2020-09-03 - Sicario

It's just another day at the station. Two murders with the same MO have some people whispering the words 'serial killer' under their breath, but they're trying to keep it out of the papers. Last thing the Harbor needs right NOW is the FBI coming in and throwing their weight around. For so, so many reasons. One of them knocks casually on the Acting Chief's door; it's one of the uniforms - one of the ones who most recently participated in the murder of Thatchery. Since then, he's kept his head down and stayed out of Ruiz's orbit. Whatever he's been doing for Reyes, at least it's been quiet. But now, he's a sort of sympathetic smile on his face as he lets himself in, and says, "Hey, Chief. Got a moment?"

Today being a day ending in 'y', the captain has been up to his eyeballs in paperwork. On top of the usual shit - a slew of probationary hearings and subpoenas he needs to sign off on, a failure to appear that he's been putting off dealing with for the better part of two days, and the filing for a death in custody that he's dreading - a handful of requests from Reyes that he knows he can't ignore. Requests that make his stomach turn. He's leaving those for last, and in the midst of scrawling his signature at the end of a very long document destined for a judge in Seattle, when the knock lands on his door.

A glance, and then a little double-take when he sees who it is. His jaw hardens almost imperceptibly. After a beat, "Yeah. Let me drop these off at the mailing room first." He starts shoving the stack of papers into an envelope, tapes it shut, and climbs to his feet. The acting chief is in his usual civilian attire: black tee shirt, jeans, combat boots, badge and gun. A ballcap that's sitting next to his coffee cup is tugged on, and the dregs of his cold coffee are downed with a quick swallow before he gestures for the officer to walk and talk.

De la Vega's got a pretty good guess who that concerned citizen is, but he doesn't bother asking. His envelope's slid across the counter, and per protocol, he shows his ID. Even though everyone here knows full well who he is. The envelope gets a stamp and is filed away in a special, secure slot for government mail, and he checks his watch as he peels away from the counter with the other cop. Asks him what he's doing over the weekend, like they're buddies who go for beers occasionally. He'll let the guy lead, wherever it is they're going.

The second they're alone, the act is dropped, and the cop might wonder for a frightening moment whether de la Vega's going to end him right there. Draw his gun and shove it up against the back of his head and blow his brains out in that dark little corridor, and keep right on walking. He has that look in his eyes, for a terrifying breath or three; and then it's gone, and the guy is whistling and walking off, and after a while, Javier turns and ambles off in the other direction.

He's there, though, at the appointed time. Like before, he pulls up in his cruiser, and parks, and checks the clip in his gun and climbs out. The setting sun hits him slantwise, and he squints into it as he slams the door, and trudges up to the room number that was mentioned. Pauses a beat, and knocks with the side of his fist three times.

When nobody answers the door, of course, he tries the handle, and finds that it opens. Click. Hand on his gun as he lets himself in shoulder first, with that little burst of mind-feelers unfurling, trying to get a sense of what he's dealing with before he steps into the lion's den.

"Bien. Llegué bien aquí." His dark eyes track Reyes as he replies, as he prowls in closer. His own gun's visible (his personal weapon, not his service pistol), though he's stowed his badge between the precinct and here. Another step closer, and his voice lowers to a dull snarl, "You know you can't just call me like a dog, when you want something. People will start to notice."

The cop doesn't go for a beer, or partake in any of the pills or girls on offer. He may look like an old, tired dog who'd as soon roll over and bare his throat for Reyes, but there's no question the younger man's got the lion's share of his focus. He's conserving his energy, rationing it out, in case he needs to make a move. "Tal vez," he murmurs, settling against the back of an armchair, arms folding across his midsection as he studies the other man. An eyebrow goes up at his last. "You going to enlighten me, or am I going to get bored of playing your fucking games, and walk?"

No reaction to the disappointment, or the possibility that Reyes might stop being nice; Javier's ever so briefly distracted by a girl with a very nice ass who wanders by, before his gaze is dragged back to the man speaking to him. No smile in return, either. But then the someones are mentioned, and the pictures are withdrawn, and the chase is cut to. And the cop's eyes narrow just a fraction. "What, precisely, are you asking me to do?" He knows, precisely, what Reyes is asking him to do.

He doesn't move from his slouchy, languid-looking lean against the back of the armchair. But there's that moment where it looks like he might. A twitch, and then a slow unwinding. A swallow that travels the length of his throat. Another glance at the pictures, dark eyes flickering over the faces. Faces he doesn't immediately recognise; they're small-time crooks, both of them. Nobody anyone'll miss, least of all Joey Kelly. And yet.

"Who the fuck have you been talking to?" He does move, then. Pushes to his feet, and prowls in closer. There's no move to go for his gun, or anywhere near it. Closer, until he can snarl, low-voiced, "Estás pidiendo demasiado."

He's fast, and he's strong, and he's powerful with the Gift. But he's not good enough to beat a room full of Reyes's men before they can draw their guns and riddle him with bullets. He knows this, because he's not fucking stupid, and he's well aware of the limits of his ability.

There's a little tic in his jaw when the implication's made, and he reaches for the photographs, collects them in inked fingers. Ink that probably tipped Reyes off as to who he's worked for, and what he's done, and the blood he's been steeped in since an age when most boys were playing with toy swords and toy guns, cops and robbers and abstract violence. If permitted, he sifts through the pictures on his own for a moment, glancing from the faces in the grainy photographs to the man in front of him. It might be the look of a cowed, obedient animal; or it might be the look of a dog just waiting for the opportunity to bite.

The photographs are turned over, of course. Addresses noted, his tonguetip brushed along a canine as a part of him unconsciously starts making plans and contingencies and beginning the painstaking process of mapping this all out in his head. Some might look at him and see only a blunt weapon. A brute. And maybe he is, or maybe he isn't, but he sure as hell isn't in any rush to grab his gun and go blowing people away. "I need that security detail," he answers, low-voiced, coming to recline now beside Reyes. A foot or two away, right on the very edge of his personal space. "I've done everything you asked. The fucking game console." Melted, to be fair, instead of recovered. But at least it didn't make it to Abitha. "Your man, Hallisey." Sprung from custody. "I don't want your fucking girls or your fucking drugs or your fucking games. I want protection from the son of a bitch who'll kill me on sight if he sees an opportunity, entiendo?"

"I'm not your fucking friend," is, of course, the first thing out of de la Vega's mouth. Because he just can't help himself.

He doesn't even bother going for his weapon, though to those glimmer sensitive, there's a brief shift in the air. Like a fingertip touched to the surface of still water; a ripple in what was, a moment ago, as smooth as glass. A shiver of ozone and ablated ash, but he doesn't move. Just the rise and fall of his shoulders with each steady breath, followed by a lowering of his gaze in capitulation. "No. No hay problema, señor." Hard to say if that's tongue in cheek, the title he gives him there. His expression, all slanted eyes and the hard line of his jaw, conveys little.

He glances once more at the photographs, and tucks them into his pants pocket. Then waits, silently, to be dismissed.

Still no smile in return from the cop. He simply watches the other man for a few beats. Longer than most probably dare, in his shoes; like he's trying to memorise something about his face. Or the way he's smiling. Or simply the fact that he's alive, and at some point, he simply won't be.

"I'll be in touch," is all that's offered in return. Another glance for the girl with the nice ass (it's a really nice ass, okay?) and he turns and prowls back out.