2020-08-01 - God Laughs

Watching Alexander reveals a couple of patterns - he's been to the casino once or twice, to the police station, to the burned down video game store, and to city hall. Most of those take place during the day, and judging by the irritated expressions on the faces of people he's talked to, he's definitely investigating something. There have also been a couple of times where Alexander just disappears. Apparently he doesn't always /like/ to be followed, and well...he's psychic.

But this time, he comes out in his too-hot-for-the-summer jacket that means he's carrying his knife. And THAT usually means that he's about to do something 'job related' (not that anyone is paying him). And instead of just heading out to start walking, he pauses and looks around to see if his tail his hanging about. And maybe has a car.

Cris can't follow Alexander /all/ the time, but it's safe to say that he witnessed at least a few of these outings of Alexanders. For the most part he doesn't interfere, he's just been asked to keep the man safe, not disrupt his life (any more than the presence of a looming Latino does). But today, there is that dark blue Ford Fairlane parked across the street from Clayton's house, a few addresses down.

The engine isn't running, which means he has to have the windows rolled down for any sort of hope of a breeze. Not that the native Texan isn't used to hot weather, coming from El Paso. He currently has his arm stuck out the driver's side, a cigarette dangling from between his knuckles. As he spots Alexander spotting him, he gives a lackadaisical raise of fingers in a greeting.

Alexander catches sight of the Fairlane rather easily, and acknowledges the lazy greeting with one of his abrupt nods. He makes his way, shoulders hunched and head down, towards the car. And reaches for the passenger side door handle. "I'm going to Askelson Industrial Park," he says, naming a nearly abandoned yard of warehouses for timber mills that have, mostly, closed down. It's fairly well known in certain circles for being a good place to make a deal you don't want other people to know about, and occasionally someone sets up a meth lab or other criminal enterprise there until the cops are finally persuaded to make a raid (usually after warning the people involved).

His eyes are dark and alert as he peers into the car. "Are you driving or are we walking?" So. That's sort of like an invitation.

Cris leans over to eye Alexander with his pale colored gaze, hand on the passenger side seat to prop his torso. He listens to where the man is headed with a dry, wry expression on his lips before he straightens up and tucks the cigarette between his lips. "Get in." He mumbles around the filter as he cranks the engine on, his baby purring like a kitten now that he's gotten it back from Itzhak's garage. A blast of air conditioning is as hot and blustery as the day is at first, indicating he's been sitting here a while. He waits for the man to get in and buckle up (Safety is Sexy!) before he pulls away from the curb and angles the classic car in that direction. "So what's at the Park."

Alexander settles into the seat, and looks around with interest. One hand comes out to stroke the dashboard before he puts on his seatbelt. He doesn't have any hesitation about that, at least. "This is a nice car," he says, sounding a little wistful. "Classic." His fingers trip lightly over leather and plastic and metal alike, as if he can memorize the way it feels. When they start moving, he leans his head away from the rushing wind from the window. "Information. Maybe," he says, at last, to Cris' question. "Just a rumor, about this Daryl guy." A pause. "How are you? Anyone try to kill you lately?"

A way to a man's heart is to compliment is car, especially when it's clear Cris takes great pride in keeping her as original as possible. The tape deck has never been upgraded, the windows still crank manually, and you'd never know that Itzhak had to match original paint after his little 'fender bender'. There is a twitch to Cris' lips that may be a smile as Alexander's hand dances over the details, but it's hard to tell with that cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Aw, Clayton. I didn't know you cared. Do you want to go steady?" But the flippancy gives way to momentary earnestness. "Not lately, but the day's not over yet."

"Can I drive it?" Alexander asks, because his secret dream is to drive all the cool cars in town. But even as he asks, he doesn't sound like he thinks the answer is going to be yes. The industrial park isn't far - it's on the other side of the Elm Residential neighborhood, tucked up in some rough land between the Forest and the sea. Once, it was probably a bustling center of the timber processing pipeline. Now, the large, chain-link fence is breached in half a dozen places, and the gates themselves are only barely held together. The chain that locked them is long since gone, and no one bothers replacing it anymore. Behind the fences, rusting metal warehouses loom like decaying behemoths, abandoned on the field of battle.

Alexander gives Cris a look, his brow furrowing. "No," he says, simply, then turns back to the road. "Park somewhere out of the way; we can walk from there. Don't want your car to get scratched if there's trouble. And it stands out."

"Sure, you can drive her. So long as you treat her like you'd expect me to treat your woman if I took her out. You bring her back in the same condition you left with her in, or I'll kill you." Cris says lightly as he pulls up to the park and cruises by, driving past even as Alexander instructs him to park a bit away. He tucks the Fairlane around the corner, sliding the in where a dumpster obscures its view from the street. Flicking his cigarette out the window, he turns the engine off and starts cranking up the window. He'll make sure it's locked tight and that his gun is loaded and on his hip before they set out.

"What? Really?" Alexander visibly brightens, threats aside. He pats the dashboard again, this time with anticipation. "Excellent." He clambers out of the car in an ungraceful motion, closing the door carefully. Maybe he did hear the threats. He falls in beside Cristobal, and they head towards the industrial park. It looks quiet, and Alexander veers off the road to enter by one of the several spaces where the chain link fence is broken, rather than by the front gates. As they get closer, they can both see that the gravel in front of the gates has been disturbed, and recently - tires, by the look of it. Cristobal can get through the fence gap with no problems, but when Alexander steps through, he loses his grip on one of the broken links, and it snaps back into place, rattling and laying a shallow scrape along the back of his hand. It surprises a, "Motherfucker!" from the investigator.

The sound echoes through the empty yard, and Alexander says, much more quietly, "Sorry. Shit."

"Don't tell anyone I'm actually secretly fucking decent." Cristobal rumbles. You know, threats aside. Cristobal ensures they both notice the disturbances in the gravel by pointing it out wordlessly as they pass and then they're ducking through the fence. That sudden cuss from Alexander draws a hiss from Cris' lips, the man muttering, "Madre protégenos." As he makes a little motion of crossing himself. "I should have just driven up and honked the horn." He says quietly as his hand strays to the weapon at his hip and he crouches down slightly, wary. "Get to the side of the building. Quickly."

Alexander gives Cristobal a sidelong look at 'secretly fucking decent', but he doesn't argue with it - after all, dude's gonna let him drive a sweet car. Instead, he nods to the wheel being pointed out, and mutters again, "It slipped. I'm sorry." And slinks over to the side of the nearest building, scanning the area with dark eyes. Neither of them see anything. But both of them /hear/ the faint sound of gravel crunching from around the corner of the warehouse. Moving away fairly rapidly. Like, say, a lookout going to warn people that intruders are on the premises. Alexander grimaces and starts moving in that direction.

"I've tried that excuse before. Doesn't fly far." Cristobal quips dryly, unable to keep himself from the smart-assed remark.

Up against the building, Cruz doesn't draw his Walther, but you can bet the safety has been switched off. That crunch of gravel isn't reassuring, nor is Alexander going towards it. "You wanna tell me what that rumor was? Is this a base of operations? A place where they ditch dead bodies? Because now would be the time if we need to stop that car."

Alexander snorts. "Nor should it. Unless you're just that bad that someone takes pity on you." He continues to slink towards the corner. "Rumor was that a recruiter for the criminals we don't like, this Daryl guy, was going to meet with some potential out of town talent here for a deal. Dunno if it's muscle, drugs, or weapons. My source wasn't sure and wasn't real talkative." So, you know, there could be a lot of pissed off gang members with sub-machine guns over there, and Alexander doesn't look nearly worried enough about that as he peeks around the corner and grunts. "One sentry, moving away rapidly. Think you could tackle him? Quietly? He's not armed. If not, I can probably put him down, but choose quickly."

Tackle him. Great. But it's either that or shoot the poor fucker in the leg - thus alerting everyone else (he really should get a silencer - but his gun is legal and that is not with a big-red-flag-not) or there is a good chance Alexander's going to flick that knife and stick him. Or at least those are the only two options that cross Cris' brain. With a grit of his teeth, he takes off in as quiet of a run as possible to try and wrap up the guy from behind - one hand to his mouth to silence him - and take him down.

At least Alexander doesn't jump to trying to stab people as the FIRST option? Instead, he hangs back as Cris darts forward. The lookout is hardly more than a kid - only about nineteen or twenty, and clearly as low on the totem pole as things get, and when he looks back at the sound of feet on gravel, his eyes widen. He sucks in a breath, but Cris is faster, heavier, and honestly? Far better at this sort of thing than the lookout could hope to be. Cris takes him down in a single, smooth movement, and there's hardly even a whimper from the guy; only the pained sound of his breath leaving him in a rush as they both hit the gravel.

Alexander slips up behind, looking down at them. The kid, instead of fighting, is concentrating on remembering how to breathe and rigidly still. He doesn't have to say please don't kill me - it's written clearly on his terrified face.

There is no place in Cristobal's world for sympathy, not in situations like this. Sympathy is something that gets you dead. Cruz works on flipping the kid over to his back and leaning his weight down on him to keep him pinned, that hand remaining firmly over his mouth for the time being as he whispers harshly with a sibilant sound, "Make a noise, alert your friends, and you won't be kissin' your momma goodnight tonight. Nod if you understand."

The kid is nodding almost before Cris finishes with the sentence, and nevermind the way the gravel scrapes against his cheek. Alexander moves up, and now his knife's drawn. Not, as it happens, to stab the guy while he's down; instead, he slices the blade down the side of his pants, and cuts out some strips of denim. It's maybe not the the greatest rope ever invented, but it ties the kid's ankles pretty well (although Alexander does his best not to actually touch the kid's legs while doing so, which adds a touch of awkwardness to the whole thing) and he offers a couple more lengths of the stuff to Cris, to tie his arms behind his back, if he wants. He keeps his gaze on the kid's face, and the knife visible, so if Cris does take the strips, their captive is aware that the consequences don't end with the guy on top of him.

Cris takes the hand away from the kids mouth to roll him to the side, keeping one leg kneeling on a thigh as he grabs up the sentry's wrists. He's used to handcuffing people, and tying them up only slightly less, and it only takes a little wrangling to get him trussed up with hands behind his back. "We're not going to hurt you unless you do something stupid, but if you do, all bets are off." He finally lifts his weight away from the kid, if only to hook his chicken winged elbow and drag him to the side of the building to keep down the line of sight. "How many are inside."

The kid looks up at them, wide-eyed. "We're cool. I'm cool. It's all cool." He babbles, quickly but quietly, looking from one to the other of them with pleading eyes. He doesn't resist being dragged, and licks his lips at the demanded information. "I can't...man, they'll fucking kill me if they find out I told."

"They'll probably kill you for failing to warn them," Alexander points out, as if this is helpful information. "So you're dead already in their eyes, no matter way. On the other hand, we're still thinking about whether you're dead or not." He doesn't say it like he's trying to threaten the guy, just make some helpful observations about the facts at hand.

"Oh fuck me," the kid mutters, and thumps his head lightly against the wall. "I don't wanna die." He thinks about his options, then stares at Cris. "Um. Two I was working for. Guy named Daryl, and his muscle. Uh. They're meeting with three other guys. Bringing in some hardware for, uh," to kill people like you is the thing he really doesn't want to say in this situation, so he ends, lamely, "...work and shit."

"What are they carrying?" Alexander asks, glancing around rather than watching the kid.

The kid licks his lips. "Pistols. Pretty much everybody but me has a pistol. And the dealers have a case. Dunno what the fuck's in there."

Cris doesn't remain crouched down beside the kid, instead looming over him next to Alexander. If one of them is good cop and one is bad, the kid's going to be hard pressed to decipher which is which. "It's a damned if you do damned if you don't situation. But at least one of us may be willing to give you a head start." As the kid answers the questions about who is inside and what they're carrying, his eyes flick towards Alexander briefly. "Five to two." He makes a little head wobble. "I can deal with those odds." His boot knocks into the kids bound feet. "What do you wanna do with him?"

"I think we can come up with a way to even the odds," Alexander agrees, quietly. He crouches down in front of the kid and studies him. For someone who sees the shine around the world, something might be seen to stir around him, and then it envelopes the young man, and his eyes fix on Alexander's face. His pupils blow wide, then dilate to tiny pinpricks. "You're not going to remember the last few minutes, or how you got like this," Alexander tells the kid, flatly. "It's okay. You're going remember the important thing, which is that you need to be very, very quiet. Or something will find you. It might be the thing you don't remember. It might be something worse. So," he raises his finger to his lips, "shhhh."

Then he steps away. The kid continues to stare blankly at nothing. "We should go. I can only suppress so much. Without breaking him. Probably." Curiosity flickers across his face, like he's wondering just how much he could...change. Before the kid wasn't who he used to be at all.

"Yeah, because that's not creepy or anything." Cris mutters he turns away from the kid to focus on the building, eyes sweeping on where they should enter. "You ever try that Jedi Mind trick on me without my permission, I start shooting your fun bits." Now Cris slips his sidearm from its holster, bracing the butt on one palm while he angles it towards the ground with the other. "Time to join the party."

The warehouse is a sturdy one; the metal is rusting, but it's one of the better aged ones in the yard. Narrow windows are placed high at the top - a few are broken, but they'd have to climb up the wall somehow to take advantage of that as an entrance. There's a half-open loading door, and a side door that's closed, and may or may not be locked. Two cars are parked outside the loading door, although there doesn't appear to be a driver in it, at the moment.

Alexander skulks along behind Cristobal. "It is creepy. I'm sorry. But if he remembers us, it's dangerous. For us, and for him. Better that he doesn't. Even if it scares him." He ducks his head, and doesn't try to push back at the threat. He just bobs his head with guilt twisting his face and murmurs, "I'm sorry." He pauses as they survey the warehouse. "How do you wanna handle it? We could wait until the deal is done, let the sellers clear out. Just deal with the recruiter and his guy." A pause. "Could record the rest of the meeting, turn it in to the cops. The ones who will follow it up. Cause problems, doesn't finger us for retribution." He eyes Cristobal. "Or we can bust it up, hope not to get shot."

And he's apparently going to let Cristobal make this decision. Or, at the very least, he seems intensely curious about what his inclination is.

Cris eyes their apparent choices for entry, "Don't apologize like I deserve one." He addresses Alexander, but his eyes are on the warehouse, considering their options. "There is no guarantee that they won't all leave at the same time, better we hit them while they're contained. If Daryl is in there, I want to shut this down. Now. Before those weapons hit the streets." But then he shoots a glance back, "You said you just wanted information. You good with this?"

Alexander gives Cristobal an odd look. "Why wouldn't you deserve one?" Because RIGHT NOW is definitely the time to have that sort of conversation. Which, to be fair, he realizes after a moment, when Cris moves on to business. He doesn't seem to disagree with the man's reasoning, although his shoulders hunch at the question. "My preference would be to gather information and get it to the police so that they could apprehend the criminals and prosecute them." A long pause before he admits, with something a little like despair coloring his usual flat cadence, "But I do not know that would happen, and I fear whatever weapons they've purchased being used against people who don't deserve it." He sighs. "So I guess we're going to fight five guns with...one. And a knife. But." He looks at Cristobal. "We can't kill anyone. Not unless there's no other choice. Get the guns, get the recruiter if we can. But no murder."

Because Alexander apparently wants to play on Hard Mode.

There is a little teeth grind from Cristobal, evident in the way his jaw ticks with tension. "Alright, here's what we're going to do. First, you got a cell phone camera? Use it. Catch some of the deal if you can, but neither of us gets on the footage. Then, as they seem to be closing down the deal, you send it off to someone you trust or Kelly, or both in case things go sideways. Then we break it the fuck up." That seems to be the entirety of the plan, and he expects Alexander to go along with it, because he's headed towards that gap in the partway rolled up bay door.

Alexander tenses up at the teeth grind, eyes narrowing. He's got that expression that anyone can recognize as 'going to be a pain in the ass if you push this' - so when Cris offers the plan, he actually blinks, taken aback just a little. There's a tentative headbob, and then he says, "Yes. I can do that." He scans the area. "I might be able to keep from looking in our direction." Then he slinks after the ex-cop, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Luckily, it's a decent phone, because he uses it for things like this a fair amount. He checks the settings for silence, then closes in.

The interior of the warehouse has a few ancient pallets and abandoned crates, creating a disorganized but relatively well-covered environment. The power's out, so the only light is from the windows, and that's dim. But it's not hard to make out the five shapes nearby - they're all wearing slightly too bulky casual clothes, to hide the guns, and they're doing the wary 'feeling you out' chit chat of criminals who haven't done business before, but would like to a) walk away from this, b) with all their shit, and c) maybe do business with the same people again. Two men are on one side - Daryl is a dark skinned man in his late thirties, hair in neat braids, his clothing marking him as a face-type: less flash and swagger, more polish. The only thing out of place is the scorpion tattoo on the back of one hand. His muscle is central casting muscle: Large, wary, gun out but not pointed at anyone. Across the table from them are three people - Two men and a woman. One man and a woman have guns out, but again, not pointed. They're the sleek kind of muscle, as opposed to beefy. On the table between the two groups are two cases - one briefcase and one large, plastic transport case.

Alexander reaches out with his mind once more, trying to soothe and distract the group so that he and Cristobal can get into place and get some decent footage of the meet. Unfortunately, Daryl's muscle happens to look out at the loading door at just the wrong time, and not even the tug at his mind can stop his sudden sense of alarm. "Hey. Hey! What's that?" His gun is already coming up.

Man plans, God laughs. Or in this case, the deity in question must be ROFLMAO. There is a little noise from Cristobal, was that a sigh? It was probably a sigh. "Make it seem like there's more of us." Gets muttered to Alexander before Cristobal does things the good old fashioned way and leans down to pluck up some gravel and side toss it in the direction of that other entrance.

Alexander bobs his head at Cristobal - he's still filming, and careful to keep Cris out of the shot as he tries to get a picture of the men with the guns, and their faces. The scatter of gravel makes them jerk their attention over to the door, and although Cristobal can't see anything - one of the sleek thugs shouts, "We're fucking surrounded!" And there's a sudden flurry of gunfire at that poor, innocent door. The roar reverberates against the metal walls of the warehouse, and the smell of cordite fills the air. It does give the two /real/ interlopers a moment of distraction to do something else, though.

The way they were so quick to shoot, and in such force, doesn't bode well. Even with Alexander's help to create the illusion that there are more of them, that's not going to help for long. "New plan." Cris hisses at Alexander. "Try to get to the other side of the warehouse. I'm going flush them out to their cars, get them to leave the case behind." He's seen their cars - hopefully Alexander got some footage of their plate numbers too. He's seen their faces. They can chase them down later and under better circumstances. But he's determined that whatever is in that case isn't leaving.

"I like the new plan," Alexander says, looking a little paler at the mess that the door is becoming. "Don't die," he tells Cristobal, then ducks and tries to make his way to the other side of the warehouse. However, these guys are now on high alert, and even with his frantic mental attempts to say don't look at me, guns swing in his direction, and someone shouts, "That one's got a fucking camera!" Cue gunfire.

Alexander, thankfully, has absolutely no dignity - he immediately dives behind a crate and cowers there as gunfire chews into the aging wood.

Well. He probably should have been certain Alexander could make it over there safely instead of telling him to just, you know, hide or something. But no time to think about that. He pings off some cover fire for the professional cop-botherer, as he shifts his own cover position to a little further away from the exit to their vehicles. Anytime anyone so much as flinches towards the mystery case or the one presumably with the money, Cris squeezes off rounds intending to keep them from snatching them up. He purposefully clips the table, the top of the brief case and the ground nearest the table, trying to chase them away.

The bullets ping and ricochet off the table near the case every time one of the two groups tries to go for it. Scattered cursing can be heard, but it primarily pisses off BOTH crews, who turn and start firing back on Cristobal. And he's not quite as lucky as Alexander - he takes a couple of bullets to the midsection. Alexander, peering around the crate, curses under his own breath, and then concentrates. The scent of ozone is sharp in the air, and then there's a flash of light, the searing impression on the eyelids of lightning from nowhere. One of the thugs screams and jitters in place. Her partner grabs her, and starts dragging her towards the door, and now they're firing in both directions - at Alexander and Cristobal as they try to make it to their cars.

The case is being abandoned, it seems.

There is that split second before Cristobal realizes his hurt, so focused as he is on keeping the seller and the buyer away from the table. Alexander seems to realize it before he does, and when Cristobal winces away from that bright flash of light searing into his retina, for a moment he wonders if he was struck accidentally by a bolt because of the sharp stab of pain in his stomach. His hand comes away bloody as he drops to a knee behind a crate. Nope. That's a bullet wound. Oh. Is that two. With a grimace he wraps his arm over his midsection and goes back to firing at the retreating crews. Keep them motivated.

They run. They don't know who just crashed their party, how many of them there are, or more importantly, how long it is until the cops respond to reports of gunfire in the industrial area. So? They run. They pile into the two cars and peel out of the warehouse yard as Alexander dashes across the floor to reach Cris. "Fuck," he says, eloquently, looking at the bullet wounds. "You're...fuck." Sure, it's a stranger, and it involves touching, but he's fine. "No arterial blood, no blood around nose or mouth, can you breathe?" He's running down a triage checklist as he reaches out to try and drag Cris - if the man lets him - into cover, then adds, "Do you have a doctor, or are we going back to my place?"

But, hey. On the table is the weapon case AND a suitcase. Which, let's face it, is probably filled with a lot of unmarked, non-sequential bills of some pleasant denominations.

"Yeah. I'm fucked, you got it in one there, champ." It seems Cris has the same idea about the cops though, because he's shoving his keys into Alexander's triage checking hands and away from his wounds with bloodied fingers. "Looks like you're getting your wish. Go get the car, pull it up here so we can load the cases and get the hell out of Dodge."

Alexander absently slaps at the hands trying to interrupt him - until he realizes what they're doing. Then he takes the keys and rocks back on his heels. Staring for a moment. Then he nods. "Fine. Don't move. I'll be right back." He wastes no more time, just runs for the door, keys in one bloody hand, and pelts back the way they came. It won't be long until there's the screech of tires as the Fairlane pulls up to the loading door. But for right this moment, Cristobal is alone. And bleeding, of course.

One he's certain Alexander is gone to his task, Cristobal indulges in a moment to let his neck go slack and his head to lull backwards, tears of pain springing to the corner of his eyes. A beat, maybe two, where he just listens to the pulse in his ears and then he's scraping his boots up underneath him to stand and lumber to the table. A heavy hand goes to reach for the latches of the weapons case, flicking it open to get a glance at what they're dealing with here.

The case isn't hard to open, even with the blood. Inside, wrapped and anchored in foam are what appear to be about a half-dozen AK-47s, and quite a few neatly sorted extra clips - standard 30 round ones, by the shape of them. A small shipment - likely an initial sample of the goods the dealer was offering rather than a major deal. All told, probably about 16 or 17K worth of goods at black market prices.

There's the rumble of the Fairlane as Alexander returns, parking it smoothly enough, at least. When he hops out, he's taken the time to pull on black leather gloves. He stops when he sees where Cristobal is. "You shouldn't be standing. You shouldn't be touching that. You'll taint the evidence," he grumbles, but his face is twisted with worry as he moves forward. "Get in the damned car."

And that? Cris isn't going to argue. He's feeling worse by the second, but he had to at least know what was in there before it became a problem possibly above his paygrade. "Si, Papi." The Mexican mutters, because he can't not be an ass, even when he's bleeding out. But that briefcase of money? Fuck yeah, he's taking that. Alexander can handle the guns.

"Goddamn it, Cruz, stop touching things," Alexander snaps when the guy puts his bloody hands on the suitcase of money. But he IS bloody. And bleeding, so ALexander doesn't try to wrestle it away from him, but just shoos him towards the car, then closes the weapon case, pausing to wipe the blood off the clasps, and then manhandles the case into the back, before piling into the driver's side. He hesitates for a moment behind the wheel, before chanting 'fuck' a few times under his breath and pulling away. There are sirens in the distance, and they need to not be here.

And Alexander doesn't really have anywhere to take a bleeding criminal who technically got shot protecting him except back to his home. So he heads towards Elm.