knock open the panel, split the wiring and get the Truck purring. Nothing to see here, Coppers, just a man on a drive with a shit ton of illegal weapons under the back seat, easing away from the crime scene, but thankfully parked on the other side of the building. He was just slamming a hooker in one of the rooms, honest! One last look at the second floor with a glance in the rear view mirror and Cris is motoring out of here. All nice and legal like.

And the text will come later, for a pickup, from Vic, who winds up near Gray Pond with her exit door.